ISOLAMENTO
by PapayaK

oO0Oo

Joss Carter forced her eyelids open. Her head was pounding and her vision was swimming. She blinked a few times and strained to bring her surroundings into focus. When the lumpy shapes around her finally began to make themselves recognizable, she realized two things, neither of which were particularly encouraging: She was lying in a hospital bed and her partner was watching her. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"What happened?" She asked him, frowning.

"I was hoping you could tell me that." Fusco answered. "You don't remember anything?"

She frowned harder and pushed herself up into a semi-seated position. Reaching up, her hand found the exceptionally tender lump on the back of her head and she winced. "Somebody mistake my head for a nail?"

"Don't know." Fusco explained, cringing in what Carter suspected was supposed to be sympathy. "There was a 911 call last night about a street fight - supposed to be like six guys havin' it out, but when patrol got there, all they found was you, unconscious on the ground. No sign of anything else. You take out six guys, Carter? You got some skills I don't know about?"

She smiled a little, acknowledging the attempt at humor, then raised her eyebrows and looked at him, "Who called 911?"

"Pay phone. No way to know."

Carter frowned, trying to fight through the clouds in her mind.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Fusco encouraged.

She rolled her head on her shoulders, trying to relieve some of the ache and thought back to last night. "Had dinner with Taylor and then Finch called. Said they had a new person for me to look into and he had some information he wanted to give me." She nodded slowly to herself as the memories began to sort themselves out. "I met them at a diner in a pretty depressed part of town. They handed over the file, we talked for a minute, and then we all left. They said they had something else to do in the neighborhood, but they didn't say what. They went left and I went right - back toward my car - and…" She looked back at her partner. "That's it."

"So whatever happened, Glasses and Wonderboy had something to do with it."

Carter nodded. "Probably."

"Figures."

"You hear from either of them?" She asked, a little bit of concern mixing in with her confusion.

Fusco scowled. "Not a word. And not for lack of trying either." He shook his head. "Not like them to go dark when you end up in the hospital."

A knot of something that wasn't quite worry settled in her gut. She slid her legs off the side of the bed and sat up.

"Carter -" Fusco protested. "Doc says you gotta stay the day for observation."

She shook her head. "I gotta check on Taylor… Figure out what happened…"

"Your kid's fine. I called and he's over at your mom's."

At her look, he defended himself. "I told you I got your back, Carter."

She smiled a little at that. Sometimes she forgot that he was actually a pretty good guy. "I still gotta figure out what happened to me… and to our mutual friends." She looked around the room. "Where are my clothes?"

"Yeah - I figured you might feel that way." He held out her keys. "I had a uniform drive your car over. It's in the lot. Your clothes are over there." He gestured to a cabinet. "I'll wait outside."

But Carter shook her head. "Fusco, you don't have to hang around. I'm fine-"

"You have a concussion."

Then she did smile. "I'm fine. A little headache isn't going to slow me down. I've had worse. And, if I remember right, you have a triple homicide."

"Carter- That's an open-and-shut drug deal gone bad. It practically solves itself."

"I'm serious, Fusco. I've got an excuse to take a day off. You don't. How you gonna explain ignoring the three dead bodies you got waiting for you?"

"I don't know…"

"I promise I'll call you if anything happens, okay?" While she appreciated the concern, at this point, she really did just want to be on her own. She was more worried than she cared to admit.

"Okay." Fusco finally agreed. "You call me if you need anything." He admonished her.

She smiled and shooed him out of the room so she could get dressed.

oO0Oo

Harold Finch woke up suddenly, sat up suddenly, and just as quickly lay back down.

Moving suddenly was never, ever a good idea for him, and he could not, for the life of him, understand why he had done so.

He breathed carefully through the shooting pain in his back, neck, and arm… wait.

Arm?

His eyes popped open and he forced the presence of mind to survey what he could of his surroundings from his prone position. His head throbbed in sync with his racing heartbeat.

