Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended.

~o~

Finch knew it was a bad idea the moment he entered the obscene, wholly unstable looking establishment. He supposed its exterior, not to mention its location should have been indicative enough. Regardless, he could hardly turn around and walk out now. If the keen look of disrelish and incredulity on the bartender's face as he took in Finch's distinctly opulent appearance, eyes near bulging out of their sockets, was any indication, he'd already called attention to himself.

As quickly, and, he hoped, as unobtrusively as possible, Finch took up occupancy at the nearest table, inwardly cringing away from the filth and grime that lined the unsightly wooden furnishings. He dared not take a closer look at the remaining decor of his surroundings. As far as local dive bars went, this was the lowest of the low. With no small amount of unease, Finch hoped that he would remain unnoticed by the group situated around one end of the bar. Everything about them screamed potential threat.

It wasn't long, however, before two things became glaringly apparent to Finch. First, John Reese wasn't anywhere to be found, as luck would have it, and second, Finch was so far out of his element here it could almost be comical. Bad idea indeed.

To say that he should have better planned for his off-hour pursuit of his long time employee and friend was a gross understatement. Oddly enough, what bothered Finch more than his current predicament and more than even the knowledge that Reese had been spending the majority of his off-hours drinking was the fact that he had picked this particular bar of all places to do so. Why?

While Finch may well have anticipated Reese might seek solace in this manner, it was becoming increasingly troublesome to him that he would do so with the upmost lack of civility. Why here? Of all the bars in existence in and around New York—and, let's be frank, there were a sizable number of them—that he could chose to frequent why on earth would he come here, to the most unscrupulous of places? It was the kind of place where police intervention was virtually non-existent, where no one would bat an eye at the sight of a firearm, where security was completely obsolete. No cameras, no alarms in or anywhere in the vicinity of the surrounding property. Absolutely no surveillance. It was located in an area where even The Machine could not—

Ah.

And there it was.

Finch supposed he had his answer. Despite his return to the job, Reese had made no secret of his animosity toward The Machine.

And Finch may have had time to further contemplate it had he not soon found himself in a rather dire situation indeed. It would appear his wish to remain unnoticed had fallen on deaf ears.

The gang at the end of the bar had relocated, and it looked as if its ringleader had just identified their new target.

Finch wasn't at all sure he could've pinpointed precisely what it was he'd done to provoke them, but he doubted it mattered. This was your typical street gang of young, lowlifes that achieved their high by antagonizing others.

And Finch was easy prey.

After sharing a condescending kind of amusement at his extremely conspicuous attire and making it no secret just what they felt about having him show up on their territory, the heavy-set ringleader of the group landed his gripe—something along the lines of not liking the way Finch had looked at him? Finch couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he was in serious trouble.

The rich odor of alcohol soon dominated his senses as he felt himself being grabbed by his lapels and hoisted upwards. A fist drew back, and Finch was really regretting the profundity of his own foolishness.

It took him a moment to realize that the telltale sound of flesh meeting flesh in a powerful blow did not coincide with the absence of corresponding pain he should have felt to his face. He blinked a few times, bewildered.

His would-be assaulter had crumpled to the ground at his feet.

Standing before him now, eyes boring down on him, was a very displeased looking John Reese.

Finch may have questioned where on earth he'd come from. However, he was already more than well enough acquainted with Reese's uncanny aptitude for being stealthily efficient not to bother. It was, after all, one of the many reasons he'd sought to hire the man in the first place. Reese's talents were unparalleled.

"…what the hell is wrong with you?! Son of a bitch!" Reese's most recent victim was now picking himself up off the floor, a thin line of blood running down the side of his face, right arm cradled with his left, a stream of obscenities coming out of his mouth. "You're going to regret that!"

Somehow, Finch doubted it.

Reese didn't deign to cast the infuriated drunk a glance, eyes still fixed icily on his employer. Nor did he react in the slightest when the fallen ringleader signaled and the rest of the gang began to close in. He stood dangerously still. Until the very last second.

And then it was over before it had even started.

Finch barely had time to see Reese move before all four men had joined their leader in a heap on the floor, sporting varies injuries.

Finch looked on almost sympathetically. Well acquainted with Reese's skills though he may be, he still could never help but be unnerved by the younger man's utter nonchalance toward violence. He didn't have much time to offer his sympathies, however, because Reese was then reaching over, grabbing him by his jacket sleeve, and yanking him out the door.

"What the hell are you doing here, Harold?"

Reese's tone was ominously low-key. The man was one of very few people who could manage to sound more intimidating with a lowered voice than a raised one. Yes, there was no doubt about it. John Reese was furious.

Finch stumbled, still trying to catch his bearings as the grip on his arm was relinquished and the door slammed and rattled behind him, on the verge of shattering under John Reese's wrath. Straightening his glasses that had become askew, he met his disgruntled employee's stare. "Looking for you, Mr. Reese, as you well must have guessed."

Reese's stormy gaze was relentless in its intensity. Bending down slightly to reward Finch with the full force of it, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone, holding it up for the smaller man to see. "Last time I checked, Harold, my phone was still working. If another number came in, all you had to do was call me."

Finch had the good graces enough to look abashed. They both knew that if it had been about a number he would have just called. And this was no doubt the reason why Reese was so furious.

After Finch's silent confirmation, Reese straighten, re-pocketed his phone, and gave a bitter laugh through his nose, lifting his eyes skyward as if counting to ten before speaking. "That's what I thought," he said. "What I do in my own time is none of your business, Finch." His tone was decisively cold.

