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The heavy door clicked shut, sealing the apartment off from the hustle and bustle of the city and giving way to a deep, oppressive silence.
Harold dropped him off just a few minutes earlier after promising to return once he’d checked in with Carter, ironed out the final details, and picked up Bear.
For now, though, John was alone.
He walked over and sat heavily on the edge of his bed.
In the calm of what had become his refuge, as the adrenaline and the mechanical, desperate focus needed to survive Kara’s twisted game began to subside.
There, in the silence of his loft, the crushing weight of recent events hit him full force. It overwhelmed him like a suffocating wave, from his detention at Rikers Island to the threat of the explosive vest he could still almost feel against his chest.
He closed his eyes and relived the precise moment when Harold appeared on the roof.
That mixture of terror and relief.
The terror of dragging Harold down with him, coupled with the relief of seeing him one last time before...
John stopped his train of thought when he realized just how close he’d come to death. Not the death of a soldier in a nameless desert or a CIA agent in the shadows, but a violent and senseless demise high above a city that wouldn't even know his name.
His knees buckled, and he slid off the edge of the mattress. He collapsed onto the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He knew Harold was probably still on his way to the library, but he couldn’t help himself. His fingers fumbled blindly near his ear until they found the familiar plastic of the earpiece that Harold had given him before dropping him off at his apartment. He pressed the small button with a trembling finger.
In a barely audible voice, his throat tightening, he called out, "Harold?"
Harold’s reply was immediate.
"Is everything okay, John?"
"Not really," John replied.
He felt angry with himself. He hated the tremor in his voice and the weakness he couldn’t fight off. Yet, swallowing painfully to get rid of the lump in his throat, he murmured, stumbling over his words, "Could you...would you..."
Harold didn't let him finish. He didn't ask for an explanation.
Instead, he simply said in a clear voice, "I'm coming."
A long, trembling sigh escaped John’s lips.
He didn't get up from the floor. Instead, he curled up into a ball as the minutes stretched into an indefinite blur. He lost all sense of time until the soft, familiar jingle of keys reached his ears.
The door opened. John looked up to see Harold enter the loft.
"John, what are you doing sitting on the floor like that?"
Harold's tone was affectionate as he stepped forward and slipped an arm under John’s. He knew he wouldn’t be able to lift John, but it was enough to convince thr other man to stand up. Once John was on his feet, Harold gently nudged him to sit on the edge of the bed.
Seated on the edge of the bed with Harold standing right in front of him, John felt his last defenses crumble. He couldn’t hold back. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Harold’s waist and pressing his face against his stomach, burying himself in his lover’s warmth, finally allowing himself to let go.
"Oh, John..." Harold whispered hoarsely.
He raised his hands and slid them through John’s tousled hair, stroking his head with infinite tenderness. Feeling the violent tremors shaking his lover’s body, he gently pulled John back just enough to cup his face in his palms, lift his lover's head, and lean in to kiss him tenderly.
Despite the uncomfortable position, they continued kissing as if unable to tear themselves away from one another, trying to forget the lingering terror of what had nearly happened.
After a few moments, Harold felt the warm, damp heat of John’s tears beneath his fingers. Then, breaking the kiss with a soft sigh, Harold sat down beside John on the bed. He reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and began to wipe away John’s tears without a word. His movements were so gentle that John felt his throat tighten again.
Once he was finished, Harold looked at the pale, exhausted man beside him. Realizing his condition, Harold stood up, held out his hand, and helped John to his feet. He led John, who was in a daze, to the bathroom, turned on the shower, then returned to John and gently helped him take off his clothes before guiding him into the now warm, steamy sanctuary of the shower.
While the water ran, Harold went back to one of John’s closets and rummaged through the change of clothes he kept at the loft, changing into flannel pajamas before laying out a pair of soft sweatpants and a clean T-shirt for John. He returned to the bathroom and waited by the glass wall with a towel in hand. When John finally emerged, Harold began drying him off slowly and carefully, stifling a gasp at the sight of the bruises marbling John’s skin—lingering remnants of his time at Rikers, followed by his day with Kara and Snow.
