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John had made a slight miscalculation.
The Number—Miss Sylvia Jones— had seemed harmless, and even after working with the unexpected for more than an year, John had still mentally sorted her into the ‘victim’ category.
Which is why he hadn’t been as vigilant as he usually was when he entered Sylvia’s house after she had left. In his defense, there had been no evidence to make him suspect that there might be three, semi armed men waiting inside her house to attack him the moment he entered.
Finch’s soft chuckle in his ear at a random comment John had made may or may not have added to his distraction.
So really, he had no one to blame but himself for the position he found himself in—tied up and being tortured in the basement. It was hardly the worst position he had ever been in. Hell, it was hardly the worst this week. Still, the punch to his face stung, and so did the rope around his wrists that he would soon be able to get out of.
These guys were amateurs.
But they were amateurs with a knife in their hand, and a tied up man at their disposal. That made them dangerous. If John didn’t want to end up with a wound that would bleed too quickly for any real interrogation to last, he needed to tread carefully.
“I’m asking you again… who sent you here?” The guy who was probably their leader waved his knife at him. Two men were there with him in the basement, the third having left to probably guard the main house.
John smiled. He couldn’t help it; it probably spoke to his slightly deranged state of mind. “I told you, I am a stalker; Miss Jones is a beautiful lady.”
Ouch. The punch to his stomach did hurt. A little. He overplayed the doubling over because that jostled him enough to loosen the rope around his wrists some more. Just a little more time…
“Shut up. Tell us the name of your leader, and we may just spare your life.”
John squashed his urge to laugh at that statement. It was so cliché. Did they learn it from a movie? But their question made him think of Harold, and he was immensely grateful he had not sent Harold to check out the probably-victim’s apartment. The idea of Harold tied up in the basement instead of him did a good job of erasing any traces of humor from the situation.
Before he could give an answer, the phone of the other guy rang. He picked it up, nodded, and then looked at the guy with the knife. “Steve caught his accomplice.”
John’s breath got stuck in his throat. It couldn’t be…
The leader, who John was suddenly coming to despise, smiled at him cruelly. “Bring him in. Maybe mister stalker here would be more willing to talk when we have company.”
It couldn’t be Harold. It couldn’t. John had specifically asked Harold to stay in the library and let him handle this. But just in case it was, John subtly redoubled his efforts to loosen the binding on his hands. He felt the give of his raw skin, feeling the wet slide of blood down his palm, but ignored it, focusing instead on the give in the rough ropes.
His blood froze when the door to the basement opened, and Harold stumbled in. The guy behind had obviously shoved him, and John would’ve been furious at that, if he would stop being horrified for just one second.
Why was Harold here? He was supposed to be in the library. He was supposed to be safe.
When Harold caught his eyes, he looked apologetic, but before he could speak the word, the leader shoved him into a chair and tied him roughly to it. John’s world narrowed down to the pain in his wrists, as he quietly struggled to get free, and the sight of Harold being bound tightly, and uncomfortably. Harold winced at a particularly rough pull, and John all but growled at them for hurting Harold.
The leader seemed to have noticed his distress, because he sauntered over to John, the smirk on his face making it clear that he thought he had already won.
“So… do you think your friend here is as durable as you are?” he asked gleefully.
John, who had been playing it cool till now, couldn’t help the ice in his voice, couldn’t stop the rage from coloring his words. “You so much as touch him, and I will make sure you regret it.”
The guy laughed a cruel, heartless laugh. “Oh, is that so?” Still looking at John, he walked backwards until he was standing next to Harold. Then, he raised his hand and slowly caressed Harold’s face. John couldn’t look at Harold. He didn’t know what he would do if he noticed the look of disgust and horror on Harold’s face. When John struggled against his bonds—only half for show, the other half knowing that movement like that would make the ropes weaker. The man laughed again, and continued. “I plan to do more than just touch him, you know? I plan to make him scream. Unless of course, you tell me what I need to know.”
John opened his mouth to speak; he didn’t know what yet, but something to make the man angry enough to leave Harold, and come stand next to John again.
Harold beat him to it. “I am afraid he can’t help you, Mr. Larrington.” The man whipped around, looking at Harold in shock.
Damn it. John was running out of time.
“How do you know my name?” he didn’t look amused any longer. He looked livid.
“I know a great many things, Mr. Larrington, including your relationship with Miss Jones, and the illegal trade of dangerous drugs you’re running together.”
The slick against his wrist was becoming more, but it numbed the pain some. Just a few more minutes.
“Stop it.” John called out, half warning and half plea. Both Harold and Larrington ignored him.
“So I suggest you let me and my partner go, right now, unless you want the police to find two bound civilians in the basement. I am sure it wouldn’t improve your chances in the court.”
