1 week after final fight
Awareness came back to John slowly; a few sounds here and there, the feeling of sheets under him, sometimes he would feel a pinch on his arm. He tried opening his eyes to see where he was, but immediately shut them again. It was too bright. He tried again slowly, opening them a fraction of an inch at a time. Finally, when they were open all the way, he squinted, looking around the pristine white room.
He realized his suit was gone, replaced by a soft t-shirt and what felt like pajama pants. When he tried to move his left arm, he found it wouldn't cooperate. He sluggishly looked down and saw that his wrist and elbow were both velcroed to the hospital bed he was in. He looked to his right, expecting to see his other arm with the same treatment, but instead he saw that his right arm was in a sling, which was strapped tightly to his chest. He tried moving it, but the sling was extremely tight, and there was a sharp fire that ripped through his shoulder when he tried.
He couldn't stop the soft groan that escaped his lips. In a flood of memories, everything came back to him. The roof, Samaritan, the men in black… As he was struggling with the memories, the door to his room opened and a doctor in a lab coat walked in. He was followed by four more men in black, who took up defensive positions around the bed and by the door.
"Good to see you're finally awake," the doctor commented as he examined his papers. John said nothing, just continued to stare at him. "You came to me with multiple gunshot wounds, and you were in hypovolemic shock. We had to have you in a medically induced coma for the past week to help you heal." John started. A week? The doctor continued talking. "Can you tell me anything? How're you feeling? Pain level on a scale of 1-10?" As the stony silence continued, the doctor sighed impatiently. "Listen, I've got a lot I need to do today, but seeing as how you're my number one priority according to the boss, if you could just tell me if anything is wrong or not, I'll be on my way."
"Where do I start?" rasped John finally. "I was shot multiple times, beaten with a rifle, kidnapped, I'm strapped to a bed, and," he added as an afterthought, hoping it would work. "I can't feel my right arm." The doctor looked a little less frustrated at the last statement, moving closer to his patient.
"Well, there could be a number of reasons for that," he said thoughtfully as he examined John with a practiced eye. "You were shot there. There may be some muscular or nerve damage that is causing the numbness." John raised an eyebrow.
"Is that your medical observation or are you simply stating the obvious?" The doctor bristled a little. John felt a small smile tug at his mouth, even though he knew the situation he was in hardly called for humor.
"Is it a tingling kind of numbness, or can you not feel anything, not move anything?"
"I can't feel anything." The doctor scrunched his forehead, then leaned over John towards his right side. As he started loosening the sling to check out his patient's arm, John gritted his teeth for the pain he knew was about to come.
As soon as the sling was loose enough, Reese ripped his right arm out of the sling completely and rammed his elbow into the doctor's face. Quick as lightning, he reached over and yanked on the velcro holding his elbow and wrist down, freeing up his left arm as well. The first of the men in black, the one who was closest to him, came at him, but a good kick to the gut sent him stumbling back, though not taking him out of the equation entirely. Reese lept off his bed, even though the bullet wound in his thigh begged him to stop moving. "Shoulda restrained my legs too, fellas," he commented in his soft voice.
The next op to get close enough to him was grabbed by John and spun around right as one of the remaining fighters fired his gun, hitting his comrade in the side instead of John. John tossed the shot man away from him, getting ready for hand-to-hand combat. Three against one. John knew if he hadn't been shot, he could have taken these guys down easy, but they had the advantage of his injuries.
The first man came at him, pulling a knife out of his belt and raising it to take a swipe at John. Reese pushed it out of the way with his right hand, only slightly wincing as he felt the blade slice through the flesh on his palm. He didn't pay much attention to it though as he delivered a left handed uppercut to his opponent, then finished him off with a solid kick in the ribs. The man crashed into and tumbled over a cart with syringes and medication, then fell to the floor in a heap.
One of the remaining two men jumped him from behind, putting his arms around John's neck. John gripped at the arms, futilely trying to pry them off his throat. The last man advanced slowly on John, gun trained and ready to fire. Reese seemingly relaxed, appearing to have given up. The man approached cautiously, while the one behind him kept a firm grip on John's neck. It wasn't tight enough to strangle him, but enough to make him behave. As the man in front drew nearer, with lightning fast reflexes Reese reached out and grabbed the handgun away from him with his left hand, firing with precision and hitting him in the kneecap. He then wrapped his left arm around the opposite side of his waist, pointed downward slightly and pulled the trigger, effectively eliminating the threat of being followed.
He quickly made his way towards the door, wanting to get far enough out of the building before the adrenaline wore off and his body reminded him that he had been shot. Multiple times. He jogged down the hallway and found a door leading to some stairs just as the alarm started to blare. He figured he had 30 seconds or less before he was discovered, which simply persuaded him to take the stairs two, sometimes three at a time until he reached the bottom level and burst through the door that read "Exit." He found himself outside in a small alley which he promptly left.
