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He forged his high tolerance for pain through experience and necessity. So when a bullet tears through his abdomen while he and John are hunkered down in a warehouse, Harold only grunts and buttons up his jacket. It hurts, a hideous blow and a horrendous burn in the middle of his belly, a deep and devastating wound, but the number crying into his back is a child, and John needs to focus. If Harold distracts him, then all three of them are doomed.
But dear god, does his stomach hurt.
He keeps quiet, forcing himself to ignore the wetness spreading on his torso, flinching only at the sound of relentless gunfire and young Ellie's screams in his ears. His body is unimportant. His pain is unimportant. This is an emergency, yes, but there are greater emergencies than his.
The word triage comes to mind.
"Where are you guys?" John demands, as he reloads his pistol.
"Stuck in traffic," Fusco says, over the earpiece, and the honk of a car horn pierces the line. Harold flinches, and the pain flares hot again, aggravated by moving muscles. "Bad accident. Shaw took off on foot. She might make it there before I do. You guys wanna get back into the city, though, you're gonna have to find another way."
Another shooter goes down with a cry, making Ellie whimper and grab at Harold again. Harold clenches his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe through the pain.
Slowly, the room around them grows quieter and quieter, until the last of the kidnappers goes down with a shot to the chest. With that, John scrambles to his feet, saying, "Unless you can learn how to fire a gun in the next few minutes, Finch, you're gonna have to carry Ellie, 'cause I can't cover you and hold her at the same time."
Carry Ellie. Down five flights of rickety metal stairs. It would be a daunting prospect even without the agony in his belly. But Ellie is only three. She'll never manage it herself.
Harold nods. "I can do it, I think."
John offers him a hand up, and Harold takes it. His torn midsection screams, so painful it's nauseating, and the room spins around him. "Harold?"
"I'm fine," Harold lies, far too quickly, gripping at John's arm to keep from clutching his abdomen. "I'm alright." John eyes him with concern. "The concrete floor has not been kind to me. I'm fine."
He regrets the lie as soon as he starts down the stairs. Every step strains his body, and the weight of the girl and the slow loss of blood. His belly burns, the ember of hellfire lodged in his guts stoking itself as he moves. He tries to ignore it, and when he can't, he tries harder.
One floor down.
Ellie's little feet hit him in the stomach with nearly every step.
Two.
He's not sure he can do this.
Three. Four.
His belly hurts. He fears he might be sick.
"John, I don't—"
"Almost there, Finch."
Harold tightens his hold on the girl. He can do this. She's far more important than him. He cannot fail her and her parents. He can't.
The heavy steel door creaks open downstairs, and John raises his gun.
"I'm in," Shaw says, on the comm, and Harold exhales with relief. John's tension eases, though not by much. "You guys still breathing or what?"
"We're okay," John replies. "Almost out."
They reach the bottom floor, and Shaw hurries to them. She starts updating them on the other kidnappers while John takes the little girl from Harold's trembling arms with a, "You sure you're okay, Harold?"
"You look like crap," Shaw adds, and Harold forces a smile.
"I appreciate the compliment, Ms. Shaw." He wipes the sweat from his brow and takes a step forward. His legs try to give out.
Shaw catches him with a, "Whoa, hey," and Harold winds up sagging against her side. "Let's hurry up and get out of here."
They head for the car, Harold leaning heavily on Shaw, her helping him without complaint. His abdomen feels wetter now, the pain still bright and hot. The rest of his belly aches. Soon, he can rest, he reminds himself. Soon, he can tell them he needs help.
As John's putting Ellie in the car, he freezes, his eyes wide with horror. "Shaw. Over here, now."
Shaw leaves Harold propped up against the car and runs to John's side, while John studies a sizable blood stain on Ellie's leg and dress and asks, "Where does it hurt, sweetheart?" his voice soft and gentle. "Where are you hurt?"
For several heart-stopping moments, Harold is certain Ellie has been wounded, too. She doesn't answer, though, but she doesn't seem to be in pain. It isn't her blood, then, thank god. It's his.
He waits until Shaw has looked over the girl, just in case, and finally presses a hand to his belly. "John, Ms. Shaw, I don't think Ms. Watson is the one who's bleeding."
