Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except for grammar mistakes.
After all the time, after unexpected conversations, not so peaceful encounters, truths, secrets unveiled, secrets being kept, after comfortable silences, after brief touches, first names, after the "friend" word. After Carl Elias, Mark Snow, Samantha Groves, Nicholas Donnelly and Kara Stanton. After gunshots, wounds, explosives, after a roof. Even after that, especially after that, he wanted to be alone. Suffering was such an intimate feeling.
And as the twinge became insistent, obstinate, bold, aggressive, silently turning into fierce pain, John realised he couldn't face another roof, he couldn't face another raw display of emotions. Not when his body was betraying him, not when he had to squint his eyes to keep focus on the road. Not when his skin was becoming clammy, his hands starting to tremble and was far too hot in the car.
Maybe, at first, he could have tried to convince himself that, should the event come, Finch would feel nothing but disappointment, or annoyance at the thought of wasting precious days forging another operative. After all, time was a luxury even billionaires couldn't always afford. And the numbers never stopped coming.
Truth was he believed Harold had cared from the start. Clearly not as much as now, but he had cared nonetheless, despite his being "very private", so stern, sombre. Always firm and unfaltering. And certainly he still was, yet so much had changed between them. Sometimes John still found it hard to believe, him being himself and Finch being Finch. And of course he wasn't so naive to think Finch didn't have another "Contingency". Happy or not, he was sure Harold had had an "After John Reese" plan all along. However, he had felt the need to personally track Samantha Shaw down, because she had made an impression, indeed. And he had been lucky enough to succeed just two days prior. Just in time.
Harold would easily follow her tracks, thanks to his trademark resources and tenacity and also because John was quite pleased with the lead he got, strong and reliable enough to satisfy their usual high standard inspections.
Not that he doubted Finch's judgement, not at all. They could have had some difference of opinion now and then, but he was well conscious of the fact that Harold knew how to do his homework and pass the exam with flying colours. Only the chance had come so close he had almost felt obliged to find his own contingency, his replacement. He wasn't sure Finch was aware, and a discussion about it could easily lead to another difference of opinion of theirs, but the computer genius had become his responsibility long time ago, and, since he could, he intended to have a say in the matter of replacements.
And sure enough, there was no doubt Shaw was a formidable operative: smart, strong, stubborn, cautious, lethal. Probably as paranoid as the man she was going to work for.
John surprised himself with the certainty of the statement, because he really was sure she would yield, in the end. Harold was good like that, she was going to work for him. He definitely could relate.
Also, friendship aside, Finch still was rational enough not to underestimate the fact that Shaw was at least 10 years younger than John. He could certainly use someone who wouldn't get tired after lifting one suitcase too many during an undercover mission.
At last, the sight of his neighbourhood eased the tension on his shoulders while he unconsciously loosened his grip on the wheel. Not bothering to wait for the detectives to collect their gift-wrapped psychos, it had taken him no more than fifteen minutes to reach his apartment, and by the time he crossed the threshold his body was in agony.
And his fingers were starting to tremble pretty badly, so John put the kettle –the big one- on and hit the send button on his cell phone -forwarding to Harold aliases and last known location of the female operative- before he started to hallucinate and lose focus for good.
No fast poison for him, no such luck. He hadn't just avoided the umpteenth rendezvous with his ex-colleagues at the Agency, so he didn't have 4 minutes before going into shock and leave the world. Actually leave it. To be honest, he didn't even know if the unexpected accomplice had managed to inject a lethal dose of whatever he had injected, since he had knocked him out the moment the lunatic had approached him. Hence no goodbyes this time, just the reassuring thought that he hadn't screwed up and even found Harold a contingency.
It felt like ages before he gauged the water hot enough to let the dark leaves, courtesy of Mr. Han, brew. He had serious reasons to suspect that the substance currently flowing through his veins had something to do with venomous snakes and that tea was the only instant remedy he could think of. Talks with Han were always interesting and if he really was going to make it, he unquestionably had to thank him again for the precious gift. John kept a mug ready by the counter and waited, rubbing absently his forehead. He had to lie down, his head was throbbing mercilessly and everything was dangerously swimming in front of his eyes. Chances were that either he would kick the bucket after excruciating hours of pain, or that he would spend the following 24 hours trying to fight off a particularly painful poison, hopefully managing not to die, after all the effort.
However, since both options implied hours of agony, sweat, fever and god knows what sort of mental and physical degradation, he surely didn't need and wanted Harold there. Again, suffering was such an intimate feeling.
During his previous "accidents", when the most comfortable place to recover had been a military hospital -better not to think about hotel rooms or the wilds with no medical instrument whatsoever- what had truly bothered him had always been the complete absence of privacy: the intruding presence of nurses, doctors, other patients or crazy partners.
