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Harold will never forgive himself. He has a terrible lot of things to feel guilty for, but for this one thing, if John dies alone and helpless, Harold will truly never forgive himself.
His foot depresses the gas pedal a little more, reminiscent of another late night, another race against time. Just like then, John would want him to stay away, to stay safe.
Harold spent entirely too much time waiting today. He justified it by telling himself, as John said, that he was attempting to prevent a gang war. But really he just expected John to be okay, like he always was.
His words from earlier haunt him. If John has maintained distance, it is only because he follows Harold’s example in all things and, especially since the loss of the library, Harold has worked hard to maintain the scant distance between himself and Mr. Reese that still remained.
“Harry.” Root’s voice is chiding from her grudging place in the passenger seat.
Root, worse even than him, continually referring to John as ‘the big lug’ or the ‘helper monkey’, as if that’s all he is, muscle and weaponry with no intelligence, no compassion within his skull. John is perhaps the most human of all of them. That she still chooses not to see that -
“I can’t understand why you’ve accepted myself and Miss Shaw and even Detective Fusco so easily into your constructed family unit, but continue to dismiss Mr. Reese as disposable.”
“He is disposable Harold. He’s just another muscle-bound flunkie. You can replace him in an instant.”
Harold’s mind fills with images of failed ‘replacements’, Dillinger and all his predecessors. In contrast he remembers early mornings with the tea he actually prefers and warm pastries and John’s gentle, pleased smile. He pushes the car further, faster than it should go. “No Miss Groves. I can’t.”
She accepts this, Harold knows, not because he has managed to change her mind, but because Harold himself will not go on without John and Root needs Harold. He can only hope one day she’ll see. He’ll make sure she has the chance.
Harold takes the turning at speed, uncaring. He can see the sprawling cabin, two cars parked at awkward angles in the drive. With grim determination he parks and gets out to survey the scene. There’s a deep furrow in the snow that stops some yards from the house and Harold wonders what the purpose is, since it doesn’t appear to go anywhere.
Blood dots the snow in abstract patterns, drips then drags. A body lies halfway between where the furrow begins and where it ends, a shovel in hand and a shocked look on his face. A cold shiver that has nothing to do with the frigid air and everything to do with unwelcome intuition crawls up Harold’s spine.
It’s so dark they almost don’t notice him dressed in his typical black. Harold, as always, is the one to find him, barely conscious in a car with a broken driver’s side window and keys that are hanging uselessly next to the wheel.
“John!” Harold exclaims, limping forward.
He wrenches the door open, tugging and pulling at John. His left hand comes away wet and it is only then, with growing horror, that he notices John’s entire right side is drenched in blood. His shirt and jacket and even his coat cling to his frame.
“No – “ Harold moans.
“Well, that looks pretty bad.” Root is the queen of understatement.
“A little less sarcasm and a little more help would be preferable.” Harold snaps, almost beside himself.
Root doesn’t protest, perhaps sensing that Harold is at the end of his rope. Together they maneuver John into their car, stretching him out along the back seat, his head in Harold’s lap. Harold flinches with every groan and whimper that eschews from John’s lips. Root takes the driver’s seat without being told, cranking the heat before peeling out of the driveway and flying back down the deserted highway the way they had come.
Harold stares down at John, stroking numb fingers over cheeks that are pale and lips that are blue. “Please, John, please stay with me. Say something. Ask me a question, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
John’s words, when he finally responds, are not what Harold was expecting.
“Josss.” John breathes. Harold’s heart freezes. “Joss, you still with me?”
“No, John.” Harold voice is thick. “No, she’s not here John. It’s me. Harold.”
John’s eyes flutter open, roving and feverish. “Harold?” His voice has turned from pained and lonely to so fragilely hopeful.
Harold sobs a laugh. “Yes John, it’s me. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re going to be just fine.” He helplessly neatens John’s suit, as if that matters right now. “Just fine.”
“Harold? Joss, she told me – “
Harold does not want to hear what Joss may have said to him, what they may have said to each other in those frenzied moments in the morgue so many months ago. Harold cannot bear that kind of heartbreak. “Shh John. It’s okay. Just rest.”
“No, I have to tell – she told me I have to tell you – “ John’s voice is weak and ragged. “Have to tell the important things to the important people.”
“John – “ Harold attempts once more to stop him.
“Been wasting too much time.”
Harold feels the truth of those words viscerally and so shuts his mouth, listening intently to John’s fevered ramblings.
“Never told you – wasn’t ever gonna tell you – had to protect – but “ John is struggling now, but if he’s determined to say these words, Harold will give him what he needs. “Tell me John. You can tell me anything.”
“Love you.” The words are almost unbelievable. John releases them into Harold’s care on a sigh of breath, simple and honest.
Harold smiles sadly. “And I love you John. You can tell me again when you’re stitched up.”
John shakes his head. “No. Mean it. Believe me. Loved you since Snow shot me.”
“Oh John – “ Harold is afraid to hope, this could all be some fever dream for John, a mix between Joss and Harold and Jessica and poor John is lost and hypothermic and nearly exsanguinated.
John’s limp hand attempts to touch Harold’s cheek, his eyes bright with sincerity. “Believe me. Will remind you ‘til you believe me.”
Helplessly, Harold’s lips turn up. Even if it all falls apart in the morning, at least Harold has heard those words once, in John’s voice, directed at him. Harold will hope, just a little bit, and fight to help John live so that, perhaps, he will keep his word.
John slips back into unconsciousness. Harold bends his head to rest his face in John’s hair.
“Maybe he is more than just a pretty face.” Root mutters from the front seat.
Harold wants to cry.