CHAPTER 26
Boredom was fast becoming an issue for John. He was bored watching TV, had never been a fan. He was actually tired of reading, nothing seem to hold his interest. Looking around Zoe's apartment, he was at a loss when he tried to find something new to do. Walking slowly around the apartment on crutches for 'exercise', even one as big as Zoe's, was not enough to offset the anxious, edgy feelings he was experiencing. He was getting antsy and irritable and that was unfair to Zoe and Iris. Sadly, his 'field trip' with Mrs. Mallard had been the highlight of the last couple of weeks. The fact that he'd almost uncovered a memory but had ultimately lost it, was driving him crazy.
Spotting a book on the coffee table that was new, he hobbled over and picked it up. The Wonderful World of Birds. That was an odd sounding book for Zoe to have. But the oddness of its appearance piqued his interest. Putting it under his arm, he made his way over to the dining room table and sat down.
Opening the book, he noticed it was signed. So it was gift from someone. "To Iris, with great appreciation ~ Harold". So it was not Zoe's book, it belonged to Iris! Under that signature was a message "Thank you for your time and patience in helping all of us to heal. You all have become like a family to me." Frowning, he looked back up at the signature. Harold. That was the name that Iris and Zoe had mentioned to him. Mentioned many times, in fact. Telling him that Harold was important to him, important to his life. But the name still brought no memories of it nor the man it belonged to.
Thumbing through the book, he came across pictures of different types of birds. A particular bird caught his eye. An egret. He felt a minor headache twinge while looking at it. The more he read, the more his head started to ache. He knew now that was a sign that he was close to something important...something that he wanted to remember, that he felt he needed to remember. Flipping further through the book, he came across pictures of finches. The headache pulsed even stronger but he wanted to push on. The answers were near, he knew it! Getting up and hobbling into the kitchen, he looked for something to drink. Something strong. Something to take the edge off the pain so that he could continue to chase the memories. A beer? No... liquor? Yes. Turning around, he went back into the living room and spotted a bottle of liquor at the wet bar off the side of the dining room. Making his way over to it, he picked up a bottle. Realizing that it was very expensive whiskey he started to put the bottle down. But then he remembered Zoe telling him to make himself at home so he went ahead and poured himself a glass.
Frowning, he looked down at the glass. How was he going to get back to his chair holding the glass and walking with crutches? Finally he decided to leave one crutch by the bar to free up his hand to carry the glass as he made his way slowly back to the table. Sitting down, he took a sip of the whiskey. The moment the liquor touched his tongue he felt like he was sliding through a long tunnel with voices and pictures flowing past him at an alarming rate. Thankful he was sitting down, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. But that only made it worse. The pictures flashing by him had more detail in the dark.
Putting the glass down on the table, he held the sides of his head. He hadn't had a headache like this since he left Meg's clinic. The pain was severe but he felt like he was so close. Tears came to in his eyes from the pain but he endured it.
Suddenly he gasped. His breathing is loud and labored. Finch...Harold Finch...the name...he finally 'felt something' just thinking of the name. Zoe had mentioned the whole name when telling him about the 'gray time' but it had just been the name of a stranger. Iris had mentioned the name too. He knew it was a name from his past. But now...now there was emotion attached to that name, there was substance...but it was still just out of reach. He was so close! He felt that if he could push through the pain that he would know...that he could remember.
He once more looked at the page about finches. Was that what triggered this headache? This sudden attachment of an emotion to a memory? Placing the book in front of him, he put his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. He felt like he needed to hold his head 'together' because the pain felt like it was going to make his head explode.
Closing his eyes, he worked to control his breathing, to relax his shoulders as well as his mind. Iris had told him to quit TRYING to remember and to just LET himself remember. So that's what he would try to do. Looking back down at the book, he opened his mind and let his thoughts flow by themselves.
