Sorry this is taking so long – my arm is being a bitch but I can't not write so typing is the next best thing – I honestly think I'd go mad if I couldn't get these ideas out. Anyhoo, on with the story…

Elias's eyes focused on the large screen in front of him through his glasses. Elias had been Finch's ear on the ground. Together, they built up TyRon. Elias fed Finch information from the Governments around the world: anything they had on their weapons, war plans and conflicts. Finch then used this information to the best of his ability – ratting out and creating very persuasive arguments for the need of a drug such as TyRon. Then the fifth world war broke out, Elias was called to fight. The things he saw chilled him to the very bone. He saw the need for Finch's drug, they fought and fought till it got the go ahead. It made them rich. Elias hadn't looked back since. He stood in the middle of a dark room walking live and archive feeds from CCTV records. The current clip showed Harold driving into the outlands.

'Stop it there.'

The technicians stopped the feed. Elias walked up to the screen and looked at the still of Harold's face. He put his hand on his chin and pushed his tongue around his teeth.

'What could you possibly want in the outlands Finch?' he mumbled to himself. He signalled to the technicians to continue the clip, he saw the altercation with the guard. The clip moved forward quickly to Harold's return a few hours later.

'Stop. Focus in on the driver's face.'

John's stern filled the screen. Elias smiled broadly.

'Oh John… you really do surprise me, you really do.' His brow creased. 'But what were you doing?' Elias turned away from the screen and paced, methodically around the room. 'Search all feeds from the last 3 hours through facial recognition. He slipped past us, find out where. Also set up alerts for when he is picked up by live feeds. I want to know everything about him. Get me his Larrelle file.'

One of the technicians left the room. Elias sat in a chair and looked at the screen. The technician re-entered the room.

'Sir, file could not be found sir.'

Elias leaned back in the chair.

'What do you mean the file could not be found?'

'The file went missing years ago, it hasn't been found.'

'Who took it?'

'Again unknown sir.'

Elias sighed. 'Thank you.'

The technician nodded once solidly and resumed his seat. Elias stood up and left the room.

He walked down the concrete corridors to his office. He pushed open the solid black door and sat at his desk. He turned on the computer. The office was sparsely furnished: a black desk, black chair, black computer equipment and black tinted windows. Elias ran background searched on Harold Finch and John Reese. There were hundreds of news and propaganda articles on Finch – the man they hailed as God – Saviour of the Human Race. They painted Finch as some sort of Saint: rich, powerful and extremely intelligent. Elias scanned through hundreds of pictures – mug shots and photos from articles. Elias stopped on a picture of Finch giving a speech: Finch stood behind a podium, he was looking down at a piece of paper. Elias focused in on his eyes and saw a small tear in the corner of his eye. He racked his brain, he had been present at the time of the speech. Finch had been listing the names of dead sense offenders: he remembered the smallest of hesitations as he read out Grace Hendricks. Elias paused. Grace Hendricks. He wrote the name down in a notebook beside the computer. He tapped his ear piece.

'Shaw.'

The penthouse was in darkness, the only light source from the moon and State below. Shaw stood in Harold's bedroom. She tapped her ear piece.

'Cameras installed sir.'

'Good. Search the residence.'

'Sir.'

Shaw tapped her ear piece again. She never questioned her Master. What Elias wanted, Elias got. He'd sent her here to find proof of sense offence. She too, had once been a Larrelle but the Elias brought her, he saw more potential in her. She was stronger than those her size, faster, and just more – a consequence of her upbringing. Shaw was ten years old when Harold Finch declared the world take TyRon. The world was in ruin, the fifth world war had killed most the population and those still alive were grief stricken. They needed help. They needed a cure. What the world didn't know was that he himself stole children and tested on them – how humans react to his drug and how to make them better. Many died, some survived. Shaw built muscle quicker and kept it, her hearing was better and she was faster, a lot faster. The average human reaction time was 215 milliseconds, Shaw, and those like her were much better off at 120 milliseconds. She was a deadly weapon working for a deadly cause. Elias brought her from the State for an extortionate amount of money: then he trained her, hand to hand combat, knives, swords, guns, everything she could possibly use to become the ultimate killer.

Shaw stood in Harold's bedroom listening for any sound. Nothing. She walked over to the bed that almost filled the room, she knelt down and ran her hand under the edge of it: if Harold was hiding anything, she knew he wouldn't be stupid enough to hide it where it could be accidentally found but she better check anyway. She'd made that mistake before and Elias beat her for it. She was faster than most people, but only when she had the freedom to move. She worked her way around the bedroom: checking under everything, on the underside of everything and if anything was out of the ordinary. Harold was a man of money but he had to keep to the rules too. Shaw slipped out the bedroom and into the next room. She flicked through the piles of paper on the desk and ran her hand along the underside of the desk. She froze.

