AN: Ahhh, sorry I made you wait so long! As always, your reviews mean the world to me! 3


Lionel Fusco should've known he wouldn't be able to enjoy his day off. He'd been planning on relaxing and hanging out with his kid for a change. Now he was standing outside the Columbus, Ohio airport in a miserable drizzle, attempting to hail a taxi.

George Haywood's house was only about 15 minutes from the airport. He lived in a comfortable little Eastern Columbus suburb, right next to a park. Fusco spent the drive reviewing his notes. His cover was investigating a string of stolen identities, one of which was going to be the deceased Sybil Haywood. It wasn't great, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. He scowled. Of course his job would require paperwork while Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deranged got to wreak havoc with Miss Hulk Smash.

He sighed, flipping through his notes. He knew Finch was right to send him. Of course he was. Glasses was always right, and dammit that was annoying.

"Um, sir?"

Fusco glanced up. The cabbie had suddenly slowed, and it didn't take him long to figure out why. The entire street in front of them was blocked by cop cars lit up with flashing lights. Neighbors stood in their front lawns, seemingly oblivious to the rain, craning to see what was happening. EMTs were rushing into a house with a stretcher.

Fusco took it all in with a sinking sensation in his gut that had nothing to do with too many pancakes.

"Lemme guess." He muttered darkly. "That's 1589 Blackoak Drive."

/ /

"Yes, Harold?"

"Mr. Reese, we have a problem." Harold said wearily.

"Can it wait 30 seconds?" John's strained voice crackled through his earpiece.

"Why?" Harold asked suspiciously, immediately alert. "What's wrong?"

"A little tired, that's all. You know, it would really be nice if the elevator was working again."

Harold frowned, then gasped at the clock. It was 4:47 pm. He'd been so engrossed in this research and then distracted by Detective Fusco's call…

He stood up abruptly. He hadn't seen Clara since breakfast. "Oh dear."

"I'm touched, Harold, but I'll be fine. Just not used to carrying Shaw up eight flights of stairs."

Harold's panicked gaze turned to the door of the stairwell. "Oh no."

He heard John removing the deadbolt and limped over as quickly as he could. John emerged from the stairwell, carrying Shaw over his shoulder like a firefighter. Harold couldn't see her face, but the way her body hung limply told him she was unconscious.

"What happened?" Harold asked sharply, already pulling out his phone to dial the doctor.

"Relax, Finch. She'll be fine. Don't disturb the good doctor." John sounded amused.

Harold met his gaze. John looked a little banged up, but he was grinning. Harold furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What on earth…" He began.

"Shaw got shot." John said calmly.

Harold opened his mouth to angrily demand John's definition of "fine," but John interrupted him.

"With a tranq gun."

Harold blinked, panic fading to annoyance. "And this is amusing because?"

John started towards Shaw's bedroom, giving him a look like he didn't understand the question. "She got shot with a tranq gun." He repeated patiently. "She was out before the fight even started."

Harold stood in the doorway and watched him lay Shaw on her bed. He shook his head at the almost gleeful smirk on John's face. He was relieved neither of them were hurt, though their inane competition to be alpha might be the death of him.

"So what's the problem?" John straightened, all business again.

"Oh!" Harold swung around to look frantically down the empty hall.

"Harold." John's voice had that dangerous edge to it. "Where's Clara?"

/ /

"Clara."

The voice was low and smooth, quietly slipping into her dream.

"Clara."

A hand on her forehead. Not hard. Gentle. Warm. She turned her face towards it, unafraid, and felt fingers brush lightly down her cheek.

"Clara, wake up."

Clara reluctantly opened her eyes. John's face was hovering above her. He smiled.

"Hey." He said softly.

Her eyelids felt so heavy. She blinked slowly, but each time he was still there. She felt strange, different.

Calm.

That was it.

She felt calm.

"Didyoudrugme?" She mumbled.

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Clara frowned, the haze of sleep slipping. "I just...feel..." She narrowed her eyes on his face, adrenaline snapping her awake. "What happened?"

There was a bruise beginning to bloom on his jaw, a cut on his left cheekbone, and a long scrape above his eyebrow.

"Had a disagreement with some guys." He said dismissively. "Are you ok?"

"What?" Clara asked, distracted, trying to scan for further injuries. A disagreement?

"You just asked if I drugged you."

She met his gaze again, startled. His eyes were sharp, worried. She tried to focus on what he'd just said, but his battered face was too alarming. "I...what? I don't….a disagreement? With who?"

"I asked first." He said lightly.

