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Harold Finch felt panic as he drove through the streets of New York. Reese was injured; he seemed confused and didn't know where he was. That in itself was enough to give Finch a panic attack. Finch had never seen Reese when he wasn't in control of his mental faculties. He had seen him intoxicated, bloodied, drugged, and near death but and still able to know who, what and where he was.

The earpiece he was wearing in his right ear told him that the line was still open He had heard a sound like something slipping or falling and then there had been silence. But the line was still open. Then he heard a soft sound of pain and something mumbling. Then silence again, maybe breathing but he couldn't be sure.

"John I am almost there…John can you hear me….?" He shouted it into the receiver. His eyes quickly darted to the little red dot on the computer laptop screen sitting next to him on the passenger seat, and saw that it was still in the same spot. "John…Answer me, please…" His voice carried the worry, fear and anxiety he felt. He saw that he was less than three blocks away. He wanted to step down on the accelerator but he was already ten over the speed limit. Getting pulled over would accomplish nothing.

And then he heard something in the earpiece that sent shock waves through his body. The phone clattered to the floor. Reese had dropped the phone. Finch's mind instantly went back to the time he had found him delirious, drugged to the max in a drainage ditch. Finch's bodyguards had gotten him to his feet and with labored steps Reese had dragged himself toward Finch where he held out his hand and gave Finch the cell phone he had stolen/borrowed. The cell phone that had been a link to his safety he had held onto it even though unconscious.

Harold found himself holding his breath until he slid to a screeching halt in front of the address of the church. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turned the GPS tracker on, paired it with the laptop, and as fast as he could he launched himself out of the car, and he hobbled toward the church.

He made his way along the side of the church until he came to the low building; the blip on his phone was to his left. He turned and saw the door. Moving awkwardly down the steps he reached the door and found it open. Going in he shut the door and glanced down at his phone. He was almost on top of the blip. Looking down the hall he saw the backlit restroom signs and headed for it.

Cautiously pushing the door open to the men's room he slowly stepped inside. The first thing he saw was a jacket on top of the sink counter. He wrinkled his nose as a smell engulfed him, rotten garbage. "Mr. Reese…are you-." He had stepped further into the room and that was when he saw the dark lump lying in the stall to his right.

Finch turned his phone off, pocketed it and moved to the open stall door. He stood still, taking in the problem before him. His right hand came up and adjusted his glasses as he looked the situation over…He saw Reese's phone lying by his foot, so he awkwardly bent and retrieved it, slipping it into his pocket.

Reese had collapsed to the left side of the toilet. It looked like he had tried to get to his feet and failed. His left shoulder was wedged down between the tank and the metal frame of the stall wall. His left leg was almost doubled under him, his knee wedged between the bowl and the wall. Reese's face was pressed against the metal wall and his shoulder. There was bloody cut over his right eye and it was bleeding,

Finch stepped into the stall and very carefully reached forward and felt for a pulse in John's exposed neck. It was fast and light. Finch's hand came back to Johns shoulder. "John, it's Harold…wake up…wake up John…" He shook John's shoulder…digging his fingers into the shirt. "Mr. Reese…wake up…!" He felt muscle twitch under his fingers and he stepped back.

Finch saw the swollen right eye try to open, watched as John used his right arm and tried to push himself back up into a sitting position.

"Mr. Reese…I am-."

Reese exploded, but it wasn't his normal cat-like reflexes. He shoved himself upright and twisted as he came out of the downed position, his right hand drawing back for a quick strike.

"JOHN!" Finch yelled and staggered back, stepping sideways a couple more steps, giving Reese open access to get out of the stall. He watched in surprise as he saw the slow reactions, jerky movements as Reese clambered to his feet and moved out of the stall. Finch saw no recognition in those green eyes.

John half straightened up, glaring at him with the one good eye. He put a hand to his forehead, his eyes blinking slowly, trying to get the man standing in front of him into focus. He wavered on his feet. He looked around the room and then back at the small man standing before him. "Who are you?" His eyes continued looking wildly about. "Where are we, what is going on…"

Finch held both hands out, palms up. "John, it is going to be alright." His voice was calm and even. "It looks like you've had a head injury…" He remained still, his hands still in the palms up stance, a submissive posture.

John centered his attention on the man standing in front of him… "Who are you?"

Finch smiled. "You can call me, Mr. Finch…do you remember?" He saw a puzzled look come to those green eyes, then he saw fear cross Johns face.

John put a hand back to his throbbing temple. "The only thing I remember is waking up in a dumpster a few blocks from here." His voice was raspy sounding. His lips twitched in pain. He put the hand he had at his temple to the side of his swollen eye, and he swallowed hard.

Finch lowered his hands, seeing the tension going out of John's shoulders. "Ok…this is what we are going to do…My car is parked out in front of the church. We are going to gather your things and I am going to take you to your loft where we will get you cleaned up and get your head bandaged…" He locked his eyes on John's. "John, remember, I will never lie to you and I will protect you until you can remember…You can trust me." He watched John's pale face move into that stone cold, fixed stare.

"Why do I have to trust anyone?" His voice was flat and cold. "You tell me who I am?"

"I will explain it all to you...but right now John, we need to get you to safety…Please Mr. Reese…You've trusted me in the past, trust me now." Finch gestured toward the jacket lying on the sink. "Let me gather your jacket." He stepped sideways and was almost to the jacket when Reese moved a little awkwardly and gathered the jacket, along with his ID's, the badge and the gun.

"I'll carry this…" He flashed the gun in its holster toward Finch, smiling a half smile, even though it looked funny with the swollen eye.

