Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. Written for enjoyment, not money.

"Oh, I just saved your ass. Quit whining."

Reese glowered at Fusco from the passenger seat as the detective steered the car away from the curb. "I'm not...whining," John ground out, taking a few careful breaths. "Poking at someone's broken ribs can cause them to shift, which in turn...can puncture lungs. I'd rather not add that experience...to my day, Lionel."

Fusco glanced at Reese out of the corner of his eye, and a bit of anxiety crept back in, along with just a little guilt. He'd been trying to make Finch's point about seeing the doctor, but Reese hadn't actually objected much in the first place. The man was cradling his ribs gingerly with one arm, and had already given up glaring in favor of resting his head back against the seat. He looked awfully pale. "How's your breathing?" the detective asked.

"It's fine." Reese replied testily.

"See, no harm, no foul then," Fusco grumped back, but let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"If you'd just taken me home...like I asked..."

"Quit talking, Wonderboy. We'll be there in ten."

Amazingly Reese listened, and a little while later Fusco pulled up in front of a modest, one-story clinic with a half-dozen parking spaces at the entrance, all vacant. 'Farouk Madani, M.D.' was printed on the door in white lettering. That and a quick glance at the address on his phone told Fusco he was in the right place. He turned off the car and got out, opening the passenger door. Reese looked at him, expression blank, but the facade crumbled as soon as he was forced to move. "Come on, it's just a few feet to the door," Fusco coaxed at Reese's heartfelt groan. John was nearly dead weight across his shoulders as Lionel eased him out of the car, and his legs didn't want to work right, but Fusco firmed his grip, doing his best to support the taller man. Somehow they made it inside, and Fusco was about to deposit Reese into a chair when a bald, middle-eastern man in a lab coat approached them.

"Please, bring him right back." The man – Dr. Madani, Fusco assumed – went to Reese's other side and together they all but carried him into the exam room. Madani sat John down on the side of the gurney and gave him a visual once-over. "I see you've learned to wear a vest, at least."

"He just has to remember that they don't stop headshots," Fusco commented.

Madani looked at the detective and raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. If you would please excuse us for a few minutes?"

"Of course," Lionel nodded and left.

"No bags of money this time around?" Madani asked Reese after the door had closed.

"What?" John replied a little breathlessly. He'd been vaguely aware of Fusco's departure, but the pain in his ribs was making it difficult to think, and it took a good long look at the man standing in front of him before he put two and two together and realized Madani was joking. He smirked then, but it turned into a wince. "I'm sure...you'll be compensated for your...trouble," Reese said, hunching his shoulders and letting his head droop forward in a vain attempt to ease the discomfort. He saw Madani's shoes step closer to him and warm fingers pressed against his neck. He shivered. Madani proceeded to slide the shirt off his shoulders and finished the job Lionel had started in unfastening his vest. It came free and John shivered harder, which tensed muscles around cracked bones and had him instinctively curling in on himself, arms hugging his sides.

"No, no, don't bend." Madani stopped him from doubling over, and the doctor's concerned face appeared in his line of vision. "It will only make the pain worse, John. Lie back, but allow me to do the work."

"Can't..." Reese gasped.

As rigid as John's body was under his hands, Madani believed him. Carefully letting go of his shoulders, the doctor retrieved a vial and syringe from a nearby countertop. He quickly drew up the proper dosage and administered the injection. Its effect was almost instantaneous. John began to relax and, as he did, Madani slowly guided the injured man the rest of the way onto the gurney. The pain held in his features for just a few seconds longer before his eyes slid closed and his breathing leveled off. Shaking his head in dismay, Madani started to collect the remainder of what he needed to tend to his patient.

"Detective."

Fusco looked up from his magazine and nodded at Finch as he came through the door.

"I didn't mean for you to wait," Finch said, apologetic. A glance at the time showed that nearly 90 minutes had passed since Fusco had driven Reese away from the scene, so he had to have been sitting here for nearly as long.

"Yeah, well, had to make sure Wonderboy didn't deck the doctor," Lionel answered with an indifferent shrug, but he locked eyes with Finch and they shared a brief look of concern for their colleague.

"I'm afraid he won't be decking anyone for awhile."

Both men turned at the sound of Madani's voice, and Finch took half a step forward. "How is he, Doctor?"

"Quite banged up, but stable – certainly better off than the last time you brought him to me. He has two broken ribs where the bullets impacted, two more that are cracked from whatever else happened to him, as well as significant bruising...everywhere, really. He needs to be monitored for at least the next twelve hours, and since I imagine that responsibility falls to me, I've made him as comfortable as I can."

Madani's voice held a measure of exasperation, which Finch could fully understand. Mr. Reese attracted trouble like no one he'd ever met, and Madani had been made an involuntary party to the aftermath of their operations multiple times now, but he seemed to take it mostly in stride, content with having his medical license back. Pulling himself from his reverie, Finch nodded in acknowledgement. "Thank you. Your assistance is most appreciated," he said sincerely.

"You can sit with him if you would like," Madani added, "but I have him on some fairly strong painkillers so he'll be in and out."

Finch nodded again, and moved toward the room the doctor indicated. Fusco trailed behind him, but only looked in on Reese for a moment before excusing himself, leaving Harold alone with his injured friend. Reese looked somewhat worse than he'd expected, and Finch unwittingly flashed back to that terrible moment he'd been certain, at the time, was John's last. With a shudder, he forced the image of Hersh and the gun out of his mind and seated himself in the chair next to the bed. John was alive – he was too pale and still, dressed in a hospital gown and covered warmly with blankets, and there was an IV in his arm and a pulse-ox clip on his left index finger – but the 'alive' part was all that mattered. Harold pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache beginning to form. He was exhausted, both from their work saving the latest number and the horrific incident that had followed, but as with that grainy camera feed a short time ago, his eyes were firmly fixed on John's face – relaxed and at peace as he slept – and Harold found that he couldn't look away.