Work Text:
“After my last relapse, my mom found me unresponsive in my bedroom.
She told me she held my hand all the way from home to the hospital.
Didn’t let it go until I woke up....
When I went home this morning, I was going to ask her to forgive me, and then she was gone.”
-------
"Time? Hell, we got all the time in the world. Benny's asleep. Be hours before Finch brings us breakfast."
"No, listen to me, John. Your time is running out. You're dying, John."
(Terra Incognita)
John flicked his earpiece as he drove down the empty city street. The sunrise forced his tired eyes to squint.
"Finch, are you awake?" he called.
"Mr. Reese," the response, though gravelly, was almost immediate. "How did your stake out with Detective Carter go?"
"Like most stake outs go, Finch, very slowly."
"I apologize for not being there with breakfast, but I was indisposed. I trust you can find your own sustenance?"
"Think I know where to acquire some decent donuts in this neighborhood by now without you or your Machine's help. Want me to drop by the library? There may even be a few left for you when I get there."
"That would be lovely. Except I'm not at the library currently."
"How 'bout the diner later? I'll fill you in on what Benny was up to."
A pause.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible either."
"Rain check then. Hey Finch, I wanted to ask you--"
The line filled with static.
"Finch?"
There was no response. His vision blurred. When it cleared, he was still sitting in the car, but it wasn't moving. Why wasn't it moving? He turned the keys over in his hand and then placed them in the ignition, but the engine didn't turn.
"John," the angel beside him reminded him gently, "You've already tried that, remember? It's too cold. The car won't start."
"Oh, right," John said absently. He remembered what she had told him earlier. He was dying.
He glanced down at his cell phone. No signal, it beamed back at him in the darkness. The conversation with Finch hadn't been real.
Which he should have known, because Finch had met him at the diner that morning. Their conversation had taken place in the fall two years ago, when Joss was still alive. Through the frost on the windshield he could see snow piled up on the ground now. It mostly covered the long dirt driveway where the car sat. Even if the car did get started, he wondered how much traction it would get.
"Joss," he asked, "How are we going to get across this proverbial intersection if the car isn't moving?"
"That's the thing about death, John, it doesn't matter what you do or don't do, it just happens."
"Well I guess we can at least make conversation till then."
-------
John reached across to the dashboard to nudge up the temperature on the heater. "So tell me about this beach of yours, Joss," he asked, as he sank back into the seat. "What does it look like?"
Joss glanced over. "You thinking about going there?"
John only shook his head with a smile. "I told you, ain't no beaches for people like me. Plus, I got your job now."
Joss snorted. "That's right. And my partner too. Fusco been treating you alright at the precinct?"
"Yeah. You'd be proud of him, Joss. You know he was the one who took down Simmons. Did it your way. Marched him into the police station all proper. He's straightened up now."
"Aw, Fusco."
"We did have a fight once though. Proper knock out drag down fight." John leaned his head back on the head rest. "It was right after you'd died. Finch sent him to bring me back home and I didn't want to go. It came to fist cuffs. Got broken up by the local sheriff. Both of us ended up spending the night in jail."
"Huh. Would have liked to have been there to see that."
"Yeah...yeah, you should have been there." He swallowed. "He told me today I was a terrible cop. It's true isn't it? I'm not good at all this"--he waved his hands in the air--"administrative stuff. Only thing I'm good at is taking orders, actually. From the CIA, from you tonight. From the Machine. From--" he didn't finish.
"From Harold?" Joss prompted.
John's mouth tightened. "He doesn't speak to me much anymore."
"I know, John, because your phone isn't working."
"No, it's more than that."
"Is it?" She seemed unconvinced.
"We've been more--distant--than usual the past few months. There have been moments when it's been just like it always has--and then--he's been going off on separate missions. He's not filling me in on what he does on them. Since he's been going off alone, I tried to teach him how to defend himself, but it just made things worse. He wouldn't even pick up the gun. He seemed angry with me."
"Really." Joss remarked dryly.
"He's stopped consulting with me."
"And you let him?"
"No... I... Yes."
His eyes flicked down to the phone lying next to the keys.
"Hey Joss, do you remember that time I got thrown in Rikers?"
