Six months later…
Finch stepped into the room, accompanied by Detective Carter. They found John unconscious in the back, his hands tightly cuffed to a pole. Harold could only watch in tears as she unlocked the handcuffs and felt for a pulse.
"He's still there."
"Will he be alright?"
"Depends how much blood he lost."
Reese stirred, wincing. He barely remembered where he was as he scanned the room and pushed himself up with his hands. He noticed the cuff marks and looked up to see what had to be a hallucination. Finch and Carter were next to him, looking more concerned than he had ever seen them before.
"Mr. Reese, it's good to see you."
"Well, I'm sure I'm a sight for sore eyes."
Harold seemed torn between relief and annoyance. It was typical John, cracking a joke while on the verge of death. Carter was too busy looking him over to pay any attention to his attempt at his usual sarcastic humor. She gasped when she pulled back his shirt to find his entire chest covered in bruises. There was a deep, bleeding wound in his side, and he winced again as she put pressure on it.
"He needs a hospital."
"No, I don't. It looks worse than it is."
Finch took one look at his friend's chest and nearly passed out.
"Goodness, John. What happened?"
"Aryan Brotherhood."
Reese grabbed the pole and dragged himself up with a Herculean effort. He groaned as he pulled on the knife wound in his side. His world turned upside down and he threw his arm around the pole for support until Finch pulled his other arm around his shoulder. Carter took his hand from the pole and supported him until the world stopped spinning.
"Thank you." The genuine gratitude in his voice surprised both of them.
"John, are you alright?" Harold cringed at the thought of moving with the kind of injuries John had, nevermind standing up.
"I'll be fine."
"Let's get you to the car." Carter pulled his arm over her shoulder and helped him take a few steps forward.
"Joss, I can walk on my own."
She raised an eyebrow skeptically, but she allowed him to pull his arm off her shoulder. He nodded to show he was ready to continue, and they began to walk to the stairway.
They continued down in silence, but John's breathing became sharper as they walked. When they reached the bottom floor, he stumbled and almost fell.
"Mr. Reese, are you alright?"
When he didn't respond, Finch came closer and saw that he was as pale as a ghost. John extended an arm in a request for help, and Harold pulled it over his shoulder again, supporting him until they reached the car. He remembered that night in the parking lot and he shuddered- he never understood how John had made it all the way down from the roof with multiple gunshot wounds.
Harold opened the door and helped John in and sat next to him, keeping pressure on the wound. Carter slid into the driver's seat.
"Which hospital should I take him to?"
"I don't need a hospital."
"I agree with Detective Carter, Mr. Reese. You need to be treated by a doctor."
"I've taken care of worse on my own."
"As long as you'll be careful."
Joss was skeptical, but she drove to John's place and helped him out of the car. Reese thanked her for her help and assured her he could handle it from there.
John made sure the door was closed and his earpiece was off before he started. He knew that Harold would try to make sure he was doing everything properly, but his friend would definitely not approve of what he was about to do. Reese pulled off his jacket and shirt and tossed them on a nearby table. He wet a towel and began to wipe off the blood from the knife wound first. He smiled, remembering when Finch had just been rescued from the CIA but had still gone out of his way to make sure the towel was warm when he cleaned the blood off of John's skin. Reese had no such concern for himself- he simply wiped it away as quickly as possible. The knife wound itself required stitches, which he was quite accustomed to doing by himself. He grabbed the first aid kit and pulled out a bottle of disinfectant along with the needle. He laid down and opened the bottle, taking a deep breath. Then he poured.
He was used to simply pouring the disinfectant on his injuries. Whenever Finch assisted him, he always insisted on using the more gentle method of a soaked cloth. It still hurt, but that time, it was just a touch from the cloth. This time, the alcohol flowed freely into the wound. Reese had just enough time to put the bottle back on the table before the stinging hit him full-force and he screamed. His vision blurred and he writhed on the couch, gasping.
Finch and Carter were still sitting in the car. They both had a bad feeling about leaving John alone, but neither of them said a word. A few uneventful minutes passed, and they decided to check, just to be sure. They knocked on the door, but no one answered. The detective pressed her ear to the door and heard what sounded like screaming. Then they both knew that something was wrong. The door was unlocked, and they found John writhing on the couch. He was gasping, covered in sweat. A bottle of disinfectant was open on the table, right next to a bloody towel. Finch grabbed his shoulder to steady him.
