CHAPTER SIX

July 5th 2016 – Mount Sinai Hospital, room 157

John was pulled from his sleep by a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and gave Shaw a contrite smile.

"I'm sorry, I think I missed the end of the story," he said in a foggy voice.

With a tilt of the head, Shaw directed him to look on the other side of his bed. John turned his head to the right. Harold was standing by his side, hesitant, vaguely scared.

Shaw bent over. "Go easy on him," she whispered in John's ear, "he had a rough couple of weeks."

She stood up, gave John a quick tip off an imaginary hat and left the room, leaving the two men alone.

"John?" Harold asked softly, as if worried that John might vanish into thin air.

"Harold," John breathed in a raspy tone, shooting him a smile.

A small smile slowly appeared on Harold's face. "It's good to see you awake."

With caution, he pulled a chair close to the bed and dropped on it, wincing with pain, as he held a protective hand to his side.

John frowned. Worried, he tried to sit up. "Finch, are you hurt?"

Harold waved it off. "Don't worry about it. I got shot when we were in the vault but -."

"What? And you hid it from me?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Harold articulated with insistence. "The muscle is just a little sore, still. By the way, you lied to me; the second time is just as bad as the first."

John relaxed and smiled.

"At least, we'll have matching scars," he said, pointing at his own abdomen, where he could feel the pain of the torn muscle.

Harold's expression sobered up. It seemed it was too soon to joke about it.

"So, Shaw said we won?" John said, changing the subject.

Harold nodded. "It would appear so."

"How's the Machine?"

"She made contact with Miss Shaw, so we know she survived. I need to re-run a lot of tests to make sure everything is in order. It might take some time before we're back on our feet."

"I guess it'll give me some time to rest," John quipped.

Silent settled in as Harold seemed to lose himself in his thoughts. John took a good look at him. Harold was distractingly fidgeting with the plastic lid of his tea cup. From the deep lines marking his features and the shadows under his eyes, it looked like Harold hadn't sleep much in the past few days. He was hunched in his chair and seemed downright exhausted.

"Thank you, Harold," John said softly.

Harold looked up, a deep frown on his forehead. "For what?"

A small smile brushed John's lips. "For locking me up in that vault? It means a lot to me, that you were willing to risk your life for me," he said more seriously. "There haven't been that many people willing to risk everything for me."

Harold swallowed the painful lump in his throat. "And yet, you couldn't simply accept it…"

"You know I had to do it," John said softly. "You're not cut for that kind of rescue mission. You would have died up there."

"And you almost did!" Harold suddenly looked up at John, eyes filled with tears.

Harold's visible distress was heartbreaking. John wanted to reassure him, make things all better for him, but he wasn't sure what to say. He had to do it. And he couldn't promise not to do it again, because he would. He just didn't know how not to.

The truth was, it wasn't so much that Harold wouldn't have succeeded, as much as the fact that it was easier for John to risk his own life than risking losing someone else's. He wasn't sure he'd be strong enough to bear a single loss more. And losing Harold, of all people, was a thought he refused to fathom. Harold didn't just save his life, Harold was the person who reconnected him to the world, and who made him someone better. Harold gave him the strength to become the person John had always aspired to be. So what kind of man would he be if he couldn't protect him?

"I'm sorry I put you through all this. I've lost too many people in my life," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I couldn't let you die, Harold."

"And you think I can?" Harold said angrily. "Am I supposed to just sit and watch while you get shot again and again?"

He took a deep breath and released it slowly.

"John, you can't do that," he said, more composed. "I didn't hire you so that you could sacrifice your life for mine. You once told me that there were people the world couldn't afford to lose. But you don't seem to realize, you're one of those people, John."

"Someone had to do it. And you needed to make it out. What's the point of saving the Machine, if you're not there to fix it? The Machine needs you, Harold. Our mission needs you. You're the brain behind it. Me, I'm just the soldier. Plus, you still have Shaw, and Lionel. And if you need more back-up, I'm sure there's plenty of former military that could do the job."

A sad smile crossed Harold's face. "No there isn't, John. Not the way you do it. You're not just a soldier. Far from it." Harold let go a desperate sigh. "Damn, you don't even see how valuable you are… Do you know how many people you saved since we started?"

John shook his head. "Hopefully enough to make up for those I killed," he said soberly.

"Three hundred and ninety four."

John rose an eyebrow. "You've been keeping tabs?"

Harold stared at him. "Of course I have."

Three hundred and ninety four. The number gradually sank in. "That's… a lot," John whispered, as he realized all the lives they had, indeed, saved.

"And that's not counting the people you, or the Machine, recruited and who are now, in turn, saving even more lives."

John smiled. "That's quite a thing you've started with your Machine, huh?"

"We started, John. I wouldn't have gone this far without you. It's all your doing. Our little ill-adjusted family, it's all you. Miss Shaw, Detective Fusco, even the dog. They're all your own recruits."

John smiled. That was the first time he heard Harold referred to their team as a family. It felt nice. More than that, it felt right.

"I was ready to die for you," he said softly.

"John, please…"

"But I want you to know that I'm rather glad I didn't, after all."

Harold finally smiled.

"It feels good to be alive," John said again. "Even if it hurts like hell."

Harold jumped to his feet. "Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Reese, I should probably get a nurse."

He came back a few minutes later. It wasn't a nurse that was accompanying him, but Dr. Tillman. John couldn't hide his surprise, seeing the doctor, one of their very first numbers, and one that he had never forgotten.

"Megan? Dr. Tillman… It's nice to see you."

"And it's nice to see you finally awake, Detective."

John winced. Even though he's been playing Detective for almost two years now, it still felt vaguely wrong to be given a title he didn't own. "Just call me John."

Megan nodded. "How are you feeling, John?"

He shrugged. "I'm fine."

"Harold said you were in pain…"

John dismissed it with a wave of the hand. "It's nothing."

"I can increase your medication."

"No, it's fine, doc, I promise," John insisted.

She checked his vitals, asked him a couple more routine questions to test his cognition and coordination, noted a few things on the chart attached to his bed, and, looking satisfied, she put back her pen in the front pocket of her lab coat.

Before she left, she stepped closer to John's bed side, and looked at him with earnest eyes.

"Thank you, John, for what you did. I don't really know what you actually did, but, it seems you did what was necessary to, hum… I never saw him again."

"He's rotting in a Mexican prison, with a bunch of other fellow scumbags. One of the worst of the country, I assure you."

Megan laughed and shook her head in disbelief.

"Thank you," she repeated. "I wish we'd met again in less dramatic circumstances but I'm glad I get a chance to thank you. And meet all your friends, here," she added pointing at Harold.

John nodded. "I'm a lucky guy."

Both Megan and Harold rose a skeptical eyebrow.

"I'm alive," John said with a grin.