Author's note: Hi all! First of all, sorry for the delay in posting the new chapter. Real life has been quite demanding in the last few days.
Here's part 4, I hope you'll enjoy it.

As always, a huge thank you goes to DancingInTheDark85, not only for her beta reading skills, but also and especially for her friendship and support, which both mean a lot to me.
Furthermore, thank you to all the readers and reviewers who are following this story. This is my longest fic so far, and your support and encouragement are very appreciated.


Chapter 4: Reflections and Revelations

John's POV

John jerked awake with a gasp. He had been dreaming – some dark, distressing nightmare he couldn't even recall but from which he was more than happy to escape.

He opened his eyes and looked around the room, trying to appraise his current whereabouts. There was a dull, persistent ache in his side, but he had a vague recollection of the pain having been worse some time prior, so he figured he had to be under medication. He caught a glimpse of a movement from the far corner, and there he saw Finch, laying on a big, comfortable-looking sofa. The older man appeared to be sleeping and John took a moment to study him. He was far from his usual impeccable self. Glasses askew, hair disheveled, the tie knot loose and a frown was deeply etched on his face. He also looked rather pale, and John had the distinct impression he had not meant to fall asleep but rather he had succumbed to exhaustion after a long, stressful night.

He blinked, filing the thought away for further reflection, and checked the rest of the room. It was not particularly big, but neat and cozy. And definitely well-equipped with medical stuff, John noticed and his eyebrows raised in surprise as he took in all the details – from the bed he was lying in to the nightstand on his right, covered in medicines and what looked like spent gel ice packs, to the wheelchair and crutches parked against the wall. Impressive.

A glance to the nightstand on his left revealed a half-full bottle of water and Reese suddenly realized just how thirsty he was. He reached out, trying to grab it, but it was too far. Biting back a growl of frustration, he tried again, stretching farther, but that was a mistake. The pain in his side – until then, annoying but tolerable – flared up with vengeance, taking his breath away.

He must have gasped, because when he reopened his eyes – when had he even closed them anyway? – Finch was hastily getting up from the sofa, an alarmed look on his face.

"John? You awake?" Harold asked, almost tentatively, stiffly scrambling to his feet.

John just nodded in response, still not trusting his voice to come out right. He kept his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard as he fought to control the pain in his side.

"Are you…what do you remember?" Finch had stopped at the foot of the bed and was now watching him intently, hovering close by but out of reach.

The hesitancy in his tone and behavior was not lost on Reese. What had happened? What had he done?

He frowned, trying to remember and a multitude of flashbacks and images assaulted his brain. This time, though, it was marginally easier to distinguish from past and recent events. He closed his eyes, struggling hard to get his bearings in the maze of stilted recollections.

"Snow," Reese slowly said at last, reopening his eyes, "on the roof of the Hospital. With a…sniper?" Bastard.

"Yes," was Finch's short answer, but he didn't elaborate.

Snow. Not Kara. Reese gingerly touched his bandaged side, where Snow's marksman had hit him. Kara's bullet scar was on the same side, but a little higher and more centered.

Same side, same orders, same Agency, but a different shooter.

There had been no bomb though – not on the rooftop, at least. Earlier, yes, John recollected as the memories slowly but surely trickled back into place – Finch had been there and Reese had just heard it through the earpiece. But it hadn't been the CIA bombing a site to get rid of its operatives. It had been number-related.

John recalled running away, two bullets in his body, descending countless steps of the Hospital service stairs until he had reached the bottom. And then Finch had arrived, and then… Carter. Following him, finding him. He blinked, trying to make sense of that memory.

"Carter. She let us go," he quietly said, raising his eyes to meet Harold's. The older man's face was blank, guarded.

"That she did," Finch confirmed. "And then? What else do you remember?" he prompted.

"A coroner?" The Arabic guy – no, not Arabic, John mentally corrected himself, Iraqi. Bald, meek-looking, brandishing sterile tools and quietly giving Finch instructions…The next part, though, was fuzzy, confused.

"Doctor Madani. He stitched you." Finch was now beside him, offering him the bottle of water, helping him drink. Water felt like heaven, even if it tasted strangely sugary, and John nodded his thanks.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear away the cobwebs clouding his mind and noticed a bandage on his arm. He studied it, perplexed, then looked at Finch.

