disclaimer: not mine
a/n
zenbon zakura: no worries, I'm not THAT cruel. ;)
poi922: thanks so much! Hope you like the next one, too. :)
Guest #1: thank you! And now you have to wait no more.
lionsassy: thank you! I typed as fast as I could. :)
Alia: thanks a million. Hope you like this one, too.
Guest #2: thank you! The show seems to keep poor Harold so touch-starved. I had to do something about that. ;)
Guest #3: thanks so much. I love writing these three. I didn't think I'd enjoy it this much, tbh. Now I'm like an addict. So glad you enjoy reading it and I hope you like what comes next. :)
KSPretenderFan: thanks heaps for reading and the encouragement! I hope you enjoy the continuation as well.
KESwriter: thank you very much! The "getting shot" part is roughly 60% research and 40% pure imagination, so I'm very, very happy you liked it.
chapter two
His eyes slowly open.
He stares at the ceiling.
The chandelier is gone.
The screaming has stopped, too. It's been replaced by the steady beeping of a cardiac monitor and faint traffic noises.
He awoke several times today but this time he can at least think somewhat clearly.
He tries moving his fingers and toes. It hurts, his muscles and joints protest, but everything seems to function to the same extent as it did before.
His throat feels scratchy. He tries to swallow but ends up coughing instead. Sharp pain jabs through him like a jagged knife.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a dark shape moves towards him.
"Drink," John says, holding a straw to Harold's mouth.
He obeys and takes a sip. It goes down with a frown but he is very thirsty, so he drinks some more. The taste doesn't improve but his coughing stops. "This is the most horrible tea I've ever had," Harold remarks, his voice weak and hoarse.
A small grin tugs at John's lips. "I think it's ice water," he says, putting down the cup.
"Exactly," Harold remarks, still a little hazy.
John fixes him with a concerned look."How are you feeling?"
He shifts on the bed and the smoldering pain in his shoulder flares up mercilessly. "Never better."
His left arm is in a sling but his sarcasm seems intact.
Reese nods with a small smile. "You were very lucky, Harold. Shaw used half of her evening gown to bandage you up. The bullet broke your collar bone. Damaged an artery. You lost a lot of blood."
You almost died. The unsaid sentence hangs in the air between them for a long moment.
"How's Dr. Murphy?" Harold asks, abruptly changing the subject.
"He's still alive. Thanks to you we found his second cell phone. Shaw threatened to fillet him with it if he didn't come clean."
Despite himself, Harold smiles at that. "It was effective, I imagine."
"Very. Turns out he had some… unfinished business with a guy named Alexei Koshkin, member of the local branch of the Russian mob."
"You mean the sniper in the balcony was a gift from an unhappy patient?"
John hesitates a bit. "From the unhappy husband of an unhappy patient."
Harold is silent for a long moment, his brain digesting the answer. "So he wanted the doctor dead for what? A face lift gone wrong?"
"Um… think slightly lower."
Harold stares at him. "I don't think I can."
His disbelieve is laced with dull anger. He almost died because of a couple of breast implants. It's insane, infuriating, and ridiculous. He sighs.
John smiles with sympathy. He moves to the bedside cabinet, glances around, then opens its door. "Lionel smuggled in some quality firewater," he says, showing Harold the bottle of Scotch. "We crack it open when you feel better." Harold nods appreciatively. "Carter was here, too. She brought you some reading material," John says, tapping the books piled on top of the cabinet. Harold looks at them, squinting, trying to decipher their titles. "Oh and I picked up a new pair of glasses for you. The old one got a bit… damaged," he says, placing the new spectacles next to the books.
"Thank you, John."
He nods and they regard each other silently.
There is something Reese isn't saying and something Harold isn't asking. Reese breaks first. "What were you thinking?" he asks, his voice low and quiet, his expression pained. He's not berating him. He's still plagued by residual fear and worry.
Harold holds his gaze for a brief moment, then his eyes blink away. "I guess I wasn't thinking," he says simply.
John doesn't believe him but he doesn't want to push him. For now.
