It had been a few weeks since Sam's return to the job. All of it had come full circle for her. At first, almost a year ago, she had jumped into it without thinking. And then, soon after, she left, still without thinking. When she came back to John and Harold and what they did, she hesitated. But, there was no other life she wanted. Bottom line.
Sam unlocked the door and pushed her way through, carrying a bag of groceries, and a department store shopping bag. She flung her keys on the stand next to the door and stepped into her apartment.
"Hey, Sam," John said, as he walked across the room.
Sam nearly dropped her shopping. "John! What did I tell you about breaking into my apartment?"
"You said to stop doing it," John said. He unbuttoned his sleeves and began rolling them up to his elbows. "And what did I say to you in response to that?"
Sam sighed as she walked to the kitchen. "You said that you needed to keep up your skills. I'll start switching locks then, to give you a little more variety."
She set the shopping down on the kitchen counter and began putting things away.
"Do you know what happened to Benton?"
John stood up and looked at her. "He went home that night, and started counseling again."
"Again?"
"The reason he never tried anything for about a year was because he was getting help, gaining some control."
"And because you threatened him."
John nodded once. "He was doing fine. But then his counseling went down from three times a week to two, then to one. He stopped going to meetings, and went back into some old habits."
Sam finished putting her groceries away and stepped out of the kitchen. "You really were watching him."
"I never break my word,"
Sam walked into the main part of the apartment where John stood. A large blue mat covered most of the hardwood floor. John, along with the usual button down shirt, was wearing slacks, but no shoes or socks. He stepped onto the mat in his bare feet.
"Is there another number?" Sam stepped onto the mat wearing her heeled boots.
"Not yet," John pulled out a nine millimeter.
"Then what's going on?"
"I thought about what you asked before."
"What I asked?"
"If I would teach you to fight."
"John, I was… partially kidding."
"Well, I'm not," John smiled a little. "What happened with you and Powell a few weeks ago got me thinking about it again."
The Powell's numbers had come up. But, they had not been the victims as John, Finch, and Sam originally thought. That ended up costing Sam with a bit of a concussion to say the least. Sam snorted. "Even if I knew everything you knew about fighting hand to hand, I would not have been able to take down that six foot nine defensive lineman."
"Probably not." John agreed. "But you might have been able to hold your own long enough to get away. And that's what this is for." John became suddenly stern with her.
"Why didn't you tell me? I'm not even dressed for this."
John looked her over. She wore black pants, heeled boots, and a comfortable top with no buttons. "What you have on is fine. Except the boots. Take those off."
Sam sighed and sat on the couch as she unzipped her boots.
"This is just for defense, Sam. Got it? Just so you can handle yourself a little better if I'm not with you."
"And so I've got your back, right?" Sam stepped onto the mat in her bare feet and John stood opposite her.
"For defense, Sam."
"Fine."
John ejected the magazine out of the gun and pointed it at Sam with both hands, in his usual stance. "Okay, now, try to disarm me."
Sam burst out laughing. "Are you kidding?" She looked at him and he didn't move. "Oh, wow, you're not kidding."
"I want to see what your instincts are."
"I would have worn a short skirt if I knew I was supposed to try and take things away from you," Sam grinned.
"Come on, Sam."
"All right, okay." She looked at him for a minute. "There is no way I can get that away from you."
"Just try it," John said testily.
Sam approached him, the empty weapon pointing at her head. She tried to remember how John disarmed people. She'd seen him do it a few times, but how he did it was another matter entirely.
She shrugged and grabbed a hold of the gun, pushing it to the side and down as she turned and elbowed him in the ribs. John's arm came around her and Sam yelled as he tripped her up, and she landed on the mat with the barrel of the gun on her forehead.
"You panicked," he said.
"Of course I did! You grabbed me! And in case you haven't noticed, I don't know what I'm doing," Sam said angrily.
"Lesson Number One: Don't panic. Fear just slows you down and gets you killed."
Sam rolled her eyes as John helped her back up and handed her the gun. "You started out pretty good, Sam. Point it at me."
Sam held the gun up in both hands. John grabbed a hold of it as she had, but instead of pushing it to the side, he pushed her arms up, and moved slowly as he explained. "That gives you a wide open target." He moved her arms down and pushed them to the side. "If you move it to the side, you risk someone else being shot. If you move it down," he pushed her arms down, "you risk getting shot in the foot." He pushed her arms up again. "Keep low, and take out the legs, or force them back." He demonstrated by placing his foot right behind Sam's, then placing his open palm at her chin. "Take them down, get them to drop the weapon."
"I thought this was just defense, John," Sam said as he took the gun and she situated herself again.
"It's like you said before. You won't always have your gun."
"So I can get someone else's?"
"You're already learning. Try it again."
Sam approached him again, the empty weapon pointed at her head. She grabbed the gun, pushed it up and slid her leg in between John's, catching her foot on his heel. He stumbled back, but kept a hold of the weapon. Sam came at him again, pushing her palm to his chin, not as hard as she could, but with enough force to knock him back.
"Good, that was good," John said, backing away and lowering his hands.
"You didn't fall or drop the gun or anything," Sam complained.
"I usually don't," John said, then looked as if he regretted saying it judging by the expression on Sam's face.
"Oh, I see. That's the challenge, is it? I can disarm a normal person with this stuff, but not you, is that what you're saying?"
"Don't take in personally."
"I'm not. But I bet I can get you to drop your gun." Sam walked up to him, breaking the comfort barrier and looked up at him.
"It wasn't a challenge, Sam," John rolled his eyes.
