Chapter 4

It wasn't long before Mercer returned with two of his men. Harold's heart was hammering in his chest and the palms of his hands were sticky with sweat. Mr. Reese on the other hand looked like he couldn't care less about what was going to happen next. Finch knew that he looked like the perfect target - the one most likely to break and to give in. That's why he was surprised when Mercer's men went towards Reese instead.

So far not a single word had been spoken, and even though Harold recognized the threatening silence as an intimidation tactic, he couldn't deny its effectiveness. The metal legs of the chair John had been tied to scratched across the concrete floor as it, and its occupant with it, was turned 90° towards Harold. Only being able to hear the footsteps of the men behind him, Finch startled when his chair suddenly tilted backwards and pivoted around on its two remaining legs. The two captives were now facing each other - their knees only maybe eight inches apart.

Harold startled again, this time at the sound of tearing duct-tape behind him. The man with the role of tape stepped around and walked over to stand behind Mr. Reese. Tearing off a piece of tape he proceeded to cover the ex-op's mouth, forcing John's head back in the process.

Mercer - who had been leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest while keeping a careful eye on the scene - pushed himself off of the wall. His men stepped back, giving him room to circle the two tied up men like a hungry hyena circling its dying prey.

Harold felt Mercer's presence behind him, could smell the cold cigarette smoke on his clothes. Suddenly warm hands dropped on Finch's shoulder, and he flinched at the touch. "Alright," said Mercer. He was massaging Finch's shoulders, and Harold had to fight the urge to attempt to squirm out from under his touch. "Now that we are in a more suitable surrounding, let us try this again. First of all, what may I call you? I don't think we've been introduced. And I do like to know the names of the people I torture."

Harold's mind was a complete blank, except for the word torture echoing through his skull. Of course he'd known all along that it would eventually come to this, but so far he'd managed to not let his mind go there.

Mercer bent forward after Finch had failed to supply him with an answer. He spoke right beside his captive's ear - his breath uncomfortably tickling the sensitive skin. "You do have a name, don't you?"

Harold swallowed despite his dry mouth. With wide eyes he stared at John Reese, silently asking what to do.

"Tony," Mercer said, and one of the two men stepped up beside Mr. Reese, grabbed a hold of his right hand and bent his pinky finger back as far as he could without breaking it. John's nostrils flared as his breathing intensified.

"Harold!" Finch blurted out in panic. "My name's Harold."

"There," said Mercer and jovially patted the millionaire's shoulders. "That wasn't that difficult, was it?" Harold sank back against the chair's backrest. His confidence that he could do this was slipping farther and farther away with each second. Mercer gave his man a nod, which Harold couldn't see. With a quick jerk he snapped Reese's finger like a twig before Finch even knew what was happening. John grunted in pain, pressed his eyes together and did his best to ride out the waves of agony in silence. When the pain reached bearable levels John opened his eyes, and fixed his glare back on Mercer. The man only smiled at him, but finally let go of Finch.

"Why did you do that?" Harold asked appalled. "I told you my name."

"Because I could," their Number said as he walked into the programmer's peripheral vision. "And to make you understand that I'm not joking around." He stopped to stand behind Reese, and Harold's heart skipped a beat from its hammering staccato when he pulled out a switchblade - making a show of flipping it open. "Where's my file, Harold?"

Finch's eyes were transfixed on the shiny blade looming over his friend's head. He could feel John's eyes on him, and tore his gaze off the knife. He was faltering in his resolve, Harold was aware of it. And so was Mr. Reese. Their eyes met - Harold's wide and panicked, John's calm and assertive. The ex-op shook his head ever so slightly. Whatever happens...

Visibly pulling himself together Finch straightened as much as he could in his chair, and rose his gaze to their tormentor's in defiance. Mercer pulled John's head back by his hair - exposing the flesh of his neck. Pressing his knife to the exposed skin hard enough to draw a few droplets of blood - with Reese's only reaction a quick flutter of his eyelids - he stared at Harold, as if he was daring him to make him prove his seriousness.

"You kill him, you will get nothing," Harold threatened - surprising even himself at the steadiness of his voice. "And I'm sure the police will find the contents of that file very ... enlightening."

The staring contest continued for another twenty seconds, which felt like an eternity to Finch, but neither man seemed to be willing to back down. Eventually Mercer straightened and the knife thankfully lifted off John's throat. "I see. Apparently we won't get anywhere with this approach.

"Tony. Scott. Would you please turn our friend's hands around," he said while patting Reese's head in mock-affection. It didn't take them long to untie John's hands one by one to expose the underside of his wrists before securely tying his arms back to the armrests.

The hand with the broken finger throbbed mercilessly - especially after being manhandled once more - and even though the room was more on the chilly side John could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Let's see how watching your friend slowly bleed to death might help you change your mind."

"Don't," begged Harold as Mercer brought down his knife on his partner's wrists, causing him to still his movements before the skin was broken. He looked at Finch expectantly. "You gonna tell me where you've hidden my file?" Finch held his gaze for a few seconds, but then averted his eyes.

From John's quickening breathing, Harold knew that the knife was slicing through his friend's flesh. Looking up he saw blood welling up from a two inch cut from Reese's left wrist towards his elbow, and he could literally feel his own blood draining from his face as his stomach churned with nausea.

Finch stared in horror as the first drops of John's blood started to drip down to the floor, and forced himself to tear his eyes off the grisly sight. He felt a mixture of admiration and fright at Mr. Reese's unnaturally calm demeanor. With his eyes hooded he almost looked like he wasn't all there, and only his eyelids fluttered as Mercer's knife cut through his flesh a second time. He never made a sound.

