A/N: Thank you everyone who read, reviewed and/or alerted this story. I'm always happy to hear from you. This chapter is a continuation of the previous one, part of it overlapping in John's POV. Still unmitigated h/c. Spoilers for 1x10 and 11, "Number Crunch" and "Super". I own nothing but my OC and the ramblings of my imagination.
To guest reviewer CookieSprinkles: I can think of several ways of killing a cold "in POI style", as you put it, but not all of them (actually very few of them) include chicken soup. *giggle*
Now on with the story.
Cared for Pt. 1
"You're not bulletproof." He almost laughed as Hannah's words from a few months ago echoed in his mind while he slowly, painfully made his way down the stairs in the parking structure, step by agonising step. His short conversation with Harold had not turned out as intended, though exactly what his intention had been, he couldn't even say. Call Harold to say his last good-bye, and then expect him to stay away? Ridiculous.
Not half as ridiculous, though, as the attempt to crawl off and find a quiet corner to die in, figuratively and literally. Even if he managed to hide away and silently bleed out before the CIA could hunt him down, this was not what he wanted. Not anymore. He couldn't do that to Harold, and much more importantly, he couldn't do that to his little sister. He had to at least try and fight. So he kept on walking – well, stumbling, really – and hoping Harold would follow through with his crazy plan.
He must have zoned out more than he realised, because suddenly he felt the leaden weight of his own injured body get lighter, the badly tilting axis of his world being righted, as two strong arms took hold of him, a warm, solid presence affixing itself to his side.
Stifling a sob of relief and agony, and feeling weak and out of control, he tried to distance himself from his emotions by falling back on rational reasoning. "No, Hannah. Don't do that. You can't be seen with me. You can't risk your job over this. It's not worth it."
Her reaction almost made him smile. "Shut up and focus on walking!" Yep, definitely his sister. But her admonition was warranted. He barely managed to lift his feet anymore. "Come on, John. Stay with me. Just lean on me. I'm here."
He felt her tightening her hold on him and tried to remember the last time he had felt so loved and cared for ... but he came up empty. "Thank you for not giving up on me," he whispered, not caring if she could hear the tears in his voice.
She pulled him closer, taking even more of his weight. How she managed to, he didn't know. "I'll never give up on you." Well, there was the answer to his question.
They reached the ground floor, stumbled through the door, leaned against the rail for a short moment. While he had felt relatively safe in the stairwell, John felt exposed now that they were in the open again. "Hannah, you need to–" Was his voice really as desperate as it sounded in his own ears?
Then suddenly there was Harold's car. The next thing he knew, Finch was hurrying in his direction, and then John felt himself being held up from both sides. For a moment he fooled himself into thinking everything might be all right after all – until he heard a sharp "Hold it!" behind them.
Hardly able to stand anymore, John lifted his head just enough to have a look over his shoulder, right into the eyes of the fine detective that had grown so close to his heart since the beginning of their clandestine undertakings. She looked troubled, conflicted, regretful, and he felt a short twinge of compassion; but whatever strength he'd had left a few moments ago was bleeding out of him with every passing second. Now he just wanted to pass out, because he couldn't hold on anymore.
Apparently Detective Carter saw it, too, because a second later she holstered her weapon and hurried over to them. "Get him out of here," she threw at Harold and then helped Hannah settle John on the back seat.
He raised his eyes to the woman who had unwittingly sent him into this death trap not ten minutes ago. She stood there, holding the car door, apparently still fighting an internal battle. He recognised the moment she made her decision. "Go!" she shouted, slamming the door shut.
The sharp U-turn of the car pushed John against Hannah at an uncomfortable angle. The sudden movement propelled a fresh wave of white-hot pain through his body, and he couldn't hold back a distressed sound. Strong yet tender arms held him tighter, grounding him, and his sister's soft voice washed over him in a soothing cadence: "It's all right. We're getting you to safety. Just hold on for me, will you?"
"I'm sorry," he choked out, his blood-covered, shaking fingers trying to find purchase on her arm while she un-twisted them both into a less awkward position, settling him more comfortably against her. "You shouldn't have done that. It's not worth it."
A shudder rippled through him, and it took him a moment to realise that it hadn't originated in his own body. A gentle hand cupped his clammy cheek and he felt his weary head coming to rest in the crook of his sister's neck. As his eyes slipped shut, he heard her voice again. "Oh yes, John, it is," she said and he felt her dropping a kiss on the top of his head. "Because you are."
Her loving words defeated all his efforts to keep a hold on his emotions. The rough, hitching gasps of breath that broke forth intensified the pain in his body tenfold, but for a few long, precious moments, he felt safe and secure enough to let the storm within him unleash its fury. All too soon, however, Hannah repeated her quiet pleas for him to stay with her, so he tried.
In what seemed to him like one smooth movement, she slid out under him and lifted his legs, propping them up slightly against the door, while turning him sideways and easing him down on the seat. A moment later, a soft blanket was pushed under his head and shoulders.
Then the interior lights came on. The short discussion between Hannah and Harold on how to proceed was too quiet and too rushed for him to follow, but apparently some kind of agreement was reached, because Harold started making phone calls.
Hannah, for her part, fell into doctor mode. She rummaged through the trauma kit, cut and pulled away sticky clothing and began wiping away blood with gloved hands. Forcing his eyes open, John caught a glimpse of her face, a penlight between her teeth, directing the beam at the bloody, painful holes in his body that her fingers were probing with practised, efficient movements.
After wrapping his thigh in a tight pressure bandage, she packed the abdominal wound with sterile gauze, topping it off with a few thick, sterile pads. Just when John thought he was through with the worst of the pain, she dug her elbow into the bandaged stomach wound to apply the maximum pressure she was able to produce in this crammed space where she couldn't just bend over him and push down with her hands. So far, John had bit back most of the pained sounds that threatened to escape him ... but now he screamed.