The child is safe. John and Shaw know he's been shot now. He's done what needed to be done. At that, Harold's strength gives out. His knees buckle, and his heavy head drags him to the ground before he can even try to stop it. The last thing he hears is John calling his name as the pain and the darkness swallow him whole.
His first concern when he wakes is not himself, nor John. "Ellie," he says. "Is the girl alright? Where's Ellie?"
Someone shushes him, and a heavy hand on his chest nudges Harold back down. "Ellie's fine," John says. "Back with her moms and on her way to a brand new life."
Harold breathes a sigh of relief and drops his head back onto his pillow. She really is safe. "Thank god."
"You, on the other hand..." John grabs something from the nightstand that rattles—a cup of water with a straw, turns out—and presses a button to raise the head of the bed. "How you feeling?"
How is he feeling? Terrible. His mouth is dry, his throat raw, his belly...
With a pained, "Mm," Harold lays a hand on his belly. The pain is muted by the drugs and the lingering anesthesia haze, but it's still an ugly, burning thing filling his entire midsection. Hoping to cool it, he takes a sip of the proffered water and gently rubs his stomach. It helps very little. "This is not pleasant."
"Yeah." John smiles, his eyes full of sad sympathy. "You're hurting pretty bad, aren't you?"
Reluctant to admit it, Harold takes another drink, then asks, "How bad was it?"
John's face falls. "Pretty bad. You had some gut damage, but Farouk fixed it right up. Lost a bunch of blood. You'll probably be okay, though, unless an infection sets in. Still could. Definitely gonna feel like crap for a pretty good while."
With a nod, Harold sips at the water again.
"Scared the hell out of us," John continues. "Shaw's pissed."
Really? Harold raises his eyebrows. "And you?"
With a sheepish smile and a shrug, John says, "I would've done the same thing."
Harold nods once. Of course John would. Still, Harold feels the need to explain himself. "The girl was my priority. I didn't want to frighten her or distract you while you were protecting us."
"So you kept quiet." Sadness takes hold of John's eyes. "Even with a bullet in your stomach."
"That level of pain is...not unfamiliar to me."
"I'm sorry."
All Harold can do is shrug. "Yes, well, I expected some injuries from this job. And I did what I had to do."
"You did good." John starts to reach for Harold's belly, then pulls back. "How bad are you hurting now? Be honest."
Honest. About pain. Very well. "A little more pain medication would be most welcome," he replies, and hands the cup back to John, then rests his other hand on his belly. Quietly, he adds, "It hurts."
"I'll take care of it." John pats the back of Harold's hand and gets up from his seat. "Get some rest. You're gonna need it."
Harold suspects he won't have a choice. He's so tired. And cold. "Could I have another blanket, too, please?"
"Of course." John gives him a smile. "Anything else?"
His first thought is, Some company, but he doesn't say so. "That's all for now, I think. And I understand if you'd like to go and do something else with your time once you're through with that."
"First time getting shot's tough," John says. "Think I'll stick around, unless you want some time alone..."
Harold finds himself smiling. "You're more than welcome to stay, John."
John's smile grows. "Then I'll be right back."
Harold doesn't remember much from after he collapsed until he awoke for good—a few vague impressions of words, the roar of an engine, and, of course, pain. Some of it could be guesswork, his mind filling in the many blanks between fall and awakening. It makes sense that he would be in the back seat with someone putting agonizing pressure on his wound, and there's no reason not to think it was John keeping him alive. Why wouldn't it happen like that?
Other details make less sense: the sound of someone crying—not the little girl, but a man. The feeling of what could be lips in his hair, pressed to the back of his head. A hand holding his, then running gently over his tender and bandaged belly. A low murmur of affectionate words that John would never say to him. John saying, in the voice he sometimes uses with Bear, "I keep seeing all that blood—his blood. Dreaming about it. It won't come off."
Harold's mind conjures kindnesses he's certain are false, kindnesses more painful than the bullet wound—tastes of what his heart wants. There's no doubt that John cares about him, but reading to him as he heals? That is excessively unlikely.
