A/N: After Tuesday's episode, and everything else that happened this week, I felt like I just couldn't update "Twelve Silly Days". So, in dire need of a substantial boost from the comfort department, I've got this for you – written quite some time ago, but IMHO fairly appropriate for the current state of things.

This is set in 1x11 "Super" between the morgue and the apartment – and, of course, totally AU. Also, I don't own anything apart from my take on this (missing) scene.

Cared for Pt. 2

He woke up to the quiet beeping of a heart monitor and a warm weight on his hand and forearm. Surprisingly, he was alive and, at least for the moment, pain free.

It took him a minute to get his bearings. His ingrained fight response, finely honed by all those years in the military and then the CIA, was at war with the unfamiliar feeling of ... being safe and cared for. Even before he opened his eyes, he smelled his sister's flowery shampoo and faint hint of perfume, as well as his employer's unobtrusive but very distinguished cologne.

Then there was another strange sensation: warmth, but not like that of an artificially heated room. He remembered it most recently from his days on the street, when it used to wake him after a night on a park bench or outside the abandoned house, because the smell inside had just been too much to bear. This gentle caress of warmth came along with the cheerful teasing of light, and while he had loathed it during those horrible months, it now came as a welcome messenger of life and hope.

Slowly, not wanting to take any chances about the current wonderful absence of pain, John turned his face slightly away from the sunlight and tentatively opened his eyes. The sight unfolding before him warmed his heart just as much as the morning sun warmed his skin.

Hannah was in a chair by his bed, her head resting on her left arm next to his left hand, her fingers loosely curled around his, while her right forearm was draped around his own, the cotton of her shirt soft on his skin and her right hand tucked under his left one. Harold was currently standing at the foot of his bed, face drawn into a worried frown, and apparently undecided about something.

"Mr Reese," the man said quietly when he saw John's eyes flutter open. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

John thought about that for a moment while he tried to take stock of his body. "Not too bad," he replied in a whisper that barely came out because his throat was so dry. "Got me on the good stuff, huh?"

Harold stepped around the bed to a small table, poured a glass of water from the pitcher situated there, and put a bendy straw into the liquid.

"Small sips only," he advised as he held out the glass to his employee-turned-friend.

John reached for it, but when he tried to hold it, it almost slipped from his fingers because suddenly it seemed to weigh a ton.

"Allow me to assist," Harold said in his customary, slightly brittle tone, but there was genuine warmth and concern in his eyes. He held the glass and carefully bent the straw to John's lips.

"Thanks, Harold," John nodded his appreciation when the other man put the glass back on the table.

Then he let his eyes travel to his sleeping sister, and the warm, cared-for feeling returned in an instant. He gently closed his fingers around hers, taking in the worried frown on her face and the way her hand tightened on his arm, as if trying to keep him from leaving. A strand of wavy black hair had escaped from the tight braid, outlining the delicate curve of her face from temple to cheekbone to jawline like a frame around a precious picture. John manoeuvred his free arm across his abdomen, carefully avoiding the slightly numb area around the gunshot wound, and reached out to run his fingertips over the top of her head. In a low, slightly hoarse voice he asked: "Has she been here all night?"

"Never left for a second after getting you settled here," Harold replied, slightly surprised at the tender gesture.

"Where is here, anyway? 'Cause it sure doesn't look like the morgue to me," John suddenly inquired with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"Take a guess," a quiet voice suggested from the doorway.

"Hello Ben." A small smile tugged at John's lips. "So, the therapy centre. You must have knocked me out pretty good if you got me moved all the way out here without me noticing."

"Yeah, shock and blood loss will do that to you. Although the sedatives might have helped, too," the doctor replied drily while checking John's vitals.

"And you didn't get tailed?" John asked suspiciously.

"I might have sent the CIA on a bit of a wild goose chase." If it weren't Harold talking, John might have mistaken the man's expression for smugness ... and amusement!

"Yeah, wild goose chase to Canada," Hannah murmured, peeling her eyes open and smiling at her brother. She sat up without letting go of John, slightly squeezing his hand and gently running her other hand up and down his forearm. "How are you feeling?"

"Alive ... thanks to you."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

Harold Finch had always wondered if John's armour-piercing glare was something he had developed courtesy of the military and the CIA. At this moment, however, he learned that it was a family trait, because he found himself at the receiving end of said glare ... but not coming from his employee. "I'm afraid you missed the entire point of what I was saying, Mr Finch. You will take me along, or you're not leaving. This is not up for discussion."

Hannah was livid. Harold had turned up in the dead of night, trying to whisk John away to an unknown destination.

"He'll be safe and cared for. I should think that's all that matters, Dr Silverstein." The words were out of his mouth half a second before he realised his mistake.

"Don't you dare speak to me like this!" Apparently the quiet, lethal tone was genetic as well. "I'm not one of your paid minions."

