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Deep throbbing pain... cracked ribs.
Lead weight behind eyes... possible concussion.
Tightness near hairline over right eyebrow… stitches?
He’d woken up this way enough times to know to lie still and to keep his breathing even, mimicking sleep, giving him time to evaluate the situation and all possible responses.
No smell of antiseptic, no bright lights battering his eyelids and the sheets surrounding his aching body were far too luxurious to be tucked in around a hospital bed.
Where was he?
The last thing he remembered was… static... no, an image skittered in and out of a baseball bat being swung at him... more pain as he tried to focus.
No, better to work backwards from where he was now… Wherever the hell this was.
Footsteps with a familiar irregular rhythm… Finch. Relief flooded him; Harold was safe. Still, better to continue to play possum as Finch might be a prisoner as well and they might need the strategic advantage.
“Still slacking off I see.” Finch’s voice hovered right above a whisper. “It’s only a head injury. It’s not like you were using it for anything important.”
He might have responded then, only Harold’s hand was smoothing John's hair back, carefully avoiding the cut on his forehead, his touch feather light, deeply comforting and long craved.
“It would serve you right if I had used a blanket stitch on your thick skull.” Harold briefly caressed John’s cheek.
“You are far too reckless, Mr. Reese, and I would hate to have to replace you.” Harold lightly squeezed John’s hand in his. “Really hate it.”
John squeezed back.
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