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

It wasn't right to leave her there alone, still bleeding, but nothing about this was right and so he'd allowed Finch to pry his arms from around her, help him up off of the red-stained pavement outside the Precinct, and more or less drag him to the car. He couldn't deny that the gunfire and Joss's shouts would probably draw attention sooner rather than later, even if shock and sorrow had dulled his capacity to care. The car started moving, and he leaned his forehead against the passenger window, his eyes locked onto her, so still on the ground, until they rounded the corner and she was gone.

Gone.

The pain asserted itself abruptly, as harsh as that night two years ago when Snow's sniper had shot him in the parking garage. She'd saved his life that night by letting him go. There had been nothing he could do to return the favor. He pressed his hand against the wet, hot agony spreading along his right side, just hard enough to fuel the fire, but not hard enough to stem the bleeding or make him pass out. Once the first sob broke free from his chest, he let the rest come, well beyond concern for what Finch might think.

At some point, his tears gave way to uncontrollable shaking, and when they reached whatever sterile location Harold had on stand-by that evening, he'd been unable to get out of the car on his own. He'd mumbled to the people outside the open door to just leave him there, but he'd been lifted onto a gurney nevertheless, rushed inside, and transferred to a table. Calm, vaguely-familiar voices spoke to him. His wounds were examined, presumably by the owners of those voices, and soon enough he was doped. He kept his eyes closed the entire time, and when he finally opened them, he was in Harold's car again, his seat reclined nearly horizontal. It was morning, maybe closer to noon, and he was still more drugged than not. They ended up at the library, where the voices returned, got him out of the car, brought him inside.

He was greeted by a makeshift hospital room, which, coupled with his post-surgery medicated state, confused him enough that he let Finch help him change into a clean t-shirt and scrub pants without a word. He was nearly asleep by the time they eased him into bed, and had just enough awareness left to finally identify the others as Harold's personal physician, Frank Izard, and Frank's P.A., Jason. He watched through half-lidded eyes while the latter connected him to several monitors and re-established his IV. He hadn't even noticed the port taped to his left arm, and briefly wondered how serious his condition was, until Jason Santori's sympathetic eyes met his. The rush of anger was instantaneous, and Reese turned his head away. He wasn't in bad enough shape to warrant that expression. He was still breathing, and she wasn't.

She wasn't. Simmons had killed her, had gotten away. That was all John could think of as he opened his eyes some time later and found himself surrounded by the stillness of the library. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, landing in warm strips on the blanket covering his legs. Everything was too vivid and dull at the same time, like that moment just after an explosion, right before the shockwave hit and shattered glass and eardrums.

There had been no explosion, though - other than the tiny one inside a gun barrel, sending those bullets ripping through her - and his hearing had registered Harold's departure clearly just moments before. The shockwave, however, was ongoing. Something deep inside him had been shattered, and it throbbed with an empty ache that he had no way of relieving. It left him raw, his carefully-built defenses stripped away, and he allowed himself a small moment of personal grief. Breath hitching, he slid his hand from beneath Bear's muzzle and cupped the back of the dog's head, stroking his ears. Bear whined and shifted closer, licking his wrist, sensing his need for more contact, and John had to fight the urge to break down completely. He fought it the only way he knew how, with fury, and with physical pain as he pushed himself up in bed, or tried to. Neither arm wanted to work right. He'd thought at first that the wound to his right shoulder was less serious than the left, but now he wasn't so sure. Not to be deterred, he hooked his foot over the edge of the mattress and pulled himself toward it, swinging his legs off and letting gravity help lever him upright before he could change his mind. His right side stabbed at him like any of the worst knife wounds he'd experienced and his vision grayed out briefly.

He would come to appreciate those grayed-out moments over the next several hours, when a punch landed wrong or he stretched too far and popped a longer string of stitches, because the rest was just agony. Of course, in a perverse way, he appreciated that, too. It kept his adrenaline up, which kept him moving like nothing else could. It gave him the strength to bulldoze that carload of scumbags with the garbage truck, to drop a guy off a roof for not knowing where Simmons was, to eventually navigate his way through a hallway filled with U.S. Marshalls like it was the bad old days and he was behind enemy lines with only himself to rely on.

Honestly speaking, it was the bad old days when he wound up alone with Quinn. That was the moment his CIA training had clicked back on like a light switch. Quinn had information he needed, and he'd get it any way necessary. Killing wasn't a mandatory outcome of this interrogation, but it was an optional one, and the option was irresistible.

