Spoken Truths

By Badgergater

Episode: S4, Prophets

Summary: After Reese is forced to visit the NYPD psychiatrist and realizes he's spoken truths he doesn't want to acknowledge, he has a talk with Harold.

Author's note: Thanks to Scully for the beta and, as always, to Corinne for the gift of POI

POI * poi * POI POI * poi * POI POI * poi * POI

"There are far too many bad people in this world, and not enough good. I knew a detective once; she was the best cop I ever knew. Never lost sight of good and evil. I couldn't save her. Now this job is dangerous; you think I am too. So be it. Maybe that makes me unfit to be a cop. And if I don't save these people, nobody else will." (Reese)

As he left his appointment with the NYPD shrink- an appointment which his captain had mandated- John Reese was in a foul mood. Dr. Campbell said he was making progress. Hmmph. She was clueless, he thought. That wasn't the doctor's fault of course- she was clueless because John Riley's whole entire life was lie after lie after lie ad infinitum.

He doubted he even knew what the truth was anymore. He'd spent so many years fabricating stories that deceit and deception came as naturally to him as breathing.

Though maybe he had just actually revealed something…important.

Carefully veiled, of course. Exposing nothing. Except a vital truth about himself. To himself.

Yes, he'd told Harold 'Therapy doesn't work when you have to lie about everything.'

And somehow she'd gotten him to utter something that wasn't a lie. Maybe even two things.

And a not lie was truth, right?

He shook his head in disbelief. Live your lie- it was one of the basic tenets of undercover work. And he'd lived so many lies he was pretty sure he couldn't live the truth if his life depended on it- if he could even remember what the truth was.

In Campbell's office he'd revealed way too much. Maybe he could blame his lapse on exhaustion, burning the candle at both ends with two jobs- one legit, one not. Then again, maybe he'd just slightly… maybe… wanted to say it. Maybe he even needed to say it, needed to give voice to the words and come face to face with the thoughts that were ricocheting around inside his head like bullets at a shootout.

Though there just weren't enough hours in the day to be a cop, work the Numbers and get an adequate amount of sleep, John was nevertheless restless and on edge. He opted out of taking the subway home and decided to make the long walk back to the third floor walkup where he now resided. It was a lengthy trek but maybe it would help him clear his head.

He had been on the move for nearly half an hour when he realized that subconsciously he'd chosen a different destination.

A place he had not been- in fact it was a place he'd been assiduously avoiding.

It was the one place in the city where John Reese did not want to go. He'd been in New York's worst neighborhoods, in the bloodiest gang war territories and the dirtiest subterranean sewers, but he'd rather face a thousand Samaritan operatives than go where his feet were taking him now.

But tonight he found himself… compelled… to make the journey.

Guess that shrink had evaded his defenses and gotten inside his head after all, he thought wryly. You are getting careless John, he warned himself.

He forced himself to continue walking through the gate and on into the dark and peaceful cemetery among the shadows cast by row after row of silent stone monuments. It was all that remained of people, he thought sadly—good or bad there was nothing more than their names starkly etched into stone blocks standing above their moldering bones.

Reese walked down the long rows until he found her grave. It wasn't hard- he'd clandestinely watched from afar as Taylor went there one day. He stood mutely staring down at it, hoping for some revelation, some catharsis. But he only felt odd standing there, odd and incredibly sad.

She'd been gone nearly a year now, a bad year in so many ways. A year in which he'd tried to go home and only proved to himself that there truly was nothing left for him there. He'd attempted to give up the Numbers and discovered that the Machine refused to let him quit. He was caught in its clutches as thoroughly as he'd previously been owned body and soul by the CIA. And to top it off he'd realized that his own conscience wouldn't allow him to walk away either- he was compelled to help people to the point of obsession by something unfathomable inside him. It seemed to be the only way he could make his life bearable.

Joss Carter of course wasn't his only failure of the past year, just the most painful one. He'd failed to protect Finch's beloved Grace- only Harold's near fatal sacrifice had won her safety. He'd been unable to save all those people killed in the bombing. Hell he even felt bad about the death of his old enemy Hersh that same night. And then Samaritan had forced him to run, to leave behind all the gains of the most stable three years of his life. He'd changed his identity so many times before that this shouldn't have bothered him but it had- this time he'd left behind a part of himself. Like he'd told the shrink, he'd made friends, discovered people he cared about and- much to his amazement- people who had found him worth caring about in return. Han, Zoe, Joan, the men at the veteran's center where he used to volunteer...

John raised his gaze to look up at the sky but there were no stars to be seen here in the city. Above him it was just as black and empty and endlessly dark as it was inside of him.

He had cried for Joss that night she'd died in his arms. He'd been wrenched away from that moment- too seriously wounded to attend her wake or funeral, unable to comfort Taylor, unable to take down Quinn but forced to leave that victory to Fusco. He'd never finished the grieving he had started that night just as he had never been able to mourn for another woman he had failed.