The distant ceiling he found himself looking at did not hold any clues as to where he was or how he had ended up there. He turned his attention to the rest of the room he could see and found it to be dark, musty, and uncomfortably warm. The air was stale. It felt thick with the penetrating smell of used motor oil and rust, like an old garage. It was the height of summer in New York but that normally meant an unpleasant level of humidity. The atmosphere he found himself in was hot, but surprisingly dry.

It was difficult to see much in the dim light. The only source of illumination was a slight glow from somewhere to his left. Its precise source was blocked by a stack of large crates.

He could determine nothing else from his current position. Moving with practiced care, he raised himself until he was semi-upright.

Now he could make out over a dozen dusty beige cardboard boxes. They may have once been neatly stacked, but most of the stacks had fallen over. Some of the boxes had spilled their contents in the process, but it was too dark to determine exactly what those contents were. Amongst the boxes were irregular piles of debris: rebar and cracked I-beams of various lengths, pieces of broken concrete, wood and other refuse which Finch could not identify.

Pain flared, reminding him of his initial inquiry and he looked down at himself. His left arm wouldn't move quite right, and when he tried, it was very painful. There was no visible blood. Was it broken? Sprained? Mr. Reese would know.

Reese!

He froze and felt a wave of adrenaline surge through his body. Mr. Reese had been with him in the moments before… this. Whatever had happened, Finch was certain it had happened to both of them. "Mr. Reese?" He inquired of the room. "Mr. Reese?!" He asked again with more volume but still there was no response. He grabbed for his phone, but his pockets were empty.

No phone.

Was he alone here?

It was time to find out.

He turned as far in both directions as his spine would allow, searching for any sign of Mr. Reese. Over his left shoulder, he saw it. Just visible beyond one of the boxes was a hand; a limp, blood streaked hand; a hand he knew. "John!" He exclaimed. He glanced sideways as he recognized the genuine fear, almost panic in his own voice.

He cleared his throat. If there was one thing he had learned through the last years, and most notably from his employee, it was that fear was not helpful in these situations. It could, and quite often did, make things worse.

So he swallowed his fear, grabbed a piece of I-beam with his right hand and pulled himself to his rather unsteady feet. Now, at least, he could see Mr. Reese, but what he saw did not comfort him. The man was lying on his back and utterly still. Was he breathing? Finch couldn't tell.

He began to make his way carefully through the debris, glancing up and down as he tried to both ascertain Mr. Reese's condition and keep himself from tripping. Reese was bleeding from several different places. Were any of the wounds deep, or life-threatening? Finch paused and closed his eyes. Mr. Reese was bleeding. Dead men don't bleed. Never in his life did Finch think he would be so glad to see someone bleed.

Somewhat bolstered by the knowledge that his employee lived, he moved with more ease and reached his destination without mishap. Kneeling awkwardly beside the injured man, he reached out with his good hand and checked Reese's pulse. He was relieved to find it was strong and steady.

Finch took his first deep breath since he had woken up. Gently but firmly, he shook Reese's shoulder and called his name in an effort to wake him, but he showed no sign of returning to consciousness any time soon. Trying not to think about what that might mean, Finch resigned himself to seeing what injuries he could tend while the man was out.

First though, he quickly and lightly ran his hand through all of Reese's pockets. No phone. Gently tilting Reese's head away from him, he checked for the earwig as well, but it too was missing.

Finch was thankful to find that none of the wounds were bleeding very heavily. Opening his coat and vest, he tore the tails off his shirt and used them to clean and bandage the cuts as well as he could manage with one hand. As he went it became apparent that the lacerations were the result of a fight with a knife-wielding opponent. It disturbed FInch that he was coming to know these things well enough to recognize them on sight.

Meanwhile, Mr. Reese gave absolutely no response to all the poking and prodding which Finch found quite unnerving.

oO0Oo

A/N - It has occurred to me that there are one or two of you out there who might just recognize this story for what it is: an homage to one of my favorite stories of all time. That story took place in a different fandom, and in a very different situation, but I love the basic concept so much, I altered it to fit our POI friends. If you do happen to recognize it, you get a virtual cookie- and I really hope you like what I've done with it.