He got his information. He leveled his gun at Quinn's forehead, started to tighten his finger on the trigger -

"Mr. Reese...you know what Joss sacrificed to bring this man down on her terms - legal terms."

"Everything," he said, unfazed by Finch's appearance beside him.

"Yes. So if you're going to kill Mr. Quinn, don't imagine that you're doing it in her name. That's not what she would have wanted."

Harold was absolutely right. "Should've killed him in the first place. Why didn't we, Finch?" He asked the question, knew the answer, but as his knees buckled he didn't want to know it. He didn't want to think that Joss was dead because he hadn't pulled the trigger on this S.O.B. a lot sooner. Arm shaking, he again took aim at Quinn's head.

"That's not our purpose. We save lives. You save lives."

Finch's hand on his shoulder was as gentle as his words, but it made no difference. "Not all of 'em."

"You're dying, John. Let us help you."

Dying? It suddenly occurred to him that the reduction in pain he'd experienced in the last several minutes could, in fact, be from shock setting in and not adrenaline. A ghost of a dark smile came to his lips. If this was his time, he was damned sure taking Quinn with him.

Finch's hand reached for his, meaning to take his gun, no doubt, but with the last of his strength he pulled away. "No," he growled, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed it again, and again. It didn't make any sense. He turned and looked imploringly at Finch, utterly confused and lost, as his arm dropped to his side. He wanted to apologize to Harold for what he'd just done, despite its lack of effect, and at the same time to ask why Quinn got to continue living when Carter didn't, but no words came out, and Finch didn't look at him anyway as he picked up the gun from the floor where it had fallen. John's vision grayed out again when they lifted him to his feet, and he was glad to let it.

'Blacked out' was actually more accurate. Reese recalled nothing between being loaded into the car and waking up back at the library, with Dr. Izard, Jason, and even Shaw standing over him in gloves and masks. Monitors were blaring loudly, and his eyes searched desperately beyond the machines and people, but Harold was nowhere to be found.

He passed out again, and when he came to the second time, things were calmer. Fresh bandages were in place on his shoulders and side, and Jason was gently cleaning blood and excess disinfectant off of his arms and torso. Shaw and Dr. Izard were standing off to the side, discussing transfusions and adding to the collection of fluids hanging from the pole above him. Harold was still missing. He squeezed his eyes shut as an even deeper sense of loss than before coursed through him.

"John?" Jason's voice slowly penetrated his thoughts, and Reese had a feeling it wasn't the first time the man had tried to get his attention. He looked up reluctantly, but Santori's expression held only concern, not the pity he'd been dreading. "Is the pain getting worse?"

"Read my mind," Reese said softly, letting his eyes close again. A slight chill raced up his arm a moment later as something was injected into his IV. Oblivion followed.

Waking took longer the third time. He was comfortable, warm, safe. Always safe in the library. He shifted slightly, meaning to stretch the stiffness from his muscles, but his side burned with a deep, angry ache that radiated throughout his entire abdomen and he stilled, taking in a few shuddering breaths until it eased. The library didn't smell right, he noticed. Binding glue and old paper were laced with...rubbing alcohol? Memory of the past hours came flooding back and he blinked several times, looking around slowly. He was lying flat, but could see just enough to know that Harold wasn't there. No one was.

He wasn't surprised. It had been at least two days since the shooting. The Machine surely would have produced another number by now, and Finch would be busy working with Shaw to ensure that person's safety - the billionaire couldn't afford to waste time sitting around, waiting on a killer to wake up. Finch wasn't cruel, though. John knew that he'd be given as much time as he needed to recuperate, and provided with the best-quality care possible. He might even get a last paycheck as a professional courtesy, to get as far as he wanted to go, but this - the library, the numbers, his second chance - this was over. John let out a long slow sigh of disappointment, of disappointment in himself, and knew what he had to do. He had enough holes in him already, inside and out. He couldn't deal with or accept empty charity from Finch, not when he'd been the one to let Harold down. Not when he'd let Joss down.

Fumbling with his right hand, John found the button to raise the bed and gritted his teeth as it brought him upright, gravity pulling painfully against his injuries. He was lightheaded and weak, but he could probably manage to walk, at least far enough to hail a cab. He'd get a ride upstate, check into a hotel for a couple of days to rest up, and then disappear. Hell, maybe he'd actually go to Montana like Mark had suggested. Someplace quiet, where he could stay out of the world's way.

