The Weight of Darkness
by RocheIle17
Chapter 14: The pawn's sacrifice
Two publications in two weeks... Have I found a regular and sustained rate of publication? We'll see in the long run... Well it's time to see what happens to our two heroes now that they're awake. So I will try to answer the question left in the synopsis of my story. I hope you enjoy the rest of this fic and that you will take as much pleasure to read it as I took to write it!
Thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and/or write a comment.
Ever since John had confessed his sentiments to Harold, the Machine had stopped talking to him. The man thus found himself in a sort of darkness, silent and oppressive. But beyond the fog of his unconsciousness, he perceived, in a fleeting way first, and then with more and more acuity, a few snippets of reality. He first heard the regular beep of a monitor, then, a stream of fresh air would touch his face before making him shiver, and finally, a familiar odour: a mixture of moisture, dust, rubber, and metal tickled his nostrils.
Where am I?
At the hospital?
No.
He knew this place. He was in the abandoned subway station. He was back in their lair. Reese immediately felt an immense relief. He was no longer in the hands of Samaritan. He was no longer Greer's toy. But despite the comfort of knowing that he was safe and secure, he couldn't help feeling ill.
His condition was very different from before his conversation with the AI. The impression of weightlessness, of well-being, of indifference even, had given way to pain, discomfort, and guilt: as if the reality of his state had regained possession of his body and mind.
A violent migraine blurred his brain and stomach cramps tormented him. His muscles were stiff, his limbs as heavy as lead, his mouth was dry, and a very unpleasant feeling of nausea remained. Reese knew these symptoms perfectly, having seen them in some of his victims. He was suffering from withdrawal. His body had burned up the drug that Greer had injected and now demanded a new dose. He didn't know how long he had been in withdrawal, but judging by the level of his suffering, he thought he was in the midst of descent.
In addition to the physical pain, John experienced much more violent psychological suffering. He had the impression that he was reliving the scenes of torture that he had inflicted on Harold. His gestures and words were looping in his mind, giving him no respite. As a helpless spectator, he saw himself humiliating his partner, hitting him, enacting a mock drowning, and finally stabbing him to death... well, almost, according to the Machine. But it didn't matter; he had wanted to kill him. Even if the result wasn't there, the will had been present, and it was by far the most tormenting for Reese. His mind focused on that one certainty: he had wanted to kill Finch!
As for his words... His own voice resonated in his head like an echo. He heard himself insult and cover his boss with reproaches, all as unjust as the others, and order him to submit...
But in the midst of this darkness, his brain captured a few moments of lucidity, some furtive moments of grace, like small rays of light well held, as thin as silk threads but equally solid, to which he clung as if his life depended on it... which was probably the case. He relived the tender gestures, the caresses. He remembered his glances which testified to his love, but also to his inability to fight the drugs he had been injected with. He heard himself murmuring "Forgive me" and "I love you". These words, like a soothing balm, allowed him to better bear the burden of his guilt.
However, despite the darkness that surrounded him, despite the darkness of his thoughts that tortured him, the agent had decided to fight: to cling to the moments when his heart had managed to overcome the angel dust and go against Samaritan's orders, proving by that fact that his will and feelings were weapons far more powerful than any drug and advanced technology. He would fight. For himself. For Finch. The Machine had made him realize that his life was intimately linked to his partner: that if he died, Harold would die too. So he had decided to live... Or rather, to survive...
Then suddenly the weak, trembling, begging voice of Finch near him drew him from his lethargy.
I won't be able to live without you...
These were words he had so often dreamed of hearing... And now, his mind disoriented by withdrawal was beginning to play tricks on him. He was dreaming once again. But this dream was sweet. It warmed his heart and relieved his suffering a little. But these little words, uttered in a whisper and punctuated with sobs, had the merit of appeasing his conscience.
He knew well that it was only a mirage. Finch was supposed to be in the hospital, to heal the wounds that had been inflicted on him. Finch also had to be traumatized by the abuse he had suffered and might not want to see him any more. He would understand perfectly if that were the case. If he were to distance himself to leave his partner in peace, he would do so without a shadow of hesitation. This experience had proved to him once again that he was dangerous; that death, a faithful companion, punctuated his life and took in its turn all the people dear to his heart. Yes, if he had to leave to live, he would. He was used to sacrifice, and this was worth the pain...
