A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, especially the Guest Reviewers. Thank you also for following and favouriting. I appreciate each and every one who lets me know they are reading this story.
This chapter is set between the end of 3x09 The Crossing and 3x10 The Devil's Share. Not much action, but you probably don't expect that of me anyway.
Spoilers: a tiny one for episode 3x09.
Warnings: grab a tissue? Also, I'm from a family of medical professionals and I did my research, but I'm just a translator, so please suspend your disbelief if you must.
Disclaimer: I only own my OCs and the pure conjecture of what happened in between the episodes. The rest belongs to the writers of this fantastic show and the respective copyright owners.
Dark Night Pt. 1
"How did you ... how come ... what were you doing there?"
Harold Finch's voice startled Hannah out of her thoughts, reminding her of his presence in the room. She had stepped out for a moment while Ben was with John, cleaning him up after the surgery and changing him into fresh clothing.
Turning around to her brother's boss, she took in his pale face and shaking hands. The man looked haggard, devastated. She suspected they all shared the same look.
"Come join me in the break room," she replied quietly.
Once there, she closed the door behind them and pointed to a chair. "Please sit. I'm going to make us some tea, and then I'd like to give you a quick once-over, if that's all right with you."
"Dr Silv- Hannah," Harold tried to protest but stumbled over her name when he remembered that he didn't even know whether or not she changed it after the wedding.
"Please, Harold." Hannah put a steaming mug of tea next to him on the table and her med kit on the floor next to his chair. Then she rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment, squeezing it carefully, before crouching down in front of him and wrapping her fingers around his wrist to take his pulse and assess his temperature. "You've just been through a traumatic situation. I want to make sure you're at least physically all right."
A little startled at the gentle gesture, Harold just nodded and let her help him out of his jacket so she could roll up his sleeve to take his blood pressure.
"Ben and I were at my apartment, packing up some boxes with stuff I want to have at the farm rather than here in the city, when we both got a very odd text message on both of our phones," she explained while proceeding with her examination.
Harold stiffened. "What kind of text message?"
"It just said '10-13' and the street address of where ..." Hannah stumbled for a moment. Where it happened? Where my brother and the woman he loved were gunned down? Where one of my best friends died? Shoving down her emotions back into a dark corner, to be dealt with later on, she just sighed and continued: "Anyway, I thought that was a little odd. This 10-13 thing is something John and I used before, but Ben didn't. Also, John usually signs his texts with 'John', or 'J' if he's in a hurry, but this one wasn't signed."
"When did you get the messages?" Harold asked in a strained voice, possibly looking even paler than before.
"About fifteen minutes before we arrived. It's a bit of a drive from my apartment."
Harold's mind was reeling. So the Machine had actually fired off a sort of warning before the attack, or at least taken measures for damage control. Then why on earth hadn't it warned him in time?
"What is it, Harold?" Hannah's concerned voice snapped him back to the present.
"Nothing. I just ... it's ..." It seemed impossible for the words to bypass the constriction in his chest or the heavy lump in his throat. Closing his eyes, he took off his glasses with one hand and covered his eyes with the other.
"Yeah," Hannah whispered. "I know." And maybe she did, because the gentle hand on his wrist was back, amended by a warm pressure on his knee.
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
A second cup of tea and half an hour later Harold was standing outside the recovery room of the small surgical area of the clinic, dejectedly looking at his injured employee ... associate ... friend.
"You can go in if you like." Ben's smooth baritone voice was perfect for a doctor, Harold thought. Calm, reassuring, competent. Right now, he also sounded tired.
"I don't want to disturb him," the older man replied.
"Oh, don't worry. We're just waiting for him to come out of the anaesthesia enough to take him to the safe house," the doctor explained.
"How is he?"
"Physically, he'll probably make a full recovery, given time." The sorrow and the unspoken worry in Ben's voice were hard to miss.
"I'm glad he has Hannah and you to help him through this," Harold said softly, half turning to leave, but the doctor's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Wait a minute. What are you saying here? You're his friend, too. He'll need you as well."
The older man glanced back through the small window in the door. "I'm not sure he'll even want to see me," he admitted quietly.
Ben sighed and, hand still on Harold's shoulder, led him to a row of chairs at the end of the hallway. Gently pushing the older man down on one of them, he sat down next to him and thought for a moment, choosing his words with great care. "Harold, I don't know why, but I can see you are feeling guilty. I assume you think that the work you and John do somehow contributed to what happened tonight. Whether or not that is true is not for me to decide. But I know my best friend, and John isn't one to blame people for things over which they had no control. He's one of the fairest people I know. If he really doesn't want to see you, he'll tell you so, but he'll also give you the chance to speak your piece, and he'll give it due thought. I think you know that, too, don't you?"