Finch gave him a sideways glance, then turned and faced him. "That's fine Mr. Reese…As you know, I don't like guns." As he turned and headed toward the door, he caught Reese's fading smile out of the corner of his eye. He kept his smile to himself.

POI

"This is my place? I must be rich?" Reese moved into the loft, slowly carefully.

"We can discuss that later." Finch followed Reese into the room.

Across the room were two ceiling to floor windows. To the right of those windows were more windows, but they only went from ceiling to about hip high. It was an open, airy floor plan. Past some stairs on the left, there was a bed. It was made and covered in a black and white swirl pattern comforter made of silk. Then there was a little work station, with two small adjustable lamps on the window sill. A black couch, with a floor lamp next to it, was sitting facing the windows and turned so that it also faced a 60"flat screen TV. There was a table for eating. It was wrapped around one of the two center support poles for the beam that ran across the ceiling. There was a bathroom in the corner next to the kitchen. Then there was the kitchen area: A Bialetti 3 cup Moka coffee pot sat on top of the stove which was against the red brick wall, a sink area and then the refrigerator. There was a breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the rest of the room. The floor was made of light oak interlock strips. There were dark area rugs under the bed, the work table, the couch and the table. As he walked further into the room, just a few steps from the bed, looking sideways he saw the stairs went up to a little mezzanine area.

Finch was surprised that John had not questioned him about having a spare key that he had unlocked the door with. John did not say a word about the key. He watched as Reese walked slowly into the room and looked around.

"I don't have a lot of things, do I…?" He looked at the strange man that had come for him. He felt comfortable around him even though he couldn't remember who he was.

"You once told me you traveled very light and that you had nothing that you cared about as far as possessions…Hence, no pictures or personal items." Finch limped toward the table. "You've lived a bit of a nomadic life style." He turned and looked at him. "John, come and sit down. Let me take a look at your head." He gestured toward the chair he wanted him to sit in, not thinking he had picked a chair with its back to the open windows. He watched as John looked at the table, then the windows and took a chair facing the windows. Finch heard him set the gun and the jacket down on the table. Finch walked over to the bathroom that was on the other side of the kitchen. He found a first aid kit, fully stocked, in the sink cabinet. He knew it would be there. John had these stashed all over.

Finch got a small hand towel and wet it and taking the bag and the towel he went back to where John was sitting. He limped to the table and lifted the bag onto the top with a grimace, pain shooting up into his neck and down in his shoulders.

"How were you hurt?" John had silently sat and watched Finch as he hobbled around the loft.

"It was an accident." Finch let the pain in his neck subside, taking his time opening the first aid bag. He looked inside and inspected what was there. He pulled out gauze, tape, antiseptic cleaner, some kind of small tube that said antibacterial cream on the side.

John watched his reaction, saw the pinched look come to the owlish looking face. Now that he was sitting down again he was feeling better. "How do you know me?" He looked down, finding his hand was still resting on the gun. He lifted his hand from the gun and pulled out the IDs and the badge. His hands were doing the work, removing the items but his eyes were watching this Mr. Finch.

"Well…it is a bit of a long story…but you might say…" Finch looked at him directly. "You work for me…But we are more like business associates." Finch stepped toward Reese. "Could you turn a bit in your chair, to the left so I can get better light on the wound?"

Finch saw a narrowing of John's one good eye, he watched as he flipped the two ID's open and laid them along with the badge on the table.

"Who am I…?" His finger stabbed down at the first ID and then with the same finger he pushed the badge forward. "Am I a cop?"

"No you are not…You are a bit of a dilemma at this point." Finch stepped back and looked at the man before him. He had been pondering the problem the whole way back to the loft…Just how much could he tell him. If he told him he was wanted by the CIA, FBI, Federal Marshalls and the local police, would it be too much for him, or it could jolt him into remembering…He just wasn't sure. "Mr. Reese let's get the bleeding stopped first and then I will try and answer your questions." He saw Reese's one green eye blink and then John lowered his whole head; a look of concern came across his face. His face went blank as a memory flashed into his mind.

His voice was so low Finch had to bend down a little to hear what he said. "You've patched me up before…I was shot in the side and you were there…You helped me?" His hand went to his left side. He looked back at the man named Finch.

"Yes, you were shot and I took you to a doctor and got you patched up." Finch reached over with his free hand, and touched him on the shoulder. "Please Mr. Reese…Lean back and let me fix your temple." He gestured with the hand that had the wet cloth in it. He dropped his left hand as John moved.

John again straightened up and leaned his left side again the side of the back of the chair. "Ok, but when we're done I want answers."

Finch took a step closer and began to clean John's face with the wet towel. "This is a very deep wound." He cleaned all around it. It was a furrow about a half inch wide and a couple inches long. "I am not sure but it looks like a bullet grazed you?" He had felt Reese tighten his muscles as he started cleaning in and around the wound.

John closed his eyes, his face void of pain or emotion. When he spoke, his voice was a low and tight, his lips barely moving. "It needs stitching…Can you do it?"

Finch stammered. "What…I…I… What?" He moved back, his eyes going wide, his face paled.

A slight sigh escaped from John. He opened both eyes and the right one only half opened. He looked at Finch. Seeing the color had drain out of his face. Reese raised a left eye brow and regretted it as the thumping in his head grew another notch. "When I was in the church bathroom I knew it needed stitches."

"I've never stitched anyone up…Let me call a-."

"No!" Reese jerked his head toward Finch. "I can fix this…I-." He swallowed hard. The movement of his head caused his stomach to lurch and his head to spin. "I-."

Finch saw what color Reese had gotten back in his face drain and watched as his one good eye fluttered closed and he half fell toward Finch. Finch did the only thing he could. He tried to catch Reese and ease his body down to the floor…They both went down in a heap.