Jessica, whom he had loved and promised to help. Had she died hating him? Cursing him for breaking another promise and abandoning her? In her final days, hours, minutes had she believed him a coward and a liar?

John had been so numb when he'd learned of her death, so lost, so…broken. Hollow, devoid of any feeling except for anger and self-loathing. Unable to comprehend anything but his own pain, his own remorse and guilt, he had never cried for the woman he had loved, the one person who had connected him to the world and made him believe in a future that had turned to dust and ashes.

So many mistakes- his life was a sad litany of them.

Shooting people really was the only thing he was good at.

Guess he'd confessed another truth to that doc.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there in the dark when quiet footsteps approached from behind, the uneven stride as distinctive as the voice and face that went with them. They stopped a few feet away.

John cleared his throat and without turning around spoke roughly. "Go away, Harold."

"I don't mean to intrude."

"But you are."

"I think tonight you need a friend."

Reese didn't answer.

"We shouldn't be here."

John was still staring at Carter's grave. "I should be here. Instead of her. She threw her life away to save mine."

"Detective Carter would not agree with that. She knew your life had value."

"She died saving a dead man," he countered angrily. That seemed to be the only emotion he had left. Anger over his losses, anger over his failures, anger over Samaritan, anger over being a cop required to follow rules that hampered his real work. Anger at being ordered to see a shrink and face up to his shortcomings. Anger at the Numbers for getting themselves into trouble. And anger at the one man he knew was truly his friend.

Harold sighed and waited for Reese to say something but the tall man remained mute. "This isn't a safe place," Finch insisted. "We shouldn't be seen here."

"Maybe I don't care anymore, Harold. Maybe when you have nothing left to lose, you're just lost. Done. Dead. Just not buried yet."

"You don't believe that, John. You were the one who convinced me I couldn't continue to turn my back on the Numbers despite my misgivings and the risks." Harold paused a moment and then went on. "I know you find the constraints of being a police officer frustrating. I know you feel isolated. But you can not save every number. Listen to Dr. Campbell. You don't have a death wish but your hero complex will get you killed and then you cannot help anyone."

Reese's temper flared. There was only one way Harold could have known those words. "Apparently you've never heard of doctor patient confidentiality," he snapped angrily.

"You know I listen."

"Sometimes you shouldn't. But then that's never bothered you, has it?"

"It never bothered you before."

John shrugged. "Things used to be…different."

"Yes they did," Harold conceded sadly. "But my purpose has never been to invade your privacy."

John laughed bitterly. "You've dug through my whole life, you know everything about me. And yet you keep all your own secrets."

"I made it clear from the start that I'm a very private person."

"When it comes to your own life."

Harold sighed. Reese could be cold and ruthless to the point of seeming inhuman, but Finch knew very well that deep emotions churned just beneath this man's surface. He was all too well aware that John was feeling the pressure of maintaining this double life amid the same people who had spent months attempting to capture and incarcerate him. Yes, the ex-CIA agent had lived with such pressures before, but non-stop stress and tension took its toll on even the strongest of men. "I'm sorry, John."

Reese laughed sourly again. "You promised never to lie to me, Harold."

"I did. And I meant it. And I still do." Finch took a step closer. He saw John tense and for a moment he was afraid that Reese would move away but the tall man held his ground. "When I hired you, you frightened me deeply. I knew you were capable of great violence, but I hoped… I believed… you were capable of empathy and compassion as well. I also realized I could quite possibly be unleashing a monster on the city, a man so damaged by what he had done that his humanity was gone. It was a calculated risk, and a terrifying one."

"And now?" Reese asked harshly.

"Sometimes you still frighten me," Harold acknowledged. "And I will never embrace your…viewpoint… but I believe I have learned to accept it."

Harold thought he saw John's shoulders relax slightly, but it was hard to tell in the dark.

They stood in uneasy silence for several minutes before Harold spoke again. "My old friend Arthur Claypool reminded me of something written by Ernest Hemingway. 'The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.' We are broken, you and I, John, each of us in our own way, by our own deeds. But we have mended the broken placesand we have emerged stronger. All that we can do is put ourselves back together and go on. We must finish what we started, finish what I started."

He heard Reese clear his throat but the tall man didn't speak.

"Be patient a while longer, John, I implore you. Things will happen, they are happening, but we must move cautiously and bide our time. You do see that?"

Finch waited but Reese didn't answer. After a few silent moments Harold turned and began to walk slowly away. He had gone only a few halting strides before making a sudden decision. He stopped and turned back to the mute shadow in the dark graveyard. "Iowa," he said softly.

"What?"

"Iowa. I was born in Iowa."

And with that Harold turned and walked stiffly away, leaving John Reese alone with his thoughts.

POI * poi * POI

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