A/N – I am truly sorry that this took so long. I know that too often as fanfic readers, there is a promised story or chapter that never materializes. I know how disappointing that is. I promised you Finch's POV – here it is. Finally.
Part of the reason it took so long was because I couldn't figure out where I wanted it to go, exactly. Finally it hit me: We just have to jump right in.
This story begins in the middle of the action, as Finch is speeding out of wherever he keeps his car hidden, toward John's last known location.
Also – I recommend reading the companion piece "Outside Looking In – The Best Surgeon in Najaf" along with this one, as it gives a more complete picture.
oO0Oo
Crunching Numbers – Finch's POV
oO0Oo
Finch heard the tires squeal and blinked. The sound must have come from some other car.
He frowned when he confirmed that the source was his own vehicle. It had been many decades since the last time he'd driven in a way that caused the tires to protest. He glanced in the mirror and saw a pedestrian shaking a fist and shouting in his direction. He must have barely missed the man as he'd flown out of the parking garage. He hadn't noticed. He was thankful he couldn't hear what the poor gentleman was shouting.
He took a breath and forced his foot to relax the pressure it was putting on the gas pedal, allowing his speed to slow to something more closely resembling the speed limit.
What was he doing?
"He just called…"
He didn't drive like this. He never drove like this. Everything he did was geared toward not attracting attention - to being invisible.
"I know where he's gonna be…"
He dialed Mr. Reese's number again, not noticing that with each unanswered ring, his foot pressed down a little harder as his feeling of urgency increased.
If he had stopped to think, he would have been very surprised at his own actions. His instinctive response to any crisis was to reach for his computers and the almost limitless information they could access. He solved nearly every problem that way. It had become his very identity. But when he'd realized Mr. Reese was in imminent danger, he hadn't paused, hadn't even considered the technology available to him. Instead, he'd been in the car and heading towards Mr. Reese's last known location before he realized he'd left his desk.
oO0Oo
Earlier in the week, when Mr. Reese had urged him into the field, he had hesitated.
"I need you out on the street… You got to help me get eyes on the remaining three…"
But a part of him that had long been asleep had stirred.
"I can't track three people at once, and I don't want to lose anyone else."
Finch really did believe he was more useful behind his desk. But was that belief due to his skill with computers, or because he'd come to believe he was rather worthless in any physical sense?
"I need you out here."
Obviously Mr. Reese didn't think him worthless in the field…
Neither had Nathan.
At that moment, something in him had changed – had reawoken. And not even nearly being blown up had been enough to send it back to sleep. He'd felt alive in a way he hadn't in ages. He owed Mr. Reese his thanks.
oO0Oo
He dialed Mr. Reese's phone yet again. Why wasn't he answering? Was he already too late? Had the CIA, assisted by Detective Carter, already captured him and confiscated his phone? Or perhaps they had no intention of capturing him. Perhaps Finch had failed him. Perhaps he was already dead.
But, he steeled himself, if the CIA had planned to kill Reese, surely the Machine would have told him.
He was comforted by that fact until he remembered that the CIA was very capable of doing things that could be considered worse than death. He sped up once again. He had to get there.
It occurred to him briefly that if he had stayed at his computer he would know a lot more than he did right now. He could have pinged Mr. Reese's phone. He could have accessed cameras. He could have listened to the police scanner.
He would know – but he wouldn't be in a position to do anything.
He felt sick.
Images flashed through his memory: Nathan, as the sheet was pulled over his bloody features. Grace's tear-streaked face as he turned his back on her. And then Rick Dillinger's closed eyes as the first heavy shovelful of dirt landed on him. He grit his teeth until they hurt – Reese would not be next.
He dialed again.
This time he was rewarded almost immediately. But his relief was greatly diminished when he heard the pain clearly evident in Mr. Reese's voice.
"Hey Harold." John's apparent calm didn't fool him for a second. And it didn't even register that John had called him 'Harold.'
Perhaps he was too late after all.
"John, I've been trying to call you." He heard the fear in his own voice – knew John heard it too. But, he decided, it was well warranted by the situation.