Harold's gaze shifted for a moment to the bandaged limb, and something akin to discomfort crossed his features. "You were having, ah, issues with the proper treatment to your fever." Finch's explanation, when it finally came, was rather obscure, and the older man wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Issues?" What the hell had he done?

"From what I gathered you were, mmh, concerned that I would try to drug you," Harold added, eventually adding some detail.

Reese swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and he looked away as the pieces of the puzzle fell back into place. He didn't remember any of it, but he had a pretty good idea of what might have transpired nonetheless, and it was not pretty.

"Nothing happened, Mr. Reese," Finch tried to reassure him, correctly reading his distress, but John thought otherwise. "Just the untimely death of a thermometer."

No wonder Finch had seemed to be on edge before, John bitterly thought. The point was, what had he done or said, exactly? Had he been aggressive? Had he tried to hurt Finch? What had Finch seen? The simple fact that the older man was still there and had not been scared off was a small miracle in itself, let alone the fact that he had evidently even managed to administer him any medicine without evident injuries.

"I'm sorry," Reese finally said, eyes still fixed on the pristine-white ceiling. And he was, truly, even though he knew that apologizing was hardly enough. But then, what else could he say?

"This is hardly your fault, John," Harold rebuffed, exasperated. "Your temperature was quite high, you were delirious."

"Yeah, I was…somewhere else," the ex-op admitted quietly. He ventured a look at Finch, who was fiddling with some items from the nightstand drawer.

"Mmmh, that was quite clear when you started speaking another language," the older man replied distractedly. "What was that, anyway?" he added, without looking up.

"Chinese," Reese said. "A bit rusty, though," he added as an afterthought.

Something crossed Finch's expression at this last bit of information – a minute tightening of his lips, an almost imperceptible frown - so quick it could have easily gone unnoticed hadn't John been observing him. He wondered about the reason for such a reaction.

Something else to mull over later.

He shifted in the bed, trying to sit up higher without putting too much strain on his wounds.

Finch raised his eyes in alarm. "Mr. Reese?"

"I need to get up, Finch," John replied, fighting against the sudden wave of pain and dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him with the change in position.

"No, you don't," Harold retorted, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're supposed to stay in bed and rest."

"Yes Finch, I know, but I need to go to the bathroom," Reese snapped, and immediately regretted his cross tone. It wasn't Harold's fault if he was hurting and helpless and bedridden.

"Oh. Right. Of course," Finch backtracked, evidently unoffended by his outburst. "But maybe you could try sitting up for a while before attempting to get up?"

It was a good advice as a matter of fact, Reese conceded. He had managed to raise himself a little, and even that slight elevation had been enough to make him feel nauseous and lightheaded and he had to close his eyes to stop the room from spinning.

He might have gone a little pale, too, because when he re-opened them Finch was staring at him, and again, he had that alarmed expression clearly written all over his face.

"I'm fine Harold," John reassured him. "A little dizzy. Just gimme a minute."

"Hmmm." Finch seem unconvinced and kept a steady hand on his arm, but did no actual move to stop him when, after a couple of minutes, John deemed it safe to sit up further and swing his legs outside the bed.

The whole ordeal of getting onto the wheelchair Finch had provided wasn't too much of a challenge and it required just a minimal amount of fumbling around – clearly, they both had some experience with it – and the trip to the bathroom was quick and uneventful, but by the time Reese was safely settled back in bed he was shaking and drenched in sweat and his side hurt so much he was beginning to feel sick. Harold, who had gone back to sit behind the desk, was furtively throwing at him worried looks, pretending not to, while typing at his computer.

Reese caught a glimpse of the monitor. The video feed playing was showing a familiar place – it was the 8th precinct.

"News, Finch?" he asked, both to distract himself from the pain and Harold from the obvious concern for his well-being.

Harold's gaze followed John's on the monitor, then went back to the younger man's face. He blinked, studying him, probably wondering about how much to disclose. Finally, carefully choosing his words he replied, "there's nothing to worry about."

