Work Text:
Their number is Caleb Phipps, 17 years, 6 months and 21 days old. Exactly two years ago, his older brother Ryan died in a tragic accident – the two brothers were daring each other to run across the tracks, and Ryan was hit by a subway train. Caleb always blamed himself, and today he's planning to die the same way his brother did.
“Mr Reese, Hunters Point Avenue subway is where Ryan died,” Harold says, looking down at the GPS on his laptop. “So Caleb has chosen the same place to commit- die by suicide, I should say.“
“Understood, Mr Finch,” John's terse voice comes through his earpiece. Not even a hint of amusement on the formal address of Mr., which is really not like him at all.
John has been like this all week - unusually short tempered - and when Harold had commented on it he'd only said 'Not sleeping well' before immediately changing the subject. Naturally, Harold has been worrying ever since about the idea of John suffering with nightmares and insomnia alone in the dead of the night – and whether Harold should ask him about it.
Later, in any case, Harold has enough to worry about in the present.
“I apologise for asking you to do this difficult job for me, but I'm afraid Detective Fusco and I might not get through the traffic in time.”
“I think I can cope with suicide prevention for some dumb kid.”
“Caleb is not dumb!” Harold sputters, “He is an extremely brilliant young man, with enormous potential - the algorithm he's written will revolutionise data storage!” Caleb reminds Harold of himself, not only because of their shared passion for computers but because Harold unfortunately knows how painful it is to feel responsible for the death of a loved one. And that Caleb has had to care for his unwell mother – Harold's father had had Alzheimer's, not addiction, but there are similarities there too.
Harold sighs. “I sincerely hope that is not how you are planning to address him – have you considered the merits of empathy - and earning his trust instead?”
“Don't worry, if he doesn't listen to me I'll just zip tie him to something.”
Harold has a mental list of logical and compassionate arguments that could reasonably change Caleb's mind, and he's hopefully already earned some of Caleb's trust the last few days acting as Caleb's concerned (and competent) substitute maths teacher – and well, to state the obvious, none of Harold's plans involve restraints. He is just about to strongly suggest John hand his earpiece over and let Harold talk to Caleb instead, when he hears a click in his ear that means John has just hung up on him.
Furious and worried, Harold starts typing rapidly on his laptop. First, in one window he tracks the GPS location of John's cell – a red circle in the right place, but with no way of knowing whether John is above ground or below ground already. Harold huffs a bit, and in another window begins hacking into the CCTV on the platform.
“Everything OK there glasses?” Fusco asks from the driver's seat.
“Mr Reese has cut off contact with me, I am attempting to get a visual to work out why on earth he would do such a thing.”
“That's not like him,” Fusco says, his mouth slowly curling into a wide grin, “Usually Wonderboy can't get enough of chatting on the phone with you. I'm curious, how many evenings have you two wasted going 'No, you hang up' at each other?”
“Please concentrate on the road detective,” Harold says – not for a second allowing Fusco's absurd sense of humour to interrupt his typing.
When he'd watched John before hiring him, John was in a bad way – a homeless alchoholic hanging around subways... and suicidal - John had been quite clear when he'd told Harold that. It's an upsetting thought, but what if John had once stood on a platform, and thought about doing the same thing as Caleb is now? What if this case has brought up bad memories for him?
A few more lines of code and Harold's in, and it doesn't take long until the correct CCTV feed appears on his screen. Caleb is in the middle of the frame, sitting on a bench on the deserted platform. He's staring grimly ahead, almost straight at the camera.
Harold's in the nick of time, because it's only seconds before John walks into shot and stalks quickly to stand right in front of Caleb, a large obstacle between Caleb and the tracks. His back is turned towards the camera.
John must say something, because Caleb flinches and jumps up as if he's about to run off. John, with the reflexes of a cat, grabs him by the front of his hoodie, bodily lifts him off the ground and pushes Caleb carefully back onto the bench. They exchange some words, and judging by Caleb's facial expressions and gesticulating arms and John's clenched fists at his sides, their discussion is a very heated one.
“He appears to be having an argument with Caleb,” Harold says slowly, peering at the screen.
“Hah, they don't teach that method in the suicide prevention manuals.”
