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He must admit, as he hits the floor, that this was not part of his many contingency plans for their operation. Those were all filled with injuries, violent crimes, ailments that come with the vigilante territory. The closest thing on the list was poisoning, or maybe bioterrorism, not this.
He must also admit, when it comes, that his heart attack isn't exactly a surprise.
Bear and John save him—of course they do. It's a fact more certain than breathing that John will drop everything at the slightest hint that he's in trouble, and this was no slight hint. And Bear is just as determined. As Harold lies on the cold Library floor, clutching at the agony in his heaving chest, regretting every missed dose of blood pressure and cholesterol medication, and trying to remember all he's ever learned about getting a damaged heart to keep pumping blood, Bear is there, licking him all over, bent on annoying him so much he stays alive despite the hellish pain and pressure.
It works.
He stays conscious until John arrives, and after, when John scoops him up in his arms like he doesn't weigh a thing. John doesn't mind that he's soaked in cold sweat and dog saliva, and a little bit of vomit and tea. He holds Harold close and tight, murmuring reassuring words as he hurries down the stairs and out to the car.
But all the reassurances and comfort do nothing for the overwhelming dread filling him entirely. He is going to die—he's certain of it. "It's bad," he says, fighting with all he can to keep breathing. "John, I don't..."
"Don't say it."
"I feel like I'm dying," he says. "I think I might be dying."
"No," John insists, putting him gently into the front seat of the car. "I'm not letting that happen, okay?" He lays a hand on Harold's, over his faltering heart. "You are not dying of a goddamn heart attack, Finch. That's not how any of us are going out—especially not you."
Then, in a move that Harold's oxygen-starved brain can only guess is an attempt to shock him back to life, John kisses him—just a small, quick kiss to the lips before he buckles Harold's seatbelt for him, but it's enough to startle Harold awake and tell him everything. "You're not dying from this," John growls. "You're not."
Letting out a weak laugh, Harold says, "I don't think you're the one who gets to make that call, Mr. Reese." A glimpse of himself in the mirror tells him the same. His skin is pale, gray, shining with sweat. He already looks like a corpse.
"If God strikes you down first," John retorts, "I'm coming after him, and he'll be sorry. He better keep that in mind."
With that, John gets them on the move, and soon, Harold is sucked into a maelstrom of doctors and tests and surgery. He wakes up to John, and he goes to sleep again to John, and despite the numbers and everything else, John stays.
"Shaw can handle it," John says, and goes back to reading a tattered pamphlet about heart attacks.
Harold dozes for what feels like days. Plenty happens in between, tests and drugs, walking, a second surgery. Visitors, Fusco and Carter and Shaw trickling in and out with gifts and well-wishes—and also, in Shaw's case, Bear in a service vest. As Harold tries to reassure his poor, scared boy, Shaw promises to force Harold into a grueling fitness regimen when he's released.
"John can cry about me working you too hard all he wants," she says, "but I'm dragging you to a gym and kicking your ass once you're out of here. Got it?"
So long as she can work with his disability—and, knowing Shaw, she can—Harold is surprisingly fine with that. While John sputters and protests, Harold says, "Understood," and scratches Bear behind the ears again.
Even Root stops by late one night, dressed as a nurse, and he thinks that it's a nightmare at first until John has her pinned to the wall by the throat.
"I'm just worried about him," she gets out between soft gasps, her voice low. "I just wanted to check on him."
She sounds sincere—or, at least, earnest enough for Harold to say, "Let her go, Mr. Reese," the words heavy with his fatigue. John releases her immediately, and Root grabs at her throat and catches her breath, making no move to retaliate. Harold thanks him, and John returns to his seat at Harold's side, tense and ready to strike.
"She hasn't even told me what happened to you," Root continues, breathless, "and when I tried to hack into your records, She locked me out. And the hard copy of your chart is nowhere to be found."
