Merry Christmas! I know it's been a while, but life's been busy, health's been iffy, time's been flying, yada yada. Anyway, as a Christmas present to you, my lovely readers, I whipped up a new chapter. Okay, it's not exactly "whipped up", considering the fact that it's been a month since my last update. But it's surprising how much "writing" you can get done in your head while being subjected to physical therapy.

The time frame for this chapter is between the air dates of 3x11 Lethe and 3x12 Aletheia, so technically (with a little goodwill) around Christmas time.

I tweaked a few details just a teensy bit to better fit with my version of John's family (see chapter 2), but nothing major.

Warnings: Generally a dark chapter, just like the two corresponding episodes, with the occasional bad word thrown in.

Disclaimer: The usual – don't own anything that is recognisable from the show. Never will, don't want to. I'm perfectly content to take them out to play once in a while.

Chapter 27: Epigenetics

He had lost his sense of time. Of course he was aware that weeks must have passed since that night, yet he struggled to remember when November had turned into December. He vaguely recalled watching Hannah light Chanukah candles, but the various Jewish holidays were still something of a mystery to him, so he really hadn't given much thought to the fact that Christmas was approaching. Fast.

After hitchhiking across the country for the past two days, he was ready to admit that he hadn't thought this through. At the very least, he should have brought a change of clothes. Ideally, he should have brought Ben. (He knew he couldn't bring Hannah, not to this place, not with him, not as long as there was any chance of anyone recognising them and tipping off the wrong people.) But it was too late now. Standing just down the driveway from the house with the tasteful Christmas decorations where he and Hannah had grown up, he realised that coming here alone had been a mistake.

The house hadn't changed much; even the colours were still the same. It appeared to be in good repair. Whoever lived here seemed to love the old farm. Everything was neat and tidy, and even the doghouse and the horse stables were occupied. If he squinted a bit and imagined the modern but reasonable SUV to be a sturdy four-by-four, he could almost smell the mouth-watering aroma of their mother's cooking wafting through the open kitchen window, greeting them upon returning home after their school day.

"Can I help you?" A man's voice tore him from his reverie.

"Sorry?" Dang, he was seriously off his game. How could he not have seen or heard someone approaching him?

"You've been standing here for five minutes staring at our house. My wife was getting worried," the other man explained, voice firm but not hostile or suspicious.

"I ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ..." John stammered, then briefly closed his eyes and gave a small shake of his head. "Sorry. I was just passing through town and remembered that one of my school buddies used to live here. We kinda lost touch when we moved away and I thought I'd maybe ... I don't know." All things considered, that was as close to the truth as he could get, but apparently it was enough.

A slightly sympathetic look crossed the face of the other man, who was obviously the current house owner – a tall, athletic guy in his late twenties with thick blond hair and kind, intelligent brown eyes. "Aw, I'm sorry, man ..." He ran a hand down the back of his neck, struggling for words to break some bad news as gently as possible. "I realise this is an awful way to learn about it, but ... well, it was a terrible tragedy. The family that used to live here before my parents bought the house ... there's no-one left. Both parents died and the kids ended up in foster care. The boy joined the army, just like his old man, and the last thing anyone here heard about him was that he was killed in action. And the girl ... well, things went totally sideways at her last foster placement and she disappeared without a trace. I'm really sorry, man."

Hearing their stories from the mouth of a total stranger was more unsettling than John would have imagined. He nodded dumbly and it took him a few seconds to find his voice. "That is ... I just ... I never thought ..." With another long look at the house, he shook himself out of his stupor. "I should probably go."

"Are you sure? You look like you could use a cup of coffee ..." the stranger offered, a concerned expression on his open face.

"That's very kind, but I really should go."

"Well, if you're sure ... But if you want to know more, there's this pub a few miles down the road, Danny's. My dad and your buddy's father used to meet up for a beer and a round of pool on most weekends. My parents have been dead for a few years now, but I'm sure there are still some folks who knew the family ..." The younger man trailed off and John felt the need to get away from the house.

"Thanks, that's a good idea. I guess I'll do that."

"Do you want me to give you a lift? I was driving into town anyway, so ..."

It took all of John's willpower to decline. "Again, that's very kind, but I think I'd rather walk. I think I passed the pub on my way here anyway, so ... Well, thanks again. And ... good job on the house. It's just the way I remember it. I guess the family would be glad to see it in such good hands."

With that, John turned and started walking, leaving the stranger to stand in the driveway, thoughtfully staring after him.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

This was how he wound up at his dad's old watering hole, trying to drink himself into oblivion. Trying being the crucial word here. For one, he'd mostly given up the hard stuff when Harold recruited him, so he just wasn't used to drinking any more. Also, much to his chagrin, his recent severe illness had left him with a sensitive stomach. He'd just worked his way up to bland solids, with varying degrees of success, before he took off on his road trip, so it shouldn't have been a surprise that he found himself throwing up the first two shots of whiskey half an hour later.

Consequently he was disappointingly sober when he came out of the restroom, stubbornly intent to try again. Still, it took a few seconds for his brain to register the all too familiar shape of a certain NYPD homicide detective huddled behind a newspaper. Great. Now he had a babysitter.

