A/N: Thank you so much again for reading and reviewing! I'm abroad at the moment so I can't guarantee daily updates, but I'll do my best! I hope you'll enjoy this third chapter.
Just War
Chapter 3
"We've got company."
John wasn't particularly happy at the moment. What should have been one of their usual incursions had suddenly gone unexpectedly downhill. He knew they had to face "downhill" all the time, but he had thought unexpected package-bombs would have sufficed for a day.
Fortunately he had succeeded in protecting Harold from the brunt of the explosion, although his friend had managed to end up injured all the same deciding to act without logic for the first time since they had known each other.
The news had surprised him in the middle of a delicate extraction, making it more painful than it should have been. But of course he hadn't "sputtered profanities and absurdities" because of the pain. After the initial shock, though, John had felt the need to lighten the mood.
And maybe light wasn't exactly the right way to put it, but well, Harold was used to his wicked sense of humor, even if he had just asserted the opposite.
He glanced at him for a moment and he was pleased to notice his friend looked a bit more relaxed. John was quite aware of his difficulties to cope with explosions, and was glad he had managed to distract the billionaire a bit.
However his current priority was to deal with the newly arrived guests. They could be the ones responsible for planting the bomb or mere bystanders - the latter quite improbable but either way, he had to eliminate any source of threat and keep Harold away from troubles.
"Stay here and don't move."
John couldn't waste time on formalities and his friend seemed not to heed etiquette for once, because he simply nodded without proffering a word.
He wielded his gun, which had stayed secured in his back holster all the time and cautiously exited Stevenson's office.
John had 15 rounds and he was going to use them very wisely, there was no chance he was going to lose the routine they'd re-acquired only three days before.
It had been hard to hear that Harold Finch was the one behind what had happened in Ordos, it had been hard to see Jessica's picture show up in a collection of irrelevant faces, because that wound never stopped hurting.
It had been hard to trust Harold almost unconditionally, dodging his plans to keep John away along the way.
But in the end it had been just those exact plans that had persuaded John to chase Harold no matter what.
Because the more the billionaire tried to keep him away the more he knew his friend was simply trying to protect him.
But as much as John could appreciate the gesture, and frankly, quite unused to such consideration, he wouldn't allow his friend to face such extreme situation all alone. Or with the sole company of a ruthless hacker who had basically kidnapped him for the second time.
And for once his trust had been rewarded, because after any kind of betrayal he had suffered at the hand of the Government and other people he had considered friends, this time who called friend nowadays hadn't betrayed him and had also apologized, for something John couldn't really blame him for.
It would have been easy, to blame someone else, but the truth was that John himself was the one who had thrown away the chance to live a happy life with Jessica and he was painfully and constantly aware of that.
Hence there was no reason to accuse a person who, since their very first meeting, had never caused him to feel anything but deep gratitude towards him.
Mind wandering, his senses were on the contrary highly focused on the current recon. The corridor was clear when John suddenly caught a glimpse of metal. He had a clear shot and as soon as the figure emerged from the corner it was falling on the ground, kneecap shattering with a sickening crack.
14.
The opponent, though, was more resilient than the average and, gun still in hand, fired back. Not surprised at all John took cover, then fired two more shots that kept the man down permanently. 12.
Their exchange drew the attention of two more gunmen who started firing at him at the same time. John left his cover just for a second, shooting towards them and then finding shelter behind a pillar. 9.
Heart racing he let adrenaline set the pace, never doubting the result, he was sure he had hit one of them. 8.
Those weren't common criminals, he mused getting close, they were skilled, properly armed and John suspected also properly trained. CIA maybe ISA, he assessed.
Other two shots and the second man was down. 6.
He decided to save some rounds just in case, surprising the third opponent from behind in a hand-to hand combat. Oh yes, the man was well trained indeed. Considering their location, ISA was an educated conclusion, and containing their attack was becoming even more urgent.
His opponent wasn't as tall as John but quite sturdy and he blocked John's first punch with his forearm, striking back viciously and still holding his gun.
Avoiding the hit by millimeters John seized the momentum to twist the man's wrist. The weapon fell on the floor and John kicked it away.
They struggled for a moment then something got John's attention. The distraction cost him a wild kick that brought him on one knee, but he didn't mind. He back-handed his opponent with the butt of his gun, successfully dazing him, then rolled on his side firing two shots against the man who was just trying to enter Stevenson's office. 4.
John had just the time to jump back from the floor when opponent #3 tackled him again, heavily crashing him on the wall. He grunted in pain then kneed the man on the stomach, managing to gain some ground.
They ended up grappling again then John suddenly found himself pushed back with unexpected force, falling down under the incredulous look of his rival.
High on adrenaline he didn't hesitate a second and even before hitting the ground John fired two more shots against opponent #4, who apparently hadn't give up just yet and decided to shot at him. 2.
Then blood splattered into his face and pain exploded in his neck. John reciprocated opponent #3 attempt to shoot him in the head with an actual head shot. 1.
Hand to his throat he watched in panic as opponent #4, now a bloody mess, was obstinately limping again towards the office. Towards Harold.
John took a moment to take aim then planted his last bullet on his nape.
0.
He laid there, right hand covering his throat and the left over his abdomen. He could feel wetness under his touch, blood and water. He didn't know how much of each, but John was sure he looked like hell.
He was feeling peaceful though, the facility was finally quiet again, no sudden explosions, no annoying sprinklers, no gunshots from supposedly ISA agents. John decided he could rest for a moment, enjoy the calm just for a couple of minutes, then he would join Harold in the other room and they would leave that place and hopefully never visit it again.