But to his great surprise, new words, much stronger, caused him to react.
I love you. Oh! If you knew how much I love you...
Suddenly, Reese felt the darkness surrounding him brighten: a trickle of light that enveloped him with its warmth. This inner world, which was hitherto made of darkness, remorse, pain, and cold, found itself illuminated with an extraordinarily comforting and soothing radiance. He wanted to talk, move, but something kept him held hostage.
Finch seemed so close to him that he could feel his presence next to him. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids remained ostensibly closed as if sealed. He tried to talk but no sound passed through his lips. He only managed to move his fingers.
Then, at the cost of a superhuman effort and extreme concentration, Reese finally managed to open his eyes. Despite the blurred vision and disorientation due to his prolonged coma, the agent instantly spotted Finch at his bedside. Some details struck him immediately: the blue eyes were fogged with tears but full of hope, the hollow features on his tired face, and the anguished crease of his mouth.
It wasn't a dream. Finch was right there, next to him. And the love he saw in the blue irises partly assuaged the guilt that weighed down his body and darkened his soul. He wanted to speak, to confess, in a much less dramatic context than under the threat of weapons, in a cell, under Samaritan's gaze, all the love he felt for Finch, but no sound came out of his dry mouth.
Finch seemed to read his thoughts and squeezed his hand as he urged him gently but firmly to keep quiet. "Don't try to talk. Rest."
Reese closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort he had just deployed. It was then that a gentle hand lay on his cheek.
"Welcome back to us," he heard whispered against his ear.
He opened his eyes again. It was already less difficult. It seemed to him that his arm weighed a ton but he still managed to lift it and laid his hand on that of his companion. He was surprised to find that he was trembling. Despite his condition, his pain, his trauma, Reese felt the urgent need to reassure Finch. He had suffered enough. I'm fine, don't worry about me, he wanted to say. But his mouth refused to articulate any word. The agent then grabbed Finch's hand and carried it to his lips to lay a kiss on it. He felt then something flowing on his face, lukewarm and moist.
A tear.
Upset, Reese felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. Finch was crying. Finch, the calm, thoughtful man, always under control and so modest, was crying.
"My God, I'm crying like an idiot," Finch said, trying awkwardly to wipe the tears that flowed continually down his cheeks, "but I'm so relieved to see you awake."
Relieved?! How could Finch be relieved to see him alive, who had done him so much harm? He, who had made him suffer so much? And suddenly the words of the Machine returned to his memory: Finch loved him. This realization, already glimpsed in the cell at the moment when their lives had seemed to hold on only by a thread, evoked by the Machine during his unconsciousness, struck him like a ton of bricks.
He was overwhelmed by two opposite feelings: the joy of seeing that his feelings were shared, but also the impression of not deserving this love. John raised his hand with difficulty and laid it on Finch's cheek, wiping the tears that continued to flow.
"I don't know what I will do without you," continued Harold as he took the agent's hand before placing a kiss on it in his turn. "You saved me."
That's wrong; I didn't save you, I hurt you, I mutilated you, I tried to kill you, thought John. The one who really saved you is the Machine, your creation, yourself... He opened his mouth to tell him the truth but a weak rattle escaped. Pathetic. He was pathetic in his cowardice and helplessness.
"Don't try to talk," repeated Finch as he straightened himself with difficulty and turned away from the bed.
Reese watched him painfully limp to a small table on the other side of the room, on which medications were stored. It was then that he realized that he was in the Faraday cage that Finch had built in the subway station for the battle simulations between Samaritan and the Machine. That's why he felt so well. He was at home.
Reassured that he and Finch were safe, he brought his attention to his friend. Despite his blurred vision and a still fogged brain, John noticed the other man's hesitant approach. His heart ached painfully as he realised how much Harold must be suffering from his wounds.
"Do you know how long you've been in a coma?" Harold asked as he poured water into a glass before returning to his bedside. "More than two days."
Two days!