"She?" John asks, but Harold knows who she's talking about: The Machine has been protecting him, guarding his privacy even from its newest friend.
Telling Root what happened doesn't seem wise, so he says, "I suffered a medical emergency."
With a displeased laugh, Root rolls her eyes, and says, "Obviously."
"That's all the information you're gonna get," John says. "Now get out before I throw you out."
Root thrusts her bottom lip at John in a melodramatic pout, then turns her attention back on Harold, and, with more shocking sincerity and gentleness, she asks, "Will you be okay?" Her eyes shine with worry—actual worry, not a mockery of it, enough that Harold decides to be honest. If asked, he can always blame the drugs later.
"I had a heart attack, Ms. Groves," he says, and Root's face falls further, "but I am healing. I'll have to make some changes, but—"
"You'll be okay, right?" she asks, wrapping her arms around herself.
"I believe so, yes," he replies, and she exhales. He hopes he'll be okay. Goodness, he hopes so. There's so much still left for him to do. "I have excellent doctors and nurses taking care of me, and I have a number of great friends who have volunteered to assist with my recovery."
He looks to John, who has said nothing thus far about helping him, who doesn't need to. The way this will play out is obvious: when Harold is released, John will take him home, and John will stay until Harold is back on his feet again.
But for Root to be concerned is a significant change. So recently she was convinced that people were nothing but bad code. That she cared enough to visit should be applauded, and future actions like this should be encouraged.
"I appreciate you stopping by," he says to her, "though next time you might want to consider doing it during visiting hours."
"Okay," she says, her voice small, and she swallows hard, her throat bobbing. "I don't...I want you to be okay, Harold, okay? I don't..." She lets out a brief, bitter laugh and covers her eyes and her grimace with a hand, then swipes at her eyes again. "I didn't do this to you, did I? By breaking out? Because I don't...I don't want you to die."
Harold's healing heart cracks. "Oh, no, I don't believe so, Ms. Groves—and I don't think this will be what kills me, either," he insists. "They're planning to release me from the hospital in the next few days."
"Good." Root wipes her eyes, and she forces a smile. "I'd better go. She keeps telling me the longer I stay, the more likely I am to do something that makes your guard dog snap again."
Before Harold can protest, John speaks up. "Long as you don't come near him, I won't do anything."
"Such a good little puppy," Root says, with little of her usual condescension. Her tone turning much more serious, she adds, "Thank you for saving Harry. He's more important than any of us."
"He is," John says, "and he's not gonna die if I can help it."
"I know," she says, with a soft smile. "Take good care of him."
"I will," John vows, and he lets Root walk out the door.
As expected, John stays until Harold's release, leaving only to eat and when Harold wrinkles his nose and tells him, "You smell, Mr. Reese. Please go and do something about that."
John always comes back, and spends every night in the chair at Harold's bedside. When Harold can't sleep, they talk, about numbers or books or some of John's more pleasant adventures. Thank goodness. With a brain like Harold's, sleep is often elusive, even now—especially now. There is a great deal for his mind to confront. His heart nearly gave out on him. He came close to an ordinary but painful death, to losing his life to the mundane frailty of the human body. If Bear hadn't been there keeping him conscious, if John hadn't come so quickly...
But what about that kiss?
John says nothing about it. Harold doesn't ask. But the memory lingers on Harold's lips, soft and warm, waiting for one of them to change things again.
When Harold's discharged, John takes him home to Wren's townhouse. There is no question of who will drive him, or if anyone will stay and help him. John will and does do both.
"Nice place," John says, looking around with admiration as they slowly make their way to the kitchen.
"Did you find this one?" Harold stops for a moment, leaning against a china cabinet to regroup. He feels exhausted, feeble, breathless, old. His body is, once again, not his own. But a good cup of tea will do a great deal to set him to rights. He just has to drag his weary body to the kettle first.
With a small chuckle, John says, "I did. Didn't go inside, though. That security system is...impressive."