John does, however, stick around, to Harold's surprise. "Someone's gotta keep an eye on you," he says, with one of those grins of his. It's much like the quiet times in the Library, full of undemanding silence and the comfort of simple proximity. John is there. Harold isn't alone. He has someone who will help him.
He needs the help. Everyday tasks are a struggle, from the mundane to the embarrassing. But John helps without complaint, brushing off Harold's many apologies with gentle smiles and friendly assistance.
Such a kind man, Harold thinks often. John is so lovely to him, so good, and letting him help is shockingly easy. Only Grace has ever been allowed to help him without him resisting—and now John.
He trusts John as much as he trusted Grace. He thinks he may love John as much as he loved Grace. But what on earth should he do about it?
With a little more energy comes a little more clarity of thought. That wound could have been fatal. He could have died. He's still here, but he almost ran out of time. And while he was more than willing to die for a number, especially a child, a near-miss is still a near-miss. Any brush with death will always bring about change, a shift in priorities, a reevaluation of life and the future.
He decides to ask John to come home with him.
"I know I don't need quite as much care now," he says, as he's getting ready to leave the safehouse, "but I would still greatly appreciate some assistance, and I know you've been eager to follow me home for as long as you've known me..."
John laughs softly, and, helping Harold into his cardigan, says, "Yeah, I have. I'll help. Kind of figured I would. Just needed you to say so."
Harold can't help a smile. Goodness, how he adores John.
"You scared the shit out of me, Finch," John continues, barely over a whisper, and Harold sobers. "When I saw that blood all over your gut..."
"I survived, John." Harold takes hold of his hand and looks into his eyes. "I'm alive."
"You almost didn't. Don't know what I..." John looks away, blinking rapidly. His eyes shine.
Heart aching, Harold wraps his other hand around John's as well. So warm in Harold's cold grasp, so strong yet fragile. "I'm sorry." He knows what it's like to lose a close friend, to watch them die violently. That he almost was that friend...
His apology snaps John back to reality. "Hey, you were protecting a kid," he says. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You kept her alive and kept her from getting scared when they were shooting, and you helped me get her out of that building okay. You did good."
"Still, that doesn't negate the impact this had on you." John looks away again, his eyes downcast. Oh, goodness. "You are quite dear to me, and I'd hate to know that you are...blaming yourself for this, or continuing to suffer from this, or—"
"I got covered in your blood, Finch. I..." John balls up a fist and presses it to his mouth as he loses his battle with his tears. "Dammit, Harold..."
What can he do but wrap an arm around John? He pulls John close, and John immediately hugs him, his hold tight but gentle. "I know," Harold murmurs. "I know this was a closer call than most. But I'm healing. I'm alive, and I'm healing."
He's never been much of a hugger, and saying he's out of practice would be an understatement. John, however, makes it easy. His big hands settle comfortably on Harold's back, one spread across the ever-aching dip, the other high, near his stiff—and unhappy, after all that lying about—neck. His broad body is so wonderful to lean into, the curve of his shoulder warm and good and perfect for a weary head to rest upon. He smells good, too, of warm, clean skin and woodsy shampoo, a scent Harold could bask in for an eternity.
With a contented sigh, Harold relaxes into the embrace, closing his eyes and holding on, and letting himself be held. He hurts, but this doesn't. Even his heart feels at ease, instead of aching with longing, though he's certain that will change as the days go on.
Unless he faces something more terrifying than death. "John?"
"Hm?"
How does he do this? Oh, hell. It's been so long. He's old hat at near-death-experiences these days, but the mysteries of the heart? Those are beyond him.
"Finch?" John pulls back, eyeing him with concern. His eyes are reddened, his cheeks damp. His voice, when he asks, "What is it?" and loosens his hold, is far rougher than usual.
Harold smiles, his chest overflowing, and he wipes away some of John's tears with a thumb. "You're quite fond of me, aren't you?"
John replies with a tiny nod and a whispered, "Yes."
"So if I were to test a hypothesis of mine and kiss you..."
Eyes widening slightly, John says, "I'd kiss you back."
Harold grins. "Excellent," he says, and he draws John down into a careful, comfortable kiss.