Sameen Shaw almost sighed with content. After having 'persuaded' Finch to stop his worried hovering and to get some rest somewhere else, she had successfully raided the safe-house's fridge. Now - certain that she wasn't going to be exposed to Harold Finch's glares of disapproval and armed with a full plate of hot chicken wings - she was about to enjoy a quiet morning, indulging in one of her secret Reality-tv guilty pleasures. There was something to be said about watching Dancing with the Stars on the safe-house's big-screen. And in HD.

The only thing that was putting a slight damper on her rare perfect tv-session was that she hadn't been able to get Bear to join her on the sofa. No matter how many dog biscuits and chicken wings - and for that alone Finch would have gone into a fit if he'd still been here - she had enticingly waved at the Malinois, he wouldn't budge from his vigil at the sleeping Reese's beside.

It had indeed been a very close call, and Reese was one lucky bastard that she had had the foresight to come prepared. Otherwise all she and Fusco would have dragged out of that backroom would have been his slowly cooling corpse. Now, after two more blood infusions - which she had to once again steal from the hospital - John was stable and should be back to stalking the streets and buying her steak - make that steaks - after a couple more days of rest.

Throwing a clearly worried Finch out might have been a little callous, but the man had looked like he was about to keel over, and Shaw knew that he'd never get the restorative rest he needed by stiffly napping on a chair beside Reese's hospital bed. And ... who could blame a girl for wanting some peace too, after having once more saved the day?

How the boys had ever managed not to get themselves killed without her was absolutely beyond her.

The mountain of chicken wings had shrunken almost by half when Bear's high-pitched bark alerted her that something wasn't right. Reflexively drawing her gun, Shaw was at their make-shift medical area within an instant, finding an agitated Bear softly whining as he nervously danced from one paw to another. She didn't have to search long for the reason of the dog's behavior and tucked her gun in her waistband with an annoyed sigh. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

Reese - who had managed to swing his legs out of the bed and rip out the IV-lines before his strength had apparently left him - shot her a confused look with red-rimmed eyes. "I thought I was getting up," he croaked, and Shaw watched almost with fascination as the little color that had returned to his complexion completely drained from his face.

"Yeah, I don't think so." Shaw decided to step forward to put a hand on Reese's shoulder - both for support and to coax her patient back into lying down - before he could topple over and face-plant on the floor.

"I have to stop him," John mumbled, trying to swat away Sameen's grip on his shoulder, although in his current state she doubted that the man would manage to pick up a feather.

"Stop who?" she asked.

Reese pinched his eyes closed - probably to shut out the light that Shaw knew must be hurting his eyes and head like a bitch if those bumps and bruises on his face and head were any indication. "He's going to kill Finch."

Realizing that he seemed to be still back in that room Shaw tightly gripped both of his shoulders. "John," she said, feeling his body start to tremble at the exertion of sitting up and fighting her. "Finch is safe. Mercer's dead."

He blinked at her with glassy eyes as his muddled brain slowly attempted to process her words. "Dead?"

"I took care of him."

"Finch?"

"Finch is fine," Shaw repeated and gently pushed him back, surprised to still find him fighting her. Weak as a kitten ... yet still stubborn as a mule. "You, on the other hand, need to rest."

Some of her words must have penetrated the fog surrounding Reese's brain, because he finally gave up the little resistance he'd been able to muster up and let himself be pushed back into the pillows. He turned his head to look at Shaw, his voice just above a gravely whisper. "Finch is okay? They didn't touch him?"

"No, they didn't touch him. He's okay," she reassured and began to inspect the damage John had done to the infusion site in his arm and sighed.

Fighting against the lead-weights that seemed to be dragging down his eyelids, Reese looked around - his eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. "Where is Harold?"

"He's not here," Shaw said without looking up from her efforts of getting the needle back into John's vein. Obviously.

The confusion on her patient's face deepened. "He left?" John's head dropped back onto the pillow and his eyelids finally lost their battle against gravity. "He promised ... always ..."

The last words were spoken so softly she almost didn't catch them, knitting her brows in puzzlement at their meaning and at the unguarded look of raw emotion that traveled across John's face before his features grew slack in unconsciousness. Shaw shook her head. She had no idea what was going through Reese's scrambled brain, and she was pretty sure she didn't want to know.

