Title: Alone Together
By: nancy
Pairing: John Reese/Harold
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: up to 1x17.
Summary: John always follows where Harold leads.

***

A dull, angry throbbing in his thigh matched the tempo of the throbbing in his side. Even through the fog of anesthesia, John felt his wounds and struggled through the dark of unconsciousness. He heard the steady sound of a heart monitor, but that didn't match the soft sheets under his hands; he wasn't in a hospital.

Harold, he realized vaguely. Of course he'd be somewhere private.

John opened his eyes and found his vision blurred, grimaced to himself and wiped his eyes. It took that and blinking a few times to see that he was, actually, in a hospital. Or so said the sterile walls and the impersonal art on them. An expensive hospital, though from the looks of the monitoring equipment and his bedding.

The door opened and a young blonde woman walked in. She jumped a bit on seeing him awake and then smiled broadly. "Mr. Hellman! It's so good to see you awake!"

John wondered if that was Harold's subtle insult to him for the worry or if he just liked the mayonnaise and couldn't think of another name while under stress. He figured it was the former.

She took his vitals and said, "We were starting to get worried when you didn't wake up as expected last night. Even considering all the bloodloss, it was an unusual reaction to your anesthesia."

"What day is it?" John rasped.

"Friday."

Which meant that it was only the next day.

"Where am I?"

"Oh! Sorry. I'm such a chatterbox sometimes. You're at The Milkwood Recovery. And I'm Sarah, your nurse. And don't worry. We've all signed the nondisclosure forms. I may be a chatterbox, but I know how to keep confidentiality. I'm just so honored to be helping you!"

John's eyebrow lifted in surprise. "Oh?"

Sarah nodded earnestly. "Helping someone like you, someone who keeps us safe, well, it's an honor, Mr. Hellman. My second cousin is a cop but he never went undercover. Of course, that's nothing like being an undercover federal agent, I bet."

John bit his cheek to keep from smiling fondly. Harold and his little games. "No, no it's not."

"Well! You seem to be doing very well now that you've shaken off the surgery. We're going to leave you flat to let your side heal up some more. I know that's boring, but I could turn the radio on for you?"

"That would be fine, thank you. Something classical?"

"Sure! You get some rest. I'll bring you in something to eat shortly."

John nodded and watched her leave after she turned on the radio. He closed his eyes and wondered where Harold was; no doubt making still more arrangements for when he'd healed enough to leave Milkwood. He let himself, and his thoughts, drift to the sounds of Vivaldi and wondered if it was something Harold enjoyed.

Getting shot once, was bad. Twice in less than a minute was a little more than even John could handle. He only vaguely remembered getting down the garage stairs. What stood out most during that blur was ordering Harold to stay away, but somehow knowing that he would be ignored. He'd never been so relieved to be ignored in his life. He'd also been somewhat surprised by how solid Harold turned out to be, holding him upright when all John wanted to do was collapse.

Carter letting them go had also been a surprise. He remembered her voice but not her words. And he remembered seeing the lights of the city flash by the car from his spot across the backseat of Harold's car. Other than that, he remembered nothing until this moment.

John didn't like not knowing who'd operated on him or where it had taken place. Would he need to clean up loose ends or had Harold bribed their way out of it? Of course, bribery wasn't always a strong enough motivation to keep your mouth shut, so he would have to get the name of the doctor from Harold and do a little follow-up.

Drifting led to actual sleep and the classical music soothed his dreams, which ran from disjointed horror of memories to flashes of humor and affection now labeled Harold. He woke clammy and uncomfortable some time later and immediately noticed Harold sitting in the chair beside the bed. A laptop occupied the rolling table and Harold's fingers ran swiftly over them.

John took a few minutes to just look at the other man. There were shadows under his eyes, which were new, and his usual suit was off somehow... it took a couple of seconds to realize there was no tie. John half-smiled and rasped, "I don't rate a tie anymore, Harold? I think I'm disappointed."

Harold jumped a bit, blue eyes flashing over to him, sharp gaze scanning John's face. "The nurses said you'd woken earlier, so I stopped by."

John wasn't fooled. He had the feeling that he'd picked the one time Harold wasn't lurking to wake up. "Glad to hear it. What's the plan?"

Harold closed the laptop and walked over to the bed. He poured a glass of water and then seemed unsure of whether assistance would be welcome.

John took pity on him and said, "Thank you."

Nodding, Harold slid a gentle hand under his head and lifted him so that he could drink down the blessedly cool water. John leaned on the other man's strength and found it as certain as he remembered. It took several minutes to finish the water, but Harold didn't seem to mind. He lowered John back down as easily as he'd lifted him, though the half-stooped position had to impact his own chronic pain. As he'd always suspected, there was a lot more to Harold Finch than met the eye.