That's why he had felt so awful. He was in the middle of withdrawal! However, Reese did feel a little better since his awakening. He felt that his condition was improving: that his stomach aches were less violent, that the vise around his head was loosening, and that his nausea was disappearing. But suddenly he realized something else.
Two days?!
How could Finch be standing in front of him after the wounds that had been inflicted upon him? To his greatest misfortune, he remembered perfectly what he had inflicted on Finch. He still felt the weight of the knife in his hand, the resistance of the skin at the time he had pressed the blade into his belly, the different movements he had applied to the weapon to do the most damage, while ensuring that they were also the most painful possible.
Finch must have been operated on. How had he been allowed to get out of the hospital so early? That certainly wasn't prudent. Lost in his thoughts and worried, Reese didn't hear Finch's approach.
"Here, drink some water," proposed the recluse as he handed him a glass of fresh water.
Finch's smile was almost unbearable for John. The love he saw shining in the blue eyes seemed to him like so many stab wounds in the heart! He didn't deserve that gaze. He didn't deserve that love.
The agent inhaled deeply and sat up with difficulty, making sure to not show his discomfort. He took the glass, taking care not to touch his partner's fingers, and drank all the water before lying down again on his pillow, under the Finch's benevolent expression. John closed his eyes to escape that glance.
Harold was concerned about Reese's attitude. He placed his hand gently on the younger man's forearm that rested on the blankets, and whispered, "Get some rest."
Reese didn't respond. Thinking that he was drowsy, exhausted by the effort he had just made after long hours of coma, Finch bent down and laid a kiss on Reese's damp forehead. Relieved to see that the antidote given by the Machine was working, the computer scientist murmured to John, "I love you so much." Then he turned on his heel and left the Faraday cage, eager to inform his female partners of John's awakening. He didn't notice the tears that silently rolled down the agent's cheeks, darkened by a two-day growth of beard.
Finch carefully closed the gate before joining his friends in the grand hall of the abandoned station. He imagined them to be nervous and feverish, awaiting his return anxiously to hear about John. But neither of the two women came to meet him as he stepped into the immense vestibule. Worried and slightly disappointed by what he interpreted as an astonishing indifference after all the hardships they had gone through, he swept the vast place with his gaze, searching for them.
He quickly spotted Shaw, who was busy arranging objects on a metal tray in the small dressing room next to the main hall. As for Root, she sat in front of her desk, totally absorbed by the information that was scrolling on the screens in front of her. For a moment, Harold could have sworn that the nightmare of the last few days had never happened. The place seemed calm, quiet, almost peaceful, while merely an hour ago, fear, anguish, and despair reigned.
Disturbed and slightly worried, he moved forward to observe the two young women who, to his surprise, didn't seem to have noticed his presence yet... or royally didn't care, being occupied with much more important concerns. He then decided to make them react by dropping the little bombshell he had mentally prepared. "John is awake."
"That's not exactly true, he's fallen asleep," corrected Shaw without looking up from her work.
Totally lost, Finch watched her tidying up surgical tools, sterile compresses, and small glass jars on the small tray in front of her with an almost obsessive care.
"Yes, we're aware," replied Root in a slightly more affable tone, swivelling on her seat to look at her friend.
With eyes agape, Finch stared at them without understanding. He'd expected a multitude of reactions: jumps of joy, warm hugs, tears of relief, but certainly not this relative indifference tinged with an uncharacteristic detachment, as if the two women had a mission much more important than putting John back on his feet.
But as a cloud of anger mounted in the computer scientist's mind, colouring his cheeks bright red and troubling his still-damp gaze with the violent emotions he had felt just after the awakening of his partner, the hacker's dazzling smile and warmth instantly dispersed his fury. His rational and Cartesian mind then took over. How could they know? What had made Root so happy? Admittedly, knowing that John was awake wasn't foreign to this relief, but there was something else, he was certain.
That's when he understood.
"The Machine..." he murmured as an obvious statement. Only the Machine could already know. She must have used the chip, still implanted in John's brain, to bypass the gates of the Faraday cage and have access to the inside of the chamber. She probably had put Root in the loop as soon as the agent woke up. That's why the hacker was so happy. Her dear friend had regained contact with her.