Repeating to himself, he said "Harold, Harold Finch, Finch" over and over. Again his headache pain ratcheted up another level. He broke into a full sweat. Looking back at the book, he turned a few more pages, and paused as a picture of a crane caught him off guard for a moment, then kept going. Next he recognized a wren. Suddenly it was there! He could almost 'see'...Harold. Harold! Short man, glasses, spiky brown hair...walked with a limp. Harold! Harold had gotten him out of he'd beat up some punks on the subway who were looking for a fight. Harold...suddenly he remembered the river, meeting Harold by the river. THAT was why that bench by the river had been so important! Finch was the man whose face he couldn't see! Finch had known who Reese was even though, to the best of his knowledge, they'd never met. He'd known his name. Suddenly that moment appeared in his mind, crystal clear. The entire conversation...Harold had saved him! He'd saved John ...from himself at a time when Reese had been hell bent on doing away with himself. He remembered feeling that he'd failed in his duty to protect Jessica. He'd left her to keep her safe, only to have that man, what was his name? Peter! Only to come back and find out that Peter had killed her. There had been no longer a reason to exist. His entire world had gone... But Harold...Harold? Harold...had brought him back from the edge. Harold had given him a reason to go on living...given him a job? a purpose? Slowly shaking his head the memories flowed. How could he have forgotten someone who had done so much for him? Someone who had meant so much TO him. They had worked together. They were partners, working together to do good...to help people. He could 'hear' Harold's voice in his mind, always there for him, guiding him, helping him. The memories were flowing quickly but seem to be out of sequence...some were good, some were bad. Working together...helping people... saving people, sometimes not saving people...
That last thought brought another sharp twinge of headache pain. Another memory slipped through of someone else. Someone he'd been close to... a woman….Joss? Joss Carter. Her face filled the space directly in front of him. She was there, he could 'hear' her voice. He remembered her. Beautiful woman, warm smile, kind eyes that could turn cold in a millisecond if she found out you were lying to her. Smiling to himself over being able to pull back that memory, he leaned back in the chair.
Suddenly he remembered that Joss was gone, dead. Killed? "Oh God, no!" he cried out and began sobbing. He'd just 'found' her again only to realize she was 'gone'. Deep pain and sadness threatened to overwhelm him. Joss had been so good, such a good friend, a wonderful mother, a great cop. He was drowning in the pain of memory. Burying his face in his hands he gave way to the 'new' pain of losing her. She had understood him. Their military service gave them an understanding that no one outside the military could understand. He remembered teasing her about her relationship with …Beecher? He had always felt very protective of her. But she had been shot and killed in front of him. She'd been killed trying to protect him and then died in his arms. The pain of that memory was as fresh as if it were happening now. He'd lost so much when he'd lost her. He hadn't been able to protect her just like he hadn't protected Jessica. Why was he never good enough, fast enough, strong enough to take care of the people he loved and cared for? Why was he always letting down the women in his life? How could he have forgotten someone as important as she was? Like Harold was?
Looking down at the table he spotted the glass of whiskey. Picking it up, he took another sip. Again the taste of the whiskey seemed to be the catalyst to unlock more memories. But this time he knew what to expect and was prepared.
He started to have clearer memories of working with Harold...in the library! Some good memories, some not so good. It had been their sanctuary. Suddenly a quick flash of a memory of a baby. A baby? and a dog. A dog? Suddenly he felt overrun with too much memory. Too many images of people, places, fights, gun battles...injuries. Images overlapped so much that he couldn't get a grasp of all that he was 'seeing'. He could barely recognize one 'scene' before it morphed into another, sometimes a totally unrelated, scene. He was fast becoming frustrated over too much memory coming too fast. He couldn't absorb everything, couldn't make sense of any of it. Grabbing the glass he tossed back the whiskey in one big swallow. It burned as it went down but it helped.
He noticed that his headache was almost gone. It was now just a dull throb in the background. Since part of his memory was returning he hoped he'd seen the last of those headaches. They made him unable to function. He needed drugs to handle the pain but he didn't like not being totally in control, not having the rigid control of his mind or body. Never had. Control was...everything.
Forcing himself to slow his thoughts down, he stood up and used the crutch to go get the bottle of whiskey and bring it back to the table. He didn't have any plans to get drunk but he needed the 'shock' of the whiskey, kind of like 'smelling salts'...to bring him BACK to the present after drop kicking him into his past. Either way, he felt the need for the catalyst.
Pouring himself another glass of whiskey, John tossed it back with one swallow. Feeling it burn its way down his throat, he closed his eyes and opened himself up and let the memories flow. No need to seek the answers now, they were coming at him at lightening speed.
Faces of people he'd barely known, but who he and Finch had helped, danced in front of him. Faces never to be seen again. Intermixed with faces that appeared over and over but in different setting. No names...yet. Just sensations.
Feelings trampling over each other...worry, concern, anger, frustration, puzzlement...interspersed with a few happy moments, teasing moments...but the subject or focus of these feelings was never manifest.
Using his left hand he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His thoughts were directionless with no goal in mind other than to keep the memories kept coming.
Remembering Harold being concerned about him when he'd been shot or incommunicado when they were working...what? What was it that they actually did? Iris had tried to explain that they helped people who couldn't help themselves; that they could do things that the police couldn't. It sounded like something he would be willing to do but he wasn't sure exactly where Harold came into the picture. Then he remembered...Harold told him who to go save or protect. But how did Harold know? John's thoughts were all over the place. He had no control over what memory came back...or when or even who.