Harold’s touch grew even lighter, if that were possible. Once John was dry, Harold handed him his clothes and waited patiently while he got dressed. Then, he simply offered John his hand again, silently leading him back to the bed.
All the while, John said nothing. He let it happen, allowing the panic to subside. He savored this unfamiliar, overwhelming sensation of being in the hands of someone who cared about him.
Harold settled into the bed first, lying on his side and opening his arms as he whispered, "Come here."
John lay down and almost immediately moved closer instinctively, with his back to Harold, pressing himself against his lover’s chest as Harold wrapped his arms firmly around him, holding him close, until John could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing on the back of his neck.
"Are you okay like this?" Harold asked in a low voice.
"Yeah," John murmured, barely above a whisper. He was ashamed of feeling so needy, yet he was unable to deny himself Harold’s comforting embrace.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of him like this. If he’d ever truly experienced it at all.
A sudden, desperate dread washed over him, taking the form of a thought spinning in his head: I don’t want this to end.
"I don't see any reason for it to end," Harold murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of John's neck.
John blinked, suddenly realizing that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
Slowly, he placed his hands on Harold’s, which were clasped tightly over his stomach, and pressed them gently as he confessed in a voice whose vulnerability he couldn’t hide, "I… I realized something up there on the roof when you joined me and insisted on staying to save me. Despite all my bravado, for the first time, I didn’t want to die. Actually, no...it's more than that. It's not just that I didn't want to die; I wanted to live. I want to live, Harold. For the first time in a long time, I was truly afraid that it might all come to an end."
He felt Harold let out a long sigh of relief tinged with a slight shiver against his skin. Then, Harold placed a long, tender kiss on the nape of his neck.
"That's good to hear, Mr. Reese," Harold murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. "Because I want you to live, too. More than anything."
John turned within Harold’s embrace, moving until he could capture Harold’s lips for another kiss. This one was filled with deep relief, like a silent celebration of life. When they finally pulled apart to catch their breath, John pressed his forehead against Harold’s until their breathing returned to normal. Then he snuggled up against Harold, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
"I missed you so much," John whispered in the darkness.
Harold hummed softly against John’s hair, stroking his back rhythmically and soothingly the whole time.
Finally succumbing to the exhaustion he’d been ignoring for days, John exhaled deeply and drifted off to sleep.
Harold stayed awake for a while longer in the quiet darkness, holding John in his arms and savoring the wonderful reality of having his beloved alive and safe by his side.
The next morning, Harold sat in front of his screens at the library. He had gotten up early to pick up Bear from Detective Fusco's house, and the dog was lying nearby.
"We found him. Our John is back," Harold said softly, more to himself than to the dog.
Suddenly, footsteps and the opening door caused the dog to jump up and rush toward the entrance. He dashed toward John, greeting him with wild excitement.
Harold watched the scene unfold, his heart swelling with emotion. Bear knocked John to the ground in his joy at reuniting with his second owner.
Harold held his breath as he saw John’s smile. So open and bright. Full of life. John stroked Bear before gently pushing the exuberant dog aside so he could get up.
In that moment, Harold felt that his world, which had been turned upside down for a time, had finally returned to normal.
As normal as their life could be.
John stood up, stroked Bear’s head one last time, and walked toward the desk. The smile was still on his lips, dispelling the last lingering shadows of the past week, and Harold savored the sight, drinking it in like a man dying of thirst.
When John reached Harold, he leaned in and brushed a tender, lingering kiss against Harold’s lips. He paused for a moment with his hand warmly and firmly resting on Harold’s shoulder before stepping back just enough to ask, "Do we have a new number?" A slow, emotional smile lit up Harold’s face, and he nodded.
John moved close behind Harold, leaned over his shoulder, and rested his hand confidently and firmly on his other shoulder.
Harold’s world began to spin again.
Everything was exactly where it belonged.