"Mr. Reese, are you alright?"
He didn't respond, but he managed to look up to see Finch and Carter standing above him. His mind couldn't process what they said as the burn of the alcohol pressed into him.
"I think he poured the disinfectant directly onto it."
"Finch, even he isn't crazy enough to do that."
"You would be surprised, Detective."
Eventually, his breathing slowed down and he managed to talk.
"Why are you here? I told you I was fine on my own."
"You agreed to be careful! Did you pour the disinfectant in there?"
"It was the fastest way to do it."
"It could have killed you. Is this what you usually do when you get an injury like this?"
"As I said, it's the fastest way."
Carter looked like she was about to deliver a scalding lecture, but she refrained in light of John's condition. She curtly bid them farewell and waited for Finch in the car.
"Mr. Reese, you could have seriously hurt yourself by doing that."
"Finch, the only possible risk is neurogenic shock, and that takes a lot more than some alcohol on a knife wound."
He clarified at Harold's look of confusion, "Neurogenic shock can be caused by too much pain for your nerves to handle."
"I suppose you've had it often enough to know."
"Only once or twice."
Finch paled. He had never seen it in John's medical records and he had thought it was a safe subject for a joke.
"I'm so sorry. There was no mention of it in your medical records."
For his part, Reese acted like Finch had never said anything.
"You know, I really should start doing the stitches."
"Which anesthetic do you need? And don't say you don't need one."
"Finch, I really don't need one."
"Well, I suppose you don't need me here either."
He walked out of the loft before Reese could respond and joined Carter in the car.
"I don't know what to do about John. It doesn't seem to be getting through to him."
"Did he actually pour it in there?"
"Yes, he did."
"And I suppose he's planning on doing his stitches without an anesthetic?"
"We were arguing about that when I left."
"Give him some time. He's just feeling a little vulnerable right now and these little things give him some control over the situation."
And with that, they drove away.
John stared at the door and mentally chastised himself. It wouldn't have been that bad to just take a few pills, but he was too stubborn, and thus would have to deal with a fuming Harold Finch for the next few days.
He finished the sutures in less than ten minutes. They had hurt, but it wasn't bad enough to need pain medication. He bandaged it and turned his attention to the bruises on his chest. Some of them had been there for nearly a week, and others were more recent. There was little he could do except ice them.
The chemical ice packs did their job wonderfully, and he could breathe without pain for the first time in days. He would have to apologize to Joss and Finch at some point. But at the moment, he needed an IV to replace the fluids he lost.
John had no difficulty in setting it up by himself, but he wished he had simply accepted Finch's help when it was offered. Finding a vein and inserting the needle had taken far longer than they would have with assistance. Once everything was secure, he allowed himself a short nap.
He woke up an hour later to the sound of his phone ringing. Recognizing Finch's number, he picked it up and tried to sound like he hadn't just woken up.
"Finch?"
"We have a situation, Mr. Reese. I'm with the number whose ex-boyfriend is after her, and we're stuck in an abandoned warehouse. He's right outside the door. I'm sending you the address."
"Just hold on, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
John removed the IV and pulled on clean clothes as quickly as he could. He grabbed a gun and was out the door in less than a minute. He drove to the address and pulled up a few blocks away. He ran the rest of the way and entered the warehouse without a sound. He found the ex-boyfriend pounding on a door, brandishing a gun. Reese snuck up behind him and grabbed the gun out of his hand, then ducked to avoid a punch. They fought for a few minutes, but John managed to knock him out.
He put the gun away and knocked at the door.
"Finch, it's me."
When no one answered, he kicked it down. Harold and the number had barricaded themselves into a corner with some chairs and were having some difficulty with getting out from behind them. Reese pulled the chairs out of the way and offered a hand to Finch, who gratefully accepted it.
"Thank you, Mr. Reese. I hope this didn't make your injuries worse."
"No, someone told me I should be careful."
John smirked, and Finch understood the implied apology.
"Were you hurt?"
"Nothing serious, just a scratch from a box."