"Mmm... that was another time I had to intervene to save your ass."
"But you remember how I was trapped in the bank vault basement before they arrested me, and how I had to destroy my phone? In order to protect them from getting to Finch?"
Even as a ghost, Carter's interrogation instincts were sharp. "And you think you're protecting him now?"
"I know what's coming. It's for the best," he said.
He may not have Harold's brilliant mind, but even he could read between the lines of how this war with Samaritan was playing out. If Carter's death had been the warning shot, Shaw's had been the one to his knees. The next one would hit center mass. Brain or heart it didn't much matter. Joss was right, his time was running out. It had been clear to him for a while that he was going to die soon too, would have been dead already, probably, if that bullet directed at Finch hadn't incapacitated him before he had the chance to sacrifice himself at the Stock Exchange.
Instead, Shaw had taken his place, and he had watched how Shaw's death had affected Root. Giving someone a goodbye phone call or kiss before you died didn't make it easier for them to deal with your loss. It just made it harder for them to accept it and move on. Even if every fiber in his being longed for a connection, Elias had been right, it was important to understand your own weaknesses. Just like it had been with Jessica, it was better to break off their relationship before his inevitable death happened. It would make the moment less painful for Harold.
And maybe that inevitable moment was now. That was okay, he still had memories. And when those failed, Joss was here. Harold might grieve for a while, but he would get past it. Harold had been doing just fine without him these past few months and would in the future. He'd find someone else to replace him.
"You know, when you got tossed in Rikers," Joss began, interrupting his brooding, "Harold got in touch with me to help spring you from that cell. And when Kara Stanton kidnapped you, who was it that saved you from meeting the same end as Agent Snow? And who came and put you back on his leash after you slipped it and almost killed yourself when I died? But, you're right, John. He doesn't even know where you are this time because you never told him. He isn't coming to save you. Not this time."
From her spot on the bench in the corner of the subway station, stitching up her wedding gown, Root looked across at the furious typing happening at the main work station.
"The big lug has you worried again, doesn't he?"
Harold frowned, but didn't say anything. The typing continued.
"I wouldn't panic, Harold, I'm sure he can take care of himself." There, that was enough to provoke a response.
"If there is anything that my time with John has shown me, Ms. Groves, it's that though John may be extremely talented at saving other people, he is extremely bad at taking care of himself."
That's my job, he almost added, but saw the grin on her face and bit back the words.
"So you are worried. You want to tell me what happened then? Maybe I can help."
"I very much doubt that you or the Machine can be of much help." Harold sighed, "I last spoke to him this afternoon, when he called to say he was tailing the new number, Chase Patterson. It isn't like him not to have checked in again yet. I've tried to reach him again repeatedly but the call is not going through. I managed to trace the location his phone last pinged back on the mesh network to an interstate north of the city, but that was over four hours ago."
Root came over to join him at the work station, as multiple satellite maps flickered across Harold's laptop screen.
"I'm not picking up a GPS signal from his cell phone anywhere," he continued. "If his phone is still intact and on his person, it would seem they are both somewhere outside the range of the shadow network and the traditional one. I would guess somewhere with a lot of interference, perhaps a tunnel or basement or somewhere rural or with mountainous terrain. I've plotted a map of places with spotty coverage within a four hours drive of his last known location, but I'm afraid that doesn't narrow it down considerably. Without any more information it would be like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack."
Root frowned, "I hate to say it Harold, but is it possible Samaritan has him?"
"The possibility has crossed my mind, but he didn't seem distressed when I talked to him, and he wasn't working on a number that appeared related to them in any way that I can detect."
Harold hit the backspace on his keyboard multiple times in irritation, and the plots disappeared. "I'm going to call Detective Fusco."
"I'll ask the Machine if she knows anything. It's worth a try. She cares about all of us, Harold. She'll help us find John if she can. Don't worry."
Harold raised an eyebrow but didn't reply further. Instead as Root rose to leave, he dialed the detective's number.
