Chapter Text
Reese had just finished speaking with Detective Fusco to give him directions to find the day’s number who was neatly bound and gagged in the warehouse the man had planned on blowing up after having been fired a few weeks before for trying to force a young female employee working in the same warehouse to have sex with him. He’d been caught on tape and had been summarily dismissed.
In the gathering dusk, Reese was walking quickly – he was not too far from the library, and traffic, at the close of the day, was at a standstill so he figured it would be faster to do it on foot. It was also freezing cold on this late December day. He was concerned about Finch who had not been feeling well for the past week or so. Finch never complained but John could see that he was often out of breath and that he was coughing frequently. His heightened colour made Reese fear that he was also running a fever but the few inquiries he’d made to Finch had been shot down in no uncertain terms, “I’m fine, Mr. Reese. I would appreciate it if you turned your attention to our numbers rather than worry unnecessarily about my health. I am not a child – I will consult a doctor if I am not feeling well.” So John had kept his own counsel after that, but he couldn’t help be concerned.
When John arrived at the library, Bear bounded to see him, jumping happily and mock-bowing to him. “I’m going to take Bear for a quick turn around the block, Finch! He seems antsy so it will do him good. See you in a few!” yelled John as he ran back down the stairs again, Bear in tow. Finch hadn’t answered him but if he was at the back of the cavernous room, replenishing the stacks, he probably hadn’t heard him, thought John. And Harold, being under the weather, probably hadn’t taken the dog out since John had done so earlier that morning.
Thirty minutes later, man and dog re-entered the library and made their way upstairs. It had turned even colder and John was happy he had his gloves and a wool cap. It did not do anything for his appearance, he thought, but with the temperature plummeting below zero, he was glad for it. At least there was no snow. He was hoping Finch had left coffee on the burner and that it wasn’t the same pot as early that morning.
He turned the corner, neared Finch’s desk and was surprised not to see him there. He checked the big couch – sometimes Finch liked to read there, but it too was empty. He replenished the water in Bear’s bowl, gave him some kibble, poured himself a cup of coffee and went to search for Finch… and could not find him anywhere. Not in the kitchenette or the restroom, not in the room that served as their infirmary, not in any of the backrooms, and not in the stacks.
Now he was getting worried. He checked to make sure that Finch hadn’t left but no, his heavy butter-coloured cashmere overcoat was there with his plaid scarf, his leather gloves and his fedora – about which John teased him mercilessly… But where could Finch be?
Then it dawned on him that he’d forgotten to check the small room Finch had kitted out with a camp bed for those nights when he worked too late and did not feel like going back to one of his safe houses. He turned back on his heels, opened the door without knocking, but something was blocking it. He could see that Finch was not on the bed but decided to try to open the door just the same, fearing that a box may had fallen down and blocked it. Being unable to get into rooms, especially in a library, was a dangerous fire hazard, so he pushed on it with all his might and it finally gave in. He let himself in the room… and saw Finch sprawled on the floor behind the door, a small trickle of blood seeping from his forehead.
“Oh, no, no, no! Finch! Finch! Come on, wake up!” John was instantly on his knees, trying to find a pulse and checking his head injury. He pulled Finch up a bit, leaning him against his thighs and that’s when he heard Finch’s laboured breathing. He was wheezing and his lips were turning blue. But at least he’d opened his eyes and was looking at John as if he barely recognized him. He seemed to have hit his head on a small metal cabinet during his fall. It was only a small nick but it had bled profusely as head wounds are wont to do.
“Finch, Finch, it’s me, John. What happened? Do you remember?” But Finch wasn’t answering, he seemed to be having a lot of difficulty breathing so John took his phone, and called Dr. Enright, asking her to come to his loft where he was planning to take Finch.
As he was trying to manoeuver Finch down the stairs, with Bear following closely, he heard Harold say “It’s OK, John, I’m all right now, I just got dizzy I think…”
“You’re not OK, Finch, you’re barely able to breathe. We’re going to my place and Dr. Enright will meet us there. Now, just stay conscious, that’s all I’m asking you. If you’d listened to me and gone to see a doctor, this wouldn’t have happened. You could have died, Finch. What were you thinking? What if I hadn’t come back to the library? You can’t do this! Not to the numbers! And not to me, Finch!”
John was manoeuvering Finch down the library stairs, one arm around his waist from the back, and one from the front so as not to drop him as Finch could barely move his legs. He was holding on to John for dear life, Bear leading the way down to the sedan in which John sat Finch, belted him in, let Bear sit on the floor at the back. He then hightailed it to the loft and recommenced the manoeuvering of his boss all the way to the elevator and into the loft. Dr. Enright would be there momentarily so he removed Finch’s overcoat, hat and scarf, as well as his suit jacket, and vest while Finch was trying to bat away at his hands, but he had no strength at all so John had no problem going about his work. He then undid the bed, plumped up a few pillows and sat Finch on the side of the bed before lifting his feet and lying him among the pillows. He then untied Finch’s Italian leather shoes, removed his socks, and folded back the comforter over him.
Once Harold was safely lying down, John finally released the breath he felt he’d been holding since finding his friend on the floor of the library. Finch appeared to sleep but his breathing was shallow, sweat was beading his forehead and when Reese put the back of his hand against it, he realized that Finch was burning up. He prepared a cold compress and was placing it gently on Finch’s forehead when he heard Dr. Enright knocking on the front door. He let her in and motioned to Finch.
“How is he?” he asked the doctor, hovering over her after she’d sat down on the side of the bed.
“John, please try and relax. I’m afraid he probably has pneumonia but I need to check a few other things first. I’ll probably send you to the pharmacy later on, but now, please try to sit and relax. You look stressed out and if you keep hovering over me like that, I won’t be able to do my work.” So a chastised John went to sit down on the leather sofa, with Bear in tow, but he kept turning his head towards the bed every time he heard something. After a few minutes, Dr. Enright stood up and John was instantly at her side. “He’s very sick. Pneumonia is a nasty disease. I can’t understand why he did not consult a doctor before. I know you’ll take good care of him… He’s lucky to have such a good friend as you, John” she told him, to which he replied “So am I, Doctor… So am I,” without looking at her, seemingly lost in his thoughts. “Is he going to be OK though?” he finally asked her.
“Well, he needs antibiotics, inhalers, and a few other things – it’s all here,” she said, as she gave John a prescription. “Have that filled, follow the instructions, and keep an eye on him. I won’t have him hospitalized, but he needs bed rest for at least three to four days and after that, I would suggest you take him somewhere hot and sunny for two weeks, or one at the very least. Keep checking on him, cold compresses and aspirin to take the fever down and if he takes a turn for the worse, call me immediately.”
…to be continued