A/N: Many thanks to all of you, you really are too kind! And thanks again to Linda, my loyal guest reviewer. I'm sorry but I couldn't help but add just a little more angst. On the other hand this one is the last chapter, there's only the epilogue left and I promise it's much lighter and pleasant. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this sixth part!

Just War

Chapter 6

Harold jerked awake to the sound of light coughing and he realized he had dozed off as well, book still in hand. He actually wasn't surprised at all, since he had probably slept 9 hours in three days.

He straightened a bit on the soft material, more than little stiff. He had chosen those armchairs himself, but as comfortable as they could be, falling asleep on them unintentionally wasn't a good idea.

Putting aside his distress he realized that John was awake, looking at him apologetically for having woken him up. Harold watched him lift sluggishly his IV-free arm, probe his throat gingerly, then squeeze his eyes as another cough shook his body and he unconsciously braced his stitched abdomen.

"John, what's wrong?" His friend had sagged back in bed, facing away from him. He looked exhausted, eyes glassy and skin flushed.

Neither of those signs had been present just, he hastily glanced at his watch – three hours before.

Harold alerted immediately the medical staff, feeling John's forehead quite warm under his touch. His breathing was becoming labored and the former operative was growing restless.

Then, in a moment, nurse and doctor invaded the room and John was lying calmly again, eyelids dropping heavily, effectively sedated and with the oxygen mask back on his face.

Harold had a brief chat with the doctor, and then he was once again the only conscious person in the room.

He positioned himself at John's bedside, alert and vigilant, because apparently they couldn't enjoy some peacefulness just yet.

After a while though, Harold was tired of sitting down, and he decided to stretch his legs a bit, wandering around only to pause in front of the window.

He was the one who now felt restless and he found himself musing on the recent events once more.

Since the very beginning, Harold had never doubted John's skills in the field and, on the contrary, afraid the ex-agent would have gone too far, he had established some basic yet fundamental ground rules, which had led to an abrupt increase of kneecap wounds in the state of New York and specifically in NYC.

Harold had also established a sort of dress code, but just as he hadn't managed to persuade John into wearing a tie, he certainly couldn't have forced him to care, bond even, with their numbers.

But the ex-operative had seemed to care nonetheless, about every "good" number they'd come to help. Well, maybe most of them, a particular exception crossed Harold's mind, then again, he guessed Leon would make anyone need the patience of a saint.

Anyway, John had been particularly emphatic with Harold himself, of course. Sometimes subtle, sometimes firm, he had never tried to really hide that he cared. He had adjusted his pace from the beginning, made it look natural. Harold was sure it wasn't that natural though, he had seen John's resolute stride when they weren't together, long legs fast and stealthy. He hadn't missed also the occasional support of a hand, the ever-present chair whenever he felt stiff and tired, and an umbrella under the rain, Sencha green tea for breakfast or takeouts when he forgot to eat.

And of course he had found himself reciprocating the gestures, choosing expensive apartments as birthday presents, stitching wounds or hiring professionals who did, arranging rescue teams and, last but not least, taking care of John's dog.

He didn't actually mind of course, it had taken him less than a day to become very fond of Bear, but Harold never missed the chance to blackmail his friend on the matter, just for the sake of it. That was an unbeatable opportunity to pester John, just because John seemed to enjoy pestering Harold to no end.

So, in a way, he understood John's empathy towards him, towards their detectives, also, who could surely be considered more than mere assets by then. But John had recently been very empathic even with Root, carefully patching her up after Shaw had shot her.

And speaking of Shaw, John kept being considerate with her as well, despite her blunt declaration about sticking around only because of Bear, not to mention her less than nice description of the male operative, still speaking in canine metaphors.

The ex-operative though accepted her snide remarks placidly amused, the times he had bothered to reply much fewer than the ones he hadn't. Sometimes it still surprised Harold, the amount of confidence John was capable to display. The younger man didn't really feel the need to prove anything to anyone. Deeply aware of all his mistakes and chronic wounds, along with his skills and expertise, he had acknowledged all of them and carried on.

And Harold suspected that there laid his own weakness. Because even broken, drunk and lost, John had never tried to prove anything to him. Once he had agreed to work for him he had simply done that: work.