Smack.
The sound rang through the basement, and through John’s skull, reverberating against it. He realized a moment later that it was the sound of Larrington slapping Harold. Time slowed down as John watched Harold straighten, his eyes focusing on the cut on Harold’s lip, blood beading on it and trickling down.
The red of Harold’s blood seemed to smear across John’s vision, because with a shout that was more a snarl, he broke free from the ropes binding his hand. Before the other three people in the room could notice, he was untangling himself, and lunging at the men who had dared harm Harold.
John let his instincts take over, and only gained back his awareness for the presence when Harold’s voice called him.
“…John… John!” He looked up, finding Harold’s eyes, and lingering on the red imprint on his cheek and the blood on his lips. “John… he is already unconscious. You are going to kill him.”
Only then did John notice that he was lying on the ground and choking the man in his arms. He let him go, shoving him away in disgust. He got up, and walked towards where Larrington was lying groaning on the floor, the knife he had been waving around embedded in his calf.
It was John’s turn to smirk. He had no doubt it was as cruel as Larrington’s had been.
“I warned you. I warned you not to touch him.”
The man tried to halfheartedly lunge at him, but John just kicked his arm away making him groan out loud. John spared just another glance at Harold, at the way his cheek was swelling, and mercilessly he placed his heel on Larrington’s hand, feeling the bones crack under his shoe.
The loud scream felt like music to his ears, until the man fainted due to the agony of it.
John stepped away, and took a deep breath, calming himself. His heart was beating too fast, and his blood was too loud in his ears. When he felt the red in his vision receding a little, he turned around and made his way towards where Harold was bound, not meeting his eyes.
He untied Harold’s arms, his fingers absently rubbing Harold’s wrists where the indention of rope was. It was nothing compared to the condition of John’s own wrists, but somehow this mattered more.
His voice was hoarse as he asked, “Are you okay?”
Harold nodded, and then opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head and gently helped him stand up. When he tried to support Harold, he shook him off.
“I am perfectly able to walk, Mr. Reese.”
John wanted to argue that it wasn’t for Harold’s benefit, but he knew that tone, and didn’t push him. He stepped in front of Harold, and made his way towards the door.
“There’s still one of them upstairs. We don’t know if the basement is sound proof. Better stay on your guard.”
“John,” Harold placed a hand on John’s arm, making him stop. He didn’t turn around though, still feeling far too vulnerable to look at Harold. “I wasn’t making it up about authorities being on their way. Detective Fusco had assured me he would be here as soon as he could.”
As if on cue, the door to the basement opened, and Lionel stepped in. He looked around the room, and then his eyes settled on John and Harold.
He threw up his hands and sighed. “So, I missed all the fun… again. How am I going to explain it in the reports this time?”
John felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips, impressed yet again with Harold’s resources. He patted Lionel on his shoulder lightly. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
Fusco offered to take them to a hospital, but John firmly refused it, knowing Harold would much rather prefer to be somewhere safe and familiar right now.
John would prefer Harold to be somewhere safe right now.
Harold tried to protest, to insist John get a medical checkup, but John had experienced serious injuries before. These were just scratches. Nothing a first aid kit won’t fix.
At the safe house, John walked Harold to the couch, and then made his way to the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror and realized why Harold had been looking at him with pained expressions. His one eye was swollen, and there was an epic black eye in formation. He had a cut on his cheek, obviously from one of the harsher punches, and the blood was smeared across his face.
It looked worse than it was. The real damage was to his wrists, but thankfully those had been covered by his sleeves. Looking at it now, he could see how the skin had torn in places, the blood clotted around it. It was ugly, and he was lucky he hadn’t sustained any muscle damage. He moved his fingers experimentally, clenching and unclenching them, and was satisfied. It would heal. At worst, there might be some scarring.
He opened the tap water to lukewarm, and washed the worse of blood and grime from his face and wrists. He would need to clean it with an antiseptic, but that could wait yet. Shrugging out of his shirt, he found a spare one in the cupboard, and looked back at the mirror to confirm he looked well enough to not make Harold uncomfortable. Harold always got fussy when he thought John was hurt.
Taking out the first aid kit from the cabinet then, he made his way out to where he had left Harold on the couch. To his relief, Harold was still sitting there. To his chagrin though, Harold had his laptop out, and was furiously typing away on it.
At the sound of John moving closer, Harold looked up at him and smiled. It highlighted his swollen cheek. “I was just finishing compiling the information we have on Miss Jones and her accomplices to send to the detectives. If the bathroom is free now, I will freshen up—”
Harold tried to get up, but John put his hand on Harold’s shoulder, stopping him.