Premises being different he wouldn't have minded having Bear there. However that wasn't an option either and he felt a pang of pain that hadn't anything to do with the substance currently intoxicating his blood. He had been well aware, at the time, of the responsibility that bringing a dog to the Library would entail, he hadn't foreseen though, how deep his reckless actions, his excess stress, would affect Bear. And he didn't deserve that, not after his prior experience with the mad Arian (who apparently missed abusing his dog even in jail).
No Bear then, no one.
He really needed to lie down in his bed. He finally poured some tea in the mug and brought it to his mouth with trembling hands. After a few cautious sips, John emptied it, then filled a thermos with the remaining liquid. He brought it to his nightstand and it felt like it weighted tons. He paused for a second, a bit worried at how fast he was losing strength and lucidity. Nonetheless he hoped he would be coherent enough to keep drinking the tea in the following hours.
He sighed, almost defeated, when he finally realised, among other things, how exhausted he was. He carelessly took shirt and pants off and he didn't even remember the moment he had done the same with jacket and coat. They probably lied in a pile in his doorway or forgotten in his car.
After three whole days spent chasing a number with a penchant for illegal introduction of poisonous animals and chemistry, he really hadn't needed to experience his third encounter with venoms.
The first one had occurred when he still was in the Army Special Forces and it was a particularly unpleasant memory. Iraq, the desert. It was true what they said, that a soldier had to face a lot more than enemy's fire. Startled, he had woken up in the middle of the night with a deathstalker on his face. Reacting on sheer instinct, he had blindly shoved the scorpion away, ending up with a single sting on his hand. A single sting on his face and he could have lost his sight, a second one anywhere on his body and he would have been dead. The final verdict had been an anaphylaxis reaction, a swollen hand - which hurt like hell, and the inability to safely hold his rifle for a week.
The second encounter had been during a mission for the Agency. Bad luck hadn't played a role that time, his second intoxication had been desired and deliberate. John had been tortured before, so he wasn't impressed when they had started to inject the poison in order to wring some information out of him. He and Kara were being held in Kot Lakhpat jail - Pakistan, at the time: two unforgettable weeks for all the wrong reasons. The poisoning effects had been inconvenient, as usual, but of course they hadn't uttered a word and of course they had managed to escape, ready to face the next suicidal mission. They really had been a formidable team, in spite of everything.
And finally, there he was: poisoned for the third time, third different location, third different boss. Of course something similar had to happen also under Finch's guidance. Actually, he guessed he should have seen it coming, like some kind of recurrence. Apparently life was being predictable like that, or so it seemed.
He awkwardly removed the duvet and all but collapsed on the soft mattress. His fate could currently be unknown, but the certainty that everything he possessed was first class material always was a comforting constant. The perks of working for a billionaire who could lose 10 million dollars with a not so much heartfelt protest.
John couldn't help but smile at the thought. That had been quite an adventure, crossing an ocean and a continent or two on the whim of a different billionaire. Granted, he was thinking that now, when he hadn't to deal with Logan Pierce's antics anymore. Surely he and Finch had bumped into some peculiar characters along the way. He tried to recall each one of them, and number after number, they all mingled in a blur. His vision was beyond fuzzy now, so there was no point in trying to keep focus on the room. He decided to close his eyes and attempt to enjoy the floating sensation that assaulted his senses immediately.
But it was an "easier said than done": the sting in his side, that had looked so small in the beginning, felt warm and swollen under the light scrutiny of his fingers.
Also, the slight tingle had almost immediately evolved in a dull, throbbing pain that had rapidly radiated from the tiny hole in his flank to his entire abdomen and back, making impossible to lie supine and comfortable. He curled on his uninjured side then, tender but not that sore, also trying to ease the cramps that were starting to become quite bothersome. Those had come after a while, John diagnosed detachedly, he had already been there, in his apartment, getting the tea started. Clearly the poison was messing up with his stomach as well, but having not eaten at all in the past fourteen hours could probably spare his body the exhausting task of throwing up. He swallowed, trying at least to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth, but he accepted the fact that he couldn't avoid nausea, after all.
Minutes felt like hours and he had to gather all his willpower not to writhe and squirm -useless, involuntary attempts to elude the pain- feeling the exertion in every drop of sweat it was now soaking his body and undershirt. John used the last ounce of strength to disconnect himself from every sensation: from pain, nausea and distress.
And there she was: soft skin under the sun, an open window, kisses, caresses, revelations, tequila and precious instants of real happiness. So many years ago yet a memory he couldn't get rid of, wouldn't let go, if only to remind himself that there had been a moment in his life when he had made the right choice: leave the army, leave the pain and leave the loneliness. The right choice among so many mistakes and hurtful words toward the only person who hadn't really deserved them. Because yes, in the end she had been alone and he hadn't come to save her.