Finishing up with re-dressing the IV-site, she checked on the bandages around John's forearms. Satisfied that her patient was back to resting peacefully Shaw scratched Bear behind his ears and returned to the living room area to plop onto the sofa in annoyance. She'd missed the majority of her show and her chicken wings had grown cold.

Great.

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Awareness returned slowly. At first there was only sound penetrating the darkness - a variety of noises that did not make sense. His brain took its time to assign each sound its proper meaning, but eventually he was able to discern between the ticking of a clock, the distant hum of traffic and the breathing of two individuals.

Instinctively John tensed. He did not remember what had happened - not yet anyway. But the odds were good that he'd managed to get himself caught on his latest mission and had passed out during 'interrogation'. He tried to remember, but he felt like having woken up from a bad dream with no memories - its vile aftertaste leaving him confused, agitated and feeling ... abandoned. Get caught and you are on your own. That was the agency's policy - he knew that, and he needed to pull himself together.

Smell registered next, and it wasn't right for some backwoods interrogation room. There was no stench of blood, no burned flesh, no sweat and no cigarettes. Instead it smelled of fresh flowers mixed with a slight note of disinfectant and men's cologne. Expensive men's cologne.

He wasn't lying on some dirt-covered, cold concrete floor either, but on soft, warm and - by the smell of them - clean sheets. Even before John really realized where he was, he instinctively knew that he was safe, and his body relaxed. The darkness became less complete and with the light his memories of the past couple of days returned. Slowly he opened his eyes, blinking a few times as they adjusted to the dimly lit room. The first thing John saw was the giant clock-face that leaned against the safe-house's wall. Whining softly, Bear nudged his left hand, licking his fingers until Reese lifted his hand and buried his fingers in his faithful dog's fur.

He turned his head. "I guess your plan worked after all, Harold," he said softly and smiled at his employer sitting patiently at his bedside. John was pleased to see that Finch's complexion had returned to normal. The last time he could remember seeing him the hacker had had turned as white as a sheet. His clothes - a three-piece suit, complete with a tie and a folded handkerchief in its breast pocket - were also back to their customary neatness, and John found this weirdly reassuring.

Finch regarded him for a few seconds, torn between feeling relieved, guilty and angry for what had been done to his partner. "Yes. Barely," he replied eventually, almost sounding bitter. It had been so damned close. Reese's smile faltered, and Harold grimaced, forcing himself to push the memories of last night to the farthest recesses of his mind. He leaned forward. "How are you feeling, John?"

Reese looked down at Bear's dark eyes as he pondered this question. He certainly had had better days, that was for sure. He felt weak, light-headed with a definitely noticeable headache, and the cuts on his forearms were smarting. But then he'd also had had worse days, and he knew that he should be back to normal within a few days of R&R. There was no need to worry the other man, as there was nothing Harold could do that would expedite his recovery.

"I'm fine," John said and knew immediately at Finch's raised eyebrows that the man wasn't entirely buying it. "Hungry, maybe," he added with an impish smile.

Harold stared at his employee, trying to decide if he should press for a more detailed answer or just accept Reese's verbal shrugging-off of yet another near death experience like he usually did. In the end John's still too pale face, the slight squint to his eyes, the softness to his voice and the fact that he hadn't tried to get out of bed yet told Harold Finch all he needed to know. Pressing his lips together he nodded, "I'm glad to hear that. I think Ms. Shaw left over some soup." He paused. "Would you like something to drink first?"

"Yes, please."

Harold got up and limped the short distance to the sideboard table to pour a glass of water. He returned to the raised head of the bed, handed Reese the glass and sat back down on the chair. He watched as the ex-op took a few sips of the cold liquid, and then placed it on the beside table.

"What's on your mind, Harold?" John asked.

Looking down at his lap Finch hesitated. He wasn't sure if now was the best moment to discuss what was on his mind, as Mr. Reese was clearly still very much in need of rest. But that also meant John wasn't able to just shrug off his concerns and walk away ...

"We need to discuss last night." He raised his eyes to John's face, whose eyebrows were wrinkled in confusion. "I want you to know," Finch continued, "that I meant what I said. That I would not leave you - or Ms. Shaw - behind."

