Chapter Text
It's funny-
Harold spent so much of his energy being exasperated by Root and Shaw that there was a time he would have been happer if they'd just-
disappeared.
Not- not like Shaw had, shot in the line of duty and spirited away to god-knows-where, but perhaps like Root- a goodbye and a fading into the shadows, never to be seen again.
And part of Harold expects, still, to be relieved; it's just him and Reese now, and isn't that what he wanted?
All irrational jealousies aside (jealousies that had lingered even after it became clear Root had eyes only for Shaw, and Shaw rarely had eyes for anyone), Harold- God help him, he thought he'd be relieved.
But, actually, it's like this-
Before, where Root and Shaw hadn't been- before they'd joined the team- there was a good dynamic. Reese and Harold and Harold's damn crush and sometimes Fusco or Carter, and it had been good.
Now, where Root and Shaw aren't, there is a hole.
It is a bloody, aching thing, and Harold tries to ignore it, choke it down, but-
it is a few weeks since Root disappeared, a few more since Shaw died (and she is dead, Harold knows, with the same sick certainty with which he can sense the oncoming apocalypse).
And there is a girl, bleeding out on Harold's couch. A genius, like him, a refugee of Samaritan- Claire Mahoney.
And without thinking, like muscle memory, Harold scrolls to Shaw's number in his phone, because he needs a medic, needs someone who can stitch a bullet wound and spot a sniper on a roof.
When the dial tone rings out, something deep and fundamental in Harold's chest hurts like dying.
He calls Reese instead, even though Reese is working a number, even though it's selfish, just to hear his voice. To know he at least is okay.
“Speaking of needing backup,” John rasps out, that voice it had taken so long for Harold to have a steady heart around. “You sure you got things covered with Claire?”
“No,” Harold wants to say, their missing allies a live thing in the staticy phone silence.
“Quite sure, Mr. Reese, thank you.” he says, eventually, even if his hands and voice shake.
It is not about him.
It has never been about him.
The people Harold loves are better off far away.