Death and destruction. Hellfire and damnation. It was all coming to an end. It was the end he had sought years ago. But this time, the ending was his choosing...his choice...his sacrifice. It balanced the scales of his life...to pay the final price and save a life. Harold's life. The man that had given him a chance to atone for all the bad he had done. And he had done so much; in the name of his country, in anger and in revenge...and for love.

The pain from the multiple gunshots was getting stronger but at the same time, actually seemed to be fading into the background of his awareness. Harold was safe; he'd seen him walk into the doorway on the roof of the building across the street. So there was no longer a need to hold on to this life. He gripped his gun and stared at his hand...a hand dripping with blood...his life's blood. The SAM agents had quickly emptied their clips with a barrage of gunfire and had run back off the rooftop and down the stairs.

Slowly sliding down the wall on the edge of the roof, he squinted at the disappearing figures, wondering why they hadn't wanted to make sure they'd done their job and finish him off. Didn't really matter though. He wasn't going anywhere. Resting his head on the wall behind him, he gazed at the crystal blue sky. Only a few wispy, white clouds in attendance. As his eyes slowly closed it seemed like he could feel a slight breeze, one that carried a hint of the tropics in the scent. A slow smile appeared on his face as in his mind's eye he could picture Jessica. Bronze skin from the Mexican seashore, sun-kissed blonde hair brushing her shoulders and a smile meant only for him. He felt at peace.

But in the back of his pain fogged mind was a question...why had the SAM agents scrambled off the roof?...but then he no longer had the energy to care...as he slipped back into Jessica's arms.

As his strength bled out in pools of dark red blood, he became aware of a loud explosion. The roof he was on rumbled and shook wildly. The violent motion brought the pain of the gunshot wounds back to the forefront. Gasping in pain, his eyes opened up to see the world as he knew coming to an end. And even more distressingly, his time with Jessica was ending as well.

Smoke and fire erupted around him and the roof itself began to fall downward. The walls of the building were collapsing. All he could do was watch it happen. He knew he was mortally wounded and there was nothing more anyone could do for him.

As the floors crumbled down, one on top of the other, the dust and debris pelted him from all sides. Concrete crumbled and pieces pinned him down. It was harder and harder to breathe because of the dust. A huge girder came crashing down on him, pinning him to what was left of the roof floor. Panting with short breaths, he knew he was never leaving this building. Enough of his mental discipline was left to make an intuitive guess that a bomb had gone off or maybe a missile? That must have been why the SAM agents had run. They knew what was coming.

He saw the metal pipe seconds before it hit him and the world went black.

The destruction of the building was total. It had been a 20 story building but when the dust settled the rubble was barely 2 stories high. And the debris was strewn over 4-5 blocks. Happening in the middle of the day and in an industrial area, there were not many people out in the nearby streets. Those in the adjacent buildings were safe from the flying debris while those who sought a place to hide were covered in the fine dust from the destruction of the building. It was a deadly reminder of the aftermath of the towers collapsing on 9/11.

The explosion and rumble as the building collapsed had given the few people out and about enough warning to seek shelter. Especially attuned to their surroundings were the people

who actually lived on the street, having no home, no job and no money. They made up their own community and took care of each other. As the sirens wailed and the police and firetrucks and ambulances came screaming into the area, the street folks came out of hiding to see just what had happened.

Walking around the rubble, they picked up things that had floated and fallen down when the building collapsed. Some of the things they could use, some things they could sell or barter with. Many remembered combing the ruins of the world trade center towers and for those, a type of almost PTSD-like shock took over. They stood there, almost paralyzed and gaping at the remains of the building. Still others, leery of coming across a body, moved slowly towards the destruction.

Keeping away and out of sight of the authorities, the street folk began picking through the newly delivered 'treasure trove'. An older man, long hair, unkempt beard and frayed clothes, began moving pieces of concrete that were small. Using a metal bar that he always carried, for 'work' as well as for protection, he moved pieces of concrete around searching for things he could scavenge. He came up short when he saw a foot peeking out of a huge pile of rubble. Looked like a nice, expensive, man's shoe...and it was still on a foot. Stepping carefully over the rocks, he got closer to the shoe. Tapping it with the metal bar he began looking for the mate of the shoe. Too fancy for him to wear but somebody might be willing to pay a pretty penny for a classy shoe like that. He doubted the man wearing them would care anymore if he took them. Tapping the shoe and moving rocks from around it, while hoping to find the other shoe, he was caught off guard when the shoe...moved. At first he thought he'd done something to make it move but then it moved again on its own. Stepping back he stared at the pile of rubble thinking there could be no way anybody was alive under there.

But the foot in the shoe wiggled again. The old man carefully stepped back to the pile of rocks and slowly began removing them. Moving one piece of concrete at a time, he gradually uncovered a leg in a tattered men's dark suit pants. The rocks shifted a little bit as he leaned over to look closer. There was something wet on the rocks. The closer he looked the more certain he became...that wet area was dark red…. it had to be blood. Whoever was under that pile of rubble was bleeding. And from the number of rocks that were wet, that person was bleeding a lot.