"The doctor wants you here for another two to three days," Harold informed him, straightening up and putting the cup back. "I've already commandeered their security system and will be monitoring remotely."

John hesitated, then asked, "How remotely?"

Feeling so vulnerable was new and unpleasant situation.

"Not far. I'll be half a block away."

John shifted and then gasped as white-hot pain sliced through his side.

"Mr. Reese! John, what's wrong?" Harold demanded, hands reaching for him but hovering uncertainly.

John breathed through the pain and then said, "It's okay, I just moved and I shouldn't have."

Harold's hands fell to his side and he let out a short breath. "How's your pain level? You are due for another round of medication in a half-hour. I can call them in now."

Shaking his head, John said, "I just need to remember not to move just yet. It's not bad if I don't move."

Harold adjusted his glasses and said, "I believe that your 'not bad,' would likely have most people screaming in agony, Mr. Reese."

John grinned a bit and agreed, "Maybe."

Harold huffed in apparent amusement, his gaze fond, and then he seemed to realize what he was doing. He turned to the laptop and picked it up. When he faced John again, he was back behind those emotional walls; the ones that John wanted to blow up with excessive amounts of C4.

"Since you need to rest, I will leave you to it, Mr. Reese. Sleep well."

John wanted to make him stay longer, but let him retreat with a simple nod of acknowledgment. It would be a while before he could assure Harold that he was fine. John knew what his body was capable of and whoever had operated on him had done a very good job. There was very little excess damage. He figured it would only be a week, maybe ten days, before he was up and about with the help of crutches.

Closing his eyes, John forced himself to sleep knowing that bad dreams wouldn't be enough to keep him down. He was the only real protection Harold had, after all, and until he was back on the job, the other man would be even more vulnerable than John.

* * * *

The wheelchair took some getting used to, but John had to admit that it came in handy. It caused people to automatically underestimate him and having an advantage always made John happy. What made him even happier was the pleased expression on Harold's face when he brought the damned hemorrhoid pillow as a housewarming present. He looked so proud of himself that John couldn't make himself kill the damn thing like he wanted to; with extreme prejudice.

It was nice to share space with Harold. It was even nicer to have the other man's full attention whenever he wanted. Harold was both quiet and undemanding in his company, assisting when needed and retreating when John's frustration at his body's continued limitations overwhelmed him.

"Mr. Reese. You were shot twice less than ten days ago," Harold observed when John nearly fell over after testing his balance. If Harold hadn't grabbed him in time, he would've landed in a painful heap on the floor. "I don't think using the wheelchair at this point is considered a personal failure."

John sighed, but nodded. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm a genius."

John laughed, his black mood broken before truly forming. He glanced sidelong at Harold, who still held him upright. "Was that a joke, Finch?"

Harold's mouth twitched, but didn't actually smile. "Merely a statement of fact."

"Sure it was," John murmured, accepting his help back into the wheelchair.

John definitely didn't appreciate when Harold went out to do his job. Not knowing what was going on or being on hand to save Harold when it went bad sent him into a cold sweat. He ruthlessly put his body through his PT exercises and more when Harold wasn't around to see it. Within a couple of days of getting into his new apartment with the super who might or might not be obsessed with a tenant, John could walk around with the crutches.

Not long after that, he put another man in the hospital by throwing him out a window after beating him severely with those crutches. He wanted to kill that man for threatening Harold, had counted on the fall doing it for him and felt cheated when the man lived.

Three weeks after getting shot, John was almost back to normal. There was still tenderness in his side and leg which would remain a liability until it finished healing. He worked out religiously in an attempt to speed the healing, but did so judiciously; too much could be just as damaging as not enough.

He'd returned to keeping an eye on both the person whose number the machine spit out and Harold. John couldn't always be there, of course, but Lionel was... adequate. He didn't fool himself into thinking that the cop wouldn't get spotted eventually, Harold was too much a master of surveillance not to notice at some point. It would do for the time being, though.

Things went on pretty well as normal until Leila. Until John suddenly had more than one person for whom he would do anything. Until he saw the same emotions in Harold's face. Until she'd been used against him. Once she was in her grandparents' arms and on her way to her own life, John had the strongest urge to find Elias and stomp him into the ground.

Halfway back to the library, Harold said abruptly, "Don't go after Elias."

John's lips twitched despite his murderous mood. "When did you add mind-reading to your bag of tricks, Finch?"

"I don't need to be psychic to know what you're thinking right now, Mr. Reese," Harold countered. "Elias will answer for his crimes, but not tonight and not at your hands."

John kept his voice casual, almost friendly as he said, "I don't see why not. I can find him and deal with him and then it'll be over."