Then of course he had spied on him, mocked him and thanked him more than once and also saved his life, but he had never tried to prove anything.

John had gained every inch of Harold's trust with his actions, his devotion and honesty, and sarcastic remark, innocent question, and light banter. And Harold had found himself surrendering without even realizing it.

He had approached John Reese with the intent to save his life and convince him to save the ones of many others, but the truth was that the ex-soldier had needed nothing more than a nudge to start doing his work in a way Harold couldn't have better wished.

Granted there was a lot of violence. Harold still didn't entirely grasp this particular aspect of John's personality. He knew he didn't mind using "extreme measures" or dealing with any kind of dangerous weapon, on the contrary Harold was pretty sure the ex-agent quite enjoyed it, yet he was capable of displaying an incredible amount of empathy at the same time.

Then again, Harold was egoistically glad, because it had been that same empathy which had brought John to fully understand Harold's recent actions during the whole adventure with Root and The Machine and back before, during the whole Ordos disaster.

He also suspected that after considering himself a monster for a long part of his life, denying himself every chance of redemption, and once essentially forced by Harold to take a second chance, John had finally allowed himself to feel again.

Feel happiness in the presence of a dog, a friend, a home, but also feel in the most painful way, because that's what empathy meant in their line of work. Harold was sure that John couldn't allow himself to feel it in any different way though; because he thought he deserved to bear the pain of the others.

And in the end, Harold couldn't do much about this particular aspect, not when he wasn't directly involved. But if his friend decided to shield him from an explosion, or take a couple of bullets to protect him, that was a different matter. Because John didn't deserve to bear his pain as well and because Harold wasn't another innocent number.

And if the former CIA wouldn't accept that it was Harold who had to sustain most of the weight of their mission, the best he could offer his partner was to bear it together, as equals, because he surely couldn't accept the other way around. And moreover, after the recent events, John had to be considered admin as much as Harold himself.

"What happened?"

Shaw sounded mildly surprised and again Harold was startled by her entrance.

"Throat infection." He replied quietly after a second, not bothering to turn around from the window. "It's a common complication of intubation, especially in the presence of neck injuries." Harold duly recited what the doctor had explained to him only an hour before.

And he knew Shaw had been there more often than she had actually shown herself, but it surprised him mildly that she was keeping track of John's conditions so closely.

Harold was aware of her temporary alliance with his partner during John's obstinate chase, and he had figured it had been because Root and she had some history. Then he had called her, out of other options, not even sure if she would have agreed to meet him.

And yet, against all odds, not only had Shaw accepted, but he had also received a reprimand because they hadn't included her from the beginning of the latest mission, implying that they could have probably avoided such a dramatic turn of events.

She reminded him of a wolf, Harold mused, wary of a campfire, yet tentatively trying to come closer. Then he also realized, with in inward smile, that maybe it was because of his recent readings.

But be that as it may, despite what she had told him a few months before, Harold was very far from being awfully trusting, so he kept being wary himself.

He finally faced her, who hadn't moved from the threshold. He was glad she hadn't crossed that boundary as well, the Library had been compromised months before but that room still felt strangely intimate.

Also he didn't like the idea of John in someone else's company besides his own, not when his friend was so vulnerable and even if that someone meant no harm. Hence he limped towards the door, then motioned to exit the room.

"Do you have any news, Ms. Shaw?" He eventually asked.

She nodded, and started reporting right away, with military precision. "Those armed men at the facility were ISA." And Harold already knew that.

"The man I interrogated was forcibly discharged only a few hours after our chat by a bunch of other agents. I don't think we'll see him again." She continued in practical tone.

Harold was listening carefully and he was afraid he already knew where that conversation was going.

"I watched them for a couple of days." Shaw started to pace up then, and he thought she was more like a caged lion now. "Looks like the Government isn't happy at all to have lost track of your Machine. So they've decided, very diplomatically, I might add, to ransack every single facility connected to any kind of research involving artificial intelligences or related subjects."

Harold had suspected right after contemplating the possibility of having been attacked by ISA that those same agents had been originally looking for the Machine, and now that they knew his face, that they had been looking for him as well.