He did not notice that they had both left the formality of surnames behind and slipped very naturally into friendship.
"Yeah – I've been kind of busy…"
Harold's heart sank as he heard the undertones. He feared John was badly injured – perhaps even dying. John's next words proved his concern was warranted.
"Where are you?" He knew John had been at the hospital with Wendy and Paula. He also knew how quickly things could change.
"Parking Structure."
As Harold sped towards the next interchange, his worst fears were confirmed:
"It's not looking good."
The light turned yellow and he thrust the pedal to the floor. He'd seen John shake off previous bullet wounds as inconsequential. The fact that he was admitting that he was in bad shape – offering the information without being asked nearly caused Harold to despair. Anger surged through him. This shouldn't be happening! It didn't have to happen. None of this would have happened if…
"Carter sold you out," he declared.He knew John wouldn't hold it against her, and he reluctantly acknowledged that John was probably right. "They got to her." But he still held her at least partly responsible.
"Yeah, they're clever like that."
He heard John's voice weaken. His resolve strengthened.
"I wanted to say thank-you, Harold, for giving me a second chance."
He heard his friend speak what sounded like his last words. He attempted to offer John some hope. "It's not over, John. I'm close. Just get to the ground floor."
"NO! You stay away. Don't even risk it."
Harold had known from the beginning that all John had ever wanted to do was protect people. He hadn't counted on the lengths to which John would go to protect him. Harold didn't want protection – didn't feel he deserved it. He had even programmed the Machine not to protect him. It was his turn to protect – to save John.
If saving John's life meant putting his own at risk – so be it. He cast away all concern about the way he was driving and put every cylinder of his rather powerful car to use.
He was nearly there.
He pulled into the exterior lot just in time to see John stumble, barely holding himself upright, out of the door. He squealed into the garage, shocked at the amount of blood soaking his friend's shirt. Throwing the car into park he got out as fast as he could. From John's warning, he could only assume that Snow and friends were somewhere close. He realized John was at the end. He was not going to make it to the car without help.
John weakly raised an arm in a silent plea, and Harold was there. Immediately he was enveloped in a cloud of blood, sweat, and what he feared were John's last breaths. He turned his resolve to the back door of the car. He could get John that far. But then…
"Hold it!"
Carter.
Finch looked at her and fury nearly overwhelmed him. If he had been a more verbal type he would have screamed at her – "How could you!?" "Look what you've done!" "You've killed my friend… my only friend."
He saw her recognize him.
"You?"
He was too angry to be afraid.
Then he felt John struggle to turn his head, and his fury melted, enabling him to recognize the struggle within the detective. He waited – impatiently – until she finally made up her mind. Was he surprised that she decided to help them? At the moment, he didn't really care much about Carter one way or another. The only thing that mattered was getting John out of there and to someone who might – just possibly – be able to save his life. A possibility that was shrinking by the second.
"Get him out of here… Come on…"
He was grateful when she took his burden from him, allowing him to get back behind the wheel, and therefore get away that much faster, although he was reluctant to break contact with John while he was still breathing.
He got in. He put the car in drive and prepared to drive away just as soon as the door closed. His fury at Carter nearly resurfaced when she only stood there – holding the door open. Had she changed her mind? In a second he would leave anyway – not caring if she was injured in the process. But before he could act on the impulse…
"Go." And she slammed the door.
At that instant, Harold forgot all about Carter, and Snow, and virtually everything except the fastest route to – ironically – the morgue. He brought all of the sedan's horsepower and handling to bear on the problem, and didn't notice or care if he caused an accident or two during his furious trip.
Gradually the buzzing in his ears faded, and he became aware of other things. One was the need for stealth. He knew Snow would come looking and he didn't want to give any indication of where they had gone, so he forced himself – if not to slow down, exactly – at least to drive with more control. The others were the sounds coming from the back seat, specifically, John's rather erratic breathing.
"Hold on just a little longer, Mr. Reese. We're nearly there." He murmured in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.
