Chapter 9

The doctor stayed the entire night, keeping a close eye on John's blood pressure and breathing, ready to interfere in case the vitals were dropping below the limits of what was considered being healthy.

He attested Finch a bruised larynx and ordered him to go easy on his voice for the next couple of days. Reese's vitals stayed steady and by noon the following day the doctor took him off the IV line. Promising to stop by the following morning to check on John's dressing, he handed Harold a bottle of painkillers and antibiotics and told him to keep an eye on his patient while John continued to sleep off the drugs.

"If you need me, you know where to reach me." At Harold's nod the doctor bit his goodbyes and left.

Harold settled himself at the large dinner table and put up his mobile equipment. He checked in with the Detectives to learn about the status of the investigation into Peter Connor and assured them that Reese's condition was not life threatening. In regard to the doctor's orders he kept the call brief to save his voice. Knowing that John was on the mend with Bear keeping watch at the foot of his sick bed, Harold allowed himself to get lost in his research into their newest number, which had come in earlier this morning as he was taking Bear for a walk.

It was hours later when he was startled out of his thoughts by the sounds of someone being physically ill originating from the room John had been sleeping in. Concerned he got up, limping over to the open door as fast as he could. He was surprised to find the bed empty, with Reese nowhere to be seen. For just a brief moment he felt panic that John might have gotten up and managed to re-injure himself, but movement behind the bed caught his eyes. Stepping into the room Harold walked around the bed to find John Reese sitting on the floor hugging a waste basket.

Bear was dutifully sitting beside him throwing a backwards glance at Finch before turning all his attention back to his master. John's body was once again trembling from the exertion of throwing up and the pain the heaving must have caused him due to his broken and bruised ribs. Not to mention the tearing at the stitches in his side.

"Mr. Reese?" he asked tentatively and watched John's good eye close briefly. It almost looked to Harold like Mr. Reese was blushing in shame.

"I'm fine, Harold." Reese said into the basket.

Finch sighed in exasperation. "You do know, that you sitting beside the bed you'd been pretty much unconscious in for the last", he consulted his watch, "16 hours and clutching at a waste basket for dear life while endeavoring to even further empty your empty stomach kind of contradicts your statement of 'being fine', don't you?"

John's head ever so slightly turned in Harold's direction, eying his employer out of the corner of his eyes. Softening his tone and not quite able to hide his concern Harold asked, "Want to tell me how you are really feeling?"

John considered the waste basket in front of him and sighed in resignation. "Sick as a dog." he paused, completing his mental inspection. "And sore as Hell."

Harold knew that John being honest with him about his condition was a token of trust and a sign of how much their relationship had changed over the months.

"Do you think you can get up?"

John finally looked at him, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "I think I kind of like it where I am at the moment."

Harold's eyebrows creased in worry. "Should I get the doctor?"

"No." John minutely shook his head. "It'll pass."

Finch stood there, not knowing what to do. Making up his mind he went to fetch a glass of water and handed it to Reese, who, after taking a few sips to wash out the taste of bile in his mouth, placed it on the bedside table. Harold then made Bear vacate his spot and stiffly sat down on the floor beside John. Reese eyed him with his one good eye that wasn't swollen shut, taking great interest in the bruises around Harold's neck.

John had noticed the softness and rasp to Finch's voice before but now, seeing the clear imprints of fingers disguised as bruises confirmed his worry that something had happened to his friend.

"What happened to your throat, Harold?"

Harold looked surprised by John's question. "You … don't remember?"

John's eyebrow creased in thought as the tried to remember what had happened the night before. Or was it two nights already? The last thing he clearly remembered were Billy's terrified and pain-filled screams. Everything else that had happened between the screams stopping and him waking up here - confused, sore and sick to his stomach - was a jumble of disjointed bits of memories. But something in the uncomfortable way Harold Finch was sitting beside him – the closeness – seemed familiar. As his brain supplied him with the piece of information he'd been lacking John's eyes turned hard.

"I did this, didn't I?" It wasn't really a question. Harold noted that John's shoulders slumped even more and he'd turned his head away and stared at the bin in front of him with clenched jaws.

"It wasn't your fault." Harold tried to reason. He really did not blame John Reese for his actions while drugged up, injured and relying only on his survival instincts.

"The Hell it wasn't." Even though there was no emotion in those words, Reese's hollow expression and the deepening of the lines around his mouth betrayed the anger and hate he felt toward himself and it tore at Finch, but John's next words, spoken ever so softly, just dumbfounded him. "I could have killed you. You should have stayed away."

Angry, Harold raised his voice, ignoring the pain it caused his throat. "And what? Leave you to bleed out and freeze to death on some God forsaken street?" John kept stoically staring ahead, the muscles in his cheek and neck flexing. "That's NOT going to happen, John."

John closed his eyes and for a brief moment Harold was able to see the pain John had been bottling up inside - probably for years - clearly written across his face. Breathing out slowly, John leaned his head back to rest it on the mattress. Finch waited him out, knowing that there was nothing more he could say to bring his point across. Now, John only had to accept that he wasn't just an expendable asset anymore and also accept Harold's promise of always backing him up, no matter what.

After a while Reese lifted his head off the bed, placing the waste basket aside. He still wasn't looking at Finch. "You probably shouldn't be talking that much."

"Are you telling me to shut up, Mr. Reese?"

The ghost of a smile was back on John's features at Harold's mock consternation, which Finch took as a sign that, at least, some of his words had gotten through. With his expression turning serious again, Reese turned his head towards Harold, stopping the movement to not quite look at him with hooded eyes.

