Chapter 1

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- earlier that day -

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As usual John Reese arrived at the library early, hoping to see Finch already busy collecting information on their latest Number. He had no such luck however. As the morning slowly - too slowly - progressed, Finch eventually grew more than annoyed at a bored and slightly antsy CIA-trained ex-assassin hovering over his shoulder. Faced with the ultimatum of either sitting down and occupying himself quietly, or leaving the library all together, Reese shrugged off Harold's irritation with an amused smirk, and - after giving the rows upon rows of dusty books a speculative glance - decided upon option 'B'.

Taking pity on Bear - who had been eying his two humans with a bored expression from his doggy bed - John decided to take the dog and himself on a long and much needed walk. He made sure not to stray too far in case a Number finally came up, but by the time John returned to the library shortly after noon there had still not been word from the Machine.

Finch was so engrossed in his coding he barely even noticed Reese dropping off Bear and placing a cup of freshly-brewed Sencha Green Tea and a sandwich from Ecklert's - Harold's favorite deli, which John knew the other man would deny if asked - beside his keyboards.

Reese stood quietly behind Finch's chair for a few seconds which the older man seemed either not to notice or to simply ignore. By the sounds of Bear's soft snoring John realized that there was nothing left for him to do at the library but wait. Preferably quietly.

"I know where to reach you, Mr. Reese," Finch said without turning around, and John knew a dismissal when he heard one. The last time Harold had more or less given him the day off he had tried to work a Number on his own, and just for a second suspicion bubbled up to the surface. They both had been different men back then and their acquaintance still young and mainly uncharted. Now John knew without a doubt that he trusted Harold Finch. Besides, the tracker he had secretly placed on his employer would inform him of any unusual movement anyway.

Pushing his suspicions out of his mind, Reese nodded minutely and added a soft "Okay" when he realized that the man seated with his back towards him couldn't see him.

He stepped outside the library and stopped. Unsure of what to do with his forced free time his first impulse was to check on his pet detective. Intimidating Lionel Fusco always seemed to improve his mood. However both Fusco and Carter were working graveyard this week, and he really did not have an urgent reason to rob either one of the detectives of their sleep. And Reese had to admit that Fusco had been doing good work lately - even without having to be reminded about a certain dead body.

Reese checked his watch. A quarter till one. If he got going now there was still plenty of time to let Han trounce him again at the public chessboard in the park across from his apartment.

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A couple of hours and two enjoyable chess games later John sat at the kitchen table of his silent apartment, enjoying the calming effect that cleaning weapons had on him. The scent of gun powder and oil was heavy in the air. He had never minded this task - viewed by many as tedious - as he had realized even early in his career that getting to clean your gun meant that you had made it through yet another day alive.

Reese was slowly and meticulously working his way through his vast collection, taking every single gun apart and putting them back together again after making sure all parts were clean, oiled and in working order. The repetitive work almost felt like meditation.

He was just in the middle of lubricating the bolt carrier of the roller-delayed blowback mechanism of his HK MP5 - one of his favorites - when his cell phone began to vibrate on the table top beside him, breaking the silence. Returning the bolt carefully to the other parts of the MP5 on the cloth in front of him, he wiped off his hands and tapped his earwig. This call could only mean business.

"Yes, Finch?"

"Mr. Reese, we have a new Number," Finch said without preamble, confirming John's suspicion.

"I'll be at the library in twenty minutes." John got up to collect his Sig Sauer and his suit jacket. He'd finish the MP5 another time - he still had plenty of similar guns if the need arose.

"Actually there's no time for that. You're starting your new temp job in less than thirty minutes."

Reese dropped the jacket he had just picked up. "I am?"

"Yes. I sent you the address, and the appropriate choice of attire should be arriving at your apartment momentarily."

As if on cue there was a knock at the door, revealing a slightly bored looking young messenger in a blazer and a baseball cap standing in the hallway, and holding out a garment bag.

John accepted the bag and closed his apartment door, missing the bored expression on the man's face morph into one of delight at his generous tip. "Got the clothes," he told Finch. Unzipping the bag he peered inside, and couldn't stop his eyebrows from wandering up his forehead at the sight.

"Good. Right on time." Finch sounded pleased. "I suggest you'd better hurry, Mr. Reese. I will fill you in on what I've found out so far about our Number on your way."

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Twenty-five minutes later John had been filled in on the preliminary findings of Finch's background check on their newest number.

Louis Candrall, 82. A former plumber - born and raised in Ohio - who had moved to New York after he returned from Vietnam in '63. Never married and no kids, which eliminated Reese's first suspicion that they'd received Louis's number because someone couldn't wait for their inheritance any longer. Candrall's finances didn't show any abnormalities according to Finch, and while they waited for Detective Fusco to start his shift before running a more thorough check into Mr. Candrall, their best option for figuring out why the Machine had spat out his number was to keep a close eye on the man.

Reese stood outside the building that belonged to the address Finch had given him, looked at the sign that read Harmony Health Center, and suppressed a sigh. The moment he had seen the blue and white scrubs in the garment bag he had known that he wasn't going to particularly enjoy this new assignment. He wouldn't admit as much to his employer, but John had spent enough time in and out of all sorts of medical institutions that he could easily sympathize with Finch's dislike of hospitals. Add to that the fact that one of his earliest, yet incredibly vivid, childhood memories was visiting and being frightened by an incredibly pale and frail-looking living skeleton - who his mother had said was John's grandfather - wasting away in the local retirement home, and Reese almost felt relieved that in his chosen line of work chances were good he'd never reach an age where a senior care center would become a necessity.

He truly respected the people who chose taking care of the elderly as a profession, but if he had a choice he'd rather be staking out the place from outside for the next couple of hours. But a normal 82 year old did not own a smartphone that could be paired or a laptop with a webcam constantly connected to the internet that could be hacked. A closer and more old-school approach indeed seemed to be the most logical strategy in this case.

Checking his watch, John saw that he was right on time and tapped his ear piece. "Alright, Finch. I'm heading in," he said, as he ascended the short flight of stairs and disappeared inside.

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To be continued ...