Complicated
Jezyk
Spoilers: Anything through Number Crunch
Consider this work hereby disclaimed.
Part One
It was an unfortunate business, and though he recognized he didn't have any choice, Harold Finch desperately wished there was someone else available to do it. But he also knew that it was all John could do to keep breathing in his current circumstances, so he could hardly begrudge the man who was slumped over in the passenger seat of the hearse, conserving his energy for when he'd need it in a few moments.
As he presented his doctored IDs and paperwork to the clerk at the morgue, Harold said yet another prayer that his friend would recover from his injuries. Megan Tillman had patched up the holes as best she could, but John had been gravely wounded, lost a considerable amount of blood, and had hardly been in a sterile environment with his open wounds. Considerable doses of antibiotics and over-the-counter fever reducers were allowing John to remain conscious most of the time, and Harold depended on the infrequent periods of lucidity to convince himself that John's hallucinations would die out as he healed.
It was disconcerting to hear the man talking to his dead girlfriend, even more so when he'd lovingly promise Jessica that he was coming home and they'd be together soon.
It was unsettling as well when John would utter Detective Carter's name, his voice and eyes revealing such hurt and betrayal as to indicate a depth of attachment Harold had no desire whatsoever to consider.
So when John suggested in the longest period of lucidity he'd had in the three days since he'd been shot that they needed a body to get rid of everyone looking for him, Harold had readily agreed. With his unlimited access to government records, he was able to find a few possibilities. It was really John's area of expertise, but he did the best he could. He determined height and build were the most important to match, supposing that things like hair, skin & eye color could be dealt with in other ways. Once he had a reasonably short list of tall, thin men, he ruled out the ones with families.
By the time John had roused again, Harold had narrowed it down to two options, two unfortunate loners with no family or friends to claim their bodies. Otherwise destined for pauper's graves, Harold told himself it was better that one of them would help save a man's life. John was down for the count; it would be months before he fully recovered, if he recovered at all, which Harold was still uncertain about. John chose the African American man who was an exact match for his height and weight rather than the blonde man who'd stood an inch shorter. Harold wasn't sure how either of them would actually suffice, but John assured him it was fine.
He also promised he'd take care of that part, understanding even in his ill health that Harold wasn't prepared for the sort of denigration of a human body that would be required to convince the CIA and the NYPD that John Reese was dead.
Harold had a hell of a time dragging John to the car, but he wasn't about to leave his friend behind. He'd learned a lot about John during that phone call, when John had expected he was about to die, when John had tried to protect him. John had been prepared to die alone, to join the countless other unidentified victims left to rot. He'd been resigned to such a fate before they'd met; he'd even referenced it once in a conversation, said he'd always figured he'd be buried without even a name.
For that reason, for the loyalty the man somehow inspired by his unassuming, faithful presence, Harold had decided that would absolutely not be the case. Though he did still expect one or both of them would get killed because of their little endeavor, Harold wasn't going to let John die alone. Even if he passed in the passenger seat of a hearse from an infection that probably could have been cured in a day with hospital care, John would be with a friend when he died.
As Harold ushered the orderly pushing the stretcher toward the hearse marked "Lattimer Funeral Home & Crematorium, Est. 1986," he winced and hoped the deathly gray color of John's skin and dark, sour expression would serve only to convince the orderly to return to the relative safety of the morgue rather than arouse suspicion. Mortuaries did tend to employ some disturbing looking individuals, at least in Harold's opinion. Luckily, the orderly's cheerful blather stopped abruptly when he saw John. He quickly loaded the body into the back and hurried inside without another word.
When Harold returned to the driver's seat, he found John's dark stare had turned to him. He forced the worry out of his voice as he spoke, adopting the unconcerned tone he usually used with John, except when he was terrified out of his wits. "Something on your mind, Mr. Reese?"
There as a pause, long enough for Harold to suspect John had lost consciousness, but he eventually spoke, his voice weak and raspy. "A hearse is a little premature, Harold. I'm not dead yet, but I do appreciate the gesture."
On death's door, the man's wry wit remained intact.
It bought a smile to Harold's face, one that he quickly hid. If the man was cracking jokes, perhaps the penicillin was working its magic. "The hearse isn't for you, Mr. Reese," he bit off, "it's for our unfortunate friend back there."
Confusion washed over John's face for a moment as he strained to look behind him. "Right."
"Go back to sleep, Mr. Reese. You'll need your strength for later." God only knew how the man was going to go about faking his own death, but just like he'd had the strength to walk down the stairs that night, Harold knew John had more determination than anyone ever had and he'd be able to do whatever he needed to do. That was, after all, the quality that made him so indispensable, both to the CIA and to Harold himself. Short of death, nothing was going to stop John from doing whatever was necessary.
And in just over twelve hours, the NYPD was investigating the human remains that had been found following an explosion in a chemical factory on the waterfront. Harold honestly didn't know if John's handiwork would be as careful and perfect as it normally was, but when Mark Snow was called in the next day, Harold decided any work of John's was better than most people's best.