He had almost closed his eyes when he heard uneven footsteps approaching. John could recognize that pace everywhere. Apparently Harold was coming to him and actually he was quite glad because he felt like resting a little more.
The footsteps quickened, then stopped abruptly followed by a gasp. "John…"
Yes, he definitely looked like hell. Over the months John had managed to catalog almost every Finch-reaction, and as he recalled each one of them he finally reached "quiet exclamation, barely whispered with a knot on the throat", which meant that Harold had long upstaged the medium level of worry and was currently on the verge of panic.
John winced in sorrow, after all his efforts to give his friend a semblance of calmness, he had gotten Harold upset again. He opened his eyes then, finding Harold's fixed on him, wide open. His friend looked impossibly desperate, so he tried to reassure him, that everything was going to be fine, that he had eliminated all the threats.
John ended up coughing instead. It was a light cough, but in a second pain exploded into his entire upper body, from neck to waist.
Suddenly every ounce of peacefulness abandoned his body, and John hadn't even the time to mourn its absence because he was drowning into agony, and in the back of his mind he knew, he painfully knew, that the peace he had been feeling was fictitious, that it wouldn't have lasted, just couldn't, because he had been shot. Twice.
He tasted blood in his mouth, a coppery, familiar flavor that made him almost gag.
He coughed again, uncontrollably shaking as more blood rose to his mouth. His breathing was labored and his heartbeat was racing. He needed to calm down, his airways were still more or less free and Harold was there.
It wasn't over.
And rationalize he could do, but each involuntary jerk sent agonizing spasm to his chest, pain radiating through ribs and abdomen. He suspected the bullet in his belly had done more damage than he had first thought.
Suddenly he felt very cold, for the first time seriously disturbed by the fact he was soaking wet.
He visibly shuddered and again he couldn't stop the grimace at the horrible pain even the tiniest movement elicited.
"John." Harold called him softly, then he felt a warm hand on his forehead, the gesture so intimate and reassuring he almost sighed, feeling a drop of that peacefulness again. And he was sure that now the sensation was real, just like the tissue lightly wiping his lips and chin.
"John," Harold's tone was more urgent now and it forced him to open his eyes again. "Help is on the way, I've taken care of everything."
And had it been another person uttering those words John would have simply dismissed them as "standard lines you're supposed to deliver to the bleeding guy on the floor".
But it wasn't and he actually believed at each one of them. Because it was Finch, because one of John's certainties, one of those still standing, was that he could count on his friend, always, even when the same friend had acted irrationally just a few minutes before.
The reclusive had probably rallied half of his medical staff, hired a private ambulance or something like that. And John wished he could make up a joke about it, just anything but that eerie silence and the overwhelming pain.
Only he couldn't speak, because that's what happens when manage to get a hole in your throat, and every attempt becomes a cough with more blood and nausea and he just couldn't be sick right then.
Finch didn't turn away from him for a second, hastily removing his jacket and waistcoat. And John simply reciprocated the gaze, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, even if the effort was multiplying by the second.
He just couldn't give up, and Harold looked oddly underdressed without jacket and vest.
However, the computer genius was also doing his best to make him pass out because pain reached an excruciating new level as Harold lift the hand that was laying on his abdomen, put his folded vest over it, then pushed it down again.
John heard himself utter a groan, and he wished he hadn't, because Harold looked contrite and even apologized. Again.
His friend was a blur now and the apology sounded very far away. He found himself covered with Harold's jacket and he welcomed the warmth, although meager.
But his body was starting to feel really numb and it was still very cold, and he just knew he was in severe shock and whatever Harold had arranged should really act soon because…
"Sorry."
John mouthed the word glancing at Harold for a last time before he let his body succumb to darkness.
Joss entered the facility with her gun out, wary and significantly worried. Finch had sent her a hurried, unusually lacking punctuation text. And of course she had rushed to the specified address, because a neglectful Finch could only mean big troubles.
And predictably the sight that welcomed her didn't do anything but worsen her level of apprehension: puddles of water, debris everywhere and four bodies on the floor… Five.
John was lying there awfully still, among strangers' bodies, and Finch was over him, frantically typing on his phone.
"Finch-"
Her sentence was cut by the roar of what could only be a helicopter. Joss turned around in surprise, actually seeing the vehicle landing on the huge garden surrounding the facility.
She then watched Finch jerk upright, finally acknowledging her presence. He still was too busy though, beckoning the medical staff that was now crossing the entrance.
Carter jogged towards him, a thousand questions crowding her mind. But Finch anticipated her.
"I'm sorry, Detective, I'll explain what I can as soon as possible, but as you can see, this matter requires my primary attention." The ever mysterious man briefly gestured towards his partner, a pained expression on his face.
She glanced at John again then, the close sight even scarier: skin ashen and clammy and blood all over his mouth and neck. She couldn't see the rest of his body but there was a horribly large pool of blood just where he had been lying a few seconds before.
The medical staff, extraordinarily efficient, had already secured a collar around John's neck and put him on a rigid gurney.
They started to move then, Finch following close. Joss stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Keep me updated."
Finch nodded briefly, then hastily caught up with the rescue team without looking back.
Everything was silent again and Joss felt almost drained. Two of the men lying on the floor looked very dead, the other two could be still alive.
She checked them for a pulse, finding a threadlike one on both, but cuffed them all the same, recalling Finch's erratic text about how dangerous those men would have been.
Still a bit shaken, Joss started her police work in autopilot. She called for Forensics and started collecting evidence, hoping to receive some news from the usual unknown ID soon, and hoping it would be good.
TBC