This chapter is partly because Ravenhusker pointed out - quite logically and correctly IMHO - that John would not change overnight. - Also - I still need to address what happened to the photo...

Thank-you from the bottom of my heart to all who reviewed and those who encouraged me to finish this. Couldn't have done it without you!

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"John? John. Time to wake up, John."

"Mm?" He was still cold. He was alive, obviously. There was a dull ache in his shoulder, and there was a very distinct feeling of grogginess that meant he had been given some pretty powerful drugs. He also felt crisp sheets against his skin. He figured if he was this well taken care of, he must be somewhere safe.

Why was he still cold?

"You're gonna feel cold for a while. Hot too - sometimes. It takes the body a while to get back to it's normal rhythms."

"Joss?"

There was a smoky chuckle, and suddenly John felt a little warmer.

"You didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, did you?" She asked.

"Nothing easy about it." He whispered. He fought to pry his eyes open. He wanted to see her. "You left."

He felt her hand in his once again. He finally managed to pry his eyes open when he felt his bed shift as she sat beside him.

She considered his accusation. "Did I, John?" she asked mysteriously. "Maybe you're just dreaming.

John chuckled low and then coughed. "Don't think so - no pain in dreams."

"Did you listen to Finch?" She asked him expectantly.

"Yes."

She smiled. "Did you take it to heart?"

He regarded her with sad eyes. "No."

She gazed at him seriously for a moment, then sighed. "John…"

But he broke away and stared at the wall.

She tilted her head to the other side. "Didn't you hear anything I said to you in the car?"

He kept staring at the wall without seeing it. The drugs must really have him loopy because there was a lump in his throat that he was having an inordinate amount of difficulty swallowing.

"Did you?" She demanded.

He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. He wouldn't cry. He hadn't even cried when he'd heard Jessica was dead. He hadn't cried until after - until the night he left New Rochelle for the last time and realized what he had done.

He hadn't shed another tear until the night Carter was taken from him - the very same night he had finally realized that he loved her. "I loved you." he whispered and she smiled. "I loved you for a long time. I just… I just didn't know it."

She caressed his hand and waited for him to continue.

"I figured it out too late." Then a little bit of anger rescued him from the tears. "You say I should open up… let people in…" he protested almost desperately. "But every time I do…" He gazed up at her, then closed his eyes and a tear rolled down the side of his face.

"So you shouldn't have loved me… is that it?" She challenged.

"Joss…" He protested, wanting to explain.

"You should never know love or happiness or joy? Just do your job. And do it well. Is that it, John? Is that all there is for you?"

He took a deep breath, the motion pulling at his stitches until he moaned out the air. The pain helped to clear his mind. "Yes." he answered simply.

"You're so afraid of losing something that you won't even try to have it."

"Not worth it."

"No?"

"No."

"John-"

"Joss, if I'd held you at a distance, like I should have, you wouldn't have been there. You'd still be alive. Taylor would still have a mom. The city would still have it's best detective. The world would still have you..." He just looked at her. "That's more important."

"And you'd be dead." She said. Then she was quiet, watching him.

He looked back, earnest, wanting her to understand. "I know what you want for me, you and Finch. I do. I just…"

"You're scared." She said simply, gently.

He looked at her, a little surprised.

"It's okay to be scared, John… You know it is. From your very first firefight, you knew it. You know there's a chance you'll get shot- maybe even die. You're scared. But you prepare for it. And sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you get hurt bad. But you get up and you go again. You always have."

"That's not the same thing." He told her.

"That's exactly the same thing." Came her retort.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Those wounds heal."

"Mr. Reese?"

Ignoring the undeniable truth he'd just pointed out, Joss glanced at the doorway as if she knew her time with John was limited. "What if you hadn't shut me out? What if you'd figured it out sooner? Think about what we could have had! Now, I know you regret that, and you always will- but there will be a next time, John. You have a chance to change. To get it right next time. And you might get hurt… but you might not. You might find love - happiness - I want that for you, John. Think about it."

"Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese? He seems to be in some distress, can you… yes. Thank-you."

John felt a warmth spreading through his body and everything became blurry. He could barely make out Joss, but he could still feel her. He held onto her hand until the drugs pulled him under once more.

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Finch sat and worried. Actually, 'worried' probably wasn't quite the right word. He had 'worried' before, not knowing if John would survive the night. This was something different.

John had survived. The doctor had assured Finch early that morning that with enough rest John would make a full recovery. But now Finch wondered how much rest would be enough. They were here on borrowed time, he knew. It wasn't safe in the hospital. They'd done a pretty amazing job of keeping their presence secret, but Finch knew it was only a matter of time before Samaritan found them. How long was it safe to keep John here? How dangerous would it be to move him?

Finch stood. He needed to stretch his aching muscles and thought that a little pacing might help to clear his head.