Suddenly Fusco's face popped into his mind.. Loyal, steadfast Lionel. John remembered the first time they'd met when Fusco was taking him to Oyster Bay. How, at first, Lionel was an asset that he exploited regularly. But on the heels of that memory was John finally admitting to himself, that Lionel was a friend, a good friend in fact. Then another memory of when Fusco had turned on him and delivered him to the Mexican cartel. Followed by a memory of Fusco rescuing him in a…..gym? They worked together. Initially, unofficial, but later...yes, they were partners in the NYPD. The memories were tripping over each and he had trouble remembering their sequence. The pain was still there but each memory seemed to release some of the pain.
Pouring the whiskey into the glass, he was intrigued. Holding the glass up he wondered why the taste of the whiskey seemed to bring out the memories that had been hidden? He had obviously had this particular whiskey in the past. There was a 'deja vu' feeling when he tasted it. Taking a sip, he opened himself up to whatever memories were attached to it. Sitting on a porch, high above NYC late at night, enjoying a nightcap with...Zoe! Warm memories flowed through him. He smiled as their times together danced through his mind. Looking out the glass doors to the porch, he knew he'd been there many an evening with Zoe. And morning, as well...
He remembered Zoe working with Joss and someone else to help a number. It had been his idea to use them as 'bait' and they had jumped at the chance to have some 'fun'. But who was the third female? He had a strong feeling that the other person was important. Important to him and Harold. He felt a twinge of the headache coming back. He was trying too hard. Reminding himself to quit trying and just let the memories flow, he sat back in the chair and took another sip.
His mind felt sluggish after the torrent of memories he'd regained over the last hour or so. More of the people that he and Harold had helped flashed through his mind. Each had their own story. Most had good endings but some did not. Wait, that third female had been a number, someone he was suppose to help; he was sure of it. Someone who was, or had been, in his line of work, had once worked for the government. It wasn't Stanton...he remembered her all too well. But it was someone who could take care of herself...but had lost her partner. Details were coming back to him but slowly. She had shot him. She shot .him! Shot him in his chest where the vest had caught the bullet. That much he remembered.
Once again he brought both hands up to head. There was pain but wasn't as sharp. It was almost like...tired pain. His mind felt like it was buried under memories. He'd been seeking his memories every way possible for the last couple of weeks but now he wanted to turn them off. Turn them off for just a little while. Some memories came and went so fast there were no details….just the sensation of what happened.
His right shoulder was beginning to ache.. The bullet he'd taken in that shoulder had done some serious damage. He realized he'd either been gripping the armrest of the chair he was in or he had been holding both hands to his head. He needed to relax and get up. Sitting at the table was no longer comfortable. He looked around and considered moving to the couch but his eyes caught the sunshine on the edge of the balcony. That's where he wanted to be….outside. He found it was a lot like the enclosed patio at the clinic except this one happened to be 23 stories in the air.
Grabbing the whiskey bottle and his glass with one hand, he carefully stood up. Once he found his balance, he reached for his crutch and slowly made his way out to the balcony. Settling down in one of the chairs he leaned the crutch against the side of the table. He placed the glass on the table and carefully poured himself three fingers of whiskey. Looking out over the city seemed to help untangle his chaotic thoughts. Sipping the whiskey helped bring things into focus.
John's thoughts returned to that third female just out of reach in his memory. He felt a kind of kinship with her. Like they'd had a similar background. She had been someone that he and Harold had once helped. He paused for a moment and enjoyed the feeling of knowing who Harold was. A whole other 'life' had opened up in his memory. There were still gaps to be filled in but the memory of Harold and their friendship felt like the most important part of his life for the past several years.
He remembered that Zoe had been someone they had helped too and then she had ended up occasionally helping them to help others...as well as becoming someone very special to him. Any memory of Zoe made him smile...apparently all of their history had been good. Smiling to himself he relived a couple of those moments in his mind.
Dragging himself back to the present, he continued letting his mind drift in any direction it wanted to and see what turned up.
So why was this third female so difficult to remember? She had lost someone important to her...a friend….a family member...or partner? What kind of partner? The fuzzy memory he had of her was that she was someone very independent and very capable of taking care of herself, not really needing a partner. He remembered her as someone who liked to go it alone, who tended to be bossy and used to getting what she wanted. Like who was going to drive the fast car. Suddenly she was there in his memory. Behind the wheel of a fancy sports car...a getaway car? She'd been insistent on driving. Damn it Shaw! Boom there it was! The name...Shaw...Sameen Shaw. A huge grin suddenly appeared on his face. Now he remembered! Shaw was like him...a former government agent. But while he was CIA and she was...ISA? He began to remember all of their 'missions' together. They'd always been trying to 'one-up' each other. He let out a laugh…'bratty little sister' came to mind. They were equally matched in ability but he'd still felt very protective of her. Memories of Sameen were good with a couple of WTH! moments sprinkled throughout.