"No, Mr. Reese... John. We don't do that. You don't do that. Not anymore."

That's the crux of it, isn't it? John mused to himself. He could remove the threat that Elias represented and keep Harold safe for good, but would lose Harold in the process if he did. Which was more important? Vengeance and future security, or Harold's ideals?

Harold pulled into an underground garage, but it wasn't anywhere near the library. After he parked, he offered, "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Reese?"

Amused, John met his gaze and said, "Babysitting ended when we turned Leila over to her grandparents."

Harold smiled briefly. "Apparently not. I have cognac, if that's more to your taste."

John sat where he was for a few moments after Harold left the car. He wasn't sure what game Finch currently played, but there was one way to find out. He got out of the car and followed Harold to a private elevator. They took it up to Harold's apartment. John hadn't been there before and, once inside, assumed that it was his actual apartment instead of one of the man fakes that littered the boroughs. It was too much like the man he'd come to admire – quietly understated and with an atmosphere of studious simplicity – not to be.

"Nice place," John said.

Harold walked over to a sideboard in the main living area and said, "Thank you."

John walked over to one of the bookcases and scanned the titles. Classics mixed with contemporary novels organized simply by the author's last name. Harold brought over a snifter filled with amber liquid and John teased, "No Dewey decimal system?"

Harold offered the glass and a small, but genuine smile. "Not here."

"Why am I here, Harold?" John questioned, holding the glass and the other man's gaze. "Do you really think you need to watch me to make sure I don't go after Elias?"

Harold stayed next to John instead of retreating as he usually did. John could feel his body heat through both their clothes and had the urge to see if Harold was as sturdy as he'd felt. This close, John could smell him and he breathed in just a bit more deeply; not that he didn't already have the scent memorized.

"Perhaps I didn't want to be alone again just yet."

The quiet, clear words struck something deep within John. They were sincere, though not a cry for help or sympathy. It hit him anew, how much braver Harold was than him. Not because of his physical limitations, but because he carried a burden almost no one else could and did it because no one else could. John didn't know how many years Harold had done this before recruiting him, but suspected that it was a long time.

Meeting him halfway, John admitted, "Neither do I."

Harold smiled again and John cherished it, committing it to his heart. "To being alone, together."

John chuckled warmly and clinked his glass against Harold's, the fine crystal chiming nicely. "I'll drink to that."

He sipped at the liquor and tasted just how expensive it was, not that he'd expected any less. Harold didn't look away and John suddenly couldn't, snared by those light blue eyes as surely as if he were immobile.

Lowering the glass, he asked quietly, "Do you know what you're doing, Harold?"

"In this? I estimate approximately sixty-forty in favor of yes," Harold answered, continuing to hold his gaze. "But if I'm wrong, I trust that you won't let it get in the way of our mission."

John took Harold's snifter and put it with his on the nearest shelf. He said, "I think you're underestimating yourself," and then pressed his lips to Harold's.

Harold's eyes finally closed when his mouth opened to John's kiss. John sidled in closer and slid a hand around the smaller man's back to pull him in flush. He kept the kiss shallow, not wanting to come on too strong. He enjoyed the way Harold gasped for air in quick breaths as if afraid to stop too long. Those surprisingly strong hands gripped John's back and Harold unexpectedly opened his mouth further. John obliged and pushed his tongue in, twining it with Harold's and finding himself unexpectedly short of breath in almost no time. His whole body had coiled tight in anticipation and he felt an echoing hardness against his thigh.

Breaking off the kiss at last, John caught his breath and watched avidly as Harold did the same. The other man's eyes opened and he blinked at John in near-surprise for some reason. It made John smile fondly and say, "Hi."

Harold seemed stymied for a few seconds and then he shook his head, maybe at a thought, probably at the inanity of John's greeting. He finally said, "We can't let this interfere."

With the mission. With whatever games Harold had in play. Maybe even with the walls they'd both built up. It was an ambiguous statement at best.

John's lips pursed momentarily and he said, "You've always been my priority, Finch."

Harold's eyes widened behind his glasses, as if the words were a complete surprise. Maybe they were.

"I protect you first and the machine's numbers second, but it's a very close second. I won't jeopardize anyone because of how I feel for you. I haven't so far and won't in the future," John finished simply.

"John, that's..."

"How it is. It's not going to change, even if we never do anything else physically."

Harold gazed at him as if trying to discern any possible wiggle room in the flat statement. He sighed and shook his head. "You are impossible, Mr. Reese."

John smiled and said, "I've been called worse."

Harold's chuckle was all the more precious for how rare a thing it was. "Come, John. There are far more comfortable places where we can... discuss this further."

John smirked outright. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

But he followed where Harold led. He always did.

***