It barely hurt, but he knew better to hide it from Reese. He pulled his sleeve up to show the scratch on the back on his arm. It was small and shallow, but John still insisted on taking a closer look. He led Finch to a chair and gently examined the cut, taking care to not cause any additional pain.
"Doesn't look serious, but I'll bandage it later."
"Mr. Reese, it's not even bleeding."
"It could still get infected."
Harold bit back a curt accusation of hypocrisy. He spoke to the number and informed her that the threat was gone. She thanked him and walked out. When John was sure she was out of earshot, he turned to Finch.
"Why didn't you tell me there was a number?"
"How would that have helped? You needed to take care of your injuries first."
"I finished that an hour ago."
"The mark from the hastily removed IV says otherwise."
Unwilling to compromise the relative peace they had just built, John chose not to respond and instead helped Finch out of the chair and into his car.
John drove back to the loft and brought Finch to the couch to bandage his arm. Reese pulled an alcohol swab out and gently wiped it across the scratch. Harold hissed in pain and remembered with horror that Reese had literally poured disinfectant into a knife wound just an hour before. The stinging was gone in a moment and John bandaged it without a word.
Finch stood up and noticed the blankets at the end of the couch.
"Were you trying to sleep when I called you?"
"I wasn't really planning on sleeping for long."
"I should let you get some rest."
"I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, please."
It was a rather obvious diversion, but for both of their sakes, Harold went along with it. He followed John to the kitchen as he put the kettle on and grabbed a tea bag from a cabinet. Finch had given the loft to Reese as a gift when he saw the place he used to live in. That place was a tiny apartment that looked more like a bunker than anything else.
He gladly accepted the steaming cup of tea from John, but he noticed that he hadn't made any coffee for himself.
"No coffee?"
"Caffeine messes with your blood pressure."
"At least you're observing some precautions."
"I don't try to make my injuries worse, Finch."
"Did you do anything for the bruises?"
"Just ice packs."
"Have you eaten anything?"
"No, I was thinking of getting some takeout."
"Mind if I join you?"
The nonchalant tone told John all he needed to know. This wouldn't be another lecture.
"Do you like the place around the corner?"
"Best in New York City."
They enjoyed the walk back. Finch had vehemently insisted on carrying the bags of food instead of John. Reese had insisted that he fill him in on what he missed the past week, as though he had simply been on vacation.
"Nothing happened, Mr. Reese. We were looking for you."
"That's all you did for a week straight?"
"What else would we do? We were worried sick."
John looked at him curiously as they entered the loft and placed the food on the table. Harold had suddenly become somewhat withdrawn.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, Mr. Reese. But I must admit that finding you tied up and unconscious in the back of a room was an experience I would never want to repeat."
"Finch." John placed a hand on his shoulder, "I'm right here. Nothing happened. Everything turned out alright."
"No, it didn't. You were bleeding to death."
"They didn't do that. It was from earlier, they just reopened the stitches."
"When you say it was from earlier- do you mean someone did that while you were working on a number?"
"I took care of it then."
Then Finch understood. He always listened to what was happening over the earpiece, especially when John had been recently injured, but harsh breathing from pain could always be mistaken for being out of breath from a run or a fight. And John wouldn't worry him with anything unless it was absolutely necessary.
"Tell me, John: How often does something like this happen without my knowledge?"
"Once a week."
"So if you take pain medication every time you're hurt, you'd be desensitized to it when you really need some."
It was a simple and accurate summary of what Reese would have said. He nodded and began to pull the food out of the bag.
"John, when was the last time you ate?"
"Yesterday."
"And before that?"
He shook his head. They had offered him food every day, but he had only accepted after six days. They taunted him for it, but he had promised Finch months ago he would take better care of his health. And of course John would never break a promise to him.
Finch wasn't sure if Reese had even been given the opportunity to eat before that, so he refrained from lecturing him about his poor dietary habits of late. Instead, he chose to grab a box of noodles and sit down next to John, who had already grabbed a box for himself.
"I should apologize to Joss."
It had come out of nowhere, but Harold was glad that he said it.
"You still don't see what you did wrong, do you?"
"I admit I should've just taken the pills and let you help when you were there, but I still don't see why she was upset."
