A chapter 2 and, yes, this is because Caviezel was in Passion of the Christ.
Harold Finch had never believed in saviors. He believed in flawed, broken people doing what they could with the shattered pieces they were left with. But as John staggered into his arms, bleeding, trembling, his life ebbing away from wounds inflicted by those he'd once served, Harold felt something dangerously close to divine judgment rise in his chest.
There was a quiet horror in the sight before him—a good man, one of the kindest men he'd ever known, reduced to this. John, who never hesitated to protect the innocent, who cared for the vulnerable without thought, now a sacrificial lamb, handed over to the wolves by those who should have seen his worth. Judas, Harold thought bitterly as his eyes locked on Detective Carter. She had sold John out, however unintentionally, to a system that delighted in crucifying men like him.
Her betrayal was laced with good intentions, but that made it no less devastating. Pilate had washed his hands of responsibility, but the blood still stained the ground beneath his feet. And here you are, Detective, holding the hammer and nails, convinced you're upholding the law.
Harold's gaze hardened as Carter barked at them to stop, her gun drawn, her face a mask of conflicted duty. You sold him out to the CIA because it was the law. But tell me, Detective—what is the worth of a law that crucifies the good to protect the powerful?
He could feel John sagging against him, his weight growing heavier with each passing second. Blood soaked Harold's hands, seeping through John's coat. The warmth of it sickened him. John Reese—kind, soft-hearted, burdened with guilt he didn't deserve—was dying in his arms because of a world that couldn't recognize the value of a man like him.
A resigned sacrificial lamb, bleeding for the sins of a society too blind to see him for what he was.
Harold tightened his grip, pulling John closer, cradling him as if his arms alone could hold him together. I won't let you die for them, John. I won't let you become their martyr. His heart twisted with grief and rage at the thought of John dying like this—alone, misunderstood, condemned. No one had ever fought for John Reese. No one had ever protected him.
Until now.
Harold angled himself in front of John, staring down Carter's gun with a quiet ferocity that bordered on holy wrath. Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane. His normally placid expression was twisted with condemnation and disgust. You saw a man trying to atone for his sins, and you pointed a gun at him. You saw someone who saved your life, who saved countless others, and you handed him over to the ones who would destroy him. How dare you?
Carter's gun wavered, the conflict in her eyes unmistakable. Harold saw the moment her resolve cracked, her guilt becoming too heavy to bear. She lowered the gun, holstering it with trembling hands. But it wasn't enough. It could never be enough.
This is what you've done, you Pharisee. Harold's eyes accused her, darting to John's pale, bloodied face. Look at him. Look at the man you've crucified.
John trembled in Harold's arms, his head lolling. His breath was labored, shallow, but he was still fighting, still painfully aware.
Harold's chest tightened as John sagged against him. There was trust in that movement. Trust, and something heartbreakingly profound. John Reese, the man who never allowed himself to need anyone, had reached for him, was leaning on him, trusting Harold to carry his cross as he staggered under it's weight.
Then, like the centurions at the foot of Calvary, an epiphany seemed to dawn on Carter as the veil tore and she saw the depth of her mistake, as if she finally saw John for what he truly was. As Carter finally moved to help, Harold's gaze never left her. She reached out to steady John, her expression filled with remorse. But Harold's condemnation lingered, unspoken but unmistakable.
With John safely bundled into the back of the car, Harold sped away. Even as he raced through the streets, he reached behind him, his hand finding John's and holding it tightly. John's fingers were cold, but they curled around Harold's hand with a faint squeeze.
And. as the city blurred past the windows, Harold drove in silence, his mind spinning with righteous anger and bitter grief.
No more lambs for slaughter. He wouldn't let John die for a world that didn't deserve him. If he had to become the sword, the shield, or even the cross himself to protect John Reese, he would do it without hesitation.
Because John Reese wasn't a criminal. He wasn't a monster. He was a good man, and Harold Finch wasn't going to let the world destroy him.
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