A/N: I haven't posted anything in a very long time - partly falling out of love with the show that I first started writing fanfic for, partly just life screwing with me. But while I haven't posted anything, I've never stopped writing and for the first time in a while I've actually managed to get through to those three little letters at the end of a story, even if it is rather short and extremely bleak. Be warned, there's no happy endings here, no closure or even pyrrhic victory.
Rated T for adult themes.
::inevitable::
He's wondered, time and again, how the machine knows which number to give them, how it chooses this life over that one, how it decides which one they might have a chance to save.
And he's wondered if it ever gets it wrong, if Finch's machine is as infallible as it seems.
Now he knows it's not.
"Don't let go."
Every step they've taken, every choice they've made just led them straight back to here, to this place and this moment and there was never anything they could do to stop it. He can see it coming, life slipping through his fingers as inevitable as the dawn.
"I'm sorry, Mr Reese."
"No. Don't let go," through gritted teeth, blood running freely down his arm turning his hand slick, loosening his grip but it's not his choice any more and they all know it.
And this moment will change everything.
He watches, long after the ripples far below have disappeared, after the man who stood at his side has turned and limped away, after the pain burning in the ragged slice that runs down his arm from shoulder to elbow has faded to numbness. He watches the river until it reflects the cold grey of false dawn and the lights on the bridge fade out one by one, as the cars pass by behind him, all unknowing, uncaring of what's been lost.
When he finally turns away, it tears at him, as if he's tethered to the river somehow and every step stretches that tether to the breaking point.
It never quite snaps.
He's felt that tether before, to a place, a moment on the far side of the world and he knows it will never break, that he'll never leave it behind. That this will always be with him, no matter how far he runs, no matter what he does.
There's a car waiting for him at the end of the bridge and for a moment, he thinks about just walking past, disappearing into the city again, into the anonymity of the underground.
Climbs into the warmth and darkness instead, sits back with a hiss as the movement wakes the pain in his arm again.
"Does you need a hospital?"
"Shaw can take care of it," he replies, and can't tell if he's lying or not.
They drive in silence through the waking city and he stares through the darkened window, seeing only ripples in the river and the blood dripping through his empty fingers. He's half aware of Finch at his side, drawing breath as if to speak but saying nothing, turning to stare out of his own window and Reese wonders what he's seeing.
"Not every number wants to be saved," he finally says, voice hoarse with the exhaustion that's eating away at him.
He feels Harold flinch.
"No, Mr Reese. But that doesn't make it any less important that we try."
It sounds hollow, as if the words are coming from miles away. He knows it's likely bloodloss but can't find the energy to care.
"What if we could have saved a different number?" he asks. "What if the machine chose the wrong one?"
"We have to believe that it didn't. That this was the best choice the machine could make."
He rolls his head across the seat back to look at the other man, leather cool against his skin.
"I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Harold."
Finch stares back at him for a long time and there's something in the gaze of this man who's become the most unlikely friend he could ever have imagined that reminds of her calm stare as she slashed his arm open, as she prised her fingers out of his.
"Neither do I, Mr Reese," Finch finally whispers.
"Neither do I."
::fin::