"She started talking to me again, Harold!" said the young woman jubilantly, as she quickly rose from her seat to hug the man eagerly.
"It's... wonderful," Finch replied, uncomfortable with this outpouring to which he was not accustomed, and a little unseated by the Machine's attitude. He was obviously very happy that the AI had renewed its habits and reconnected with its Analog Interface. He'd been so afraid that the consequences of his reckless acts would lead to a catastrophe that he couldn't contain a huge sigh of relief, a part of his guilt flying away like magic. On the other hand, he still felt responsible for what had happened to John, and he was sensing that he would take time to overcome his discomfort.
He was responsible for so many disasters. His ignorance, his obstinacy, his vanity, his blindness... his choices had led to the bombing of the ferry and the deaths of dozens of innocents, including Nathan. And now John was paying the price for his mistakes. But as usual, Root's good humour turned Finch away from his dark thoughts.
"Oh yes, I am so relieved that she started talking to me again! Everything's going back to normal," exclaimed the hacker before returning to sit in front of the monitors.
"What did she say?" asked Finch after a second's hesitation, driven by curiosity.
"She thinks that Shaw could take advantage of Reese's being asleep to remove the chip. She doesn't need it any more and she thinks the big tough guy will soon want to stretch his legs and get out of his cage," explained the young woman without looking up from her screens.
Finch stood behind the chair on which Root was sitting and glanced at the information on the monitors. "It's..." he began as he contemplated the photograph of an anonymous face displayed on the screen.
"A new Number," finished the young woman with a smile in the corner of her mouth.
"The Machine's decided to continue the missions," Finch concluded, immensely reassured by his creation's behaviour. So the Machine hadn't lied to him. Even at full power, even free from restraint, she had decided to stay with them and continue the missions for which she had been created. What wonderful news! What an incredible asset in their fight against Samaritan!
Because Finch hadn't forgotten that they still hadn't defeated the rival AI. Even though Greer was no longer, he was convinced that the supercomputer had already set its sights on another administrator. For Samaritan, men were interchangeable, like pawns that could be manipulated and used in its own way in order to achieve its goal, with little import for the losses and consequences.
"She doesn't want you to," declared the hacker abruptly as she turned to him with a grave expression.
"To what?" asked the recluse, suddenly uncomfortable.
"To doubt her," clarified Root with a sad smile.
Ashamed, Finch lowered his eyes. For unlike the young woman who had always had absolute confidence in the Machine, Finch had never ceased to doubt, to constrain, even to fight against his creation.
"She loves you, more than you believe, more than you can imagine," continued the young woman, her eyes fogged with tears. "She will always watch over you and never do anything to disappoint you."
"Yes... I know that now," confessed Finch, his throat closed with emotion.
"Sorry to interrupt this emotional moment, but I'll need a helping hand to remove this pesky chip from Reese," Shaw cut in with her usual tact.
For brief seconds, the two computer scientists didn't respond, each lost in the eyes of the other, as if the exchange continued silently. Root averted her eyes first and turned to her companion. "You can always count on me," she said, addressing Shaw with a dazzling smile.
The ex-assassin raised her eyes upward before turning to take the tray on which she had carefully aligned all the tools needed to extract the chip from Reese's cerebral cortex. With her arms loaded with all her medical paraphernalia, she exited the train car, followed by Root who would act as a nursing aide. But before rushing into Faraday's cage, the hacker turned to Finch and called, "You can continue the search, Harry! Just like old times!"
In a silent stupor, Finch watched the gate close behind the two women without initiating any action. He blinked his eyes several times, needing time to understand the request, or rather the injunction from Root. Once the initial shock passed he settled in front of his screens, put his hands on his keyboard, and then straightened his head to read the folder of the new Number that was still displayed. A smile appeared on his tired face. Just like that, everything was back to normal...
Yes, once he was recovered, John could resume the missions under the benevolent and powerful eye of a fully liberated Machine.
Yes... Normal...