Fast on the heels of remembering Shaw came an unexpected memory. Shaw had lost recently lost someone she cared about. Not her partner in the ISA. Someone more recently...a woman? A tall woman, with long dark hair.
Without an warning he was back in another memory filled with anger and worry. Where was Harold? Why did he not know where Harold was? Then he remembered someone had kidnapped him. Root! The name sprang into his mind without his even trying. He felt the anger build up quickly within. He was leaning forward in the chair and he had to fight the urge to jump up and run. Run where? To do what?
Looking back up he realized he was on a balcony overlooking NYC. Then he remembered where he was...Zoe's condo. Regaining his composure, he tried to figure out what had just happened.
He remembered the name Root and the sudden strong reaction he had to remembering the name, to remembering her. She'd kidnapped Harold. She had injured Harold! She threatened to kill Harold for... something. Shaking his head, he couldn't remember those particular details. What he could remember was his rage at her for taking Harold away from him. He owed everything to Harold. Harold was his best and probably only, friend. The more memory that returned, the deeper his feelings for Harold became and the appreciation for what he had done for him.
On top of that memory came one of Shaw and Root together. There was something there between them. He remembered watching them...especially Shaw, who was oblivious to what was happening between them. Sameen had always been alert and aware of everything and everybody...but she had taken forever to understand her relationship with Root. Suddenly he realized that his feelings for Root were not the same as they had been. Instead of anger he felt...what? He couldn't put a name to it...but the way he thought of Root had completely changed. It was the loss of Root that changed Sameen. How had she lost Root? How had they lost Root?
The memories coming back were still out of sequence. New followed by old interspersed with older ones. But he pushed on. This was what he'd been striving for since he realized he had a huge gap in his memory. And he knew there were still memories missing.
He was getting closer to that moment. He could feel it. The moment that caused his horrific injuries. That moment when his mind had gone blank. His breathing had become labored, his heart rate increased at an alarming rate. Clenching his eyes closed he pushed himself to remember; pushed himself to face whatever had caused him to take refuge in his mind.
Sweat poured freely down his face now. Shaking his head side to side slowly, he was almost begging himself to let go and remember. A roaring began in his ears. Louder and louder. He couldn't breathe. He felt his gun in hand, then felt it slip from his hand. His gun…..his gun….he had to have his gun! He watched it skitter away as the ground beneath him began to shake. The noise was deafening. It was becoming difficult to breathe. Looking around he realized he was alone….alone where? Sky was above him. He was on a roof? But why?
He saw it. An open briefcase. Beyond that there was a radar cone? A feeling of panic overtook him. Did it work? Did he do it right? He hate to die never knowing if it worked. If what worked? Why was he on the roof? What had he done? Why was it important that it worked?
Suddenly he sat straight up, knocking his glass of whiskey over on the table. A loud gasp escaped from him. Eyes wide open he saw…..he saw…..he saw Harold! Harold on another rooftop. Harold looking at him.
All the memories came rushing back to that one, pinpoint, moment in time and place. Harold. Harold was safe. Harold was alive. He heard himself saying 'Goodbye, Harold'. All the love and friendship they had shared for each other over the last five years, came flooding back all at once. Harold, who meant everything to him; Harold, the man he owed his life and his sanity to…..was safe. He'd watched him limp to safety through the door on the other roof. He'd done the job Harold had hired him to do… save people. And he had saved the most important person in the world.
Five years. All of his memories of the last five years had come back to him, intact. Every number they had gotten, the good and the bad.
Reaching to the tipped over glass, he poured himself another glass of whiskey had forced himself to take a break. He was physically exhausted. It felt like he had been in a fight for his life and that was probably closer to the truth than he wanted to admit. The flow of memories brought his whole body into a flight or fight mode. Muscles tensed, nervous energy looking for an outlet. He had to force himself to come back to the present. The physical act of sipping whiskey helped bring him back to the 'now'. Sitting on the balcony, he once more enjoyed the view. How much time had passed since he'd picked up that damn book that had started this avalanche of memories? Looking back into the condo through the glass doors he could see the book still sitting on the dining room table. So much had happened since he'd sat down to look through that book.