John opened Harold's front door. He paused, his hand still on the door. Harold stood behind him.

'What John?'

'Someone's been here.' John took the gun out the back of his pants. He tensed, ready to pounce. 'Stay here.' He said quietly.

John walked further into the penthouse, he waited and listened before turning each door. The main area was clear and undisturbed. He checked the backrooms, he turned to Harold, still stood in the doorway.

'I need the key Harold.'

Harold sighed and walked over to John. He looked at him sceptically. 'It's locked John, one way in one way out.'

They walked through the corridors, Harold unlocked the door and John checked the room. He walked around, checking under the bed and behind the old chesterfield. John re-joined Harold back out in the corridor.

'It's empty.' Said John.

They heard the balcony doors open, John sprinted through the penthouse into Harold's bedroom, only to see a quick blur jump over the edge. He ran to edge and looked over – the intruder was at least half way down already. Harold walked out onto the balcony and looked over.

'Who was it?'

'I don't know but they were fast.'

Harold's head snapped up, he walked back inside, cane clinking on the floor. John followed him into the kitchen.

'What is it?' asked John. 'Harold, what is it?'

Harold let his cane fall to the floor. He placed his hands on the kitchen island and kept his back to John. Harold knew what had been here and knew he was powerless to stop them. He closed his eyes and felt John stand behind him. John laid his hand on his. He pulled his back and spun around, poker face in pace.

'It doesn't matter Mr Reese.' Harold tried to push past John, but John being the bigger and stronger man his efforts were futile. 'Let me pass Mr Reese.'

Harold reached up and slapped John, causing him to stumble back. Harold stood up as straight as he could and shot John his coldest, emptiest gaze.

'I am your Master and you will obey me.'

Harold started to walk towards his bedroom. John stood up and strode after him. He grabbed Harold's shoulder and pulled him flat against him, digging the barrel of his gun into his ribs. The hand gripping his shoulder, moved to his neck. Harold was panting, he could feel John's hot breath on his ear.

'You said that in this room that relationship doesn't exist. In here I am your friend and partner. That is what you told me the first day you brought me here.' John said menacingly.

'I also said I am a very private person and you will do as I say, now let me go.'

John dug the barrel in deeper, making Harold gasp in pain. 'But you know something about what happened here and you won't tell me. It's my job to protect you; I can't do that if you won't let me. So tell me, what do you know.'

'If you let go of me now, I will not punish you.'

John paused, he leaned even close and said in the quietest of voices. 'There is nothing you can do to punish me.'

Harold's eyes widened. In that moment, he realised John was right. That man had seen everything. There was nothing in this world that Harold could do that would be worse than what had already been done. Harold gave in.

'I know who, more what was here.' Harold paused. John eased his grip on his neck and stepped back. Harold soothed his neck, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, he remembered every single face of the children he'd stolen. He heard them all the time: screaming in pain, screaming many of his names – Crane, Crow, Quail, Starling, Swift. He didn't want to admit his crime to John. 'While creating TyRon, we unintentionally created a better, more precise human being. They were quicker than normal humans, their reaction times were roughly 120 milliseconds. They were dangerous, but most of them died young.'

'Most?'

'Most. Every now and then some survived.'

'Where are they now? The survivors?'

'Anywhere and everywhere.'

'Are they traceable?'

'No. It wasn't right.' He sighed heavily and added in sadder tone. 'Nothing was right.'

'Is there anything we can do?'

'I don't know.' Harold stood up and let his blazer fall from his shoulders. 'It's late. Let's go to bed.'

Harold left the room without saying another word, John watched him go. The situation played back in his dead – what had he been thinking to turn on his Master like that? John clenched his hands into fists. This was the end. He'd broken the delicate trust that was forming between them. John watched the line of light at the bottom of Harold's door disappear into darkness. He grabbed his bag and shut himself in the bathroom. He stood before the mirror and took out a small syringe. He put the needle into a small vial filled with a thick orange liquid. He shakily pulled up his sleeve and pushed the needle into the soft, inner flesh of his elbow. He looked his reflection in the eye. His pupils dilated. He relaxed, he pulled the syringe out and left it on the side. He turned on his heel and walked out the bathroom. John walked over to the large wall and sat in the corner. He leaned his head back against the cold concrete and closed his eyes.