Finch repeated that word, as if to convince himself. Because in spite of everything, something still troubled him: a doubt, a fear, a fatal foreboding. He had tried to reason with himself, to say that everything would work out for the best, and that his fears were irrational; without doubt the result of the trauma he had suffered, he couldn't help but have doubts.
He then decided to ignore his pessimistic nature and concentrate on collecting information about their brand new Number, hoping, with a little bitterness, that it would be less complicated than the last.
At first, everything seemed to go smoothly. The antidote given by the Machine had provided full satisfaction. John's general condition improved from hour to hour. The fever, his stomach aches, his migraine and his nausea were nothing more than bad memories. His heart regained a normal rhythm, to the point that Shaw no longer felt it necessary to monitor him. She removed the electrodes from his chest and disconnected the monitor that she abandoned in a corner of the room.
The surgery that she performed on Reese also went well. Thanks to her experience as a surgeon, she managed to extract the chip without too much difficulty. The object, a tiny gem filled with electronics and still connected to Samaritan, was kept by Finch in order to continue the simulations with the Machine. Now that his creation was no longer bridled, he hoped that she would succeed in beating her nemesis. But the most important thing was that John had no complications. Apart from a small dressing behind the ear, nothing could suggest that the man had undergone such a delicate operation.
That same evening, the younger man found a semblance of appetite, or at least, he tried to eat to make a good appearance in front of his partners who didn't let him leave their sight. As he gradually regained his strength, he even managed to take a few steps in his brand new room, in the apartment that served them as a safe house on occasion. But the girls couldn't take advantage of the agent's progress for too long; they had to take care of their new Number. But they weren't worried because they knew that John was in good hands.
Over the following days, Finch followed his partner's progress with a particular interest. Although he was relieved to see John's health improve, his feeling of discomfort was growing. He felt that the other man was distant, restrained, on the defensive. Reese seemed to avoid his gaze and fled any contact, answering his questions with polite monosyllables but apparently preferring to be alone rather than in his company. The computer scientist was saddened by this cold attitude but didn't let anything show.
Had he been misled? The confessions that John had made to him in the cell before Greer had intervened: were they sincere or were they the result of the drug? Doubt began to creep into him like a poison, tarnishing the joy of seeing his partner in full health.
Still, John remembered everything. He was convinced of that. On the one hand, Shaw explained to him that although angel dust allowed the control of the agents by annihilating their will to make them more docile, it kept them fully aware of their actions. He was equally certain that Reese was worried about the microchip in his brain. Moreover, how could he explain his discomfort if it were not for the guilt that he had to feel when he remembered the abuse he had inflicted on him? So he had to remember.
But by imagining, as highly unlikely as it was, that this wasn't the case, that John had no memory of the things he had said or done in that cell, Finch now knew what he had left to do.
These dramatic events had radically changed his vision of life. He, who previously, would have suppressed his feelings for fear of harming their partnership, for fear of destroying their friendship, knew that he had to act. He had suddenly realised that life was too short, too fragile. It could change at any time, for better or worse. If John no longer had any recollection of his confession, or if he didn't wish to remember (which, in the end, was effectively the same thing) Finch needed to take his courage with both hands and have a heart-to-heart conversation with him. To reassure him, to tell him that he had nothing for which to reproach himself, to admit that he loved him with all his soul, and to have no regrets.
Taking courage from this decision, Finch entered Reese's room with his arms loaded with a generously filled meal tray. But as he stepped into the room, he was surprised to find the bed empty. An irrational fear overwhelmed him, as he'd been concerned that his friend would disappear again.
He anxiously swept the room with his gaze, and was relieved to find John standing in front of his bedroom window, barefoot, simply clothed in pajama pants and a thin white cotton T-shirt. Lost in the contemplation of the sunset that haloed the New York landscape with an astonishing red-orange colour, the younger man had absolutely not moved, as if he hadn't noticed Finch's presence; or perhaps, he pretending not to have noticed it. In view of his distant attitude since he'd awakened, this second option was highly probable.
