"We have a new number, Mr. Reese."
"I'll be right over, Finch."
Harold ended the call and stared at his phone for a moment, breathing thanks to the Doctor. The Doctor was long dead now, Harold supposed, but he still performed the ritual each time.
Perhaps, if anyone else had known, they wouldn't understand why Harold was grateful, why the Machine was a gift. Perhaps they would think the Doctor had given Harold a curse instead.
Well, they didn't know Harold Finch. They hadn't seen the fiery eyes of the boy who wanted nothing more than to slay monsters and save the weak. And they didn't know the Doctor, the man who would fly across space to fulfill a child's wish because he believed it was as important as the universe. No one knew that in Harold's deepest soul, he'd always wanted to be a knight. And that, for all the world, was what the Doctor had given him.
Thanks was not nearly enough.
"Mr. Reese, are you all right?" Harold's voice was taut, afraid. He didn't want to hear the silence that would indicate the death of his one remaining friend in the world.
"Yes, Finch, I'm fine." Mr. Reese's soft, ironic tone sent a wave of relief through Harold.
"I was afraid you might not have made it out."
"I wouldn't have, but I got some unexpected—help."
"Help?"
"Some man in a tweed coat came out of nowhere and scared the last two so badly they ran away. He said to say hello. He's your doctor, or something."
"My Doctor." Harold nearly laughed out loud. Not dead, then.
He hoped the Doctor was proud.