"Where's Ms. Shaw?" Harold asks, glancing back at him, his voice forced casual.
"You know her. She's not big on staying still. She looked in on you but you were still unconscious."
Harold just nods.
A nurse gently knocks on the door frame, discreetly letting them know the visiting time is over.
"Everything is being taken care of, Harold, so try to get some rest," John says.
"I'll try," Harold promises. He watches John leave, then his eyes shift to the books.
His mind is a swirling mess.
His body is throbbing with pain.
His head drops back on the pillow and he drifts to sleep.
He's awoken by the unsettling sensation of being watched. He opens his eyes. There's a fuzzy dark shape at the foot of his bed but it's too small to be John. He narrows his eyes. "Ms. Shaw…?"
"Morning, Harold," she greets him, then places a cup on the overbed table.
She doesn't say more. She doesn't move closer. She watches his broken form from a safe distance and doesn't let loose of the emotion that's been boiling underneath the cool and collected exterior. Not here. Not in front of him. Visiting was so much easier when he was unconscious but he owes her an explanation and it better be a good one.
He shifts.
The cardiac monitor's beeping is quickening slightly.
"Are you in pain?" she asks.
"I'm always in pain, Ms. Shaw," he says, his voice matter of fact, and he props himself up in a sitting position. "Fortunately, today I have a very potent opiate at my disposal."
A rare, tiny smile plays at the corner of her mouth. Of course he can't say "morphine drip" - not even when he's hooked to one.
He puts on his glasses. "What happened to your hand?" he asks, looking at her raw knuckles.
Her fingers curl into a fist. "I had a little chat with our sniper friend from the party," she replies. "And it got a little… animated."
He stares at her. "Is he—"
"Dead?"
He remains silent.
"No," she says after a long moment. He should be, though. She wanted him to be but she knew Harold wouldn't, that he would even feel responsible somehow, so she denied herself the satisfaction of ending the guy.
She tilts her head, her jaw sets. "Do you wanna die, Harold?"
The abrupt, blunt question doesn't seem to faze him and he holds her gaze. "I don't want anyone to die," he answers.
"So naturally, you waltzed in front of a high velocity bullet."
"I took a calculated risk," he says.
Now he is really starting to anger her.
Her gaze hardens. "Yes, I'm sure you did a lot of calculating in those 2 seconds between spotting the shooter and turning yourself into a human shield."
Heavy silence ensues.
"Someone was going to get shot," Harold explains. She opens her mouth to respond but he cuts her off. "I know that's your area of expertise but…" he trails off and hesitates. "It had to be me."
"It had to be you," she echoes him, incredulous.
"I had something to my advantage you didn't."
She raises eyebrows at that. "What?"
"You, Ms. Shaw," he answers. "You were right. Some people belong in the van, and if you had gotten injured like this, I couldn't have done anything to save you."
"I never asked you to be my hero, Finch."
"I didn't try to be your hero, Ms. Shaw," he says. "But I hoped you'd be mine."
She stares at him in silence, trying not to be so affected by what he just said, but his words manage to stir a distant, dormant part of her.
She's confused. Impressed. Moved. Ambushed by his confession.
She averts her gaze and looks at the cup she brought with herself. She can't look back at him, not just yet. "I guess I was wrong about you, Harold," she says, eyes cast down, her fingers picking at the lid of the cup. "It's very easy to underestimate you."
When she finally looks back up, she finds his blue eyes fixed on her. "And that's exactly what you want, am I right?" He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. His silence is confirmation enough. "But if you pull a stunt like this again, I'm gonna shoot you myself," she says. It's a threat born out of begrudging affection, and he knows it. He smiles at her. The shameless bastard.
"Understood," he says with a small nod, then his attention shifts to the cup. "What's that?"
Wordlessly, she rolls the overbed table closer. "Sencha green tea with one sugar." He glances up with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Not exactly your home address," she says, "but it's a start, right?"
He takes off the lid and breathes in the aroma of his favorite beverage. He already feels much better. "It's an excellent start, Ms. Shaw," he says, then takes a hearty sip.
the end