"Do we have any idea how many people Connor killed?"

Mirroring John's somber expression Harold shook his head. "So far the police are treating the scene as a double homicide attempt gone wrong, with an unidentified victim that got away." Detective Carter had informed him, that, though it was still early in the investigation, there was no doubt in Connor having been the perpetrator, since his prints were all over the place, and most importantly, all over the knives. But in regard to a motive the police were still a little at a loss. And Harold had to admit, he wasn't too clear about that himself.

"This was definitely not his first kill." John said with quiet certainty. "He knew what he was doing."

Harold didn't know what had happened to Reese while in the hands of Peter Connor, and he doubted that John would ever tell him, but the only word that came to his mind to describe the way John Reese looked, as he apparently remembered the night from before, was 'haunted'.

Thinking out loud Harold said, "Well, we only know about Billy's friends having disappeared, because he said so. And the police doesn't know about that. Nobody's been reported missing." He paused, once more going over the facts in his head. "And there were no bodies found, after all."

"He took souvenirs."

Reese spoke so softly that Harold wasn't sure he'd understood him correctly. "Souvenirs?" he asked.

"He took a button from each of his victim's clothing. He kept them in a small wooden box that I found in his apartment." John's eyes sought contact with Harold's, displaying an emptiness that Harold had come to recognize as a sign that John had locked away all his emotions. "There were dozens of them."

Harold's eyes widened at the implication. "Dozens? Good Lord." Breaking eye contact, he stared into the distance, letting the entire situation sink in. His mind immediately began to race, trying to explain why Connor's number hadn't come up earlier, how he had managed to fly underneath the machine's radar, but he came up empty. "How?" he whispered to himself, not expecting John to answer.

He was even more appalled by the notion that Connor would get away with it. Nobody else knew about the meaning behind his inconspicuous collection and evidently Connor had been very careful to not attract any unwanted attention. But in the end he must have done something wrong.

"He'd gotten away with it for so long until he thought himself infallible." At hearing Reese's voice Harold turned to look at him again, who apparently had been thinking along the same lines. "That's usually the first and last mistake."

Something in John's quiet tone made Finch realize that he wasn't just talking about Connor anymore, but themselves, as well. John's swollen and colorful face and body bore the evidence of how fast the assumption of being on top of a situation can backfire, and so far, they'd just been damn lucky. Harold didn't want to think about what would happen whenever their luck ran out.

He nodded at John, conveying that he had received the message. A small, lopsided smile played around John's lips, effectively breaking the somber mood. "I think it's time I get off the floor."

Having ignored the persistent protest his back had been sending his way for sitting in a rather unsupported position for a prolonged time Finch whole-heatedly agreed. They both tried to clumsily get back to their feet, Reese hissing in pain as the movement pulled at the stitches in his side and also due to a whole variety of sore body parts. Finch got to his feet first, having had more practice dealing with his injured back.

He helped John, who'd been struggling to get his feet back under him. John shot him a grateful look as Finch made sure that he was sitting back down on the bed gently. Judging by the tremor in his thighs John figured had he been left by his own devices he'd most likely would have ended up face down on the floor again.

Finch regarded the man in front of him. Exhaustion was written clearly all over his body, the little color that had returned to his face vanishing once again. "How about I go make you some soup and you lay back and rest a little while more?"

"What about the next number?" John asked in earnest and Harold almost laughed out loud.

"I really commend you on your dedication to your job, Mr. Reese, but I really don't think that, in your current condition, you'd be much of a help." Harold half expected for Reese to argue the point, but the fact that John didn't and readily conceded to Harold's reasoning only served to confirm Harold's suspicion that John was still far from feeling well. "Just get some rest. I'm sure Bear and I will be able to handle the numbers on our own for a day or two."

Despite his evident exhaustion, John's one good eye sparkled with amusement as he raised his brow. "You're gonna tuck me in, Finch?"

Sighing in exasperation Finch shot Reese a stern look, who smirked back at him undisguised. "I'm sure you can manage on your own."

Still smirking, Reese slowly and stiffly scooted back, managing – as predicted – to cover himself with the soft blankets.

Finch's eye fell on the waste basket John had discarded by the head of the bed. He indicated the object with his head. "Do you think you'll still be in need of that?"

Reese looked down, slightly grimacing at the sight. "No, I think I'll be fine."

Harold nodded and picked it up, intending to get rid of it entirely.

"Thanks, Harold." John said softly, already having sunk deep into the pillows.

"Don't mention it."

Heading for the door, Finch had the feeling that by the time the soup was going to be done he'd find Mr. Reese fast asleep again. He decided to shelve the conversation about Reese's habit of crudely rushing into unknown situations for a later time. Almost having reached the door, a silly thought struck him. "You know, Mr. Reese?"

A mumbled "What?" coming from the direction of the bed confirmed that the other man was still listening.

"I'm really glad this thing isn't made of wicker."

-The End-


Author's note: So, this is it. Thank you all for reading and in case you haven't done it already, now would be a great time to let me know what you thought about the story. What you liked as well as you didn't like (please be nice about it, though), so I can hopefully improve my writing.

For all those who have already left all those kind reviews and especially the Guests, that I cannot write "in person" I would like to say: THANK YOU SO MUCH!

Special thanks I'd like to direct at ShaolinQueen, who listened to me whine about this story for almost three months and got me to finally get my head out of my butt and start posting. You rule!