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It begins with a touch.
One small, simple hand on his shoulder. It's not a caress. It can't be considered a sensual act. When it happens there is no sexual innuendo behind it. No playfulness. John lost a number today. He couldn't get to the kid in time and he feels guilty. He feels like a failure. But then it comes. He'd been so busy wallowing in his mistakes that he hadn't heard Finch stand, let alone limp over to him.
“We'll do better next time, Mr. Reese,” Finch says gently. He squeezes John's shoulder once before letting go.
It's not that John asks for comfort from anyone. He doesn't. Or at least he tries not to. But getting it from Finch? With his personal boundaries and unease around John he suspects he's looking pretty bad for the recluse to over-ride his instincts like that.
It only lasts a few seconds. But John is able to catalog his reactions and sum them up in one word: connection. There is surprise, fear, desperation, regret and anger, as well as relief. Mostly, though, in the moment, for the first time since he can remember he feels like he's not alone.
It's strange how the ghostly warmth of Finch's hand haunts John for the rest of the day. What's even more strange is that he lets it.