Harold felt his heart tighten as he observed the tall silhouette of his partner carved out in the scarlet backlight. He was slouched, his shoulders collapsed, his head low. The man always seemed to bear the weight of the world. Seeing his friend so depressed had impelled Harold to his decision to speak to him as soon as possible, to erase the stigma of this painful experience, doubtless one of the most traumatic of his short but already very hectic life. Because even though John's wounds were superficial, Finch was much more worried about the psychological effects. Reese was so crushed that there was no doubt that he was being inwardly gnawed at by a concealed pain. If Harold wanted to have a conversation with him, he had to make sure that John was willing to listen to him.
He slowly approached the bed, the thick carpet on the floor masking the sound of his footsteps. John started violently when Finch laid the meal tray on one of the bedside tables. Finch froze. His partner wasn't ignoring him, but he had been so lost in his thoughts that he simply hadn't heard his approach. This was an immediate concern. In normal circumstances it would've been impossible for him to surprise his partner in this way. John would've heard him approaching, probably from the hallway, even before he entered the room... Something was truly disturbing him for him to lower his defenses so much.
"John, you have to take care of yourself. Sit down, I brought your dinner for you," murmured Harold in a soft voice as he slowly approached his partner. He struggled against the furious urge to hug John and hold him tightly against himself, as if to assure himself that he was alive and well. But he restrained himself, having perfectly perceived the latent tension in his companion and his increasingly stiff posture as he approached.
Seeing no reaction from John, Finch laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The agent quivered violently before pulling away as if this contact had burned him. The recluse was deeply wounded but didn't allow it to show.
Reese glanced at the tray before turning to the window. "I'm not hungry," he announced in a tired voice, as if answering his partner was an effort.
Finch had the clear impression that Reese preferred to be alone rather than in his company. He avoided his gaze, eschewed any contact and turned his back. Feeling like death in the soul, the computer scientist murmured, "All right, I shall leave the tray in case..."
"I would like to take a shower," John brutally interrupted him, and headed towards the adjoining bathroom.
"Yes, of course," the recluse replied eagerly, relieved that his agent was consenting to speak to him, even if the information was merely banal. "I will look for clean clothes."
The click of the bathroom lock was the only answer Finch received. John was already no longer in the room. Harold interpreted his attitude as an escape: one of the many symptoms of post-traumatic syndrome that the genius had spotted in his partner.
Indeed, worried by Reese's behaviour since his awakening, Finch had done some research on the subject by hacking the data of the institution that was the best informed in the matter: the Army. The concept of post-traumatic syndrome was born in the twentieth century when the victims of the war were increasingly numerous, especially after the First and Second World Wars. But the U.S., relatively spared by these two conflicts, had no real interest in this psychological reaction linked to a traumatic event, until after the Vietnam war. This interest had increased thereafter.
To Finch, John had all the signs of PTSD. First of all, there were the nightmares. Since the agent had come out of the coma, he had not spent a peaceful night. Finch had heard his agitation: moving, moaning, and even screaming in his sleep. The second symptom that he'd identified was depression. As well, the younger man seemed detached and indifferent to all things. And now the genius saw in John's retreat to the bathroom, a third element: avoidance.
Flight...
His back against the bathroom door, John closed his eyes to try to calm the erratic beats of his heart and stifle the sense of panic he had felt as soon as Finch had entered his room. He'd felt so horrible in his presence, seeing his laborious gait and the grimace of pain at each of his movements. All these little details reminded John furiously of what he had done to Finch and how dangerous he was. He had to flee, put as much distance between Finch and him as possible to protect him.
With mechanical gestures, he undressed and then entered the Italian shower. He opened the faucet without taking the trouble to adjust the temperature. Immediately, a cascade of icy water struck him. John seemed completely disconnected from reality and indifferent to the bitter cold that anesthetized his muscles, but also his mind. And that was the most important thing: to calm the torments of his spirit, to erase the nagging images of torture and abuse that kept haunting him since his awakening. Head bowed, his eyes riveted on his feet, he let the water fall on his skull, stream down his shoulders, down his chest, belly, and legs before getting lost in the sewer drain.