Stepping back Mercer regarded his handiwork with a satisfied smile. He pulled out a tissue from his pocket, wiped John's blood off the tip of his knife and said, "You can still save your friend. It's up to you, Harold." He paused to give Finch a chance to react. "Yell if you change your mind." The three men left, closed and locked the door behind them.

Being left to their own devices Harold felt that he was losing his battle to keep the panic at bay. "John ... oh God." Blood from both of Reese's wrists was freely dripping onto the floor - starting to form small puddles. Finch was getting close to hyperventilating and he felt like he was going to be sick. "I don't think I can do this," he said. However one look at John made it clear what the other man thought about giving in.

Harold knew that he needed to calm down, and he forced himself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths. Swallowing down the rising panic as best as he could, he nodded and tried to reassure himself. "Okay. Ms. Shaw is on her way. All we have to do is wait." He paused and took in the sight of the man - his friend - in front of him.

John's skin was already starting to pale, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. The swollen pinky finger of his right hand stuck out at an unnatural angle and had turned a dark blue. Harold knew that in a while John was going to go into hypovolemic shock, which - as he remembered from his reading after the first time John Reese had nearly bled to death on the backseat of his car - occurred when the volume of the circulatory system is too depleted to allow adequate circulation to the tissues of the body. He didn't know how long it would take but eventually his friend was going to pass out and ... die.

And there was nothing he could do about it but watch. "This plan sucks, doesn't it?"

John closed his eyes at Harold's rare use of a colloquialism and nodded. It sucked indeed. But on the positive side this was going to buy Harold time. He had no doubt that Harold Finch was the bravest man he'd ever met. There he sat, obviously scared out of his mind, but somehow rallying up enough strength to defy his fears. He had seen men with years of training break at the hand of skilled torturers - sometimes even at his own.

They sat in silence, while John concentrated on his breathing and deliberately slowing his heart beat down. He didn't know how much time passed, but eventually Reese could feel the only all-to-familiar symptoms of blood loss setting in. Despite his efforts his heart rate was elevated, and his skin felt cool and clammy even though he was sweating. He knew that everyone had a breaking point, and if he didn't want Finch to find his he had to hold on long enough for Shaw to get there before Mercer and his men turned their attention to the man across from him. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

Experimentally moving his jaw, John hoped that his clammy skin and the blood from his split lip had by now reduced the adhesiveness of the tape that covered his mouth. Sure enough he could feel the edges of the tape start to ease off his skin, and he started to rub his face against his shoulder. The tape indeed began to peel off. John had to pause a few times in his efforts as his increased exertion tired him out more quickly than he liked.

When the tape finally came off completely Reese leaned his head back, and just breathed through the dizzy spell. The headache that had never really gone away was now in full force again and he had to fight to calm his stomach down.

Literally feeling Harold's worried gaze on him, John figured that with everything that had happened this night he probably already looked like death warmed over. Although Finch wasn't that far off from that look either. The area where Mercer had hit him with the butt of his gun was swollen and a pretty colorful bruise had already formed around it. The dry blood that still caked the side of Harold's face stood in stark contrast to his unhealthy pallor. "How're you holding up, Finch?" he asked.

"How am I holding up?" replied Harold dryly and just a little incredulous. "Well, just fine. Thank you for asking. How about you?"

John shrugged and smirked. "I've had better days."

Finch blinked - the levity Reese was going for obviously not hitting its mark. He looked to the side, breaking eye contact, and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, John. This is -"

"Harold," interrupted Reese before Finch could start attributing blame. "It's not your fault." For a second the computer genius looked like he wanted to argue that point, but instead drew in a shaky breath then nodded. "Maybe I could buy some more time if I pretended to lead them to where I hid the file?"

John shook his head. For one, he didn't think that Mercer had any intention of keeping his word, and he also didn't want Harold to draw the focus onto himself. Not yet anyway. "It wouldn't make any difference."

"I can't just sit and watch you die, John." Harold looked at Reese, and this time it was the ex-op who turned away. There was nothing he could say that would ease his friend's mind. He didn't want to die, but the more time that passed the more he could feel that his was running out. It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake.

"Why bird names?" John asked, the words slightly slurred.

"What?"

Returning his gaze to Harold's puzzled face, he repeated, "Why do you always choose bird names?" Finch stared at John - more than just a little taken aback by the sudden change in topic, and immediately recognizing it for what it was - a distraction.

Harold hesitated. He was painfully aware at the moment that - despite his initial intentions - he had let John Reese get closer than any other person since Nathan and Grace. That they certainly had come a long way from when he had even refused to tell the other man what he thought was good on a diner's menu in fear of giving away too much information about himself. But the true reasons - and the memories associated with them - behind his penchant for bird names were rather personal. Something he had never shared with anyone before - not even with Nathan.

John - who must have sensed his hesitation - averted his eyes, disappointed. "It's okay," he said softly. "You don't have to tell me."

They sat in silence after that, which only exaggerated the volume of John's short - almost labored - breaths, and Harold imagined that he could almost hear the blood drops hitting the floor. He couldn't stand it.

"It was something my father and I used to do." Reese looked up at him, with a both surprised and questioning look on his face. "Birdwatching," Harold explained. "We used to spend hours outside. Just watching and naming the birds. My dad knew them all." Finch's eyes grew distant at the memory - a small, subconscious smile on his lips, which slowly faltered. "Even when he couldn't remember who I was anymore ... he still knew his birds..." he trailed off, lost in his memories. "I guess it's my way of remembering him."

He looked back at John, expecting him to say something in response to his very private revelation. Instead Finch found Reese slumped in on himself, with his chin on his chest. He wasn't moving.

"John?" Harold asked alarmed. "John!"

To be continued ...