John surprised him by responding. "Shouldn't… have… come... Too... dangerous..."
"Yes. Well." He pursed his lips, barely holding back his real feelings on the matter. "Assets like yourself are incredibly difficult to come by. It seemed irresponsible to lose the one I have."
There was an odd sound in response. Harold wasn't sure if it was a gasp of pain or a chuckle. Perhaps it was both, although he suspected the latter had been the intention.
There was no more time for talk though. They had arrived.
Harold had never told John about his various contingency plans. He'd hoped none of them would become necessary. Now he would find out just how effective this one was.
He put on the white coat he had stashed in the trunk and picked up the small suitcase full of money beside it, throwing the strap around his shoulder. Then he went to retrieve a stretcher.
It only took him a moment to bypass the electronic lock on the door. He knew the morgue was nearly deserted at this hour so he simply grabbed the nearest stretcher and headed back out to the car. When he opened the back door, though, he was rewarded with a moment of panic. John was utterly still and terribly pale.
"Mr. Reese?" He asked fearfully.
He reached out and laid a hand on John's arm intending to wake him. (He was only asleep, right?) He was rewarded with a sudden intake of breath and a grip on his wrist that was surprisingly strong.
"No." John growled, his eyes still closed. "No more."
"Mr. Reese – it's me. We need to get you inside. There's a doctor that can help you..." Finch spoke in the most reassuring tone he could muster. He very purposefully did not try to imagine what John might have been remembering through his cloud of pain and weakness.
Bleary eyes slowly turned to meet his. After a moment, John blinked, the grip softened and he nodded.
Finch pulled his feet out onto the pavement and together they managed to get him onto the stretcher.
"Not long now, John." Finch murmured mostly for his own benefit since he wasn't sure if John could still hear him or not. He pushed the stretcher through the doors and down the hall to the room where Dr. Madani was working the night shift.
Entering the room, he spoke the words he'd occasionally rehearsed ever since he'd discovered and researched this rather unusual coroner. "Your name is Farouk Madani…"
As soon as he knew he had the good doctor's cooperation, he went back to the car and retrieved the other case. It was full of items he'd collected gradually – things that were not normally stocked in morgues, but were almost essential to any surgeon. He'd made certain it included suture and surgical needles among other things. He'd learned that coroners only use a sort of heavy twine to stitch up bodies following autopsy and it made him nauseous to think of any living, healing person's wounds to be repaired in that way. Mr. Reese had enough scars.
He returned as quickly as he could to find Dr. Madani still doing a preliminary examination and preparation. The doctor nodded when he saw the contents of the case and thanked him, but didn't pause in his actions.
Finch wanted desperately to be somewhere else. But at the same time he couldn't leave.
The doctor glanced up at him, then paused long enough to reach into the case and hand him the chloroform and the sterile cloth Finch had stored inside.
He could do this.
Having been reassured by the doctor that he couldn't give John an overdose, he saturated the cloth and laid it over his friend's mouth and nose. He wanted John's pain to end.
The situation between them was completely unprecedented. John was the protector – the shield. Now he was completely vulnerable and weak and Finch was protecting him.
John looked up at him, simply trusting, and breathed willingly through the cloth. Finch returned his gaze until the drug took effect and John was no longer in pain.
Once John was unconscious, Finch took his first deep breath since hearing Carter make her declaration to Snow. John was no longer in pain, and he was in capable hands. He looked up at the doctor and realized he was about to begin the surgery in earnest.
"I assume a few units of blood would not go amiss?" Finch asked the doctor, eager for an excuse to leave.
He nodded in response. "Among other things… You seem to have access and knowledge. Bring whatever you can. I will assess your friend's condition, and prescribe as we go along."
Finch turned to leave, but paused at the door. "John." He told the doctor, "His name is John."
Dr. Madani paused his work and looked back at him. In his best bedside manner he told Finch. "From what I can see at this point – I believe John will live through this."
Finch nodded, knowing that no promises could be made, and left.
oO0Oo
Approximately eighteen hours later, Finch was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in what was basically a broom closet. John slept beside him.