John hadn't saved her because he had been too busy allowing an Agency to steal from him any chance of ordinary life, and, what's more, mock-reward the invaluable sacrifice with a stab in his back.
But Donnelly had been right, he had made the choice, he had taken the decision, naive enough to believe he really could have made a difference while working for them. He should have known better, after being partnered with a sadistic sociopath who "loved" her job. He still didn't know what the hell was he thinking, playing along with those sick games of hers. And while he was destroying his soul, dismantling it, piece by piece, despite that, Jessica still had thought he could help her, that she could still rely on him. And besides being unsure he would have been able to even look into her eyes without feeling an incurable shame, he had believed it as well. He had believed he could help her. Still, in the end, when it had really mattered, he hadn't saved her. He hadn't because she was there, she had always been there, in her own way, waiting for him, as if she had heard those mouthed words at the airport. She had always been there and she would have been also after Ordos, right? Just one more mission. Just the last one. Only he had missed his single chance. And what had hurt the most, what still hurt like someone constantly slid barbed wire in and out his chest, was that she would have. Waited. She had trusted him till the end, till the person who should have loved her the most had killed her, abruptly stopping her wait.
And of course, with her gone, he had lost his last piece of soul killing that person. Because he hadn't known who he was anymore.
"What had he become then?"
Gripping the duvet, he lost concentration. Problem with Jessica's memories was that they never ended well. He wasn't in the shape to suffer both mentally and physically at the moment, and the latter condition was back in full force because he had been too busy embarking his guilt trip. He tried to find his focus once more, claim another good moment, some good decision he had to have made. And of course Finch was there. He had thanked him once or twice, not sure if the computer genius had really grasped the importance of his offer. He actually suspected, almost sure, that Harold had chosen him out of guilt, because John had been somehow related to Jess, one of the recurring irrelevant. Or because, still helpless at the time, Finch hadn't intervened to stop John from killing Peter Arndt. Must have been one of those reasons, because there were plenty of ex-operatives with his skills, abilities and experience out there. Again, Shaw surely was a better option and surely Finch had enough patience to tame her, maybe keeping the change for building up a friendship. He himself wouldn't have thought in a million years to reach that sort of connection with the billionaire. Yet there they were, or had been since a few hours ago, sharing takeaways, chats, walks, life or death situations. Playing house with a dog.
It had taken him an entire life to realise he had been wrong from the start. That along with a purpose he had needed someone to share the goal with. The purpose, his purpose, had always been there: in the army, in the Agency, in his everyday life. He just wanted to help people, make a difference. But what hadn't been there was someone who understood that. He didn't want military orders, nor the anonymous, very reliable sources, a sociopathic, crazy partner, not a code from a payphone on the street. No, even that wasn't enough. He had needed someone who cared about what the purpose was about, someone who shared his concerns, his objective and all the emotions that went with that. Rage, worry, care, determination. Someone who could feel the emotions, even if this same someone addressed relationships as "human interaction". And as if all that hadn't been enough, this person also cared about him. John didn't know if that had been part of the epiphany. He didn't know if he had always needed that as well. Someone who cared about him, above all things. Care enough to drive him to a coroner in the middle of the night, paying no heed to speed limits or traffic regulations, risking multiple covers and anonymity to save his life. Then look after him, when he was too out of it and hurt to be on his own. Change bandages, change clothes, give him painkillers and a cushion. Care enough to build the perfect cover in real time. Get him out of prison. Care enough to end up in a roof not caring about blowing off together with him and kilograms of Semtex. He should have thanked him one more time, now that he was thinking about it, and he hoped to make it through the night and been able to, after all. That and being welcomed by Bear at the Library, once more.
And he must have reached the peak of his condition, because he almost felt like Bear was there, non-intrusive yet reassuring presence in the room. Something pinched his arm, then John realised he wasn't even feeling that hot anymore. He didn't know if he did, but he surely felt like sighing in relief when a fresh sensation lightly ran through his forehead, neck and torso. Less burdened he also felt like trying to take another sip of tea. He blindly searched for the thermos then, clumsily running his hand over the nightstand. When the metal finally came into contact with his fingers it didn't feel as heavy as before. He even managed not to spill a drop of tea on the soaked undershirt he was no longer wearing.
Far beyond the point of exhaustion he decided he could succumb to sleep at last, wincing in pain when he inadvertently brushed his elbow against his side. After a few cautious movements he then found a comfortable position, less pessimistic about managing to wake up in the morning, being poisoned for the third time just another memory to add to a list he didn't care to keep.