The phone only rang once before a jovial voice greeted him--"Hey Glasses, I know I told our mutual friend and my erstwhile partner I'd help you today, but I've got a ton of paperwork to finish before I can go home tonight. Not that that's ever stopped you before. So what is it? That info from Carlo earlier lead to anything? "
"Sadly no, Detective, we've not been able to discover anything further about the Brotherhood's or Elias's activities. But it's another matter I need your help with, one involving our mutual friend, unfortunately. He hasn't checked in since earlier this afternoon and I haven't been able to reach him. I'm beginning to worry something may have happened. Have you seen or talked to him recently?"
"Nope, last saw him this morning. Told me he was working on a case he didn't need my help with."
"Yes, a case involving the murder of the family of one young Chase Peterson, also the main suspect of that investigation. He was tailing the suspect somewhere north of the city when I last talked to him. Did he tell you anything about the case?"
"Said it was a cold one. I can't remember any more details. Let me have a look around his desk and I'll see if I can find out more."
"Thank you, Detective. Please call me back if you find any information, no matter how small or inconsequential it may seem, that might indicate where they could be. And I don't think I need to remind you, time is of the essence."
"It always is with you two, isn't it."
Fusco ended the call, leaving Harold momentarily alone in the silence of the subway station, the tapping of his fingers on the surface of the workstation table the only sound. Waiting for information was not something he ever got used to. He spotted one of Bear's squeaky toys under the table and thought about throwing it, but Bear looked up mournfully from his spot on the bed and let out a heavy sigh before laying his head back down.
"You aren't in the mood for games anymore either are you Bear?" He observed. Harold rarely felt tired; he was prone rather to fall asleep before he noticed his own exhaustion. To awaken with his head on his desk or with a book still half open in his hands. But he felt tired suddenly. He settled for resting his head on his steepled hands in a pale imitation of Bear.
A few minutes later they were interrupted by Root as she reentered the station and came over to perch on one of the subway car seats.
"I've got good news and bad news, Harold. The good news is the Machine gave me a location: 117 Queens Highway. The bad news is that it's from hours ago and she hasn't been able to locate him since. Wherever he is now, he must really be off the grid."
"That is good news, Ms. Groves." Harold turned back to his laptop, feeling his energy levels slowly start creeping back up as he entered the new data.
"That location is about a two and a half hour drive north of the city," He spoke more enthusiastically. "It's near the Catskills, which may well be the source of the signal interference."
Root peered over his shoulder at the satellite map he'd pulled up on his laptop screen. "That's still a pretty big area, Harold, and heavily forested. If he's somewhere up there, we may not be able to find him unless he decides to come back. Or unless your detective can come through."
"We'll find him, Ms. Groves. Detective Fusco will find something. In the meantime, I'll update my plots with the new location. If we leave now, and prioritize the areas near the roads, it shouldn't take us that long to cover a large area. We're not simply going to give up." His voice rose on the final sentence.
"Like we gave up on Sameen?" Root asked, her own voice losing its usual whimsicality.
Finding himself suddenly in deeper waters than he realized, Harold paused for a second. "Ms. Groves," he spoke deliberately, "I know that we have not been on the best terms of late. But believe me when I say that I wanted--that I want to save Sameen as well. And we did try everything in our power at the time to find her. But you must understand that we have to balance the possibility of finding Sameen with the risks to all of us. It would hardly be a successful rescue mission if we only lost more people."
"You would say that, Harold."--her voice took on that sing song quality it always did when she angry--"Harold, Harold, Harold. Always in control. Always reminding us about the big picture. Balancing the lives of others. Our great teacher keeping all his little charges in line. What would you do if it was John's life that was at stake and the rest of our lives being put at risk to find him? Go find yourself a new hired gun like you did before? Or is he so irreplaceable?"
"Everyone is irreplaceable."
"I don't believe you believe that. I think if it was John who had been left behind at the Stock Exchange, you would be half way into Samaritan headquarters by now, even if it meant getting yourself killed the process. But you don't want me to do the same for Sameen."
"That is a hypothetical scenario that I would not like to discuss or entertain, especially at the present moment." Finch stood up huffily, snapping his laptop closed.
"Bear, Volg," He called sternly, and Bear reluctantly stretched and got up from his bed and padded over to join them. "If you are inclined to accompany me, Ms. Groves, we can continue this conversation while we make our way to Professor Whistler's car. That is, unless you have another mode of motorized transport in mind--preferably not a motorcycle."