Shortly before Root and Fusco had returned to the city they had all been allowed to visit John. Finch had then traded his hard, uncomfortable chair in the hall for the soft, uncomfortable one in John's room. He'd been there ever since.

John was still asleep, although the doctor had told him before he'd left that he'd adjusted John's medication to allow him to wake up gradually.

On his second crossing of the small space between the wall and the bed, Finch bumped into a table. Vaguely annoyed, he grabbed to steady the items on top before they could fall and wake John. But an envelope escaped his grasp and slipped to the floor.

He recognized the envelope as the package of John's personal belongings the hospital had collected as they cut his clothes away in order to treat him.. Finch hadn't opened it. He had no intention of opening it - they were John's belongings. But when he bent to retrieve it a photograph slipped out onto the floor. He picked it up intending to replace it, but couldn't help seeing what it was a picture of… Who it was a picture of.

It was a picture of John and Jessica - in a simpler, happier time. He felt very much as if he was intruding, but he couldn't help gazing at the photo - a photo of a man he knew well - and yet - barely recognized.

"Different time -" Came a rasp from behind him. "-Different person."

Finch turned to see half-open eyes watching him look at the photo.

For a long moment, Finch simply looked back. He'd been told almost thirty-six hours ago that John would survive, but he realized that he hadn't been fully convinced until this moment. He found himself to be exceptionally relieved.

He also remembered everything that had been said in the car before John's heart had stopped and the helicopter had made it's near miraculous appearance. He glanced back down at the photo. "Different time - yes." He spoke softly and limped over to the bedside. "But different person?"

"Finch…" John was tired of arguing about this.

- Nevermind the fact that the only 'person' he'd ever argued about it with was himself.

"We are all different people than we were in the past, Mr. Reese." Finch told him. "We are always changing... How we change is often up to the choices of the individual. Of course you are a different person. So am I... We have looked into the abyss. One cannot do that without coming away changed."

John gazed back at him for a long moment. An entire conversation passed between them wordlessly, as it often did.

Then John spoke, seeming to change the topic. "How long will we be safe here?"

Finch didn't want to answer, and he knew he didn't really need to. John already knew the danger involved with staying in a random hospital for too long. He was asking if there was any imminent threat of which he was unaware - and Finch didn't want to respond because he simply didn't know.

So John ended the conversation by grabbing the bed rail, sliding his legs over the edge and pulling himself to a sitting position.

"Mr. Reese!" Finch protested.

After a pausing a moment to rest, John pulled himself to his feet and took two, rather wobbly, steps - just enough to reach the wall which he leaned against and proceeded to look back into Finch's worried gaze.

"Finch-" He began a bit breathlessly. "You want me to… 'open up...' to people...? To you?" He stared so intently - honestly expecting an answer.

So Finch nodded once… and waited.

"Well this is me - opening up to you." He whispered finally, then continued. "I feel… sick. I'm weak... cold."

And Finch understood how difficult it was for him to confess these vulnerabilities.

"I'm a bit shaky right now." John continued doggedly.

To the untrained eye, he seemed uninterested in Finch's reaction… but Finch knew how closely he was being watched.

"My chest is... on fire, and I'm not sure, at the moment, what I could accomplish if faced with a… a violent opponent." He took a moment to look around the room, although FInch suspected he was catching his breath. "But... it's not safe here… for either of us." And he staggered over to the table and opened the drawer, pulling out his sidearm, checking and loading the mag automatically.

At Finch's expression - firearms were not normally included in hospital supplies - John merely said, "Fusco." by way of explanation.

Finch's wide eyes narrowed and he nodded in understanding.

Still leaning heavily on the table John locked gazes with his employer and friend - probably the best friend he'd ever had. "Harold - I've done this… 'healing thing' more than once - and there's one thing I can tell you with certainty: I heal faster... when I can move."

Finch had nothing to say to that. And, if he were honest, he'd witnessed the truth of that statement more times than he cared to think about.

"And if Samaritan is coming… I'd prefer to face them standing… and armed…" He cocked his weapon for emphasis. "Wouldn't you rather I be armed?" He paused, almost as if daring Finch to argue.

He didn't say a word.

"So…?" John asked, reaching out one arm in a silent request for aid. "Should we get out of here?"

Finch looked at the outstretched arm for a brief moment - and was reminded of a desperate night in a parking garage. Then he tucked the photo into an inside pocket and moved - as he had then - to place himself under that arm. "I am ready if you are, Mr. Reese." He murmured as he felt a portion of John's weight settle on his shoulders.

"Then let's get back to saving the world, Harold. Shall we?"

And so both men moved - together.

Both knowing that everything… and nothing... had changed.

They were moving into the dawn of a new day - but the same fight. And they both believed that somehow - against all odds - while they themselves might not survive - their cause would.

And what else mattered?

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FIN
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A/N - Not completely satisfied with it... but it was time to 'land the plane.' If you have a moment, leave a note and let me know what you thought. Thanks! Papaya