Title: Enough
Author: sockie1000
Summary: John didn't remember much from last night. And for a man who lived and breathed intelligence, that was unnerving. Missing scene from "Super".
Author's notes: I didn't plan on writing any POI fics, but my muse refused to rest until I jotted this one down.
As always, thanks to my betas in crime, Cokie316 and Rogue Tomato. What would I do without you?
John didn't remember much from last night.
And for a man who lived and breathed intelligence, that was unnerving.
Even in the days after he first came back to the states, back to New York, he was gathering information. Years of training and experience made observation second nature. It was a gear in his brain he simply could not shut off, even if he wanted to.
He spent many days, and nights, on a park bench outside the New York Stock Exchange. There, he saw it all. Not just the physical, but what the physical meant; connections others would not make by simply seeing. Which stockbroker was just a few months into the job, the polished sheen of new his suits and ties, as well as his optimistic expression, giving him away. Who was having a hard morning, looking a bit harried and running three minutes late based upon their average arrival time from the past five days. The ones who had evidently not made it home last night, still wearing the same clothes as the day before, only slightly more rumpled, with bags under their eyes.
People passing his bench ignored him as they hurried by, taking him for a homeless man, a drunk. They were half-right. He was homeless, all right, but instead of his mind being lost to alcohol, it was lost to memories he could not forget.
When winter came, the park bench was too cold. And while he had no reason to live, he wasn't ready to die. He moved on to a warmer location, a subway car, where he would ride, nonstop. Still, his memories haunted him, appearing to put him into a trance. However, all the while, he took everything in, his senses feeding him a constant stream of information, every mundane detail of his surroundings and fellow passengers. Most of the information was useless, but it was also familiar, and contributed to a layer of security, of control. And, most importantly, it created a bland background, against which danger would stick out like a proverbial sore thumb.
So, to be in the position in which he now found himself, unable to remember every detail, every nuance, every potential meaning of what had transpired the night before, was unsettling.
He did remember pieces, snatches of information. Mark. Carter. Getting shot. The stairwell. Calling Harold. Thanking him for a second chance. Warning him to stay away. Finch speeding into the parking structure anyway. Detective Carter catching them, but letting them go. The conflict on her face as she shut the car door. Taking off his own belt and tightening it around his leg as a tourniquet. Hearing angry drivers honk at them as Finch sped through red lights.
But then things became muddled, the snippets of time where he was conscious fewer and farther between. Driving up to the Coroner's office. Fluorescent lights passing above him, like reflective stripes on a two-lane road. Finch's face above his, but upside down. Hearing footsteps coming closer, and an unfamiliar voice, before a sheet was quickly pulled up over his head. Wincing in the bright light after the sheet was pulled back down. Hearing Harold's voice, but not being able to make out the words. Seeing a large amount of cash dumped on an autopsy table in front of a man. Waking up in a dim, windowless room, smaller than the one before. His wounds stitched up, bandages covering his leg and abdomen. Two needles in his arm. Two bags hanging from a pole, one clear and one full of blood.
And no one around.
His first instinct was to run. Although, even he had to admit that was unlikely to have a positive outcome given his current physical state. He would probably collapse before he made it to the door, not to mention re-open his wounds. Bleeding out in a hallway in the Coroner's office was even less appealing than freezing to death on a park bench on Wall Street. Although, it certainly would be convenient, he thought with dark humor. At least they wouldn't have to move his body far, or bother with a post-mortem.
No, if he wanted to stay alive, his best option right now was to close his eyes, pretend to be asleep, and think. To focus on what he knew and try to piece together the rest.
First, Snow was working with someone, that much was evident. And probably only one other person; the bullets came from the same trajectory, higher up on the parking structure, and Mark would have as many guns on John as possible. So, Mark plus one had discovered he was alive and were after him. John would not be going back to his hotel. He would buy a new suit and move on without going back for any of his things, glad, for once, that he really didn't have anything worth retrieving.
Second, Detective Carter had tipped Snow off, but then let John and Finch go. Her change of heart showed her moral compass was still as true as John always thought it was. Mark had probably sold her some story about how John had gone rogue, possibly insane. Carter probably thought she was doing the right thing, maybe even helping him, by calling the CIA to bring him in. She obviously learned last night that the CIA did not have his best interests in mind. John was willing to overlook her breach of trust this one time, knowing it would not happen again.
But Finch was the biggest surprise. He proved himself to be as meticulous in his contingency plans as he was in his computer programming and choice of attire. He had obviously researched doctors ahead of time, finding one who would be willing to help in a pinch for the right price. How Finch had known the right particular doctor would be on duty at that time, John had no idea. Finch must have had more than one doctor on his list.
And somehow Harold had scored a unit or more of blood, not usually stocked in the supply cabinet of morgues. John couldn't read the label on the bag, but if he could, he was certain it would be his blood type instead of the standard O negative. The clear bag hanging next to the blood was undoubtedly antibiotics, also unnecessary for the dead. Finch had probably bought them both from a morally ambiguous staffer in a nearby ER, also researched ahead of time. Unless, of course, he stole them from an ambulance, John thought, smiling to himself. But that was really more his style than Finch's. Finch would have bought it all. Which might not be legal, but it was far less dangerous. John wondered how many bags of cash Harold kept stashed in the trunk of his car. He also made a mental note to pick the trunk's lock and find out.
John sighed, knowing that was as much as of the puzzle he could piece together right now. When Finch came back, as John knew he would, he would get the rest of the details and from there, he would make his plan.
No, John didn't remember much from last night.
But he knew, at the moment, he was safe and that Snow had no idea where he was. That Carter felt remorse for betraying him and could be counted on from here on out. And that Finch, with his unusual interpersonal skills and fussy habits, would do everything possible to help him, even if it meant putting his own life in serious danger.
And for now, that was enough.
fin