So, thanks to Shaw, he could now be sure about it, just as he was sure that John should have realized it as well, while fighting those men, hence embarking his unacceptable crusade to protect him. But of course Harold's recent conclusion still stood: they were equals and together was the only way he would accept to fight this war.

"It appears Mr. Stevenson did manage to attract some dangerous and diverse enemies just because of his studies." He mused aloud, back on topic.

"They have stolen Stevenson's computer from the Evidence Unit of NYPD." Shaw added then. "I can recuperate it, but you already took a look at it, didn't you?"

"That's correct." He replied absently. Learning about this brutally wild hunt by their rulers, involving innocent civilians to boot, felt quite disturbing, especially after Harold had found out that Stevenson's project was nothing compared to the complexity and effectiveness of his Machine.

"And I can assert that his prototype is far from being useful to the Government." He concluded grimly.

"Even so, the Government has been crossing too many lines lately." Was all Shaw said before leaving.

Harold couldn't agree more: it was the beginning of a new era, and now they needed to be as careful as ever.

Pain and a female voice. That was what John managed to register in the fog of his mind. But the voice didn't last long so he was left with pain only. Then Harold started talking, but he was very quiet and he couldn't really tell what he was saying. The familiar sound didn't last long either and he felt uneven footsteps move around the room.

John really wanted to try to stop his friend, but at the moment he couldn't find the strength to even open his eyes. His head and limbs felt like leaden, deeply sunken on pillow and mattress. And his throat felt swollen and sore and he vaguely recalled having problems breathing, some unidentified time prior.

He heard voices again, just outside his room and he was momentarily distracted. It was Shaw, the female voice. She sounded upset and Harold sounded shaken and John wished he were there, towering over both of them, actually hearing what they were saying and talking back.

He found himself fighting nausea instead. He shifted restlessly on the bed, in search of any measure of comfort, obtaining anything but more pain from pulling the stitches on his abdomen and aggravating his splitting headache.

He was hot and clammy and the mask on his face was doing nothing but adding discomfort. He blindly went for it, but when his fingers finally touched the plastic material a cool hand covered his own.

"Don't." Harold admonished him softly and John finally opened his eyes, trying to put his friend into focus. He hadn't even realized the voices had stopped, Shaw apparently gone.

"You need to keep the mask on, John." Harold elaborated after a moment, gently repositioning his arm along his torso.

He wasn't really in the shape to argue and he nodded lightly, eyelids halfway down.

"You developed an infection, but it's under control. Try to sleep some more and the antibiotics should do the rest." Harold reassured him.

And he found himself nodding again, but sleep, although appealing, didn't seem quite an option, not when he was in such distress.

But maybe Finch had learnt to read minds, or maybe he looked as miserable as he felt, because either way he had barely put the thought together when he felt a fresh clothe on his forehead.

So he closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling, having found the small measure of comfort he was desperately craving.

He opened his eyes again though, and he was probably pushing his luck, but he looked at Finch again and then eyed the book forgotten on the armchair.

His friend followed his gaze and instantly knew what he was asking.

"I think I may be spoiling you, Mr. Reese." Was the genius' comment, but John watched him pick up the book all the same, then settle back on the chair.

White Fangs was a good book. And John knew it was a kids' reading but it was smooth and it kinda reminded him of Bear.

He started to concentrate on the story then, trying to detach himself from pain and discomfort, but unexpectedly Harold halted his reading after only a few lines, like he had just remembered something very important. John looked at him expectantly, all of sudden fully alert.

"Don't do that again, John. Please." Was the sudden request. He knitted his eyebrows together and Harold continued. "We're equal partners in this mission, now more than ever."

John wasn't sure he would ever feel equal though, but his friend looked clearly pained and the least he could do was trying to grant him what he was so earnestly asking.

He couldn't really talk at the present so he found himself nodding his agreement for the third time.

Harold regarded him for a long moment, eyes intense and firm. Then, apparently satisfied, he resumed his reading.

After a while though, John couldn't focus on the words anymore, and he let himself drift off at the simple sound of his friend familiar voice.

TBC