Reese frowned at the less-than-informative answer, a hand surreptitiously pressed against his throbbing side, and focused back on the monitor. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary going on at the precinct –the usual hustle and bustle of cops on a random afternoon and thankfully no large-scale wanted-dead-or-alive manhunts or CIA-police task forces. Both Detectives were currently out of view. "Carter?" he finally asked, immediately realizing it was the second time he mentioned her since he had woken up. If Harold noticed, though, he hid it well.

"What about her?" Finch replied, cautious, his look turning back to the monitor. He went back to typing and lines of code began piling up in a small secondary window.

"She let us escape – more than that, she helped us."

Harold's hands stilled for a second on the keyboard, his mouth tightening minutely as he apparently debated whether or not to let be engaged in this particular conversation. "Only after selling you out to the CIA, Mr. Reese," he finally pointed out.

The tapping resumed at full speed.

"Mmh. Yeah, well, I think she just wanted me arrested. Not dead," John mused. "She probably didn't expect Snow to have me gunned down by a sniper."

Finch stiffened at the ex-op's directness. "Please, Mr. Reese. Couldn't you just – never mind," he trailed off, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Your point, anyway?"

"The CIA. Do they know she helped us?"

Finch swiveled on his chair turning to look at John, coding and caution forgotten. "Really, Mr. Reese, I'm of the opinion that you should worry about yourself right now. However, to answer your question, no, they don't. The CIA cut all the feeds at the Hospital as soon as they got there, including the one that might have caught our escape…and her role in it."

Reese let out a breath. "That's good," he softly commented. "They basically screwed themselves."

"That they did," Finch agreed. "I guess they never thought you'd manage to find an escape route. And, by the way, I took care of the other feeds in the vicinity. Actually," Finch added after a pensive pause, "I cut all the webcam feeds in a few kilometers radius, so they can't even identify the car. They won't know which direction I came from or which destination we chose. Or the fact that she purposefully gave them wrong info about the direction we took."

"Thank you, Harold," Reese said with sincerity. Harold had been thorough, as always already seeing the big picture, and John couldn't but be grateful for that. After all, the involvement of both the Detectives had been solely his idea – well, maybe Carter's own involvement could be considered her own fault too, since she kept trying to take him in, but still... In any case, they were his responsibility, not Finch's. Carter was a good cop, a good person and John would never forgive himself should she get into trouble because of him.

"I'm quite fond of my car, Mr. Reese," Harold shrugged, turning his attention back to the computer. "It'd be a shame were I to be forced to discard it because of an APB issued on it."

"Yes, a real shame," Reese concurred, a small smile playing on his lips. The pain in his side had lessened, albeit just to a small extent, and was now more like a dull ache. Bothersome and exhausting, but tolerable. He stared at the ceiling, drawing controlled breaths.

"You should try and eat something, if you feel up to it," Finch said after a while.

Reese swallowed, considering the idea. The nausea had mostly subsided, but the prospect of food wasn't exactly appealing, even if advisable – the persistent shaking and dizziness weren't just consequences of pain and fever, but most certainly the result of the substantial blood loss. Just, he wasn't sure his stomach was ready for food yet.

"Maybe later," he finally replied, opting for a compromise.

"What about in half an hour?" Harold suggested, then went on, "by then, it'll be time for your medicines, too."

A good compromise, indeed. Pain relief was good and welcome, even though Reese hated the haze, the lack of focus it brought.

John kept his gaze locked on the ceiling without really seeing it, enjoying the ability to be able think clearly, even as his thoughts turned dark.

What had happened last night was deeply troublesome.

It had been a night of epiphanies, of sort; some good and some bad.

Each and every one of the people involved had revealed to be something more – or something less – than he had previously thought.

Take Snow, for example. Reese had already known well what a ruthless bastard he was, having worked together for years. Not to mention the fact that Snow had been the one to give both him and Kara that fatal order a few months before. Not his idea, obviously, but orders from above. Yet, he had had no qualms at all and relayed the death sentence without a blink, and, quite obviously without any remorse.

But a sniper? That had been a vile move. Snow had managed to stoop even lower than Reese would have ever believed possible. A sniper, shooting him down when he hadn't even pulled out his own gun.
Low, yes, but also stupid, and shortsighted. His former handler had exploited Carter's integrity, convincing her to sell him out - no, persuading her that it was her civic duty to act by the book. To bring a murderer to justice. But then, he had underestimated such integrity. He should have foreseen that Carter wouldn't have approved of his methods to get Reese. His mistake.