"John is not a minion." It struck Harold as a fleeting thought that he must have a death wish to keep talking back at the beautiful doctor.

"I wasn't referring to John, though it says a lot about you that you would think I did." Hannah took half a step back, sizing him up with cool detachment. "I realise you don't know me, and I appreciate that you're trying to keep John safe. I trust that with all your money you'd provide appropriate medical care for him, and I respect your need for privacy. However, he is in no condition to travel. So if you insist he'll be safer elsewhere, you're taking me along."

"Do I get a say in this?" A tired voice made them both wheel around. John was sitting on the edge of his bed, his left arm curled protectively around his abdomen, his right arm braced against the mattress in order to stay upright.

Both Hannah and Harold seemed to deflate at the quiet question, though for entirely different reasons. While Hannah realised there was very little she could do to protect her brother if the CIA found him, Harold did a double take at how sick and ... frail ... John looked. His skin was still far too pale, his face lined with pain, and even the slight exertion of sitting up had put a sheen of cold sweat on his face.

Hannah stepped over to his bed. "Come lie back down, please," she urged him softly, putting her hands on his shoulders and ducking her head slightly to get on eye level with him.

"Just a minute, Hannie," he replied gently, bringing his right hand up to her forearm and squeezing it lightly. "Harold," he then continued, "I really appreciate your concern for my safety. But Hannah and Ben could be in just as much danger if we get separated now. If the CIA come after me, they'll also come after them for helping me, and because they'll want to find out what I might have told them. It might be better to let things blow over."

With a slight incline of his head, Harold considered John's words. "Very well then," he finally conceded. "I'm going to try and ascertain the current status of the investigation. Until then, it might indeed be a good idea for you to stay where you are ... at least for the time being." And with a last uncertain and borderline dismayed look he left the room.

"He means well, you know?" John said to Hannah after Harold had gone.

"He's also paranoid," Hannah snorted before running a soothing hand down her brother's trembling arm.

With a slight smirk, John looked up to Hannah. "You could accuse me of the same thing."

"Yeah, but you're better at gift-wrapping it," Hannah deadpanned. Turning serious, she took in John's fragile state. "You'd better lie down, buddy. You don't look so hot."

John nodded, allowing Hannah to help him get settled again. "Boy, I hope someone got the plate of the truck that ran me over," he wheezed.

Hannah froze mid-movement. Flashes of memories from two nights ago bombarded her brain, and she paled considerably.

"Hannie? What's the matter?" John asked, taking her hand and gently rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. "Come on, talk to me," he urged when she squeezed her eyes shut against some unwelcome image or other.

"I was there on that roof," she finally whispered. "I saw you get shot. I saw you go down. I saw you get shot and there was nothing I could do!" Bright tears tumbled from her eyes, and suddenly it all made sense to John: Why she suddenly showed up in the stairwell. Why she didn't ask how this had happened.

"Aw, Hannie, c'mere." Drawing her closer he wrapped an arm around her. "C'mon, sit," he prodded, tugging until she was seated next to him on his bed, tucked safely into his side. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said softly and dropped a gentle kiss on her temple.

"I can't lose you again," Hannah replied in a small voice, placing her hand over his heart and leaning close so she could hear it beating.

John sighed. "Hannie," he began, a slightly warning undertone creeping into his voice.

"No. Please listen to me before you say anything," his sister interrupted him. She sat up, turning around to face him, and took his hand into both of hers. "I know you have a dangerous job, and probably an even more dangerous past. But that's not what I'm talking about." She paused for a moment, and her voice was very soft when she continued. "I wish you would start valuing your own life a little more. Whatever it was that made you think you're expendable – it's a lie."

"Hannah, everyone is expendable at some level," John interjected uncomfortably.

"But every life is precious and unique, irreplaceable. Yours, too! You're neither cannon fodder nor a killing machine, whatever the army and goodness knows who else might have drilled into your head." Hannah lifted one hand to his face and gently ran her thumb over his stubbly cheek. "You are made for more."

Swallowing hard, John averted his gaze. "That may have been true once, a long time ago," he replied thickly after a long pause. "But you don't know the things I've done ... I'm pretty sure I've used up all my second chances."

Hannah dropped her hand from his face, only to put it on his shoulder, giving it a careful, encouraging squeeze. "No, you haven't. Look, I realise that a great deal of what you do is about trying to redeem yourself. I get that. The thing about redemption, though ... you can't do it on your own. You can't pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Nobody can. The only thing you can do is let go of your guilt and leave it where it belongs."

John looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and smiled a little. "And here I was thinking you were too young to remember all the lessons from church."

Hannah laughed softly. "Who said the lessons stopped there?" She leaned forward and gave her brother a gentle hug. "I'm not the only one who loves you, John," she whispered in his ear, ignoring the wetness that spread along her cheek where it touched his.

Somehow, somewhere deep in his heart, and despite himself, John was starting to believe it.