Early in the morning, Dr. Madani had concluded his repairs of John's wounds and reasserted his earlier declaration: John was lucky. The bullets had missed major organs and blood vessels. He had removed them and repaired the damage they had caused. With sufficient rest and care, John would be back on his feet in a few days.
The problem now was that other employees would be arriving soon, but John was too weak yet. It would be dangerous to move him. So Madani had hidden them in a rarely used storage room for the duration. He would retrieve them when he deemed it safe to do so.
Finch shifted painfully in his chair. He needed to stretch, to get – as John once encouraged him – some exercise, but there just wasn't room. John had been sleeping for eighteen hours straight, reminding Finch that not only had his friend been shot twice and endured major surgery – but he'd most likely gone without sleep for at least the previous twenty-four hours as he'd worked on Wendy and Paula's case.
When they were busy like this, Finch was able to catch short naps here and there, sometimes at his desk, sometimes on the couch. But in the field, when did Mr. Reese sleep? Finch realized that most likely, he didn't. He would have to keep an eye on that in the future. Just because the man could go without sleep for prolonged periods, didn't mean he should.
His musings were interrupted by the buzzing of his phone: another number.
He sighed. Really? Now?
He did a quick search on his phone and learned the basics of their latest number: Ernesto Trask – Superintendent of an apartment building not too far away.
He continued his research, now thankful for the distraction, and an idea began to form. Perhaps there was a way to investigate this case and allow Mr. Reese to recuperate.
He set his phone aside when Mr. Reese began to stir.
"Finch?" he whispered.
"Yes, Mr. Reese, I am here. And I apologize for the accommodations." He quipped, knowing Mr. Reese would see the attempt at humor.
There was a small smile in return. "I've seen worse."
Finch raised an eye-brow at the understatement, but didn't comment. "The doctor says you will make a full recovery. In fact, I expect he will be here soon to remove your IV and allow us to leave. I have made arrangements that should allow you sufficient time to recover. You'll be back on your feet in no time."
"No rest for the wicked." John replied drily.
Before Finch could think of a suitable retort, the door opened and Madani entered, a wheelchair in the hallway behind him. "The last workers have departed, and I have given my employers notice that I will be quitting." He smiled. "It is safe for you to leave."
Finch paused and frowned at the 'chair, wondering how and why Madani had gone to the trouble of procuring it. It was not something normally found in a morgue.
The doctor saw his frown and commented. "I owe you a great deal." He said sincerely. "If you are ever in need of medical assistance in the future, please do not hesitate to call."
Finch nodded, and they began the process of 'discharging' Mr. Reese from his makeshift hospital.
Soon they were back in the car, Mr. Reese in the front seat this time. Finch noticed that the back seat had been detailed. He wondered what Madani had been up to all day while they waited in the storage room. How had he explained the blood to the cleaners? Or had he done it himself? Dr. Madani was far more of a resource than he'd expected.
It was a beautiful night in New York, weather-wise, and John opened his window, allowing the night air to fill the car. Finch heard him take as deep a breath as he could, and then he spoke,
"Finch…" He began.
But Harold knew what he was about to say, and he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to be thanked for saving John's life, when it was his own actions that had put John in danger in the first place. And he wasn't just talking about the parking garage.
He knew John believed it was his own past that had brought Snow to that parking garage – he blamed himself and saw Finch as his rescuer.
What Reese didn't know, was that Finch's actions had been affecting his life (unintentionally, perhaps, but affecting none the less) for many years. It was Finch's intention that Reese remain ignorant. But he would not be thanked. Instead he interrupted, "I hope you will find your new accommodations acceptable. I made certain the entire building is handicapped accessible. I know how valuable that is."
Reese frowned at the interruption. Finch knew he wondered about it, but he did not comment.
"I'm sure it'll be fine." John murmured in response.
Finch heard him draw another breath and was simply thankful that they were both moving on into a new day and a new number.
Eventually they would probably both end up dead. But today, they would continue. And for that, Finch was incredibly grateful.
oO0Oo
end
oO0Oo
