Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I do not profit off of this fic.
A/N: I wrote this fic before watching S2. Wasn't really sure how to include Root so that's why the ending is sort of open.
Harold has three soul-marks.
It doesn't feel like the privilege its touted to be.
The one on his left palm is like an ink stain, covering most of his fingers. He'd fitted his hand into Grace's and it had pulsed warmly, reminding him of the sun.
There's one on his back, somewhere near his left shoulder, where Nathan had patted him when they first met.
The spot is cold now, as cold as ice.
There is another at the front of his neck; he's often pondered about it - before.
Before the machine and the maelstrom that followed.
After, though, he disregards it. How could anyone ever find him now?
"You need a purpose" he tells John Reese, ex-CIA, currently homeless. Mr. Reese is hopefully, someone he can help, and who can aid him in return.
Reese looks conflicted whether to resort to violence, or turn and walk away.
Walk away he does, and Harold purses his lips and gets to work, setting plan B into motion.
The man jumps into the room, eyes wild, wary and calculating - the eyes of a predator.
He hopes he can get through to him via the mention of his ex-girlfriend but Mr. Reese springs at him, and places his forearm - the one with the soul-mark- on his throat.
And his soul-mark pulses, feeling rather like summer.
John has two soul-marks. Two, is two too many, according to him. He'd have been content with none.
There's the arcing blob on the right of his forehead. It constantly feels as cold as snow after Jessica's death; a permanent reminder of his failure.
There's another on his right posterior fore-arm.
After his first time pinning someone to a wall, he recognizes exactly what it indicates.
It feels like a confirmation.
A confirmation that he is a monster, part of the dark that Kara keeps drawing him into.
After Ordos when it still hasn't gone cold, he's surprised - maybe even thankful.
That doesn't deter the bottle though.
They would be far safer away from him.
The man who gets him out from the police seems decent enough, if rather eccentric. He also knows a lot about him. This mildly alarms John, until he realises that he doesn't care anymore.
One of the two men, comes by later and give him the keys to a hotel room.
He goes, curious, and finds shaving essentials, food, a set of clothes, a pair of scissors and some money.
It's been given for free, and he's not complaining.
Further looking produces even a bottle of liquor stashed away, perhaps where they thought he wouldn't find it.
The guy does seem rather set though.
The phone wakes him up with a start and he realises that he isn't in the original room.
The liquor must have been drugged. Damn it.
On hearing those terrible cries, he smashes the mirror and slashes through his ties, only to run out and find that it's a recording.
What sort of man is this?
The man begins speaking of Jessica, and John lashes at him, pinning him to the wall and goes still, even as the man begins to stammer.
His soul-mark is pulsing mad and warm, like it had all those years ago.
He lets go.
"My soul-mark" he says hoarsely.
"Yes" replies the now flustered Mr. Finch.
John takes a moment to think, this man, Finch, has risked a lot to convince him to work for him.
He also happens to be one of his soulmates.
The work sounds shady as hell- he still suspects the lady is some ex of sorts. If it isn't though…
"I think all you ever wanted to do was protect people." Finch says.
True.
"Well, Mr, Finch" he drawls quietly, "I think we can give this a try."
"Indeed." Mr. Finch says still blinking owlishly as John begins to ask what this is all about,
They settle into their something slowly. A few stutters and shakes and sharp corners here and there.
It's only when Harold is speeding in the car, talking desperately and John is dripping blood down a staircase, replying, that they realise how much they've grown to care.
They have the conversation of what sort of soulmates they are while John recuperates,
"Platonic" asserts Finch calmly.
"Yes." John intones, a smirk teasing the corner of his lips, "Of course, Harold, though I wouldn't exactly mind if-"
Harold shoots him a look and John's wide eyes sparkle with mirth.
They slide into a rhythm after that, never too settled, but the closest to stability either will get.
Maintaining a careful balance ensures that no-one suspects anything.
But who knows what the future will bring?
Thanks for reading! Reviews are much appreciated!