That book. It wasn't Zoe's book. It was...it belonged to Iris. She had brought that book here for that reason, to prompt his memory, to pry open the door of his locked away memories. All of the memories that he'd shut out completely. And THAT thought brought home a memory he was not expecting: Iris.
The memories of her flowed in a cascade of wonder. All seemed to bring with them a feeling of warmth, a feeling of openness and freedom he'd never thought he would feel. A feeling of wonder that he could experience anything remotely close to a normal life. His life had been so abnormal for so long, he had not even been sure he could have a normal life. But Iris had shown him that it was possible..
Doubts about even attempting to have a normal life were rooted in his days at the CIA. They'd instilled in him the idea that he had no family and no friends. Stanton had told him he wasn't even part of the human race anymore because of the things they had done and would do in the future. Stanton had tried to own him...but she had never gotten his soul. The part of him that WAS still human had be safely locked away all these years. Up until that one night he almost died of his gunshot wounds in that cold, dark car. That memory came back to him sharp and clear. Carter. Joss Carter. He remembered almost dying but he also remembered her ghost had comforted him. Kept him alive. And in doing so, she had given him permission to live, to reach out to the people who loved him, to have a normal life before it was too late. Her ghost had given him permission to love again.
Iris had been that person. She had helped him find himself again; had helped him to accept his past. And also how to deal with the life he'd led previously. How to handle the life he could have now. He remembered talking to her. Telling her some things about his family that he had not shared with anyone. Not even Jessica. There were still parts of his past he was not ready to face, that he had not been able to tell her…...yet. But she had made him laugh, mainly at himself and helped him realize he was human.
Memories began to once again jump over each other in his mind. He remembered protecting her in a shootout while he was protecting a number. Shaking his head, he smiled to himself. Zoe had been the first one to realize he had feelings for Iris, even before he himself knew the extent of them. Sometimes when it came to interacting with others he knew he could be quite dense.
Then he remembered the pain when she had told him she was referring him to another doctor. He remembered the anger and the hurt at the thought that she was turning him away; remembered wondering what he had told her that made her afraid of him? He remembered turning that anger into stoney indifference, giving her the cold shoulder whenever their paths crossed in the precinct. Most of all he remembered the look on her face when he'd turned his back on her. Those memories made him ashamed. He'd retreated back to his cold and distant demeanor when dealing with people. All that he had gained with her help was lost. Or almost completely lost.
Another memory jumped in on top of that one. Smiling to himself he remembered that fateful afternoon she demanded he follow her to her office. She'd tried to explain her decision about releasing him to another doctor. Her explanation left him cold. But he remembered the look on her face when he asked "Then you're not afraid of me?" That question had taken every bit of courage he had to even ask it, to even put it into words and therefore give it power over him.
Her reaction to that question was etched in his memory forever. She had told him that nothing he could say or had said would ever make her afraid of him. That she was afraid of what she felt for him. She just said 'to hell with it'; and kissed him. He'd understood what it had cost her to explain that and the ultimate price she paid with that kiss. But what it had done for him, for them, had been life changing. The memory of her response to his kiss was everything.
The moments and places they had shared together after that fateful afternoon rolled out before him in his mind's eye. The normal life he had dreamed of had been almost within his reach. But too many times his 'job' interfered. Either leaving her to work a number or having to be late because he was finishing up a work on a number before meeting her. He laughed to himself as he remembered meeting her parents the first time. It had been awkward at the beginning but they seemed to like him by the end of dinner.
Then came the memory of their walk in the park. His chest ached with the thought of what he'd done to her that day. He felt sure that when he'd called her to meet him that she had no idea what was about to happen. She had become such a big part of his life. He'd told her a little bit about his 'job' but had kept a lot of it secret. What he did remember of that day was painful….for him and for her. He knew that he was holding on too tight to her and their life together. Would he hesitate doing what needed to be done because of her? Because he couldn't bring himself to take that final step that might ultimately take him away from her? He did know that the what he was doing was going to have global ramifications. He needed to be fully focused on his job. He didn't want her to be hurt if something did happen to him if she even would find out he was gone.
Thinking about it now, in the cold light of day, he realized that was the same logic he'd used when he let Jessica go. He'd felt he had to give up who he loved for an ideal he felt compelled to uphold thanks to his childhood experiences. But he was not going to make the same mistake twice. He had put his job before her and had waited too long to return to Jessica and she had died as a result of his rigid sense of duty. Iris wasn't in any immediate danger at the moment but he knew his decision had hurt her badly. Would she want him back? Would she even accept him back after what he'd done? Was all the work and help she'd been giving to help him regain his memories, was it all just another part of her job? Had he pushed her too far away to ever get her back?