But soon his body protested against this shock treatment. His muscles contracted painfully before he began to tremble. His teeth chattered and his whole body experienced shivers so intense that his legs could not support him. He found handholds on the shower ledge to try to keep himself upright but he quickly realised that it was a lost cause. Slowly the man slipped to the floor. He choked back a cry when his knees collided with the hard tiles. The water continued to hit him without respite, the shower head spitting jets whose icy droplets pierced him like so many sharp needles. And like the icy torrent pouring over him, the tears sprang from his closed eyes without his being able to control them.
Curled up in the fetal position at the bottom of the shower, indifferent to the water that struck him, and to his dangerously low body temperature, the man was shaken by violent spasms with mingled tremors and sobs. He had more and more trouble breathing. He opened his mouth in search of oxygen, but his breathing was laborious, short, and erratic, as if he had just run a marathon.
Deep down, John knew what the dark evil was that had plagued him since his awakening. He knew it very well, even after seeing it multiple times with his army comrades or in the CIA when returning from particularly arduous missions. He was suffering from post-traumatic syndrome. But despite his past experiences, his training, and his resistance to pain, he couldn't contain the panic attack that threatened to engulf him.
And suddenly, like a dam yielding under too much pressure, the terrible emotions he had tried so hard to contain overwhelmed him with tenfold violence. His sight darkened but the tears wouldn't come; his heart felt squeezed to the point that his chest burned. He felt like the tiled walls of the shower were inexorably approaching him, as if they wanted to crush him. The nausea rebounded inexorably from his stomach and knotted his throat, filling his mouth with a sickening mixture of bile and leftover meals. He began to vomit, the icy water from the shower carrying into the sewers what his intestines were rejecting. Incapable of control, the man emptied himself as if he were trying to expel the darkness he had inside of him.
After expelling the contents of his stomach, John didn't feel any better. It was even worse. His now empty belly contracted painfully, without any hope of relief. He closed his eyes to try to find a semblance of calm but was completely lost. Images, each more nightmarish than the last assailed him: blood, lacerations, tight bonds... All these odious things that had been asked of him to do, whether by the army, the CIA, or a little while ago, Samaritan, broke in his mind at the speed of a galloping horse. He was good at it. He excelled in doing evil. And even when he had wanted to change, with the contact with Finch and his Machine, he had finally failed to get away from his deep nature. The genius had simply directed his violence towards a more honourable goal, more righteous values; but in the end he had remained the same: a dangerous and violent man, sowing desolation and death behind him. How many loved ones had died or suffered because of his faults? Jessica, Carter, and now Finch. The missions had just given him a varnish of redemption, a feeling of security to put his deadly skills to the service of a noble and righteous cause. But he now knew that this impression was a mirage; his salvation, impossible. As long as lived, he would be dangerous, a murderer, a monster.
Then a black veil sank before his eyes.
He was suffocating.
He was choking.
The darkness was swallowing him again.
But as he sank, he heard Finch's panicked voice exclaiming behind him.
"My God! John?!"
God...
It had been a long time since John had believed in God. How could he have believed after all that he had seen, after all that had been done to him, and especially what he had done to others. If God existed, he had forgotten it for a very long time. Despite his semi-consciousness, the younger man found it rather ironic that Finch, this man of science and progress, was referring to God. But he was too weak to embark on a debate on which, belief or science, was more legitimate. Moreover there was no debate: the two dogmas could not reach the same conclusion. A scientist might very well believe, and the opposite was obviously quite possible... Nevertheless, what John found admirable was that after all that the recluse had lived through and endured, he still had faith in mankind, trust in man, trust in him...
Lost between two worlds, that of consciousness and unconsciousness, John hardly noticed the shower being turned off. On the other hand, he perceived soothing warmth wrapping around him. First he felt the softness of a sponge towel against his cold blue skin, and then the vigorous rubbing to warm it up. Rapidly he understood that Finch had reached his arms around him to hold him tightly while whispering comforting words.
"Shh... It's all right, John." Kneeling behind John, oblivious to the moisture being absorbed into his expensive suit and to the painful position for his hip, Finch tucked his head into John's shoulder, his mouth against his ear, reassuring him constantly while gently rocking him. "Don't worry, I'm here."
Little by little the darkness began to dissipate, its ills to diminish. His sobs ceased and his tremors dimmed. The crisis had passed. "Leave me," the agent managed to articulate painfully between two clicks of his teeth.