It was a minute before the shockwave of pain rippled off and he could hear anything apart from the ringing in his ears again. Struggling to catch his breath as if he had just run a marathon, he tried to concentrate on what started to push through all the distressing sensations: the feel of Hannah's hand soothingly running up and down his arm, and the sound of her calm voice telling him to just breathe.
"ETA, Mr Finch?" Hannah asked of the man in the driver's seat.
"About five minutes, Dr. Silverstein," he replied, and John could feel the car accelerating some more.
"Just five minutes, John," Hannah repeated to him. "Can you hold on for five more minutes, buddy?" The pleading tone was back, rousing the big brother in him.
"Yeah ... I can do that." When did it become so hard to speak? And when did breathing become so difficult?
Hannah must have noticed, too, because suddenly the pressure on John's abdomen let up, and the next time he blinked she had moved up to his shoulders. "Hang on just a sec, buddy." With surprising strength she lifted his upper body and inserted herself behind him, settling him against her as comfortably as possible. "There. Is that better?"
The pain in his stomach flared up for a short moment, but breathing was infinitely easier now. "Yes. Thank you," he whispered. A second later the external pressure on his abdominal wound was back, but less painful than before. At least he thought so, because Hannah's arms were around him, her hands pulling instead of pushing, and he could feel her heartbeat, a reassuring, even, calming rhythm.
"I'm so glad you're here with me."
John didn't realise he had spoken the words out loud until he felt Hannah's warm breath brush against his temple. "No place I'd rather be right now."
He lifted a hand and placed it over Hannah's interlocked fingers that were working so hard to keep his blood from leaving his body. Squeezing her hands weakly, he turned his face to look at her and whispered: "I love you, Hannah, so much. Please don't ever forget that."
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
A few quiet minutes later they arrived at ... a morgue. It was a crazy, risky plan, but probably the only way to throw the CIA off their scent. After all, wasn't this where they had wanted to put John in the first place?
Transferring John from car to gurney was agonising for all parties involved. By the time they had situated and secured him, all of them wished he had passed out before they had to move him.
The way John was clinging to Hannah's hand by the end of the manoeuvre, she felt cruel having to pull away and leave him, even if it was only for a few minutes. They had, however, agreed to use different entrances, since Hannah could always claim medical business as a cover. So she reluctantly extracted her hand from his, bent down to him and, dropping a gentle kiss to his forehead, whispered: "See you in a few minutes." Then she tenderly ran her fingers through his sweat-drenched hair one more time and left before she could change her mind.
John looked utterly bereft at her exit, and Harold felt his heart break a little for this man he had employed for the past few months now, and who despite all precautions had become a friend in the process. How he could have missed the role Dr. Silverstein obviously played in John's life was yet to be determined; right now he was just glad she was there.
Resolutely keeping his eyes averted from the near despair in John's face, Harold concentrated on taking him to their next stop: Dr. Farouk Madhani, a brilliant Iraqi surgeon who couldn't afford a licence in the US because he sent most of his money home to his family.
The look on the M.E.'s face changed from surprise to suspicion to interest within the thirty seconds it took Harold to present his case and make his request. Then he caught his new patient's eyes, gaze wandering around the room as if in search for something – someone? – and finally landing on the stainless steel table next to him with downright resignation, as if he fully expected to end up there after all. Something within the surgeon seemed to shift, because he now started for the gurney with unmistakeable resolve in his movements.
He was just about to transfer his patient to the table when a sound at the door startled him. His face lit up at the friendly greeting in fluent Arabic from the young female doctor. A short explanation of the rather unique situation followed, also in his native tongue.
Harold shot an alarmed look at Hannah, but both doctors, as well as John, seemed totally unfazed.
"You two know each other?" he asked, slightly out of breath.
"No questions asked," Dr. Farouk Madhani deadpanned.
Hannah just shook her head, ending the interlude with a short "Later," and moved back to John's side.
She helped Dr. Madhani place the patient onto the table, and Harold watched in amazement as a finely timed medical choreography ensued. After a quick examination, assessment, and consultation, Dr. Madhani pulled together everything needed for the impromptu surgery and started to scrub up, while Hannah prepped John for the operation and scrubbed up, too.
Harold had been sent to the small private room adjacent to the M.E.'s office, away from the blood and gore, but also away from prying eyes of potential late-night passers-by.
Both doctors agreed that Hannah would medicate the patient, as well as monitor his vitals, and just jump in should any unforeseen problems arise during surgery. She started two IVs with fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers. Both she and Dr. Madhani were apprehensive about not putting the patient fully under, but general anaesthesia was out of the question – not only due to the unique situation, but also for lack of equipment. So she finally sat down on a roller stool by John's head and explained the plan.
"I'm sorry that we won't be able to keep you completely pain free," she finished with a painful lump in her throat. "And I hate to do it, but we'll need to restrain you for the duration. We just have to keep the risks at a minimum."
"I understand," John replied quietly and tried to convey with a look what he couldn't even begin to put in words. "It's all right. Go ahead."
Their eyes locked, and the deep trust reflected in John's gaze nearly moved Hannah to tears. "I'll be with you every step of the way," she promised, cupping his cheek in her gloved hand and tracing the high cheekbone soothingly with her thumb.
"Thank you," John said with a faint smile, leaning into the touch and taking a moment to draw comfort from her loving presence. Then he heaved a deep sigh, closed his eyes, and let go.
A/N 2: I'm as yet undecided whether to go on Christmas hiatus right here or after the next chapter. Just know that the next few chapters are already written out, so you won't have to wait for too long. Cheerio!