The Price We Pay
John floored the car and sped into the darkness. He was driving dangerously, and was dangerously beyond caring. In less than twenty four hours he had become a very desperate man.
The day before, he and Finch had wrapped a most satisfying case. They had saved the life of a single mother, which in turn prevented her three young children from entering the foster care system. In short, they had saved a family. They were still basking in that success, and Harold suggested dinner at a small Italian restaurant he favored. It was clear that the owners recognized him - and Bear also - as they warmly welcomed the large dog into their small establishment. The conversation was easy, the food was excellent, and John was pleasantly surprised that Harold did not rush off after their meal. He didn't dwell on it, but John was aware that his partner had become essential to his well-being. The other man was his touchstone. Harold kept him grounded, provided a context for his life. And somewhere along the line, they had become friends as well. It had been a slow process, but tonight the sense of camaraderie between them was undeniable. They lingered until closing time.
They were only a block from the restaurant when John felt ill, very ill, and his legs began to give out beneath him. He turned towards Harold and saw his friend reaching for him in alarm. He was out before he hit the ground.
.
He woke to the sound of Bear's soft whine. His head was pounding, and he didn't know if it was from the drugs or from hitting the pavement. He drew a shaky breath. He knew that Harold was gone before he opened his eyes. John felt sick again. Root, it had to be Root. A sudden burst of rage helped clear his head. Bear whimpered. The dog was bleeding from a bullet wound in his thigh, but it didn't appear to be a mortal wound. Functioning mostly on instinct, John gathered him up and drove to a pre-arranged veterinary hospital. Harold's money paid for a lot of discretion, and they had this contingency in place should Bear ever need it.
When he knew that Bear would survive and was being well cared for, he returned to the library.
John was accustomed to being in control of his emotions. During his time with the CIA he was detached - from his work and from his life. He had done many horrific things calmly and dispassionately. And he had entered a void from which there should have been no returning. But gradually, with Harold and this job, he was recovering himself. Every life saved felt like it erased a little of the blackness the CIA had left on his soul.
But as the reality of what had happened settled over him, he felt a rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. He understood too well what was at stake. Harold's life - so much more important than his own - and the lives of the irrelevants, the security of the Machine.
And - he might as well admit it - he was furious that his own life was being torn apart yet again. Harold was his first friend in a very long time. He was the one person John trusted. And he was the steady and stable focal point of a new life that was increasingly pleasant and rewarding. To have the man ripped away and placed in jeopardy once again was consuming him.
The depth of his wrath was new to him, and frightening.
The machine gave him a number, but its significance remained just out of reach. Without Finch there to help him make the connections, and with his own mind clouded by anger, he was unable to put it all together.
His guilt was undoing him.
Many lives had been saved since he began working with Finch. But it was never far from John's mind that the first life Harold saved had been John's own. Root blindsided them before, but now they knew she was out there. After he recovered Harold the first time, John made it his personal mission to make sure the woman never got near his partner again. They understood how fortunate they were that Harold had escaped with so little physical harm. Even so, the older man had been thoroughly shaken by the event, much more than he tried to let on. And the thought of what he might be suffering now was tearing John apart.
Then Carter called. She had used all of her considerable resources with the FBI and had a lead for him. "It's a long shot, John. Try to remember that."
He drove the car wildly to the isolated, rural area. He was unraveling and he knew it. He felt unstable to his very core. And he knew exactly what (who) he needed to put everything right again.
He ditched the car and quietly approached the small, secluded house by foot. And as John burst through the door, his mind registered the only thing that mattered. Harold was there and alive.
There had been no choice, no point when he decided to kill her. Something else had taken over, something primal - the need to protect his friend, to protect what was his, and to ensure their survival with his last breath.
Even the brilliant Root was no match for a bullet in the head.
The relief and adrenaline coursing through him brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to look at Harold and let him know, "We're okay. We're all right, now."
He looked at his friend and realized that Harold was staring at him fearfully, as if John were a stranger to him.
.
FIN
.
A/N: There is a song by James Durbin called "Everything Burns", and the chorus perfectly describes what I think John's state of mind would be during these hours. And I have a confession. Having John put a bullet in Root's head has been a little fantasy of mine for a while now. Whatever that says about me. We know that Mr. Finch would never approve. I've been working on Harold's POV at the same time, so chapter 2 will be up very soon. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think.