"I'm afraid I arrived here on foot, Harold," Root said as she gathered up the train on her gown, seemingly determined both to follow Harold and to take the dress with her.
"You know, normally John sticks closer to you than Bear here. And now he's driven hours out of the city without letting you know where he was heading. What's the matter? Is there trouble in Paradise?"
Is that what this was called? Harold took one last look around at the darkened corners of their subway hideout as they departed. Root's question was rhetorical most likely, a dig to get back at him for what she perceived to be his role in Sameen's loss. Harold contemplated it seriously anyways. His and John's was an unconventional relationship. Not that Harold was very experienced in the conventional kind. It existed in the same undefined margins their lives did. Always under threat of being ended by one of their deaths and subservient to their larger mission. And, since Samaritan had come on line, to survival. Harold had never been one to put trust in people easily, but more than four years after they had started their joint venture, he had been startled to find that John's presence was one of the few things he could trust.
Still, it had seemed the past month that things had been more fluid than usual. We're partners, he had told one of the numbers who had pressed for a definition. Thinking if he said it out loud, it would be enough to make it permanently true. And it had seemed to work. John had been momentarily pleased, had crowded closer into his personal space as if to corroborate their togetherness, ready to take any potential disputer down at the kneecaps. Later, when they were alone at Professor Whistler's apartment after they had rescued the number, there had been a more--convincing--demonstration. (There was no need to mention that part to Ms. Groves. Her innuendos were bad enough without her being party to that information. And Finch was still a very private person.)
The point was that Harold had let himself lapse into comfortableness again, unworried about their bond. He had never been good at picking up on social cues, and now he had lapsed too far and it was entirely severed.
"I'm not sure. John is hard to read," he settled for saying as they made their way back out into the sunlight and the bustling streets of the city.
"John? That guy is as subtle as the grenade launcher he walks into bars with. Doesn't talk much, I'll grant you that. But take it from someone who knows something about the art, Harold, obfuscation is not his strong point."
Harold raised a glance over at Root. "Did he mention something to you?"
"Didn't have to. He's an open book. Maybe one of the few who can't read it is himself," she cocked her head, considering. "I suppose that is one kind of mask to wear... You know the world is a funny place, Harold. Wearing masks is easy for me because for the longest time I was never anyone else but a mask. But what--" her voice had become more uncertain, "what do you do when you start wearing one and it isn't a mask any longer? It becomes real, and then you've got to put it away like the others at the end of the day and you can't."
"I've always found it best not to let the two mingle, to always be clear to yourself if to no one else what is real and what is pretend," Harold replied.
Root glanced down at the white dress she still clutched tightly in her hands as they made their way down the sidewalk. "I knew this was pretend. Tammy Flowers didn't exist and the marriage was arranged, and I was supposed to ditch the groom at the reception anyway, after stealing one of the wedding gifts. But I got to the altar and I couldn't say the words, Harold. Not even because She asked. Not when... not when.... So I ran all the way out of the church. And I came back to the subway because that's the only place I can be myself, the only place that Shaw--well I do know something about what is real as well as what isn't. I don't know what kind of arrangement you have with John, but I was just at my own wedding so perhaps I can refresh your memory about the traditional vows. They involve the phrase till death do us part. And if that's a part of your arrangement, I don't know why you need to ask me to read John's mind for you."
Harold paused for a second, grasped the olive branch. "Maybe you're right."
"Oh but word of advice, Harold, even if you've made your vows, humans aren't like your Machine, they have imperfect memories. It doesn't hurt to renew them now and then."
"I'll keep that in mind." And then slightly warmer, "Thank you, Ms. Groves."
"You're welcome, Harold." Her reply was noticeably more pert.
They had almost reached Whistler's car. Feeling benevolent, he inquired, "Do you prefer to drive or shall I?"
"No preference, Harold. But I'll drive so that you can use your laptop if you need to."
Benevolence was catching it seemed. He unlocked the doors and let Bear climb into the back seat before taking the passenger side. Root tossed the wedding dress in the trunk and joined him.