He got the blood pressure cuff off of his arm, the pulse-ox clip off of his finger, and unplugged himself from the heart monitor before his hands dropped, shaking, into his lap. Cold sweat had broken out across his forehead and neck and he'd started to list forward, but he managed to catch himself by grabbing onto the side rail of the bed and locking his elbow. He reached for the covers with his other hand, and was about to shove them aside - or fall over completely - when two hands grasped his upper arm.

"Mr. Reese, what in the world are you doing?"

John closed his eyes briefly. Finch. And he sounded genuinely worried - frantic, even. "A favor," John rasped.

"A favor for whom? Not yourself, certainly."

"I'm leaving. Quinn should be dead...would be dead if I hadn't miscounted. For what it's worth, I'd pull that trigger again, too, in a second. It's who I am, and I think we both know now that that's never...going to change. So I'll...save you the trouble of letting me go...and just go." Reese again reached for the blankets.

Next to him, Finch sighed. "John…" The tone was sad and exasperated at the same time, and Harold's fingers squeezed his arm gently. "You're not going anywhere just now. You are not fired, either," he emphasized. "Please lie down. Frank was very specific about you keeping still for the next twelve hours. Your body isn't strong enough to tolerate another bleed right now, even if Ms. Shaw's larceny attempt is successful."

John glanced at Finch warily, confused by his reaction. He'd been prepared for anger, a lecture, or even cold indifference, but acceptance - or whatever this was - hadn't crossed his mind. All he knew was that Harold didn't release his arm until he was safely leaning back against the mattress, and then only to recline the bed to a more comfortable position that wouldn't pull at his stitches. He couldn't help but shoot Finch an annoyed look when the man clipped the oxygen sensor back onto his finger, but he quickly relented, startled by the worry still lingering just under the surface of Harold's expression.

"I apologize for not being here when you awoke earlier, Mr. Reese," Finch said quietly as he walked around to the other side of the bed, reconnected the heart monitor to the cord dangling from the collar of John's t-shirt, and picked up the discarded blood pressure cuff, replacing that as well. "Ms. Shaw has been keeping me apprised of your condition, I just…" Harold paused and cleared his throat, still looking down, avoiding eye contact. "I couldn't bear to see the blood of any more friends outside of their bodies...especially not yours."

John felt like he'd been punched. Harold should have been furious with him. Hell, he should have probably been furious with Harold and his Machine for not having provided Carter's number sooner - and maybe that feeling would follow yet in the days to come - but for the moment he didn't have the capacity. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again, certain that his voice would betray him if he spoke. Instead, he reached out his hand as much as he was able and swallowed hard when Harold grasped it and finally met his eyes. They said nothing for a long while. There was nothing to say. They had lost a dear friend, but they had each gotten one back, too.

As the day stretched on, Finch settled back into a nearby chair with his laptop while John drifted in and out of sleep until the dull ache in his side grew sharp and difficult to ignore. He managed to distract himself for awhile, though, by watching Harold's fingers fly across the keyboard, by thinking about Joss, and the Machine, and just trying to wrap his mind around it all, albeit without much success.

"You know, you are allowed pain medication, Mr. Reese. It is encouraged at this stage, as a matter of fact," Finch said, looking up from his work pointedly.

John shook his head. "I don't need it."

"Your heart rate and clenched jaw would seem to indicate otherwise."

"It won't help."

Finch held Reese's eyes for a moment before nodding and looking back at his laptop screen. "Narcotics do produce a rather shallow numb, I suppose. They also don't actually stop pain. They just mask it to help you cope, until it lessens naturally with time."

"So...time is the real narcotic?" Reese asked, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable position.

"It's certainly a controlled substance, just not one that's controlled by us."

"It does always seem to be in limited supply."

"We'd all give anything for more of it."

"And you never know if the next fix will be the one that ends you…" Reese trailed off, Simmons' words and the sound of gunfire suddenly echoing in his memory. Looking at Finch, he could tell that Harold shared his train of thought. "Maybe a shallow numb wouldn't be so bad," he said with a sigh.

"Just for now," Finch agreed. He punched a few keys. "Jason will be up shortly."

Reese nodded in response and looked at the other man questioningly as Harold decisively closed his computer.

"This never gets any easier, does it?" Finch asked after a long moment.

"Not even with an endless supply of time."

The two men lapsed into silence, but somewhere in the background a clock ticked on.