He had thought that studying the case file Reese had been compiling on Root would calm him. After all, a logical laying-out of the perfectly organized chaos the woman embodied-right down to her sweet, cheerful, grating voice-seemed as good a way as any to put her out of his mind.

Out? Harold practically scoffed at the thought. She would never be out. Her memory was indelible. Through, then. If he could reason his way through her madness, come out clean on the other side, then maybe he could step out on the streets again in broad daylight without feeling...what? Exposed? That wasn't quite right either, was it? She had taken the openness of the daylight and turned it into a cage. Parading him around in public, within arm's reach of rescue but miles from obtaining it, because he wasn't like her. He wouldn't become like her, not even to save his own life. His hand shook slightly as he carefully wrapped the red twine around a pushpin and secured it to the board in a visual representation of a connection Reese had already made.

"It's time we went for that beer."

Speak of the devil. Reese's voice made him pause in his work for a moment, though fell short of actually startling him. He'd like to think it was his own hyper-vigilance that had allowed him to hear John's approach, that the ex-spy hadn't turned off stealth-mode for his benefit, but he knew better. He wanted to snap at Reese, tell him that all the beer in the world wouldn't fix anything, but a half-hearted protest was all that issued from his lips, "I need to wrap things up here." He stayed facing the board, body tense, staring at the array of papers and photos without really seeing them, waiting for Reese to acknowledge his statement and leave.

"Things here can wait."

Harold closed his eyes. Damn him and that certain, mild, understanding tone of his that was as much an unyielding command as a gentle, concerned invitation. He turned slowly to face Reese and must've looked as shell-shocked as he still felt, because Reese offered him a half-smile that was sympathetic, but not at all patronizing: the smile of someone who knew what was going on in his head because he'd been there a time or two himself. Not knowing what else to do, Harold mechanically picked up Bear's leash and followed John out into the bustling New York night.

He couldn't say anything to Reese for a long time. The first four blocks, it was all he could do to breathe slowly and draw enough oxygen so as not to pass out. When he no longer felt as though he would suffocate, he spent the next six blocks holding Bear's leash in a death grip and resisting the urge to look behind him. Now and again he could feel John studying him from the corner of his eye, but he didn't look up and John stayed silent. They walked.

"Does it have to be beer?" The words eventually came, unbidden and skittish-sounding, at least to his own ears. He quickly turned to gauge his companion's reaction, setting an expression of what he hoped was humor upon his face. Reese gave him a sidelong glance and grinned, kept walking.

Harold actually thought Reese had bought the feigned levity for about five seconds. Then he was being steered off the sidewalk and into the park, John's hand briefly at his elbow, then gone as the path straightened ahead of them. "Where are we going, Mr. Reese?" he asked warily.

Reese shrugged. "If you don't want beer, there's no reason to keep heading toward the bar."

"No...no, I suppose not." They continued on, trees closing over the path on either side until it was just them, the quiet, the darkness...the rustle of leaves, the shadows, the things that might be lurking in them. His heart was racing again. He felt his breathing quicken, even as his steps slowed to a stop. He flinched hard as two hands grasped his shoulders, but he forced himself to look up, his eyes meeting John's.

"She's not here, Harold."

"You-you can't know..." he panted, before shaking his head and falling silent in deference to his suddenly oxygen-starved lungs. He was so focused on breathing that he put up no resistance when Reese grabbed his arm and steered him further down the path. Before he knew it, they'd stopped again and he was vaguely aware of John easing him onto a bench, then jogging off. He didn't have time to ponder where Reese had gone before he was back again. Harold heard the crinkle of some type of packaging, and saw a pastry inexplicably fall to the ground near his feet before Reese was pressing a brown paper bag into his hands. That's when he realized what was wrong, why he was dizzy, why his head felt light as a helium balloon.

Sitting forward, he quickly brought the bag to his face and shut his eyes against the vertigo as he tried to control his breathing. Slowly, too slowly, the bag did its job and his frantic respiration began to ease. He became aware of a hand resting on the back of his neck, warm and steady. John, his brain supplied, and he leaned into the touch without realizing it, allowing Reese's presence to ground him, pull him back from the crumbling edge his mind and body had been veering toward.

When he finally risked opening his eyes a few moments later, the first thing he saw was the pastry on the ground disappearing into Bear's mouth. He couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, though the sound came out as more of a breathless grunt. He sat up a little straighter, pleased that his surroundings were once again in their upright, stationary position. "Thank you. I'm...not sure what came over me."

"You had a panic attack."

Harold let out a sigh, eyes still directed at the ground, at the pastry crumbs quickly being cleaned up by their furry companion. He knew full well what had come over him, but was dismayed that John was so matter-of-fact about it, as if it was something that happened every day. In any case, he didn't want to talk about it and so he said the first unrelated thing that came to mind, "A bear claw, Mr. Reese? Really?"

"Finch."

Again with that tone. Was it some sort of interrogation tactic he'd learned at the Agency? Reese had just ordered him in no uncertain terms to cut the crap and stop avoiding the issue, but he didn't sound perturbed in the slightest. He sounded maddeningly patient, in fact. There was just one minor problem. "I don't know what you want me to say, John." He truly didn't. A million irrational and disturbing thoughts wound their way through his brain, day and night since his abduction, and he didn't think even the massive data processing capabilities of the Machine would prove enough to decipher them in a way that made any sense.

"What happened out there today?" Reese prompted softly.

Harold felt a twinge of guilt. Of course. It was perfectly reasonable that he'd want an explanation. Reese had needed his help and had had to call Detective Fusco instead because he was too busy cowering in the library. He took a deep breath that didn't serve to calm him as much as he'd hoped, but forged ahead anyway, doing his best to answer, "When I went out to meet you, everything had just become so different, Mr. Reese. Vivid, loud, as though I was seeing it all for the first time. I suppose that I just...froze. Right there in the street. My legs had forgotten how to move. The world went on ahead, and I was just there...trapped in the middle. At some point, Bear pulled me back onto the sidewalk and the next thing I knew, we were at the library. I barely even remember getting there. I'm sorry."

"I don't want an apology, Harold. I want to know you're okay."

Harold wasn't sure what startled him more: the rough emotion in Reese's voice that was so at odds with the calm confidence of before, or the slight firming of John's forgotten grip on his neck. Perhaps he'd underestimated the effect his absence had had on the other man. They hadn't really talked since he'd been back. There hadn't been time. He'd spent the plane ride home from Maryland in a drugged stupor, his only memories of the trip consisting of John checking him over for injuries a second time, re-wrapping his hand, and helping him with his seatbelt. By the time they'd reached the library, the drugs had worn off, but he was no less tired. She had called and then he and Reese had both passed out for a ridiculous number of hours on a pair of sofas in a small, windowless office. Just in case, Reese had said. That had been several days ago and, thinking back, he'd hardly been alone since. John gave him his space, but still lurked, probably more than he was even aware. The revelation gave Harold pause, and pondering for a moment, he finally turned to Reese and answered truthfully, "It may take some time, but I will be."

Reese studied him for the space of several seconds, before nodding in acceptance and retrieving his hand. They sat quietly for a while, Bear curled up at their feet, before Harold reached down and lightly clasped John's wrist. Staring straight ahead into the darkness, he murmured, "Your concern is appreciated, Mr. Reese."