"Never," replied the recluse with assuring firmness. "I will never leave you."
John preferred to remain silent and closed his eyes. His decision had been made. Nevertheless he savoured the warmth of his partner against him, his soothing breath against his cheek, his fingers slipping through his hair to tease the damp wicks off his face.
"I was so afraid to lose you, to never to see you again," continued Finch, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Gradually, John found his composure. He was no longer trembling and could breathe normally. Pulling the ends of the towel around himself, the agent reopened his eyes and stared at the shower tiles without saying anything.
Understanding that the crisis was over, Finch straightened up and helped John to stand. He rubbed the towel energetically and then guided him into the bedroom. "Rest," he ordered gently as he pulled back the sheets, inviting his partner to lie down.
Now docile, the younger man dropped the towel to the floor and stretched out on the bed. He lay on his side, turning his back on his friend who was silently gazing at him, with his heart clenched at the sight of this broken man.
Greer's words returned painfully to Finch's memory.
To betray or being betrayed are rigorously identical and lead to the same disaster...
So Harold had his answer: madness. Betrayal led to madness, as Shakespeare had so well described. He became aware that he should be more vigilant so that John would not end up as Othello had. Given the agent's past, this alternative was more than likely... Alas.
For long minutes, Finch contemplated John's naked back. He seemed to be sleeping. He was motionless, his breathing deep and steady. The recluse then took off his soaked suit jacket and waistcoat, loosened his tie, and stretched out on the bed. He gently pulled up the sheets and the blanket onto them before he snuggled lovingly against his partner. Then he gave a chaste kiss at the base of the salt and pepper hair before nestling his face in the hollow of John's neck. Finch stayed motionless for a moment, alert to the slightest movement of his agent. He was on the lookout for a new panic attack or a nightmare that would disturb his sleep.
But the computer scientist couldn't keep an eye on his friend forever. After long hours during which Finch had tried resolutely to stay awake, he finally sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, lulled by the regular breathing of the other man.
In the middle of the night, when Reese was quite sure that Finch had dozed off, he gently grasped the arms that still held him firmly and cautiously slipped from Finch's embrace without waking him. He turned and contemplated him with a mixture of tenderness and love. Lying on his side, Harold slept deeply, his features tires and drawn. Harold hadn't even bothered to remove his glasses which now lay crooked on his face, giving him an endearing, slightly childish appearance. John smiled and restrained himself from removing them, fearing to inadvertently awaken his boss. He then stroked Finch's closed eyes with an almost painful emotion, admiring his noble features and his fragile silhouette.
Then the harsh reality descended. Earlier he had not heard Finch enter the room. He had then succumbed to a panic attack. He had to accept the evidence that he was no longer the agent he once was.
I'm no longer of any use.
I'm weak.
I am a liability to the team.
I'm dangerous.
I have to protect him.
John swallowed his tears and dressed with the clothes that Finch had abandoned on the floor when he had discovered him in the midst of a crisis in the shower. Like an automaton, avoiding the thought of the consequences of his gesture on his partner, and preferring to believe that this was the best solution for everyone, he put on his underwear, jeans, a white T-shirt and a hoodie. After a last sad glance at the man who still slept deeply, he exited the room on tiptoe, blessing the carpet that muffled the sound of his footsteps.
Once out in the hall, he quickly walked to the exit. But as he was about to climb the flight of steps that led to the door, he relented. He returned to the living room and went to the chess game that was ensconced on the coffee table. For a few seconds he observed the match that had begun long since between Finch and Elias but had been abandoned since the latter's death. Although John knew the rules, he had never been very good at this game. Yet he appreciated the subtlety and diversity of the strategies, which were very similar to those of the army. Besides, there was a maneuver that Reese particularly liked: the pawn sacrifice.
It was a matter of sacrificing a piece to gain an advantage or avoid defeat, in a precise way. That was what he was about to do: leave to save Finch and allow the team to continue the missions. With the tip of one index finger, he moved the bishop, one of the more important pieces of the chessboard, to make it vulnerable and attract the opponent's queen. He smiled before he turned on his heel, certain that Finch would understand.