Caleb grows steadily less animated as their conversation goes on, and his expression morphs away from anger and more into something like tiredness. Concern? John's shoulders are still tense and raised high – and for a man who is always in control of himself physically, the way he's shaking is deeply alarming. Caleb is staring up at John aghast, open mouthed.
John sways, and then he crumples to his knees like a puppet whose strings have been cut. John's arm swipes across his face, as if he's wiping away tears.
“Oh!” Harold exclaims, “John's in some kind of distress!”
“We're nearly there. Should I call an ambulance?”
Caleb moves to the floor and John grabs him by the collar again, but whatever Caleb says – with his hands up in the air – seems to reassure John because he lets go. Caleb kneels next to him, and he takes one of John's hands in his. Harold recognises the technique – you squeeze someone's hand every few seconds to prompt them when to breathe.
“No, John's having a panic attack...” Harold says worriedly.
Caleb's other hand rubs up and down John's back, and he's murmuring quietly to him.
The screen lights up with red and Caleb glances over his shoulder briefly... and then he wraps both arms tightly around John's shoulders right before the train rattles past.
“We're here, come on Finch,” Fusco says, bustling out of the car that he's parked in a hurry – badly. They take the elevator down in tense silence, and it takes far longer than Harold would like to reach the platform
“John! Caleb!” Harold shouts when he sees them. “Are you both alright?”
They're sitting next to each other on the bench, alive and well, and John appears to be breathing normally. He smiles faintly when he sees Harold, but his face is very pale – nothing like his normal healthy glow. “We're fine, Harold,” he says. And, “Hello Lionel,” when Fusco sits next to him.
“Mr Swift, I'm sorry,” Caleb says, coming towards him, “I was a total idiot, I... don't want to die.”
Harold breathes through the wave of relief he's experiencing, “I'm very pleased to hear that... When I worked out what the name of your algorithm signified... I...”
“I worried you didn't I?” Caleb says, “...I've caused all this trouble for you all, and shit, now I have to worry about the drug dealer who wants to kill me.”
“The NYPD will deal with Lorenzo, put him out of your mind,” Fusco says.
Harold says, “Caleb I promise you, you are worth the trouble. ...Imagine how much happier your mother will be to have her son alive – the money you raised for her would make a poor replacement.” Caleb nods, wiping his face. Harold adds, “If you ever need my help again it would be no trouble at all.”
“That's kind of you. I'm alright... but...” Caleb trails off and drags them both out of earshot before continuing, “Your friend had a panic attack and I really think you should talk to him...” Harold's gaze flits over to where John is watching him intently, “He told me you have a knack for finding people in trouble, and that he helps you help people sometimes.”
“Yes... that's correct,” Harold says. Near enough.
“Yeah, better I don't ask,” Caleb says knowingly, then frowns, “What I mean is, I think John needs help, and who better than you – you're good at helping people and... he's a good man isn't he?”
Harold blinks, “Yes of course John's a good man – he's probably the best man I know.” He glances back over and catches a flash of John's furious expression - he's read Harold's lips presumably, and caught, John then turns away quickly. Harold pinches the bridge of his nose – why is John still unable to accept comments like that, when it's so plainly true?
Caleb is looking at Harold, resolute. “Promise me you'll talk to him?”
“Of course I will, I promise,” Harold says – if John needs his help, how could he not?
“Detective Fusco is a good man too, you can trust him,” Harold continues, “He'll want to ask you a few questions, make sure you really are OK.”
Caleb nods his agreement and they go back to the bench. When John moves to stand up, Caleb runs over and wraps his arm around John's shoulders. “Let me help you?” Caleb asks. John gripes a bit, but good naturedly. Harold watches them go on ahead, Caleb's hand on John's back, and John leaning slightly on him.
Outside the station, Fusco and Caleb take the car back to the station and Harold is left looking up at his friend. Their work for the day finished. John looks even worse in the clear light of day - tired lines and deep shadows around his eyes.
“Have you eaten today? We could go eat out somewhere, my treat,” Harold offers.
John hums. “I'm not really hungry.”