"I may have said before I didn't care for John much, but he's been growing on me," she mused as she started the car. "You know, when we were driving back from Samaritan's facility in Maple, John said that Shaw would have been proud of us for rescuing that woman--the woman who wasn't Shaw--even though we didn't save her. He said that was what Shaw had sacrificed herself for, so that we could keep saving lives and saving the world from Samaritan. She believed in that--in the mission, she'd say--enough to give her life for it. And I...I have to keep going, I know I do. But sometimes, it's so hard." Her hands gripped hard on the steering wheel as they headed towards the interstate.
"Ms. Groves--Root," Harold said carefully. "Shaw also cared about you. She sacrificed herself for you too. I don't think she would want you to be unhappy. It's like I said before, what's the point of saving the world if you can't enjoy it?"
"Do you think that's possible, Harold? To enjoy it? Even in times like these?"
"Yes. I do."
Root fell uncharacteristically silent. The setting sun made Harold's eyes squint as he looked out the passenger side window toward the docks.
"Oh, and Root, he isn't a pet."
"What was that?"
"You implied on one of our earlier--excursions--that John was my pet, and in the subway just now you equated him to Bear. But you're wrong." Harold took a breath and then continued, his gaze still fixedly set out the window. "I don't know if the Machine ever told you how I found John. I was working a number who'd entangled himself in a matter of national security. John was one of the agents who had been sent to eliminate him. But he didn't. He didn't follow their orders. And that's when I knew. I didn't want someone who was just good at following directions. I wanted someone who was going in the same direction as I was already. Everyone is irreplaceable, but--but someone like that is especially irreplaceable--to me."
Root turned to speak, but her reply was cut off by Harold's phone beeping. He reached for it instantly, his hand slightly shaking as it held the receiver.
"Detective, were you able to find anything?"
"I just had a look through some of the files John left on his desk. The case was an old one of Carter's. According to the transcript of her interrogation, your man Chase Peterson claimed he was at a cabin upstate the night of the murders. That could be where he and our mutual friend were headed. I'm texting you the address."
Harold checked the address, and his indrawn breath was audible over the line. "We lost contact with John's phone just six miles from that location. Thank you very much for your assistance, Detective Fusco. It has been invaluable."
"No problem. And hey Glasses, I can guess what you're planning now, but if John went up there without back up and something bad has happened to him, it's probably not a good idea for you to do that either."
"It's all right, Detective, Ms. Groves is here to assist me."
"Why does that not make me feel more reassured?" Fusco sighed and reached for his jacket. This paperwork was never going to be finished.
"He isn't coming to save you. Not this time. And it's all your fault."
Reese glanced over.
"That's rather harsh for an angel. Aren't you guys supposed to be merciful?"
"It hurts because it's the truth. But I've always found the truth to be the most merciful."
John smiled. "Someone told me the same, once."
"You could return the favor, you know. Tell me the truth about that photograph I kept for you of you and Jessica. Tell me the reason you left her behind."
John gave a frustrated sigh. "But I shouldn't have to tell you. Finch might not understand, but you've been deployed, you must know what that's like."
"Tell me anyways."
"Fine, let me give you another picture. I'm on my first tour in Afghanistan and we're outside of Herat, making our way through the mountains at night. We hear shooting a little ways off. A group of rangers has stumbled into the Taliban in the dark. And by the time we get there, they're all dead--not just our guys, everyone. We search their belongings. And you know what? They all have photos of loved ones in their pockets--everyone, both sides. You ever have to call your buddy's wife and tell him he's not coming back for Christmas--ever? Well, for each of them, someone had to make that phone call. And I realize I've got a photo just like that too. I realize I'm probably not gonna make it back alive. Jessica deserved a better life than waiting to become a widow like all those others in those photographs. She didn't deserve a phone call like that. She deserved happiness."
"So you left her behind out of a misguided desire to make her happy?"
"Yeah. Not quite how it worked out though."
"Sorry, John. But I'm not buying it. You may be able to fool your police therapist with that version, maybe even yourself."
"It's the truth though, Joss."
"No, I don't think it is. Like you said, I was military too. And I read your file. You'd already been deployed once when you broke things off. Hell, you were already active military when you met. You want to tell me what it was really about?"