John's features softened. "I know."

Harold nodded. So far so good. "However I need you to promise me something, John. I need your word that you'll give me a chance to keep my promise to you."

Reese's expression morphed from slightly curious to blank. "I'm not sure I follow."

"I know what's going on in that head of yours, John," Harold said, speaking faster now. "At least sometimes I think I do.

"Tell me you haven't decided to get yourself killed the next time you find yourself in a situation like last night. Before I've had a chance to figure something out."

John averted his gaze and turned his face away from Finch, letting him know that he'd been dead on with his assumption, which hadn't been far-fetched in the first place. Harold still remembered all too well how pissed off John had looked at seeing him on that rooftop over a year ago, going as far to even point a gun at him instead of letting him help.

Harold didn't want to argue with the injured man. They both weren't up to it yet. Or - most likely - never. But he knew if he didn't say what was on his mind now, he'd never say it. Exhaling heavily he slumped - as well as he could - into his chair. "You know what it means to lose a friend - someone you care about," Harold said softly, watching the other man close his eyes. "Trust me, it's much worse when you know you could have - should have - done something, but in the end all you did was just stand there and watch it happen." Finch paused, and his memories briefly went back to that dark and empty intersection - the place of yet another one of his failures that had nearly broken them all.

"I know that there will come a day where I won't be able to be there in time; where my plan won't work after all." He paused again, looking at John's impassive profile, and when he spoke again the softness to his voice was gone, replaced by a desperate edge. "Please, don't force me to just stand by and watch. Nothing could be worse."

Finch fell silent. He didn't expect an answer from Reese. They both weren't great with discussing personal feelings, but Harold had needed the other man to hear what he had to say and hoped that when - not if - the time came John would at least consider his request.

The ex-op continued to look down at his bandaged arms, avoiding eye-contact and most likely fighting the demons Harold knew had been tormenting the other man for years. Bear, who had picked up on the tension between his two humans, whined softly before he retreated to the end of the bed and miserably rolled himself up on the floor.

"I'm going to see about that soup," Harold eventually said and stiffly got onto his feet.

John watched Finch move out of the corner of his eyes. To say that he felt conflicted was a gross understatement. He'd known from the moment he met Harold Finch that the man was different to every employer or superior he'd ever served under, and it hadn't taken long for John to realize that he would gladly lay down his own life so that the other man might live.

He had been aware that Harold's and his initially strict work-relationship had grown into exactly the kind of friendship every commanding officer he'd ever had had warned him about.

"You get too close to each other, you'll lose your focus on the mission and you'll end up doing something stupid that will get you - and others - killed."

However their friendship had suffered a blow when they lost Detective Carter and due to his own actions afterwards. He'd been so angry and disillusioned, and busy with licking his own wounds that he'd never even given it a second thought that Finch had been there too that night. But compared to him the hacker had guarded his emotions like a mother bear guarding her cubs. He'd always done that, yet John had still distanced himself and not allowed himself to actually see the signs - that now were so damn obvious - that Harold had been shouldering the blame for what happened ever since and had been tormented by it.

Last night's events and all his training told Reese to increase the distance between him and Harold Finch. But as he watched the hacker's back slowly retreat John knew he couldn't do it. He had put the mission before anything else, forcing himself to be alone in the dark for so long that he didn't want to let go of the glimpses of light he'd been able to see since he'd allowed himself to trust Harold Finch.

In the end he didn't care about the mission. He cared about this friendship.

"Harold," John called out softly, and Finch stopped. He turned around slowly, his face a careful mask of polite inquiry. "Yes, Mr. Reese?"

When John looked at Harold he deliberately dropped his carefully crafted expression that conveyed no emotions at all, wanting the other man to see his sincerity.

"You have my word."

Finch's face lit up in relief, and his lips twitched into a lopsided smile, sounding more than relieved. "Thank you."

John nodded. He certainly didn't know what the future held for the both of them - with new and unknown threats already lurking on the horizon. But no matter what, they'd have each other's backs, and John had to admit that knowledge felt damn good.

He smirked. "But seriously, you have to work on your plans, Harold."

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Author's notes:

I'm sorry this took so long, and I hope this chapter did not disappoint. Thank you all for reading.