And not the only one. Snow had worked with Reese for years – he had been his handler, for God's sake. He knew him, knew his modus operandi, his habit of always cataloguing the possible escape routes, his resourcefulness. Of course, Snow had planned for him to die on that roof, but he should have taken into account the chance, however slim it might be, that Reese would manage to escape. Yet, he hadn't. And he hadn't arranged for backup outside the Hospital, nor had he thought about securing the escape routes. Another rookie mistake.

And then Carter. She had been a hell of a revelation. John had already known about her honesty, her uprightness – exactly the qualities he liked in her, and the reasons why he had sought her, albeit reluctant, cooperation. So, seeing her getting out of the car with Snow, as much as it had been a disappointment deep-down, hadn't been too much of a surprise. He had been walking on thin ice, with her, and he had known from the beginning that this could happen.

But then, she had changed her mind. She had followed his blood trail, literally – again, she had been the only one to correctly guess his actions and path instead of Snow, and she had known him for barely a few months – caught him and Finch and then let them escape, probably against every rule in her book.

She had let a rogue ex-CIA agent escape. A murderer. A criminal, from her point of view. She had risked her career for him, maybe she still was.

And this, as lucky and providential and right in some sense, had been unexpected. It said a lot about her – she had broken the rules to preserve her inner integrity intact, if this even made any sense. She had turned out to be even better than Reese had thought.

And, last but definitely not least, there was Finch. Despite their brief and somehow awkward and noticeably unbalanced acquaintance, John had inferred quite a bit about the other man's character. Harold was basically good, in a way that Reese for a long time hadn't thought possible for a man to be. He was genuinely caring and unselfish and without a hidden agenda, if maybe a little too soft for his own well-being.

So, when John had warned him to stay clear, he had inwardly suspected that Finch would just disregard his directive and would try to get him to safety anyway. But Harold had definitely gone above and beyond that.
He had done the impossible for him, finding him an acquiescing doctor, organizing accommodations and supplies. And, more than that, he was there himself, providing care, food, medicines. Company.

Any good partner John had ever had would have guaranteed basic medical care and some help, but only a friend would go to such lengths as Finch had.

So, in a sense, John had been wrong about him. Last night Harold had revealed himself for what he truly was. Not just his employer. Not just a naïve millionaire trying to right the wrongs of the world out of boredom, but someone who really cared. And, in spite of every common sense, someone who cared for him. A friend.

For that, and for the timely rescue of the previous evening, John was immeasurably grateful, for he realized he had been saved in more than one sense.

And then, it finally hit him. He was glad to be alive.

It turned out that the previous night had brought one more revelation to John, one about himself: he wanted, desperately, to live. Telling Finch to stay away, calling him for one last time had been difficult. Necessary, but difficult. Because John wanted to live, wanted to keep on doing what they were doing, at least for a little longer.

It was a revelation because just a few months ago he had been prepared to die. Ready, willing, glad to die. Aiming to. The realization that that had changed was eye-opening. Ready, he still was, and willing too, if need be. But determined to die, or glad? That, no more. He felt a dry smile tugging at his lips at the irony of the thought. How many people out there were surprised to be happy to be alive? Probably not a common feeling.

But the fact remained that, as thankful as he was for the risky rescue plan that Finch had cooked up, the older man should have steered clear and safe, and with that thought the smile died on his lips. It had been too much of a risk, something they could not afford. Something that could not and would not happen again.

Reese would not allow Finch to be killed or captured by the CIA. The mere idea of what they would do to him to fish for information should they apprehend him was simply abhorrent. Unacceptable. Even worse was the knowledge that, had they taken Harold the previous night, it would have been all John's fault and nobody else's. The CIA, Snow, snipers – they came from John's past and belonged to his life, not Finch's.

And Reese just refused to be the cause for Finch's capture, it was something the older man must understand. They would need to talk about it, John decided, the sooner the better. Not today, maybe, since John hardly doubted he would be coherent enough to make his point, but soon. He would find an acceptable solution to the problem the CIA posed, because one thing he knew for sure: Finch would not become just some collateral damage in Reese's war with the CIA.

Reese would make sure of that.

To be continued...

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