John rubbed his shoulder again, feeling suddenly not too cold but too hot. He undid the top button of his shirt.
"Well, you are right about one thing, I didn't break it off right away. I carried that photo of Jessica with me for a while. But it seemed like every time I looked at her face, that night was all I could think about. I realized that having those photographs didn't help them and it wasn't helping me. And after a while, I couldn't look at it anymore. Maybe some people think it's comforting, to have that vision of a home to come back to. They hold onto it and it makes them feel sane, but I think it just drove me more crazy. Maybe you're right, maybe it wasn't about making things easier for her, maybe it was about making things easier for me."
"So you ended it?"
"So I gave Jessica back the photo. Hadn't seen it again until that cop brought me your personal effects today." He shrugged, trying to play off some of the emotion that was creeped into his voice. "Maybe the exact moment isn't very important. Maybe I had already left her in a thousand smaller ways before then. And maybe I left her again in a thousand small ways after. Handing the photo back was one of the harder things I did, come to think of it. It was easier not to make the choice. Easier to let it be made for me by not making it. Easier to just follow someone else's orders--easier to do my job. Not soon after that I was recruited for the CIA, if I hadn't learned my lesson before then, I certainly did then."
Carter raised an eyebrow. "What lesson was that?"
"The lesson that in war sometimes it's necessary to do horrible things. It's harder to do them if you've got someone you love. And when you're in love, it's even harder to die. See when you're in love, you're in love with the world, with being alive, you feel everything in the world too much. You can't just-- it's painful enough when you don't feel anything you know?"
"Is that a bad thing?"
John only shrugged again.
"Harold's not CIA, you know. He'd never order you to do something horrible."
"No, he wouldn't," he smiled fondly. "And he would never ask me to die. He said he was asking me to, when we first met, said he was telling me the truth, but it's not true anymore. He's not willing to sacrifice me. That's why he hasn't been reading me in on his plans since Samaritan came online. And we're at war again now, Joss. At some point if we don't want to lose, we're going to have to do something horrible, whether Harold thinks it's necessary or not. And if that's the case, he can't--I have to be the one to do it. And at some point I may have to die. It's easier for me to do that alone. It's easier for both of us this way, easier for us to do our jobs." He stopped speaking, nodded his head in affirmation.
But Joss just shook her head, "You know, I think you've got this all wrong. I think you've just made it harder on yourself. Harder to do your job. I mean look at you, look where you are. You're up here alone like you wanted, dying, at this cabin in the woods and what have you accomplished? You've killed the murderer, sure, but to what end? The man you came up here to save is still slowly dying inside the cabin and, outside, so are you. If you had told someone where you were going, maybe you'd both be safe for now. Death is going to come anyways. But you're hurrying it along. And for what? Death isn't something that you accomplish. It doesn't do anything on its own. And, as for all that talk about war. You're right, I do know how it is. I never worked for the CIA, but two tours of duty I served. One in Afghanistan and the second in Iraq. You know what I learned there? Stuff done out of hate or fear, those horrible things you mention, that sort of stuff doesn't accomplish anything. You can't make something right by doing something wrong. More horrible things only come from doing horrible things. The only things ever worth accomplishing in this world are things that are done out of love."
"I don't think I was ever very good at those things."
"You truly believe that?"
John didn't respond. And Carter didn't press further. Whether an hour or only a minute or two passed after that, he couldn't be sure, he seemed to be losing his sense of time as well as place. This talk of Jessica had messed with his head. Jessica. Harold. Afghanistan. New York. Wherever he was now. He felt... unfocused. A glow through the window caught his attention, he turned his head.
"Isn't the moon pretty tonight?" John whispered, and as he opened his mouth he tasted tears sliding down his cheeks.
"Yeah," she said. "You know, I used to take Taylor camping up here sometimes when he was younger. He liked to stay up and watch the stars come out. You can't see them in the city. He'd always fall asleep though. I'd have to carry him back to the tent."
"Joss, I read your case report. You asked Patterson what he was doing at the cabin that night. He told you what he wouldn't tell me, the truth."
"What was that?"
"He said--he said he was relapsing. "
"Mmmm."