"I know, but I bet I can do it."
"Try it, then."
Sam tried a few more times. She even attempted a tickling attack, which he deflected with a powerful vengeance. Each time Sam ended up on her back on the mat with John hovering above her, telling her how good she was doing.
After the fourth time, John helped her up and Sam shook his hand away. "This is stupid. Why would I even try to get that close to someone pointing a gun at me? And what if neither of us has a gun?"
"You don't try to get close, Sam. You already are close," John reasoned. "But let's try something else."
"Oh no."
"If someone grabs you from behind, what do you do?"
"I scream, kick and bite if I can," Sam said without a thought.
John seemed to seriously consider this for a moment. "Fine, but let's give you a little more of a guarantee." He approached her, took her by her shoulders and turned her around so her back was to him.
The next thing Sam knew, her arms were pinned to her sides in John's grip. The immediate reaction was panic and she let out a shriek before he stopped her.
"Sam!" he said sharply in her ear. "Take a breath and think. What part of you can you move right now?"
"My legs?"
"Right. Use them – not for kicking in the air."
Sam looked down and set her foot on the instep of John's, just to demonstrate.
"Good," he said encouragingly. "Hit the foot, then what?"
"Well, if he gives way at all I can…" John loosened his rip around her and she lifted her arm, jabbing her elbow into his chest.
"Then what?"
"I don't know," she shrugged and looked over her shoulder at him. "Why do I have to keep telling you that I've never done this before?"
"You turn, elbow to the chest, use your momentum for one more thing, Sam."
Sam thought hard on what she'd do next. Foot, elbow to the ribs, then, Sam turned around and thrust her palm up to his face.
"And you say you've never done this before," John smiled and stepped away. "Now, frontal assault."
"What assault?" Sam squeaked as John came at her.
The training continued for another couple of hours. Sam never succeeded in disarming John. But, as he said, that wasn't the point. Over the time that day, she became faster, and a little more precise, knowing where John was and how he was positioned, so her blows were more accurate. It was impressive. But Sam only credited it to having wrestled with her younger brother when they were kids.
Harold Finch, sat at the desk in HQ, reading a report on one of the monitors as John entered.
"Good morning, Finch," he greeted him casually.
"How is the training going?" Finch asked.
"It's only been a couple of days, but she's quick," John said.
"High praise, I'd say." Finch glanced at him, then back at the monitors. "We have a new number. And it is very… curious."
John approached the desk, his interest piqued. "They're all a little mysterious, Finch."
"Yes, Mr. Reese. As what normally happens when a crime is planned. However, this one goes a little deeper than mysterious, at least to me. In fact, I find it baffling."
John raised his eyebrows. "You, Finch? Baffled?"
"I know it is a rarity that you should cherish while it's around. But I believe that you will be equally as baffled by this one, Mr. Reese."
Harold Finch moved at a quick pace down the corridor of the hospital. Mr. Reese had gone to find Miss Watts, who was not answering her phone for whatever reason. With Mr. Reese occupied, Finch had decided to at least locate the position of the new number.
Her name was Callie Horace. She was ten years old.
Finch passed into the Oncology wing and slowed his uneven steps on the linoleum floor. Carts and racks rattled past him. Nurses squeaked by in their sneakers without giving him a second glance.
He adjusted the stethoscope around his neck, and pulled at the long white coat he wore over his shirt and tie.
Finch passed the patient rooms, looking at the number of each one, and kept moving until he reached the isolation section of the floor. A group of four hospital rooms sat at the end of the corridor, each with airtight seals on the doors, and thick, glass paneled windows. Inside each room was a small chamber equipped with sterile bio-suits for the doctors and nurses to change into.
Three of the rooms were empty. Finch approached the window of the only occupied isolation room and looked through the glass at the small figure on the bed. Callie Horace had so many machines hooked up to her, she looked more like an experiment by Doctor Frankenstein than a cancer patient. She was frail, with no hair on her head, and tubes coming from everywhere. At the moment, she was asleep.
Her chart was posted on the outside of the room. Finch took a closer look at it, reading each line carefully.
"Infratentorial Glioma," he muttered slowly, sounding out the words.
"From the glial cells."
Finch started at the woman's voice and looked to his right. She stood next to him, looking through the glass at Callie Horace.
"I'm sorry?" he asked her.
"I Googled it when we first heard the diagnosis. The tumor originates from the glial cells," she said without looking at him. "But, you should already know that, Doctor …?"
"Wren. Dr. Harold Wren, Mrs. Horace?" he took a guess.
"Yes," Callie's mother looked at him and smiled. There was a silent, deep sadness in her smile. "Are you here for Callie?"
"Yes," Finch glanced at the chart. "Dr. Welling wanted to check on her."
"There's not much to check on right now. She's been asleep all day because of the pain medication they've given her."
Finch looked at the chart again. "She's in isolation because of the chemo treatments?"
"It's wreaked havoc on her immune system. But, they said that it won't take much off of the year she has left as long as she doesn't contract anything." Mrs. Horace explained.
Finch felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. Callie Horace was dying. She had a year at most. He stared at the mother, overflowing with sympathy. She appeared quite solid when she stood in front of him there. A strong woman.
"Are you working with Dr. Welling now?" Mrs. Horace brought him back from his conclusions.
"Temporarily," Finch nodded. "If you'll excuse me, I have to keep on my rounds."
"Of course," Mrs. Horace remained at the window as an increasingly befuddled Finch moved away.
Who in the world would want to hurt a sick little girl who had already been given a death sentence?
No answer came to him.