Chapter 3

.

Finch and Reese had been led to a room way - way - in the back of the building. It was devoid of all furniture, and the two chairs they were currently tied to had to be dragged there from somewhere else. Harold had a suspicion that the barren concrete floor and walls were probably easy to clean, and that they were not the first nuisances that Mercer had dealt with here.

They'd been sitting in silence side by side since Mercer and his men left to gather whatever they thought they needed to make them talk. And even though Harold tried to appear calm he knew he was failing miserably at hiding his nervousness. The men probably thought he'd be easy to crack, but Harold Finch's resolve had been underestimated before...

Harold's eyes roamed over the room for the hundredth time, as an excuse to throw sideway glances at Mr. Reese.

If there ever had been a statue of silent rage, John Reese was it. He hadn't moved a muscle since they'd been tied to the chairs, stoically staring ahead and emanating disapproval in nearly palpable waves.

"You are angry," Finch eventually said, twisting his upper body as best as he could with his arms tied to the armrest to face the other man's profile. As a response Reese's nostril flared and his jaw muscle flexed, then - still staring ahead - he said, "You should have stayed away."

Harold had heard that same quiet, cold and intense tone of voice directed at him only once before - when John had ordered him to get out of the car during the Marshal Jennings case. And just like it had done back then, it chilled him to the core. But he wouldn't back down this time. "He was going to shoot you," he said with maybe just a little bit too much incredulity at how Reese seemed to so easily overlook that tiny fact.

John's head turned slightly towards Harold. Still he kept his gaze downcast. "You shouldn't have come back."

"You mean I shouldn't have come back for you?" There was definitely incredulity and also a healthy dose of anger at Reese's insistence that his life was worth less than everyone else's in Harold's voice this time.

They'd been working together for over two years now, and Finch thought they had been over this topic already. But apparently not. "I ...," he trailed off with a humorless laugh. Reese turned to stare ahead again, and Harold shook his head.

How could that man just ignore that people - and not just him, but Detective Fusco, Ms. Morgan and Ms. Shaw - well, maybe - cared about him. That he'd be missed? "You know John," continued Harold - calmer now. "You keep talking about how there are some people the world can't afford to lose. Well - and I know you don't want to hear this - but you are one of them, too."

At that Reese closed his eyes and turned his head away from Finch completely, but not before the older man had seen pain travel across the younger man's face. "John, look at me," he said with determination, waiting for his friend to heed his request. "Look at me!"

Finally Reese turned his head. He still refused to look directly at Harold, but it was close enough. "I'm not like your former employer. And while Ms. Shaw might be able to replace the 'Man in the Suit', she can't replace you." Harold paused, letting his words sink in. Then he said, "You are more than just my employee - you are my friend. And I will always come back for you, John. Whether you like it or not. Always."

Reese continued to stare ahead, and it seemed to Finch that everything he had just said in his uncustomary outburst of emotion had bounced off that thick ex-CIA-agent-head. But then John nodded, just so minutely, and finally turned to look - actually look - at Finch. "Okay. What's your plan then? Besides us getting matching bruises?"

Finch couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at his lips, which disappeared as soon as his thoughts went to his plan. He mentally winced. "Well, Ms. Shaw is on her way back, and until then we'll have to buy time."

John's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "That's your plan? We wait?"

And this time Harold did wince. "In a nutshell?"

Reese hated for Harold to be here, in this situation, but he'd come to accept that it had been the other man's choice. A choice he'd soon regret - of that John was sure - but he would try his hardest to get Harold through this. Facing forward he said, "I have a feeling it's going to be a very unpleasant wait." He threw Harold a sideways glance, and he noted that the nervousness was back on the recluse's features. But he needed Finch to hear what he had to say. "Harold, the moment Mercer gets what he wants we're both dead. So, whatever happens ..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Harold swallowed hard, and nodded.

Whatever happens...

.

To be continued

.

.

.

.

A/N: I know this chapter is short, and I'm sorry about that. But I really felt that this scene needed to stand alone before ... well, you'll see ;)