He took another ragged breath. "Even after Jessica died I still thought it was best just to--told you, before you died, how close I came. There was something else I didn't tell you then. After you arrested me, Harold found me, and I didn't even think about it, I did--I did let him in... and I felt... clean... for a while."
"I already know, it's okay, John."
"I thought I had changed. I thought I could change. And now I've sent Harold away just like Jessica. What if I can never get past it, what if that's just who I am?"
He turned back to look at her directly, eyes watery. "Do you know who I am, Joss?"
"You're my friend," Joss said, and held his hand.
"You know, neither I nor Fusco would have been there for that stakeout that night two years ago if it wasn't for you. Harold was skeptical about bringing more people in. You were the one who took the initiative to reach out and include us. And neither of us have any regrets about that. Even that dog of Harold's that he loves to complain about wouldn't be here without you. That's who you are too, John. And, John, you told me earlier that Harold wouldn't even pick up a gun to learn how to defend himself, but there was one time he did. If I hadn't negotiated your release from Rikers, he was ready to break in and get you out, gun in hand and all. So I'd say you're already half way there and walking the rest of the way isn't too hard. There are people who love you, who care about you, you just gotta let them back in."
"But what about dying, Joss? How do I make that easier?"
Carter just looked fondly down on him, as if from a great distance, though she was still holding his hand.
"Take it from a real homicide detective, John," she said. "When Death comes you're not going to see it coming. You think that Machine of yours is going to prepare you if it spits out your number? You think I was prepared for it when I stood on that street corner with you? Nah. Whether you think you're prepared or not, whether you're in love or not, it's still going to come and it's still going to be a surprise. The good news is that you don't have to do anything about it at all. Nothing's going to make it easier. But nothing's going to make it harder either. So you may as well enjoy life while you can. You may as well feel things. Whatever you do or don't do, the loss will be the same."
John smiled at that. "Everyone is relevant?"
"Everyone is relevant."
"You know, Joss, it's funny, I've got your job now, but I think you've got mine."
In the silence that followed, John thought he could make out the refrain of an old Nat King Cole song start to play. Was the car battery still running? Had the radio picked up a faint signal from somewhere? John remembered his mother had liked to play that song. As the familiar tones washed over him, he stared at the phone and then at his keys. At some point during their conversation, they had fallen down into one of the cup holders. His limbs felt heavy and he didn't think he could lift an arm to reach either of them now.
"Joss, what am I doing here again?"
"You're dying."
"Oh, right."
Numbness started creeping into his right hand and then up his arm. He clasped Joss's hand in his tighter to keep the sensation of it with him. He thought about the number, Chase, and about ambulance rides. In fact, he could almost see the flashing lights.
He turned in his seat to point them out to Joss, but she was no longer there. He felt her loss all over again, a throbbing pain along his right shoulder and down into his gut, bullet wounds both old and new.
The lights became brighter, stopped flickering and became a steady, almost blinding beam. And then three shadows crossed in front of it, the shadow in front scrambling forward with a pronounced limp.
For the first time that evening panic crept into his stomach. It couldn't be. Harold wasn't his angel of death. Harold was alive, he was out walking Bear probably. He didn't belong here.
The air felt tight around his throat. John turned toward the window, his head lolling on his left shoulder. Through the large crack in the driver's side window, he glimpsed bird like eyes behind glasses peering down at him. They looked brighter than they should have, for a ghost's, and looking up into them he suddenly felt more alive than he should have as well.
Maybe, like Joss had said, it was still possible to do some living while you were on the precipice of dying. And maybe he and Harold were always on the precipice of dying. But that thought was no longer the cold reality it had been. It felt more akin to the stroll on the beach Joss had longed for, it felt almost like--Paradise. He started thinking of one liners.
"Sorry Officer, was I speeding?" he asked, his teeth clicking together. That had sort of made sense in his head. But wait, Harold was a professor wasn't he?
The voice in response was startlingly high with emotion.
"John, are you there?"
John wasn't sure if he meant at that moment, or in the past few months, or if it was just a general inquiry. But it didn't matter. What had his therapist said about inevitability?
"Always, Finch, always," he said. And closed his eyes. He would let Harold take them the rest of the way home.