Harold stared at the opposite wall, considering Ben's words. The doctor was right, he was feeling guilty, but there was also something else bothering him, something he didn't even fully understand himself. True, there was the definite possibility of getting thrown out by John, or getting the silent treatment; and while he didn't like the prospect of either, he could take it. What he couldn't take, what was turning his very heart inside out, was the level of brokenness he had witnessed three hours ago on that pavement.
"Dr Al-Khalil, as much as it shames me to admit this, but I'm afraid I am utterly ill-prepared to provide any emotional comfort in this situation," he finally admitted.
Leaning forward, Ben slightly tilted his head to look the older man straight in the eyes. "You're his friend. Give him what you can, not what you can't. It'll be enough."
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
Sitting on a stool beside John's bed, holding his hand in hers, Hannah had settled in for the wait. He had shown signs of waking over the past hour, even opening his eyes a few times, but so far there had been no lucid response. She could see that he was in pain, though, and she felt bad for not being able to do anything about it for now. They had already given him as much medication as they dared under the circumstances, well aware that it wasn't nearly enough given the nature and severity of his injuries.
So for the moment, Hannah had resigned herself to providing the only pain relief she could by keeping him as relaxed and comfortable as possible, running a soothing hand down his arm or through his hair whenever he tensed against a new wave of pain.
"Any change?" Ben stepped up beside her, gently resting his hand on John's forehead for a moment. He frowned at the perspiration there. John being in so much pain that he broke a cold sweat was definitely not good.
"Not fully responsive yet," Hannah replied with a small sigh. "The pain is getting worse, though. And he's not breathing as well as I'd like him to."
"Well, about the only thing we can safely do at this point is apply local anaesthesia to the individual injuries," Ben suggested after a close look at John's chart and monitor readings.
The other doctor nodded in agreement. "Yeah, let's do that." She made to move but was interrupted by a sudden strong pressure on her hand.
"Ben, he's waking up!" Hannah called out to her husband who had turned his back to gather the necessary supplies. She stood, squeezing John's hand in return and smoothing the back of her other hand down his sweaty cheek.
"John, it's Hannah. Can you open your eyes for me?"
He did, slowly looking around the room and finally letting his gaze settle on his sister.
She could pinpoint the exact moment when he remembered everything and realised the full extent of what had happened. Eyes wide and vulnerable begged her to tell him it wasn't true. It hurt so much that her own eyes filled with tears.
A harsh breath turned into heartbroken sobbing as John lifted his free hand to cover his face. Without a sound, Hannah sat down on the edge of his bed, back towards the headrest, and gently enveloped him in a protective embrace. He buried his face in her shoulder, still holding onto her hand with a desperate grip.
Moments later, the cold, clinical light of the room was replaced by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. A tender kiss to her temple and a slight squeeze to her and John's entwined hands told Hannah all she needed to know before the door quietly clicked shut.
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
Hannah sat with John for a long time, just holding him and letting him cry out some of his pain and grief. Eventually his tears ran dry, more out of exhaustion than anything else. Ben came back, and together the doctors worked on numbing the sore tissue around the various gunshot wounds. Hopefully it would give him some relief and make the transport to the safe house more bearable.
In the end, that went more smoothly than expected, mostly owing to the fact that John fell asleep a few minutes into the car ride.
He woke again briefly when they manoeuvred him out of the car into the safe house and settled him in the hospital bed there, but he was apathetic albeit responsive. The two doctors attached IVs and monitors and placed a nasal oxygen cannula, gave him a much-needed dose of painkillers, and were relieved when he went back to sleep almost immediately.
Harold kept himself in the background, wanting to help but unsure what to do. He watched as Hannah bent over John, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, not unlike the way John had kissed Joss only moments after her death. The fresh memory sent a stabbing pain through the older man's heart and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of emotion.
A stifled sob alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone with the agonising experiences of the past few hours. He opened his eyes again, only to see Hannah hurry from the room with a tear-streaked face.
Ben followed her with his eyes, then looked at John for a long moment before his gaze settled on Harold. "Could you sit with him for a minute, please? I'll be next door; just give me a shout if anything changes."
"Of course. Take your time," Harold replied with a nod, relieved that there was something to do for him at last. Sitting down in a chair by John's bed, he took a moment to really look at the injured man. He had seen him in a hospital bed before, hanging onto life by his fingernails, but this was different. Even in his sleep, John looked ... anguished.
In an instinct to comfort his friend, Harold reached out towards the younger man, then hesitated. What was he supposed to do? Holding John's hand seemed like something that was strictly reserved for Hannah, maybe Ben; not that Harold would have been comfortable doing so. A hand on the forehead was, he felt, entirely too paternal a gesture. In the end he settled for putting his hand on John's upper arm just above his elbow – about the only place that was free of IV lines and injuries.
