Despite his quiet nature, Finch couldn't help panicking. He was just staying there, staring at the screen. He couldn't believe that someone would hurt such an angel as Grace was, that she could be the perpetrator wasn't even an option. For the first time in his life, Harold didn't know what to do, didn't have a practical and quick solution, in a word, he felt powerless. His first impulse was to call John, and he did, but the phone rang and rang, no one answered, then he remembered his friend wasn't carrying any. His only option was Miss Shaw, but how could he tell her without saying too much? John knew about Grace, she didn't.
We have a new number?
Said a familiar voice from behind him. Harold was so lost in his thoughts that hadn't seen Shaw coming, not that she usually announced herself, though, which really annoyed him.
Could you please stop doing this?
He said, with an exhausted tone, like he had been repeating the same words over and over again. Shaw ignored the request and approached him, looking at the screen.
Who is she? Victim or perpetrator?
She asked, quite excited.
Of course victim!
Bawled Finch. She looked at him funny.
You know her!
He didn't answer but the look on his face said everything.
I need to find Mr. Reese.
He said, after a moment of silence.
Why? You think I can't handle this?
Finch didn't reply, so she continued.
Reese doesn't want to be found, remember?
Harold knew it, and also remembered the words of his friend and his menacing tone: "Keep yourself away from my sight, Harold, it's for your own good". John had never been so intimidating, not with him, only once he had heard that tone, and it had been when chasing that Jennings who tormented his wife, and even then he didn't really think John would have shot him, but now, losing Detective Carter had been way too painful for him, and Harold could tell from the look on his face that he was still aching. He missed her too, but his pain was nothing compared to John's, his friend seemed to have lost not only faith in the cause but also in him, if he ever had any. Their friendship had grown from the beginning, Harold knew he could rely on Reese, not because he paid him, but because they were more than friends, they were almost brothers, such a friendship Harold had had only with Nathan. Of course John still didn't know much of his past, but after all neither Nathan knew which dark secrets Harold Wren was hiding.
Who is she?
Shaw asked again. He wavered for a moment, while she was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He tried to come back to rationality and talked about the love of his life like he would have about any other Irrelevant number:
Grace Hendricks. 45. Illustrator. Attended Rhode Island School of Design …
He tried to keep control, but his voice was shaky, and Shaw noticed that, so interrupted him.
No, I mean, who is she for you?
Just an innocent woman who needs our help.
Shaw didn't say anything but it was clear she didn't believe him. They remained silent for a moment, then she asked for Grace's address in order to take a look at her apartment, as they usually began their missions, but Finch didn't answer; he still wasn't sure he could trust her, and, knowing about her soft spot for "action", neither was he sure he could entrust her with Grace's life; if only John had been there! At least he was reliable, his methods were less than legal neither really moral, yes, but he cared, Shaw just wanted "some action".
Meanwhile, his friend was still lost in his memories, without even hearing Fusco's questions about what was he thinking about. John was in another dimension, like a movie, he was rewatching in his mind all his moments with her. From their first meeting at the precinct, when that beautiful woman had gone beyond appearances and had offered him help, to that night when he saved her: that night he had done his best, when Finch had told him her number was up he had thought he didn't mind being arrested, as long as he could keep her safe, he would have accepted being locked up; from their very first friendly meeting in that diner, the one he was looking in right now, to all the times she had helped them. A sense of guilt hit him like a punch in the stomach when he remembered he hadn't been there when she needed him, namely, when her boyfriend got killed, when she was demoted … after Rikers he had felt their bond was becoming too strong, so yes, he had feared it could go too farther, during the interrogation he had felt some kind of connection between them, something he had felt only with Jessica … but he wasn't ready to move on, not emotionally, with Zoe was one thing, it wasn't hard, he didn't even open up with her, but Joss would have required commitment, serious commitment, she deserved better than just a "special friend", she deserved his everything, starting from the heart, not that she didn't have it, but it was him not to be ready to commit, to start over … losing Jessica had been way too painful for him, he had lost himself, he didn't want to feel the same pain again, and yet he was now there, dying inside because he had lost Joss too. He hadn't questioned himself about his feelings for her till Shaw had made him notice, that night when she, Joss and Zoe had been baits for him and Finch, that night when he had felt jealous of her for the first time, so jealous that at some point, when that Ian Murphy had kissed her, he had felt like punching him in the face, that night when he had walked Zoe home but had been thinking about Joss all the time, and when he had kissed the first one he had found himself wishing it had been the other one. He had tried to rebuild their bond, but she was so into her battle against HR, and probably still mad at him, that was always kind of rejecting him, not directly, she talked to him, yes, she was answering his calls, was helping the Team, but never opening up, never telling him how she really felt, no matter how many times he asked, she was always saying she was ok and didn't need anything. She had finally called, their special connection had apparently been restored … too late, though.