Clara sat up stiffly. Her bones ached from the hard wooden bench. How long had she been asleep? "I'm fine. I was just….it was just a dream."

John frowned. He remained crouched, looking up at her. That cut on his cheek looked fresh. She leaned forward, carefully touching his cheek as she inspected it. It wasn't bleeding, but it had been recently. Dried blood was crusted around the wound. It needed to be cleaned. She couldn't tell how deep it was, but it might even need stitches. She shifted her gaze to the bruise and-

Clara caught his gaze and her thoughts stuttered to a halt. He was intently studying her, and she was terribly close to those bright blue eyes. His cheek was rough with stubble under her fingers. He didn't move, didn't speak. He didn't even appear to be breathing.

What am I doing? She quickly dropped her hand, and sat back, her face hot.

"You should...that needs to be cleaned." She mumbled, fixing her eyes on the wall behind his head. In the silence she had to fight the urge to look at him again.

"Alright, doc." John finally said.

Her resolve wavered and she gave up and glanced at him, unable to decipher his tone. He was smiling again, but not in a mocking way. It felt gentle, almost intimate.

Clara stood up abruptly, brushing past him in an attempt to escape the longing crushing her lungs. "I need to...to...clean up."

John stood up, but made no move to stop her. She hesitated briefly, then fled down the stairs.

/ /

Harold was standing in the hallway, looking in the direction of Clara's room. John made his way to his side.

"So what's the problem?"

Harold nearly leaped out of skin, making John smirk. The shorter man gave him a glare.

"I do wish you'd stop doing that." Harold grumbled, limping back into his office.

John followed, watching Harold take his customary seat at the computer. John scanned the room for any clue as to what had happened, but found none.

"Shut the door, please." Harold said wearily.

John complied, his eyes narrowed on Harold, waiting.

"I just spoke with Detective Fusco." Harold looked up at him. "George Haywood is dead."

John stared at him, his face betraying no emotion. Dead?

"The local authorities had just discovered his body in his home when the Detective arrived. Time of death was roughly 11:30 this morning." Harold leaned forward on his desk. "He died from multiple stab wounds made with a butcher knife from his own kitchen."

John raised an eyebrow. "Murdered?"

"It appears so." Harold said gravely. "Yet there was no sign of forced entry and nothing was stolen."

John sat in the chair across from Harold. "Murdered by someone he knew?"

"That is a possibility."

John studied the bookshelf behind Harold, his mind spinning furiously. "So why did the Machine give us Clara's number and not her father's?" He said finally.

"Apparently George Haywood's murder was not premeditated, nor was the homeless woman's." Harold looked at his computer screen, brow furrowed. "The Machine is never wrong, Mr. Reese. Clara's life is still in danger, and whoever is hunting her seems to be willing to kill at random. Detective Fusco will remain in Ohio for a few more days to see what he can turn up."

John frowned, but didn't respond. Clara's previous words echoed ominously. Because you'll die. The memory of her face hovering above him flashed through his mind. She had looked so concerned, her fingers so gentle as she examined the gash on his face.

What is it about you, John, that makes you want to save everybody else's life but your own?

The familiar pain caught him in the chest, catching his breath.

"So." Harold straightened. "Care to explain how Miss Shaw ended up tranquilized?"

John snapped back to the present. "We followed a lead to the docks. Found some guys camped out in one of the old warehouses. Hired thugs. Funny thing is, they had more tranq guns than actual guns. They weren't very talkative, but I did get confirmation that they were hired to find this girl."

John pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Harold. It was an illustration. It did resemble Clara, but it wasn't an exact likeness. He watched Harold's sharp eyes study it closely.

"They were hired over email." John continued. "Never saw or spoke to the guy in person. They were supposed to take her alive and then signal their contact to get further instructions."

"What was the signal?" Harold looked up from the paper.

"Don't know." John admitted. "The guy who knew wasn't exactly able to talk."

Harold looked alarmed.

"He's alive." John reassured him, then paused. "At least, he was. Three doses of tranquilizer shouldn't kill him."

"Mr. Reese-" Harold began sternly.

"Hey, I had two options. Save that asshole or Shaw. And I was pretty sure you'd prefer Shaw." John leaned back, crossing his arms defensively.

Harold removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. In the silence, the ticking of the large grandfather clock seemed almost deafening.

"Alright, Mr. Reese." Harold said finally. "Let's try a new tactic."

John waited, drumming his fingers lightly on his knee.

"There may be only one person who knows this killer's name." Harold leaned forward, ignoring the dark look crossing John's face. "We need Clara's help."