Harold raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Well I'm hungry and it happens that my favourite Chinese restaurant is nearby... in fact, I've been visiting it since I first moved to New York...” Hardly his most subtle gambit, but John's eyes light up a bit anyway.
“... Fine,” John sighs, but with the slightest of smiles, “Let's get this over with.”
They're tucked in a booth in a secluded corner (Harold's request), and Ms Liu places two steaming bowls of Si Shen Tang (Harold's choice) on the table between them. John thanks her politely, and doesn't ask her any questions before she leaves. Is it considered bad spycraft to collect information on your target directly in front of them? Harold fondly imagines John returning here later in order to investigate, of all things, what Harold's favourite Chinese dishes were ten years ago.
“So, this is a healthy looking soup,” John says, stirring a wide porcelain spoon through fox nut barley, lotus seeds, Chinese yam and poria mushrooms.
“It's a traditional recipe in Chinese medicine,” Harold explains, and at John's curious glance adds, “I don't recall what it's a treatment for, but I recall it is delicious - and it is healthy - it's rich in antioxidants and polyphenyls...”
John tastes some and nods his approval. Harold often gets the urge to take care of him, and luckily John isn't picky about whatever food Harold puts in front of him, nor does he ever complain that Harold is being too much. Unfortunately after today, good food doesn't feel quite enough.
Harold sighs. “We do need to talk about what happened today at some point, but you're tired, and I'd hate for you to be triggered again.”
“It's fine,” John says, “I'm relaxed. Your favourite restaurant is very nice.”
Harold considered bringing John back to the safety and solitude of the library, but he thinks maybe the quiet murmuring of customers ordering takeout at the far side of the restaurant is a comfort. It certainly is for Harold - however painful or lonely life in New York has sometimes been for him, there's always the familiar bustle of humanity around him, reminding him of what's precious.
“Alright, look,” John rests his large scarred hands on the dark mahogany of the table. “I promise it won't happen again. I'm not going to be a liability.”
“I highly doubt you can promise that!”
“Not when I'm in danger, because the brain functions differently in those situations. It's only...” John waves at his own head, “mission parameters and survival.”
That explains why this hadn't been an issue before when John's in the middle of much more stressful situations, but Harold thinks the implications are alarming – what about all the times John isn't in physical danger?
“Please don't fire me?” John adds – trying for flippant, but the effect is completely ruined by the haunted cast to his eyes.
“Mr Reese, you are not being fired,” Harold enunciates clearly, completely outraged at the idea, “But I should like to know exactly what happened – what triggered you? I want you to be safe – as safe as possible.”
“...It's not easy to explain.”
“Can't you start from the beginning? I saw that you had some kind of disagreement at first.”
“Of course you did,” John rubs his face, and sighs. “OK, I asked him whether he had a personal vendetta or whether he hated all MTA workers in general, and when he looked confused I told him that generally people get nightmares after seeing the human body torn to shreds.”
“...In those exact words?”
“Pretty much. He got angry - he knows exactly what it's like because he saw Ryan's death. And then, he said I wouldn't know what it's like to get nightmares.”
“He didn't know... He could have considered it, but he probably wasn't at his best.”
“Neither of us were at our best,” John says dryly. “He said Ryan's death was his fault and I wouldn't understand what that feels like so I... told him that I'd been in the military and that I'd... killed a lot of people.”
Harold closes his eyes briefly, Christ. John normally hates it when innocent civilians are intimidated by him – he makes such an effort to be mild mannered and non-threatening. Although... it would depend entirely on John's tone, Harold can imagine him saying something like that with sorrow in his voice. “...Was Caleb frightened by that?”
“No, not even a bit... he went straight to concerned,” John says, looking bemused, “Asking me if I had anyone to talk to, how I knew Mr Swift, how many people we help...” He frowns. “Caleb's a good kid... I shouldn't have lost my temper.”
“You were angry with him before you started talking to him, weren't you?”
“Sure... I think it's stupid that he blamed himself, and that he thought killing himself with the same method exactly two years later, would mean anything. Or that the symmetry of it would. That's irrational, right?”
“By definition, mentally ill people are usually irrational about something - especially themselves,” Harold says.
John looks sharply at him when he says that, and then his eyes flicker away. “...Look I uh, fucked up today. I'm sorry.”