Harold can't help but preen. "Thank you. I designed it myself."
"I figured." John's expression shifts to concern. "Need a hand?"
The memory of John carrying him out of the Library comes to mind again. But while John makes a great cup of tea, and the thought of more hands-on physical assistance is somewhat appealing, "I've been in the hospital for over a week, Mr. Reese. I'd really like to make myself some tea."
With a kind smile, John says, "Understood," and follows Harold into the kitchen, then takes over without a word when Harold grows too weak and short of breath to continue.
John makes no moves to leave that night, and Harold makes no attempt to force it. "I haven't had overnight guests in a very long time," he tells John, when he decides to turn in himself, "but you're welcome to any of the bedrooms. They're all kept clean."
"Okay," John says. "One next door good?"
"Whichever you prefer." Harold moves to get up and show John to his room, and he goes back down hard with a surprised, "Oh," his head spinning and his stomach lurching. John calls his name with alarm and tries to catch him, but by the time he makes contact, Harold's rear end has already hit the mattress. "Oh goodness," he says. "Oh dear."
"You okay?" John asks, crouching down in front of him, his hands landing on Harold's shoulders.
"I think so," Harold replies. "Just a tad bit lightheaded for a moment, and tired. I'm okay." His mind, however, is not, the traitorous thing going back to that terrible day he got sick, to a morning of an aching arm and horrendous heartburn that ended with crushing pain in his chest and him crumpling to the floor.
"Something's wrong," he'd said, in lieu of a greeting, not knowing for certain if he'd connected to John or Shaw, or even Fusco or Carter. He was in trouble: horrible trouble. If he didn't get help quickly...
He was trying for John. He hoped it was John. God, how he hoped it would be John who answered his call.
"What is it, Finch?" John asked, and it was such a relief to hear John's voice that he nearly wept. "Harold?"
"Harold?" John calls out again, in the now, startling him out of the memory. Harold looks up at him, into John's frightened eyes. "You alright?"
Is he? No. No, not really. "If I weren't recovering from a heart attack at the moment," Harold replies, his voice breathy, shaky, "I'd think another beer might be in order."
John doesn't miss the meaning, and some of his tension eases. "I bet," he says, softly. "You've been having a rough time."
That he has. He's come close to death many times, but this one was especially frightening. For such a vital organ to malfunction in such a way... "I must admit, this never was something I considered whenever I was imagining scenarios that would complicate our mission." Harold rubs absently at his chest. "Something so mundane, and yet..." He shrugs. "I knew I wasn't all that healthy, but I was expecting bullet wounds, not wayward blood clots."
"It happens."
"Indeed," Harold says. "And it was...not something I'd care to experience again."
With a squeeze to Harold's shoulder, John says, "Can't promise you that," and gives him a weak smile, "but Shaw and I are gonna do our best to make sure that big ticker of yours keeps ticking for a long time."
Harold smiles. "Thank you—and thank you for saving my life, again." For his employees to go above and beyond like this, to become friends—it's astonishing. And John is the most astonishing of all. Coming for him, staying with him. Kissing him.
Loving him.
"My heart has a good incentive to keep on going, I think," Harold continues. "One the two of us need to talk about, actually." John raises his eyebrows. "The other day at the car." John's eyes grow huge, stricken. Goodness, he has such beautiful eyes. Mustering up his courage, Harold reaches out and cups John's face in his palm. "I've been meaning to ask...was that..."
"Whatever you want," John whispers. "It was whatever you want."
"And if I want you..."
A hint of a smile takes shape on John's face. "Whatever you want," he repeats.
Whatever he wants. How terrifying. How wonderful. "I want you to kiss me again," he says, his heart waking in his chest, "and do it properly this time. And I want you."
"You've got me," John says, and he leans in and gives Harold another brief, sweet kiss. "Always."
Then, his lips meet Harold's again, and he kisses Harold properly.