Finch straightened as well, craning his neck upward along with the rest of his body, and gave a succinct node of affirmation. "You're right, of course." His eyes moved to peer up at his friend more closely, and after a moment of silence, he breathed out a quiet sigh. "I didn't come here to lecture you on your newly acquired drinking habits, Mr. Reese."

"So what did you come for, then?"

"I simply…" There was a pause. "I simply thought that perhaps you might like some company," he finished evenly.

Reese was thrown by that for a moment, Finch could see. But he quickly recollected and then continued to stare straight ahead, unblinking. The air was damp and chilly, and the wet drizzle was slowly becoming a steady flow of freezing rain. When the steady flow grew more persistent, Reese finally uttered an abject sound of annoyance, and, reaching out to grab Finch by the arm once more, he threw open the door and hauled them both back inside before Finch could protest.

"Mr. Reese, I really don't think…"

But Reese was already pushing him down into one of the filthy chairs at the nearest table and signaling to the bartender, who, upon seeing Reese re-enter, nearly tripped over his own feet in his fearful rush to do as bid. When he slid two tumblers across the bar, Reese snatched them both up and slapped one of them down in front of Finch, some of its contents sloshing out over the sides. "You wanted to keep me company," he said by way of explanation.

While Finch could not dispute the point, he was more concerned with the two very large men approaching Reese from behind. Clearly, the street-gang ringleader had called for some backup. He was just opening his mouth to say as much when one of them sprung into action.

Reese, who had obviously already been very much aware of the two, sidestepped the attack with ease. When he dodged the second attack and followed with one of his own, however, Finch's eyes sharpened on something he'd missed during the previous brawl.

Reese was favoring his left side.

The longer Finch watched, the more certain of it he became. The ex-op was favoring his left side and avoiding using his right arm, blocking and delivering almost all hits with his left. The two amateurs still went down easily enough; Reese probably could have defeated them with one hand tied behind his back. But clearly his most recent injury was quite substantial. And Finch knew that, while the two bar fights certainly must have aggravated the injury, they weren't the source of it.

Making a show of brushing the dust off his jeans—unlike Finch, he was casually dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt—Reese stepped over his fallen victims and sauntered back over to the table, sitting himself down across from Finch, and the latter knew that the only reason he'd caught the slight grimace and the way the younger man had briefly passed a hand over his right rib as he sat was because he knew to look for it. Finch had long ago realized that one of John's many skills was suppressing the indication of any kind of injury to those around him—a survival instinct stemming from his extensive military background, no doubt.

Reese took a long pull from his glass, and Finch was silent for a moment before he spoke up.

"Perhaps you should let Ms. Shaw take a look at that."

Reese's glass froze poised halfway up to his lips, and his eyes narrowed at Finch over the rim. "It's fine."

"You're currently lacking in the use of one of your arms, Mr. Reese. That wouldn't typically fall under most people's definition of fine."

Reese took another pull from his glass. "I've had worse."

"No doubt. However…" Finch folded his hands on the table in front of him, choosing his next words carefully, "I can't help but notice that your acquiring of various injuries has become somewhat more of a regular occurrence of late."

Reese's eyes shifted to his employer, completely deadpan and betraying nothing. "Maybe I'm losing my edge."

Finch released a small sigh through his nose. "We both know that's not true."

Reese's deadpan expression was limitless. "Do we?"

Finch's frustration was mounting. "Yes. We do." He unfolded his hands. "Jumping out a window, John? Was that really necessary?"

Reese shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Finch's gaze was fierce as he leaned forward to fix his employee with a penetrating stare. "This recklessness, John. It needs to stop. You've always had a certain…recklessness for your own safety, but this goes above and beyond. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"Heaven forbid that Harold Finch and his all-knowing machine fail to notice something."

Finch breathed out audibly, and folded and re-folded his hands. Reese was looking away from him now. Despite the acidity in his tone, Finch could also sense the deeply buried anguish as well. There was a lot more behind those words, and Reese was fighting back in every way he could.

"It's a dangerous job, Finch," he said dryly. "We both know that."

The sinking feeling in Finch's stomach sank even lower, if that were possible.

He took a bracing breath. "Mr. Reese, while you may not place a great deal of value on your own life, I should like to remind you that there are a great number of people who…rely on you."

Reese shifted in his chair, crossing his arms and avoiding Finch's gaze. At least something was getting through to him.

Finch's voice softened somewhat, shedding any kind of formalities. "Your life is not dispensable, John. Not by a long shot." He paused, eyes studying his companion closely. "Please do try to remember that the next time you decide to…take a flying leap out a three-story window."

Finch couldn't be sure, but he might have seen the corner of Reese's mouth twitch upward at that.

There was a long bought of silence that passed before Reese finally turned to regard his companion.

"You know, Finch, as far as company goes," he picked up his glass and nodded in the smaller man's direction, "you're pretty lousy."

Finch was hardly going to argue the point. But when he noted that John did not request a refill to his glass—despite their extended stay at the run-down establishment due to the weather—he couldn't help but think that perhaps lousy company was better than none at all.

~o~

Half an hour later…

"Not the best idea, Finch."

Finch halted in front of the men's room and glanced back at where Reese was slapping a bill down on the table to cover the tab. With a grimace, he nodded and followed Reese's lead as he led them out of the bar, trying not to notice the look of death he was receiving from the bloodied faces of Reese's earlier victims, not to mention the incredulous stares from the rest of the bar's inhabitants. Well, he supposed the two of them did make an odd looking duo.

"Oh, and, Harold?" Finch paused and looked up at the taller man as the door to the bar closed behind them. "The next time you decide to go bar hopping in your tailored suit…" He took the umbrella from Finch's hand and opened it, holding it over the both of them.

"Bring Bear with you."