"You said you would be careful when taking care of your injuries, and she felt that you weren't. However, we all have very different standards of what it means to be careful."
Reese looked at him in surprise. Was Finch agreeing with him?
"I thought you agreed with Carter?"
"I respect your right to do what you feel is best for yourself, although I might not agree with your methods."
He didn't continue, but John could tell that he still wanted to say something.
"What is it, Finch?"
"You've made it very clear with the way you treated the scratch on my arm that you know exactly how to treat injuries more gently than I can. It therefore concerns me that you don't allow yourself that same caution, or anything close to it."
"In the CIA, I would rarely treat my injuries if they weren't urgent or life-threatening. So when I did treat those dangerous injuries, time usually took precedence over anything else, and I guess it's just a habit now. It's different when I do it for someone else."
Reese opened the box of noodles and began to eat. Harold did the same and turned on the TV. They watched in silence, broken only by the occasional comment about something on the news. When they finished, John stood up and stumbled slightly. The pain from the bruises had returned with the sudden movement, and Finch's arm steadied him.
"Do you need some ice packs?"
"No."
"Then at least get some rest."
He nodded and walked to his room.
The next day, John woke up feeling better than he had in weeks. He looked at the clock- it was 10 AM. He had slept for nearly twelve hours. Damn. His phone was next to him, but he had no messages or missed calls from Finch.
He walked into the library to find Harold typing at his computer. His friend looked up at him in surprise.
"Mr. Reese, why are you here today?"
John stared at him, confused. Why wouldn't he be there that day?
"You were kidnapped for a week. You cannot think I would make you work the next day."
"Well I'm fine, and I'm here now. Who's the new number?"
"Please, John. Go home and rest, or at least take some time to relax."
"If I must."
His voice wavered, and he cursed the fact that his emotions were revealed so clearly in it. Before Harold could say anything else, he walked out of the library. He didn't see Finch's sad smile of understanding.
Joss Carter was sitting in a coffee shop when she saw John Reese in the seat in front of her. He looked much better than he had the day before. Still, she was surprised that Finch had let him out of bed.
"You should still be resting."
"So Harold tells me. But I needed to talk to you first."
She looked at him intently. She hadn't expected that.
"What is it?"
"I'm sorry."
"So you understand why I was upset?"
"I do understand, but-"
"But you still think you were right."
"I did what I felt was careful in my standards. But I have to admit that I knew you wouldn't agree with it."
"And let me guess: you felt a little out of control, and you wanted it back."
"Yes. That too."
He cringed; was he really that easy to read?
"Well, John- It's really good to have you back."
"It's good to be back."
He gave her a rare smile, got up, and walked away.
That night, Joss found herself sitting across from Finch on a park bench. He had invited her there, presumably to talk about John.
"How was he when you talked to him this morning?"
"How did you know…?"
"I wanted to make sure John got some rest, but I stopped listening when I realized he was with you."
"He just came to apologize. He seemed okay, he was walking fine."
"I'm not worried about that. I must admit, it concerned me when he showed up for work this morning. I had assumed it was a given that he had at least one day off."
"John's as okay as he's going to be. He's had worse-"
"Yes, that's the issue!" He hadn't meant to interrupt her that harshly, but he was sick and tired of hearing it, "He's had worse. That doesn't make it any better, it makes things worse."
"You're right." She considered her next words more carefully, "If he did need anything, like a day off to rest or maybe to talk for a bit, would he ask you?"
"I don't know. I doubt he would."
But as if on cue, his phone rang. It was John's number.
"Yes, Mr. Reese?"
There was a pause while John talked on the other end.
"Of course. Take the week off if you need to, but please don't rush yourself."
He hung up the phone and saw Detective Carter looking at him inquisitively.
"He has a 'mild' concussion and knowing him, he's going to be out for at least a few hours before he insists once again that he is fine."
"Still, it's progress."
They smiled and got up. Carter left to go home, and Finch stopped by John's place to give him some medications and soup that he had picked up on the way. He hadn't stayed for long, but he made sure that Reese didn't need proper medical attention before he left.
John was back on his feet in a few days, and they went back to saving numbers as though nothing had happened. But so much had changed.