Fusco's phone rang, but having seen who was, he just handed the phone to John.
It's for you.
But Reese ignored him.
Goodbye, Lionel.
He said, then walked away. Fusco remained there looking at him for a while, then took the call.
Where is he?
Asked Finch.
Gone.
Replied Fusco, then heard the other sighing through the phone.
You need anything or just wanted him?
I was hoping I could talk to Mr. Reese, but actually, yes, I do need your help, Detective.
Thought so.
I need you to dig into Samuel Harrison's file for me.
Who is he?
Lionel knew that asking why was useless.
Mr. Harrison is a general practitioner who's had some problems with the NYPD last year. He may be involved in a case we're working on right now.
I'll see what I can find.
Meanwhile John was going back to his senseless new routine. He kept walking, without knowing where to go, till he bumped into someone who was running from a couple of crooks. The guy had probably stepped on the wrong people, he thought. Reese looked him in the eyes for a moment, too little to understand something, enough to see something familiar. The boy had soon restarted his run away, being followed a couple of minutes later by two other guys probably of the same age or a bit older; he was tall, dark hair, blue eyes … in a few words, a young John, who smirked, thinking about it: the boy could have been something less than 20, at his age Reese had already joined the Army, even if not really willingly. Helping people had become pointless for him, but he unconsciously tripped the crooks, without really knowing why. The guys looked at him for a moment, but then just stood up and started chasing the boy again; they had seen the gun behind John's back, but it hadn't been that to scare them, it had been his expression, better said, the lack of expression on his face, like he had no heart, no soul, nothing, like he was a ghost … and that was how he himself felt, actually. He stood there for a moment, watching the boy run away from the other two, then began walking again, but couldn't help thinking of how it could have been if that boy had been his son, if he had made some different choices, for instance if he hadn't chosen to join the Army again after 9/11, if he had said no to that guy from Langley … those were things he had wondered many times, even though he had found out that was actually the life he was made for. He wondered what would have happened if Finch hadn't hired him, if he hadn't had that fight on the subway … there you are, the fight … his mind came back to her, a thought he had abandoned even if just for a single moment. She's gone, that was his only thought now, what do I do now that she's gone? He had asked himself the same question after Jessica's death. It seemed like he couldn't have people to care about, like whoever became important to him was doomed to death … his father first, then Jessica, now Joss … Finch could have been the next one … now at that thought, for the first time after he had left the Team he realized he had made a really selfish choice, his friend needed him, was worried about him, and yet he had not only sent him away, he had threatened him … he wasn't sure if Harold would have respected his will, but he found himself wishing he both did and didn't at the same time, because on one side, he knew he needed help to recover, but on the other side he himself feared his possible reckless reactions, he himself feared the monster he still had inside …
A couple of hours later Finch was standing in Washington Square Park, watching Grace come out of her apartment, then Shaw getting in. He had reluctantly given her the address, but it had been his only choice, since John wasn't there and he certainly couldn't risk to be seen by Grace. The name of Samuel Harrison had come up while checking her file: they hadn't been dating, like he had instantly feared, feeling the inevitable sting of jealousy, but he still didn't know what could such an angel have to do with someone who had been detained for violent behavior. In fact Fusco had called a couple of minutes before, explaining that Mr. Harrison had been involved in a fight in a pub.
Nothing important.
Had said Lionel.
A violent fight isn't noteworthy for you, Detective?
Had replied Harold, anxious because his Grace knew such a man as Samuel Harrison seemed to be.
I mean he was released soon.
What were the circumstances?
Usual. A pub, a bunch of drunk crooks … it happens.
Was it the Detective to take it too easy, or was it him to exaggerate? Had thought Harold. Was he making a mountain out of a molehill only because his Grace was involved?
He looks like the perfect citizen. That fight is the only stain on his file.
A perfect citizen doesn't get involved in a violent fight, Detective.
What are you suggesting then?
I'm not sure.
The call had ended with Fusco promising he would go pay Harrison a visit, but it hadn't reassured Harold. Nothing could reassure him, nothing except for being absolutely sure Grace was safe. When Shaw came back she couldn't give any news that would help them clear the dilemma: Grace's apartment was clear, she wasn't hiding anything.
She looks like a red haired Cinderella. I wouldn't be surprised if she had birds fixing her hair.
Commented Shaw, while Harold looked daggers at her.
Come on, Finch, just tell me who is she. I promise I'll keep the secret.
She asked, chuckling. He just sighed.
See you later, Miss Shaw.
He simply replied, then walked away, leaving her with a puzzled look on her face.
Meanwhile in Queens.
We gave you a chance, Sam, you wasted it.
Please, just give me one more day, I promise you'll have your money back! Please!
But they didn't listen. A dull sound and a couple of hours later the NYPD Homicide was there.