“You certainly weren't at your best, but despite that you were successful, so no harm done,” Harold says, “I suppose the sight of you having a panic attack in front of him made quite the distraction - however I'd really prefer you don't try that one again.” John snorts at that.
They finish their soup, while Harold ponders. No harm done... apart from... “You haven't exactly answered my question, of what triggered you.”
John thinks for a few moments. “Caleb reminded me how fragile other people are. And... unintended consequences.”
Harold parses these vague statements with unease. “The unintended consequences of...”
“I know how many people I've killed directly, but indirectly? Murder, torture, war... seems like all it leads to is more pain and suffering, more death. Who knows how many innocent people I've hurt... how many kids like Caleb there are, who've lost someone important because of me... it just... I got overwhelmed, thinking about it.”
Harold's breath hitches at how... tormented John looks. “Is this something you think about often?”
John's smile is pained. “No I try not to, too much like keeping your hand on a hot stove.”
“What about the unintended consequences of every life you've saved? Every murder we prevent will have immeasurable positive effects on the people around them - there are kids who still have parents, siblings who still have each other, and all because of you - do you never think about that as well?”
John frowns.
“I'm not saying you should ignore your regrets – I think we learn from our mistakes - but you shouldn't focus on them alone, not without seeing the whole picture of who you are!”
John rubs his mouth, “Yeah, you're probably right.”
“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. John you're... such a fundamentally good man.”
“Finch, I'm a killer,” John says, visibly uncomfortable.
“You used to kill people for the government because you believed you were making the world safer, that doesn't mean you are a killer now. Isn't the fact that you experience such regret proof that your past actions contradict your true self? I think your greatest desire is only to protect people!” Harold huffs noisily, “For god's sake, you put your life in danger every day to save complete strangers!
“Sure, about that,” John says, with vicious black humour, “My life isn't worth all that much is it?”
Harold's stomach lurches violently and his mouth gapes open. “Of course it is! How can you say something like that?” Harold remembers how insistent Caleb had been that they talk, the way he'd put both his arms around John – and suddenly all of his background, niggling worries jump into the foreground. “Please tell me you're not still suicidal!”
John pauses, for too long a moment and with a carefully blank expression – too blank. “I'm still here aren't I? I'm not exactly short of guns to choose from.”
Harold's heart pounds. “I know the CIA taught you to lie better than that.”
“...I can't pretend I wouldn't be happy dying to save someone else's life.” John meets Harold's definitely horrified expression and visibly cringes, “I'm not planning anything - it's not as bad as it sounds...”
“You're passively suicidal instead of actively suicidal, everything's fantastic!” Harold exclaims sarcastically, “Have you been deliberately taking risks? No, have I been paying you to satisfy your death wish?”
“You'd know if I was taking unnecessary risks – and I won't, I swear.”
Harold's heart is still racing – how long has John – why didn't Harold notice – what should he do?
John continues, “If it helps, I'd go out with a smile on my face. That's more than most people get.”
“No that doesn't help!” Unwanted tears well up in his eyes. “As a matter of fact, suicidal people are generally happy about dying because they think it's the only way to end whatever pain they are experiencing!”
“Finch...”
“I believe it's our life that defines us, not how we die! Death is inevitable, but however painful or messy or unplanned it is, it is relatively short compared to the rest of existence, so what difference does it make if you die happy, if it means you've spent so much of your life unhappy?”
“Harold, I am happier than I used to be... thanks to you,” John says, quiet and unsure.
“But not happy enough to want to live?” Harold snaps. Tears spill down his face, and he gasps, embarrassed, and grasps for a handkerchief. “Oh God, I'm sorry - give me a minute.”
John's eyes are wide and horrified for a few long seconds, and then he sidles over to sit close next to Harold, his broad back giving them more privacy. His arm rests on the seat behind them.
“You told me once, that we'd likely both end up dead. I thought you accepted the idea of me dying,” John says quietly.
Harold dabs his eyes furiously. “It's clearly not the same thing at all.”
“Well... I'd still be dead.”