John's skin felt clammy, no doubt a result of blood loss and shock. Unconsciously Harold started to smooth his thumb over a small patch of skin. The sleeping man drew a sudden deep breath, the only indication that he was, on some level, aware of the touch.
"I am so sorry, John," Harold whispered. "I am so very sorry we couldn't save her."
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
Ben found Hannah in the bathroom, curled up on the floor by the shower, water running in order to mask the sound of her sobbing. He carefully closed the door behind him and sat down next to his wife, pulling her into his lap and holding her tight. She immediately wrapped her arms around him – anchoring herself, most likely.
As she spoke between her harsh sobs, he strained to decipher her words, but when he did, it only took a moment for him to understand.
This can't be happening.
He felt exactly the same.
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
"What happened after we left?"
Hannah's quiet question was muffled against Ben's shoulder. They had yet to move from their position on the bathroom floor, partly because they were both struggling with a minor adrenaline dump and partly because they were loath to let go of each other.
"I don't know how, but Fusco turned up. Broke down when he saw Joss. Then he asked me what happened, and I told him what we'd seen. A minute later the whole place was crawling with police and crime scene specialists. They took my statement, which I kept as vague as possible, and sent me on my way. Don't know what they'll do when they realise there was blood from two people at the scene. Fusco'll probably think of something, with a little help from Harold."
Ben's voice sounded detached, though Hannah knew very well that he was anything but. At the moment they were both still in doctor mode, and probably would be for a while. At least for now they would have to restrict their grieving to the quiet minutes in between.
With a slight nod, Hannah sat up a little. Studying her husband's face closely, she asked: "How are you holding up, then?"
Ben shook his head. "To be honest, I don't know. I guess I'm still in shock. And I'm really worried about John. I doubt he'll ever fully recover from this."
Hannah knew he wasn't talking about John's physical injuries. "I think we need to take him to the therapy centre, put him on suicide watch."
Her husband was a little surprised at the blunt statement but he agreed. "I'll have everything arranged so that by the time we can transport him, we can take him straight to Jersey."
Silence fell again for a few minutes before Hannah spoke up again very softly. "I'd like to go to the funeral."
Ben nodded, gently brushing a stray wavy strand of hair behind her ear. "Would you like me to come with you?"
"I would, but someone needs to stay with John," she argued.
"We'll think of something."
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
With every time John woke up over the next two days, he became more and more withdrawn. His physical condition was as good, or as poor, as was to be expected under the circumstances. He gave monosyllabic replies to the questions people asked him, but other than that didn't speak or seem interested in life in general. He didn't ask for things, not even for water, but he didn't resist or fight the care of the people around him, either.
Hannah fell almost as silent as her brother. The siblings were used to communicating without words, so that in itself was not the problem. The problem was what was being communicated by John. Whenever Hannah checked his vitals or changed an IV bag or a bandage and he happened to be awake and look at her, there was always the same wordless conversation going on between them.
Please don't give up.
I don't care if I live or die.
But I do.
I'm sorry.
*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*
In the end, they asked Dr Farouk Madhani to look after John while all of them attended Joss' funeral. Harold had agreed quickly and was delighted to hear that the kind-hearted surgeon was back on his professional feet, even doing the occasional shift at Hannah's free clinic. Ben met with the other doctor, giving him a quick briefing on the situation and taking extra care to point out John's emotional state.
When Hannah told her brother about the arrangement, he just nodded. "So the funeral's tomorrow?" he asked quietly, about the first full sentence he had spoken since the shooting.
Hannah sat down on the edge of his bed. "Yeah, tomorrow at eleven." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "Is there anything you would like us to do?"
"Like what?" The question came out much more harshly than John had intended, but his sister was undeterred.
"What kind of flowers did Joss like?" she asked gently, squeezing his hand to let him know she wasn't offended.
John thought for a moment. "I don't really know," he finally confessed in a soft voice. "But she always wore a perfume that had a jasmine note, so she probably liked that."
Hannah smiled a little. "I'll think of something."
Silence fell over the room once more, save for the thankfully regular beeping of the heart monitor. Strangely enough, the silence seemed to be a little less heavy than before. John had turned his head to look out of the window, but he also had taken hold of his sister's hand properly, obviously not intending to let go anytime soon.
"I kissed her." His whispered words took Hannah by surprise. "On our last day together, I kissed her for the first time. I told her about what she'd done for me, how much she'd changed me, and then I kissed her."
Hannah held her breath, not wanting him to stop talking.
"I loved her," he finished in a broken voice. "But I never told her. And now she'll never know."
Blinking against her own tears, Hannah reached out to tenderly wipe away her brother's. He closed his eyes, causing more tears to fall. "I should have told her long ago," he whispered.
Never letting go of his hand, Hannah leant forward and placed a breath of a kiss against his temple. "She knew."