Neither Hannah nor Ben were behind this, he was certain of that, so that left Harold. A slow burning started in his stomach that had nothing to do with his recent visit to the bathroom. Who does he think he is? 'The numbers never stop, Mr Reese.' Yeah, right. The "chance to be there in time" had turned into being too late the one time it really mattered, and he was through with it.

"Go home, Detective."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

"You saved lots of people, including me! You're saying that was pointless?" Two months ago, John would have been surprised by Fusco's confession, and maybe a little touched. But now, today, here, it scared him. The fact that anyone would regard him as a sort of hero, when he had failed again to protect and save the woman he loved, was a bitter taunt.

Even worse was the hope that spoke from Lionel's words. Hope, he found, was a cruel thing, always coming back to rip your heart apart while mocking you for having been so bloody stupid.

John had never considered himself to be particularly prone to hope. If anything, he had a strong protective streak. He was a soldier who put his life on the line so others would be safe. He used to be a government-appointed killer, paid to eliminate threats to national security. He was an agent, not of some "higher cause" but of a system that he believed to be working more or less well in the grand scheme of things, and he was there to pick up the pieces in the case of "less". So he planned and calculated, assessing risks and trying to predict possible outcomes – and then he acted based on those plans, calculations and assessments, but he didn't hope. Or so he thought.

Then along came Hannah, and Joss, and everything changed. Just like that, they had inspired hope in him, something he hadn't thought himself capable of. Epigenetics, he thought. Traits that lay dormant in one's DNA and needed a certain combination of environmental influences to be triggered or suppressed – but when triggered (or suppressed), had a profound impact on the entire organism. He had been permanently changed when Hannah and Joss became a part of his life, and there was no going back now.

The realisation sunk in more painfully and more deeply than he would have expected in his half-drunk state. He was no longer able or willing to ignore his feelings, or even to compartmentalise without closer examination. Nor was he alone any longer; he had a family who were directly affected by his choices and actions. There was much more at stake, and the consequences were much more severe now.

He didn't have the strength to work through the muddled mess of his emotions right now, so he reverted to anger. He was annoyed that Finch had sent Fusco after him, annoyed that Lionel had come, annoyed that Lionel was right with what he'd said. In a way he was also glad that the detective gave him an excuse to vent some of his anger. Ending up in a holding cell wasn't exactly a desired outcome, but so be it.

Unfortunately, Fusco was not done talking, and when the heck had this mediocre cop become so psychologically spot-on? So when Lionel shoved, John shoved back, harshly, snidely. With surprising serenity, Fusco proceeded to call bullshit on John's reasoning and remind him of the legacy Joss had left for them to live up to. It was the last thing John wanted to hear, but the thing that he needed most. Like Pavlov's dog, he responded. Bloody epigenetics.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

The anger was back at Harold's "Welcome home." After all that happened, the man just naturally assumed John would come back and simply pick up where he left off, when the seemingly miracle-working machine had failed him in the worst way possible?

At Harold's stricken expression, however, John's anger faded into resignation, and a touch of pity. "I came back to say goodbye, Finch."

"John ... you can't go." Although John had never heard the older man sound so lost, he shook his head, turning to leave.

"I can't stay here." Hehad nothing left to offer. He had nothing left to give.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

He tried going back to his apartment. It looked and smelled freshly cleaned. Hannah. He slowly entered, tentatively glancing around. Nothing seemed out of place; nothing had been touched since he'd last been here. When had he last been here?

The answer slapped him in the face when he stepped into the kitchen. A case file strategically spread out over the entire table and a grey pullover hanging over the back of one of the chairs. Joss had come over to discuss one of the numbers they were working on at the time, but she had spent all day outdoors staking out HR's latest movements and the chill had crept into her bones. He'd provided her with a mug of ginger tea and one of his warmer jumpers. That was two days before ...

Panic crept up on him – another feeling he hadn't known before – and he knew he had to get out of here. In a hurry he shoved some clothes, a few toiletries, some cash, and a gun into a holdall and practically fled the apartment. Without thinking he hailed a cab, gave the driver the address of the therapy centre and tried to get the threatening panic attack under control.

Fortunately it was late in the evening and traffic was light. Within the hour they turned onto the short road leading to the therapy centre. The complex had been decorated for Christmas in the short time he'd been away, John noticed distractedly when he saw the soft glow of the holiday lights strung around the silhouettes of the main building in the distance. A few minutes after that, he signalled to the cabbie to turn into the driveway to Hannah's and Ben's house. John was relieved to see light in the windows. He shoved the fare and a generous tip at the cabbie and practically tripped over his own feet in his hurry to get out of the car. The cabbie seemed to get the hint and immediately peeled out of the driveway and around the corner, and John stumbled over to the front door. Even before he could lift his hand to knock, the door opened, and ...

"Hannah!" Barely managing the two steps into the house, he enveloped his sister in a desperate embrace. He was shaking all over and drawing a breath was harder than it should have been, but it didn't matter. She held him, silently absorbing his anxiety and despair and letting him soak up her warmth and calmness.

"What is home?" his own sarcastic question to Lionel echoed in his mind, but apparently somehow he'd known the answer all along.

This was home.

A/N 2: Thanks for reading! And for a little exercise, to help you digest the turkey (or whatever you've had ...), try moving your fingers a bit and leave a review. Come on. You know you'll feel much better afterwards :-)