He stared up at a camera on a lightpole. "Can you hear me?" he asked, almost desperately. His heart sank as he realized there were no blinking lights, and the wires to the camera were hanging out in the open. Even if The Machine hadn't died, all the cameras he could see had the same problem: they were all dead. He would need to make it to a section where the cameras were working to see if he could get a message to someone.
The pain in his shoulder, stomach, and thigh returned with full vengeance, but he forced himself to keep moving as fast as he could. It wasn't fast enough. As he rounded a corner, he ran straight into the barrel of a gun. He heard men coming around behind him as well, and he knew he was stuck. He grudgingly held out his hands in surrender and the gun he had obtained was yanked from his hand. He looked past the gun sticking in his face and instead focused on the person who was wielding it.
"Control," he muttered darkly. She inclined her head.
"Mr. Reese." He stared at her as more men surrounded him.
"What is this about?" he asked. Instead of a reply, an arm wrapped around his neck and a needle was jammed into his artery. He felt a warm sensation spreading through his veins and his knees buckled under him. Strong arms caught him, and he felt someone grab him under the knees and armpits The last thing he heard before he lost the battle for consciousness was Control's voice.
"All in good time, John. All in good time."
The next time John woke up wasn't gradual at all. One minute he was blissfully unaware of what was going on around him, the next moment his eyes shot open and he tried to get out of the bed, eliciting an involuntary gasp of pain as he jostled his shoulder and side. His eyes darted over to his left side, noting that once again his arm had been strapped down at the wrist and elbow. His right arm was still in a sling, but he had a feeling they wouldn't be loosening that any time soon. He also noted that aside from his left arm being strapped down, they had wrapped a restraint over his chest, and had also taken his advice. Both of his legs were restrained at the ankles and knees.
The door opened and John couldn't help but smirk as the same doctor from before walked in. His nose was quite obviously broken and he glared at the ex-CIA agent. John was the first to break the silence this time.
"Hey doc, I can't feel my arm. Is there anything you can do to help?" He knew it was stupid to goad the man who was in charge of deciding how much of which drugs were given to him, but it was just so satisfying to see the look of fury intensify on the other man's face. The doctor leaned down close to John's face.
"You know what, there is something I can do," he sneered. He reached over and tightened the sling even more. John grunted as the pressure increased the pain in his shoulder, but he had been expecting something like that to happen.
"Dr. Murphy, you're excused," a harsh voice said from the doorway. Murphy gave John one last withering look before trading places with Control. She stared at the man in the bed for a second before speaking again. "You really shouldn't antagonize him, John. You never know what kind of drug cocktails he could mix up for you, and you would be powerless against him." John's face took on an impassive 'ask me if I care' look. Control looked at him with an equally uncaring look as she continued.
"It's been a little over a week since we pulled you off that roof top," she informed him. "I would think a 'thank you' would be appropriate."
"Thanks," John said quietly, obviously not meaning it. Control ignored his sarcasm. John had a thought. "I heard rumour you and Greer had a stand-off. He only recently died. How did you manage to get away from him before?" Control continued to stare at him with an unreadable expression.
"Your wounds were starting to heal, but then you had to go and pull out all the stitches and open the wounds again. You've lost a lot of blood over the past week and a half. It wouldn't be wise to lose any more," she cautioned. After a moment of debating, she decided to answer his last question. "As for Greer, he was going to kill me. However, a blackout at just the right moment was the distraction I needed. We both fired at each other as we were getting out of the building. He got me in the chest, but thanks to some very skilled doctors, I survived. And because I survived, you were able to be pulled off that roof."
"What is it you want?" he asked exasperatedly. He was done with this whole talk. If he was alive, there were people that he could be saving.
"Mr. Reese...John. We could really use a man of your skills for our team." He raised an eyebrow.
"You're offering me a job? You have a funny way of treating your potential employees," he commented, nodding his head at his restraints.
"They're for your own protection, Mr. Reese." He scoffed.
"Thanks, but I already have a job," he stated. She shook her head.
"Not anymore, you don't." He looked at her like she was crazy. She acknowledged his glance and continued to explain. "Your old job, saving people with Harold and Ms. Shaw. It no longer exists." John decided to play along.
"And why doesn't it exist anymore? Finch always has a way of doing the impossible. I'm sure we can find a way to continue saving people, even if The Machine is out of the picture." Control shook her head again.
"I'm afraid Harold and Ms. Shaw won't be doing much of anything anymore. They were both gunned down by Samaritan operatives before we could get to them." John stared at her, not believing the words he was hearing. "I'm sorry, John," she said as she placed her hand on the bed near his leg. He raised his eyebrows at her.
"Forgive me if I don't believe you. Both of them have been "dead" before."
"Why would I lie to you, John?"
"You just said it, you want me to come work for you. You think if I don't have anything to go back to with Harold, I'll decide that working for you is the next best thing." He shook his head. "Not working, sorry."
"I understand that this is difficult for you to take in right now. I'll come back later. Just think about what I said." She turned around and left the room, leaving John behind.