John sits at Harold's desk, staring at the blank monitor. He taps his fingers quietly on the dark wood desk. Quiet though it may be, the sound is echoing off the walls through the nearly empty apartment. He leans back in the leather chair and closes his eyes. Taking the moment to compose himself.

The images of what happened two days ago flood his field of vision. Not only now, but constantly. The gunfight in the parking garage goes by quickly and he hardly takes in details. Even his conversation with Carter and Fusco in the car are a blur. It's that last phone conversation with Harold before he disappeared that hung over John's every thought.

He could remember vividly telling Harold to save Caroline and get away from the Garage and every time he replayed the memory, a part of him was yelling at Finch not to trust her. Not to let her in the car, just drive away and he would be safe. But John knew that's not how it happened, and the voice could change nothing.

In his head, he imagines what Finch's reaction must have been when he found out Caroline was not who she seemed. Was he scared? He must have been. But did he show it? Or perhaps he put on a brave face.

Another terrible thought came to mind: Did she hurt him?

Under what pretext did he leave with her? Gunpoint? Or did she knock him out and drive away? The latter caused a sudden extreme pang of guilt in Reese's gut. It also sparked another feeling: anger.

So help me god if she touched him...

The shadow he left on the desk was slowly fading, which caused him to turn to the window. The sun was setting. That would mark another day that Finch has been missing.

Caroline hadn't sent any demands, so this wasn't a ransom. She hasn't left any clues so she doesn't want John to chase her. She wants Harold. She had wanted him from the beginning. But why?

The only two things he had to go on was the dead woman and one word: Root.

Zoe was working on digging up any information about this and the other day had sent the messages sent between Root and Harold.

She knew his name. She knew who he was and he didn't know her.

Their exchange clearly showed that she wanted a nemesis of sorts but John could recall why. Was it about the machine? If so, what could she possibly gain from Harold? His life was about the machine now.

He wouldn't give it up unless he was-

John didn't want to think about what circumstances would lead to him giving up the machine. John sighed a deep sad sigh and rose from the chair, silently prowling his colleague's home.

His nest, John thought with a touch of dark humor.

He came to a stop at the bookshelf, the heart of Harold's being. Running a hand across the dark mahogany shelves, he came up with no dust.

No cobwebs on his shelves, just skeletons in his closet.

John stopped, holding his hand up for inspection. This simple statement that defined Harold so well also stuck a chord within John.

Yes, Harold would have put on a brave face. He would have held an image that didn't reflect what was happening beneath. Like me...

John turned back and could see through the doorway Harold's office with the empty desk chair and humming machines. A chill went over the room that didn't match the heat from the declining sun outside.

I will find you Harold...i will...

John moved to the door and his hand felt heavy as he reached for the door, when a familiar smell pushed to the front of his mind.

The bakery down the street.

John spun around and saw that Finch had left the window in the main room open a crack. Out of respect, John went back to close it. On the table by the window something caught his eye. John leaned over and picked up a book and immediately remembered when he last saw it.

Images of a drugged Harold flood his memory and his facial muscles are forced to pull into a tight smile. It fades away slowly when he replays Finch's last words to him that evening:

"Ask me anything."

If only I knew then what I know now...why didn't I ask you something then...ask...

It became clear John didn't know what he would have asked him. It did nothing to make him feel any better about the situation.

Did he want me to ask about it?

John ran his fingers down the spine of the old book and played with the aging corners of the binding. The title was getting harder and harder to make out as the sun slipped away and John knew it was time to leave.

Keeping the book in his hand, he strode to the door and without hesitation, pulled the thick door open. Looking back one last time before shutting the door, everything about the past 9 months poured into the abyss that was this room.

John could see Harold explaining the machine at the desk. See the numbers pile up on the board. The pictures fly by as they were taped on the glass. John could see Harold limping around the place looking for a runaway baby. He saw saw Harold hand him a birthday present.

He saw Harold carry stacks of his fiance's magazines. He saw Harold sipping his Sencha Green Tea. Harold...the memories skipped on like a slideshow. Every one of them, good or bad, made John smile.

Harold believed in second chances.

The machine. Harold's limp. Harold's secret "nephew". John's past. The numbers. The machine.

It all came back to the machine.

Harold believed in second chances...

He wanted to help people because he couldn't help himself. He even helped John, who didn't think he could be helped.

He saved my life...he saved me and now I have to save him.

This newfound determination swelled inside him and suddenly he knew what he had to do.

The machine.

The machine was the reason Harold was captured and now John is going to use it to find him. What was it Harold was doing with the phone?

I have to get him back.

John could feel his fingers tighten around the book and his brow creased with concentration.

I will get him back.

John allowed the door to close behind him.