“Let me,” he said, surprised to find his voice still rough and heavy. Harold looked at the first aid box in John’s hand, and then at John’s face. After watching him for a few moments, he relaxed, sagging on the couch.
John quickly opened the kit, taking out a sterile gauze and dabbing it in saline. He looked at Harold then, silently asking for permission. When Harold nodded, John bent down and gently gripped Harold’s chin dabbing the gauze at the blood clotted around the corner of his mouth.
The red bleeding into the white cloth made him feel nauseated, but he lightly wiped and rubbed until the dried blood cleared away, and the cut that had caused it was visible underneath. It wasn’t deep, hardly a centimeter long, and started bleeding afresh. He put away the bloody gauze and picked up another, coating it in antiseptic.
“It might sting,” he warned. He ignored Harold’s exasperated huff, and placed the gauze on the bleeding cut.
Harold gasped.
It shocked John enough to jerk back and look at Harold. Harold didn’t look like he was in pain. He looked horrified.
“What…?”
Then he noticed the direction of Harold’s gaze. Oh.
Hastily, he pulled back his hands and covered them with his sleeves. He had gotten careless.
“Mr. Reese—John. What happened?”
“It’s nothing.” John tried to pull his hands behind his back, uncomfortable at drawing attention to something that was a minor inconvenience, but Harold’s gripped his elbow, stopping him from withdrawing.
“Nothing?” Harold’s voice rose in pitch, as he trailed his hand down to John’s hand and raised it up until his wrist was exposed again, the damaged, wounded skin on display. “This—and you have been tending to cut on my lip. I have been indulging you because I thought it might make you feel better, but I had no idea you were—”
“He slapped you, Harold,” John spoke quietly, but the barely buried fury in his voice must be obvious to Harold.
“Yes. And you broke his hand—quite thoroughly, I might add. Taking from him the use of his hand, probably forever. I would call it more than even.” Harold tugged at John’s hand, pulling him down and making him sit on the couch beside him.
Ever so delicately, he rubbed his thumb on John’s angry skin. It made John shiver, in ways that had nothing to do with pain. “Oh dear.” Harold said, almost a whisper, and repeated the gesture.
Clearing his throat that was clogged with emotions, John tried to lighten the situation. “It’s just a scratch, Harold. Rope burn.” When Harold looked up at him, obviously bemused, John smirked. “Maybe you can kiss it better.”
He expected Harold to look affronted, like he always did when John flirted with him outrageously. John’s heart thumped loudly in his throat, when instead of looking so, Harold glanced back at John’s wrist with a thoughtful look.
He could barely breathe as Harold raised John’s wrist up, and bent down to press his lips to John’s skin.
Everything faded for a moment, all that remained was the touch of Harold’s lips, and the way his own pulse thrummed loudly underneath that warmth. A single point of his connection to the world.
Then Harold raised his head again, looking at John. He didn’t look vulnerable or worried. He looked resolute.
Another caress to his wrist, and Harold said. “I am glad you broke his hand.”
“Harold,” The name punched out from his chest. He didn’t make a conscious decision to move forward, but a second later he had his hand at Harold’s neck, supporting it as he crashed his lips against Harold’s, tasting the bitterness of antiseptic, as he poured in all of his worry and fear into Harold’s skin.
Harold responded to it just as enthusiastically, kissing back, his one hand entangling in John’s hair while the other still held onto his wrist. John didn’t think he would’ve stopped, but the taste of rust on his tongue was impossible to mistake, bringing him back to the present.
Harold made a noise of protest when John pulled back, the hand John’s his hair tightening for a moment. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he let go, sagging back into the couch.
John’s eyes lingered at Harold’s lips—puffy and swollen as they were, the wound bleeding anew.
“I am sorry,” John said, trying to feel any regret for causing it, trying to second guess his impulse to kiss Harold. It was hard to do so with the sound of Harold’s pleased moan still loud in his brain, the memory of Harold kissing him back still vivid.
“I am not,” Harold said. “It doesn’t hurt.” Harold wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then smiled at John, full of mischief and amusement. “One might even say… you kissed it better.”
John couldn’t help laughing at that, the vice around his heart giving away for the first time since he had seen Harold being shoved into the basement. Helplessly, he pressed Harold back into the couch, and kissed him again.
Later, they would talk about what this meant, and how it changed their relationship. Later, John would insist on setting some rules about Harold not following John into dangerous situations without back up. Later, Harold would bandage John’s wrists, after pressing his lips to every bit of damaged skin, and scold him for being so reckless in the field. They will share their fears, and their insecurities, and their love that they had been nurturing for too long, afraid of voicing it.
But for now, John tasted Harold’s smile from his lips, and rejoiced in the fact that they were both alive, and here, and together.