Person of Interest (Season 3): Domestic Intimacy #4: Out of Commission

A/N: Our intrepid hero needs a day off, but the numbers never stop coming so he heads into work anyway.

"Morning, Finch," John said with a croak.

Harold looked up from his keyboard, sensing something was off as Shaw said, "Oh my God, why are you here, Reese?"

Bear ran up to John, sniffed him for a second, then whimpered and went back to his bed.

John had a box of tissues under one arm and was dotting his nose with one of them. His face was flushed and when he glanced up at Harold, he paused, contorted his facial expression, then started to hack up his lungs. It wasn't until he'd calmed down a full minute or two later that Harold noticed John had misbuttoned his shirt. John sneezed.

Shaw's eyes were wide and staring, as if she were watching a train wreck before her eyes, but she didn't move any closer to him.

Harold was out of his seat and standing in front of John in seconds. Up close he could see that John's eyes were watery before he pulled a second tissue out of the box and dabbed at them. Harold placed the back of his hand to John's forehead.

"Your temperature must be through the roof, John. You could have called in."

"The numbers don't wait. Isn't that what you've always said?" He sounded like he had a plug up his nose.

"Yes, but those numbers don't want to be catching your cold, or the flu, and I don't want you collapsing on the job."

"Or dying," Shaw commented. "Lord knows, I'm not digging your grave buddy."

"But I could stay here, in the library, and help. Couldn't I?" John sounded plaintive as he spoke.

"No. I don't want whatever it is you've got either." Shaw backed away.

John sniffed and dabbed at his nose again. "Harold..."

Harold could have sworn his name had come out with a bit of a whine to it. He sighed and went back to his desk to pack up his laptop and his phone.

"Ms. Shaw, the number is all yours. If you need me, you know how to reach me."

"Wait, you're not going with him, are you?"

"How did you get here, Mr. Reese?"

"I, uh, I took the train... thingy."

"Right. I'm going to take you home. Immediately."

"You do that," Shaw said, ushering the two of them out. "I'll keep an eye on Bear."

"Thank you, Ms. Shaw," Harold called back to her as she shut the door after them.

In the car, John was quick to apologize. "I'm sorry, Harold. I made a stupid mistake again and you're fixing it for me."

"Stop that, John. I want to do this for you." Harold pulled out into traffic. "Have you been grocery shopping since we last had dinner together?"

John thought about it for a minute. "I don't think so."

"Then I'm stopping at the health food store to get some of their chicken soup. You could use some."

"Can you get egg noodles to go with it? They never put noodles in it and you can't have chicken soup without the noodles."

Harold shook his head as he maneuvered the car into the right lane. "You sound like you're forty-five going on five, John. But yes, I will buy the noodles too."

John gave a feeble smile. "Thank you."

Harold sent John back to bed the minute they walked in the door of his apartment. He'd bought a thermometer while they were out shopping and he made John place it under his tongue while he unpacked the groceries.

Harold was grateful he could afford to buy homemade soup, ready to go, even though it was a bit pricey. He wondered what poor college students did when they got sick and couldn't afford good soup. He didn't remember what he'd done as a poor college student. Because he had been poor at the time. He'd blocked out so many memories...

John called him over when the thermometer was done and Harold glanced down at it.

"You definitely have a fever, Mr. Reese." He handed him a hot mug. "Here, have some tea, this should help a little bit."

"But I'm so cold."

"Then put an extra blanket around your shoulders. I know you have one around here somewhere."

Harold moved to the couch, found the blanket, and carefully draped it over John's shoulders.

"Is that better?"

"A little."

"Good. Drink your tea. Then get some rest. I'm going to be getting some work done with this latest number for Ms. Shaw at the table. Let me know if you need anything."

"Can you stay?"

"No. I have work to do."

"But I'm still cold."

"Drink your tea."

John pouted, but Harold was resolute. There was work to be done. As John had said, the numbers wouldn't wait, and Ms. Shaw could probably use the backup.

He dialed her number and murmured into the phone so as not to disturb John.

"The big guy doing all right?" she asked.

"He'll be fine. Eventually. But I've dug up more information about the number you're going to want to hear."

"Hit me with it, Harold."

The next time Harold looked up to check on John, John had curled up under the covers, and while his eyes were closed, he was shivering. It was lunch time anyway. Time to get some soup into him.

He brought the soup to John, set it on his nightstand and gently placed a hand on his shoulder to wake him up. John jolted up, breathing hard, and looking everywhere for a threat.

Harold took a fast step backward to avoid any flying fists.

"What..."

"It's okay, John. It's just me. I brought you lunch."

"Oh..." John took a deep breath. "Thanks."

John got his breathing under control and reached for the bowl. Harold helped him hold it up while he ate.

"I could have come to the table, you know," John said when he was done.

"I think it's better that you stay in bed for now."

Harold washed out the bowl and found a book he'd left on John's coffee table. Shaw would call him if she needed anything. In the meantime, he figured he'd take the afternoon off and do a little light reading.

John came over, trailing the extra blanket and a small garbage can behind him and sat on the couch beside Harold, curling himself up in his blanket again. He rested his head on Harold's shoulder and a box of tissues appeared on his lap.

"Oh, I started reading that the other day," John said, pointing toward the book. "It's pretty good."

"You're not feeling better already, are you?"

"No." And to emphasize his answer, John sneezed several times in succession.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Reese," Harold began. "The only reason I'm letting you near me in your current condition is because it's you. Anyone else and I'd be moving away very quickly."

"Why thank you."

"Now, what are you doing over here out of bed?"

"I want your company."

Harold sighed and held up the copy of Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. "How far did you get?" he asked.

"Through chapter four."

"I'll start there then, shall I?"

"Yes please."

Harold flipped to the correct chapter and began to read out loud, then he paused as a giant shiver ran through John's body.

"Hold on." He handed the book to John, and got up to pull the comforter off the bed. He covered them both with it, hoping his own body heat would help John keep warm, even as his fever raged on.

"You'll get through this," he said.

"With you here, I don't doubt it," John commented with a watery smile. "Thanks, Harold. You're the best."

Harold picked up the book and began reading again.

A/N: This was inspired by a writing prompt about a clingy assassin with the flu, which sounded adorable, and very much like John if John could allow himself to let go.