“Which would be extremely painful, but if I knew you'd never forgiven yourself I... don't know if I could cope with that!” Harold says wretchedly, “I was happy when I believed that I'd given you the redemption you were obviously looking for – the self-forgiveness you obviously deserve. Is our work together of making the world a little better one life at a time not enough for you?”
“Of course it is,” John murmurs, sounding choked. He squeezes Harold's left shoulder, and leaves his hand there. His body is a warm weight against Harold's right side, his voice when it comes a few moments later is gentle and low. “Look, I'll live, alright?” John pauses, re-evaluates, “...I mean, I'll want to live. For you.”
Harold's heart does something complicated at that, and he tries not to attach too much significance to John promising something like that, for him. Angrily, he says, “You can't just say something like that if you don't mean it!”
“I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I promise.”
“I want to believe you, but I find it hard to believe that this one conversation is enough to cure you of... suicidal ideation!”
“Really? Not even the fact I made you cry?” John says, still trying to make light of this it seems.
“Mr Reese...”
John slides back to his seat on the other side of the table, which saves Harold from twisting his whole body in trying to judge the sincerity of John's expression. John rubs the back of his head and says self deprecatingly, “I told Caleb his death wouldn't bring Ryan back... ”
“Good! That applies to you too – you realise your heroic self sacrifice wouldn't... fix your mistakes – none of us can change the past,” Harold says. John tilts his head in agreement.
Harold continues, “Maybe you need a change of perspective. You care deeply about other people, you just need to turn it towards yourself once in a while. And you obviously think human lives are valuable and worth protecting so I don't believe you would ever say somebody else's life was worthless.”
“...No, not in most cases.”
Harold stares at him unimpressed – they both know the kind of men that John's thinking of – and monsters like that are absolutely nothing like John. “Right – so I shouldn't think that about myself,” John adds, apologetically.
“How would you feel if I told you I didn't want to live either? I've made some awful mistakes as well, and hurt a great deal of people,” Harold says, trying a different tack. By the horror on John's face, he thinks he's made his point. “I'm not suicidal," he promises, "But can you believe that the emotion you just experienced about me is very similar to how I feel about you? Could you imagine feeling something like that about your own life?”
John stares at him for a few seconds. "Harold, you really..." he starts to say and then seems to shake himself, before saying more confidently, "I'll try."
“You've changed a lot from the man I first met, and as you said yourself – you're happier than you used to be. So you clearly have the capacity to change and to find happiness, same as anybody else...”
“You really don't think I'm a lost cause?” John asks with a soft smile, half-teasingly.
“Of course I don't think you are a lost cause! For the record, I don't think anybody with mental illness is a lost cause, and if somebody believes that about themselves that's literally because they are mentally ill.”
“Right, you think it's irrational," John says easily, agreement in the tone of his voice.
Harold looks over John carefully – his body language is relaxed and there's a brightness in his face that wasn't there before. Is it possible, that he's already changed John's perspective with just a few words? In any case, Harold is hardly one to shy away from a problem, and now that he knows about this, he's going to do everything in his power to help his friend. Being emotionally vulnerable doesn't come easy to him, but if John needs him to be...
“John I... I find the world is a significantly better place with you in it and in case I haven't been clear - you truly mean a great deal to me.”
At that, John actually smiles - although he does duck his head and hide his mouth behind his hand - and Harold, helpless to do anything else, smiles back. John clears his throat, “Fair warning, if you keep saying things like that I'm going to start weeping too.”
“I think I've said more than enough, for now at least, but I'm here whenever you need my help, always,” Harold blinks away tears again. “I'm sorry for not noticing before that you were struggling.”
“No, don't be... I'm sorry, for being like this,” John says, still smiling. “But I think I feel a lot better, just for letting some stuff out? ...Although I... also feel like I could sleep for a week.”
“Panic attacks are very tiring, that's perfectly understandable. Let me take you home?”
“Sure.” John stands slowly.
Harold stands too and he looks down at their empty bowls. “We could order some more food to go? I don't think I did a good job of feeding you properly.”
“Alright,” John huffs a laugh. He gazes down at Harold fondly, “I can't believe how lucky I am, that you found me.”
Harold blinks. “John, every day I feel very lucky to have found you as well.”
As they make their way to the counter, Harold rests his hand on the small of John's back.