Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest or its characters.

A/N: Thank you so much for the warm response. I really appreciate all of the kind reviews. I've been reading the stories of many of you who reviewed for so long (and reviewing as a Guest). Here is a short one and will probably be the only update until the weekend. And sorry, no questions answered quite yet but isn't the suspense a big part of the fun? Thanks again to all of the reviewers, followers, and favorites!

John Reese wandered the quiet streets of Brooklyn watching the snowfall. It was twilight and quite a few people were braving the snow and cold, finishing Christmas shopping or meeting family for dinner. He looked up as he heard the laughter of a young girl, not older than four. She was bundled from head to toe, her mitten clad hand tucked safely in her mother's as they crossed the icy street. Reese stood watching the girl hop with excitement, her pigtails peeking out from beneath her pink wool hat. He shook his head trying to bring himself out of a daze. He was stunned by the child's laughter; her joy felt foreign to him. Life was moving on around him. People went about their everyday activities as if nothing had happened three weeks ago.

Running gloved hand through his disheveled hair, John continued down the street with no destination. He almost did not notice the phone buzzing in his pocket. After leaving Finch's safe house two weeks ago, he had destroyed his phone and ear piece. The burner phone now buzzing in his pocket was for one specific purpose. Only one person had this number.

He answered the phone without greeting. "Are you ok?"

The voice on the other line hesitated. "I need to see you."

"When and where?" John listened to the destination, grimacing at the chosen meeting place. "I'll be there within the hour. Are you sure you're safe?"

The caller responded, "I'm fine. See you soon."

John took a deep breath and changed directions, walking at a brisk pace. He needed to see with his own eyes that the person on the other line was in fact fine.


Harold Finch felt even more unsettled after their meeting with Detective Fusco the previous night. He had been keeping a constant vigil at the Library since Detective Carter's death. The demise of HR had kept the numbers coming, non-stop. The few members of HR that had managed to dodge the FBI were desperate to tie up loose ends. The Russians were in a tailspin now that Yugorov was in custody, and Elias remained an unpredictable player in this overly complicated and deadly chess match.

He had sent Shaw out to save who she could but even with her exceptional skills, she was only one person. They were down one very important asset. Harold had tried every alias John had ever used, attempting to turn up some lead as to where their wayward friend had disappeared. Harold knew that his best chance of finding John was to find Simmons, but Simmons had yet to surface. Between numbers, Shaw had tried to chase down the few leads Harold managed to find, but Simmons had kept tight lipped regarding any exit strategy. If anyone knew, Harold had yet to locate that person, but something told Finch that Simmons still had unfinished business in the City. As much as John wanted Simmons, Harold had the ominous sense that the feeling was mutual. Simmons was not leaving the City until he finally eliminated "The Man in the Suit. Harold only hoped he could find one or the other first. John was in no physical or emotional condition to take on Simmons alone.

Rubbing his tired eyes and setting his glasses next to the monitor, Harold took a sip of his lukewarm Sencha tea. Stiffly, Harold leaned down to scratch Bear behind his ears, always the loyal friend at his post. Softly, Harold whispered "Oh, Bear. How did it all come to this?" A sudden beep broke the eerie silence, startling Harold Finch from his reverie. The Machine had a new number.


Sam Shaw walked into the library as Finch placed another large stack of books on the table in front of his dry erase board. She had not seen so many books out of place since the night the Machine provided the thirty-eight numbers of HR. Finch returned to the stacks, unaffected by Shaw's sudden appearance. Shaw broke the silence. "Care to explain, Finch."

"I don't know that I can, Ms. Shaw. At least not yet."

"How many numbers, Finch?"

"That's just it, Ms. Shaw. This appears to be one number, but it is a pattern of which I'm unfamiliar. It is clearly not our typical social security number. It is far too long to be a driver's license number or even an immigration number. It makes no sense." Finch groaned in pain as the inflammation from his old injury flared in his back. He knew he had been spending too many hours here, but he felt a sense of duty to continue the good fight—for their fallen friend and for their friend who had lost his way.

Shaw leaned over to look at the monitor Finch had vacated. She noticed the mug of tea and a prescription bottle for "Harold Wren" sitting behind a stack of papers. Holding up the bottle, she noted the medication name and shook it. The rattling of the bottle drew Finch's attention.

"You're looking like death, Finch. Have you taken any of your pain meds lately?"

Finch huffed, "I have no time for pain or medication, Ms. Shaw. I-." Finch froze mid-sentence. He limped over to Shaw, snatching the bottle from her hand. He carefully counted the numbers on the prescription bottle and noted the sequence and breaks in the pattern. "Ms. Shaw, that's it! The number is a prescription number. I just have to find the person associated with the prescription. That's the new number."

"Seriously, Finch. The Machine gave us a prescription number." Shaw muttered under her breath, "I think the Machine is slipping."