The man called out to a friend who was picking through a different pile of rocks. Together they began to remove more rocks around the shoe and foot and leg. As more and more rocks were removed, the body attached to those legs began to move ever so slightly. There was blood everywhere but whoever it was, he was still alive. Gingerly removing the last of the rocks they were finally able to see the face and head of the buried man. His eyes were closed and there was a huge gash on his head. An even bigger bump next to the gash seemed to be growing bigger and bigger as they watched. There was a girder that was pinning the man down and it was bigger than the two men could move together. The second man scrambled down off the pile of rubble and went to get help.

The unconscious man was covered in a heavy layer of dust but the older man could tell the hair was dark or maybe salt and pepper dark. It looked like there was a suit jacket on the man but it was ripped up pretty badly. He could just barely make out what had been a white shirt underneath the jacket and the girder. Kind of odd to see someone in a suit in this area of NYC. Most folks dressed in jeans and work shirts.

Finally his friend came back with several other street folk to help. There were three more men and two women. They all pitched in, picking up rocks, rebar and sheet rock. Finally the only thing left to do was move the girder off the man. It was going to take almost all of them to lift it enough for someone to pull the man in the suit out from under it. But after a quick discussion it was decided to try and move the girder off the man entirely. If he were hurt as badly as they thought he was, pulling him out would do even more damage. Also it would mean that all of them could work to lift the girder.

Living on the streets they had developed their own sense of 'engineering' of how to move large objects to get at something underneath. It didn't take long to figure out how to move the girder with the least amount of effort and to prevent any further damage to the unconscious man.

As the weight came off the man's chest, he made a strangled gasp but did not regain consciousness.

One of the women, Joan, stepped over to the man they had uncovered. Leaning down she looked closely at him. Gently brushing some of the layers of dust from his face she looked closer. He looked vaguely familiar, as much as she could tell from all the dust and debris covering him. There was something about the hair and the cheekbones... Suddenly she gasped and fell back, landing on the rocks. She could not believe her eyes…..

"John!"...she gasped..."John?" she whispered.

He did not respond. She told the other woman to bring her a bottle of water from her grocery buggy off to the side of the pile of rubble. Using a scrap of cloth from her pocket she poured water on it and carefully wiped his face. Staying away from the ugly gash on his head, she wiped around his eyes, nose and mouth. He never once responded to her touch. As she cleaned around his eyes and she saw those long thick eyelashes, she knew it was John.

Once she got over her shock of finding him in a place like this, she began to check his injuries. He was covered in blood and she recognized gunshot wounds. And there were many. As she unbuttoned his shirt she realized he was wearing one of those police vests. There were numerous 'blemishes' where bullets had hit the vest but not gone through, thank goodness. But there were quite a few that had found their mark...one in his shoulder, one in his lower abdomen and two or three in his legs. After the demolition of the building she was amazed he was alive at all.

She knew his wounds were life threatening and more serious than anything she could handle. But she did remember that doctor that John had introduced her to...Dr Tilman. She ran a clinic where nobody asked questions about bullet wounds. She knew he wouldn't want help from the "proper authorities". Both times she knew him, he had been on the run from something or someone.

She got a few more of her friends and their grocery buggies to help make a mobile pad to get him to the clinic. She just hoped he lived long enough to get him there.

Finch stumbled through the open door, pulling it closed behind him with his right hand, his left covering the bullet wound in his abdomen. Pausing to catch his breath he gave into the pain...physical, mental and strong emotional pain on so many different levels. Pain of loss, pain of failure, pain of guilt. He'd brought John to this very moment in time and there was no one to blame but himself.

Sliding to the floor he gave into waves of heartbreak from losing his friend, his best friend. Someone who had come to mean as much as Nathan but different because of the crucible of fire they had gone through together. Coming so close to death so many times but somehow, they'd always cheated that certain death. But this time it was real, this time there was no shining moment of clarity showing the way to safety. And he had let this happen because he'd been afraid of his own creation. Afraid to release it to take care of all of them...him, Shaw, Fusco...Root. Root...so many, many times she'd exhorted him to trust in The Machine, and yet he hadn't, he'd just been frightened and scared of what lay beyond the frontier of his imagination. And look the results of his fear...his breathing faltered thinking of Root giving HER life for him and now John giving HIS life for him. He was not worthy!

In his mind he could imagine Root's voice...the Machine's chosen voice pushing him to get to safety or John sacrifice would be for naught. Closing his eyes he could still hear Reese's voice in his ear telling him that one life, his life, was the one the world could not live without. He knew he could NOT let John die in vain, die for nothing. Patting down his pockets he located his cellphone. Holding it in his left hand it quickly became slippery with blood...his blood. He knew he needed help fast.

He was able to place a call to Sameen, hoping she was safe and able to answer his call. He and John had left her and Fusco in the subway protecting the core of the Machine...the one that was slowly dying...according to Root...The Machine using Root's voice. Shaking his head slightly he wondered in a daze,if he'd ever get use to the Machine sounding, and 'looking' like Root.

"Finch?" Shaw's voice yelled into the phone. "Finch! Where are you?" No preamble...straight to the point as always...like an arrow.

"Sameen...is Det Fusco with you?" Finch said through clenched teeth. The physical pain had come to the forefront of his consciousness. No time for emotions now.

"Yes, he's here but he's been shot." That caught Finch off guard, who could have found them in the subway?

"That Blackwell guy found us,...he's the one that killed Root." Shaw said in a flat voice.

"Is Det Fusco ok?" whispered Finch, trying to hold back his own pain.

"He'll live but I need to get him to a hospital."

"Sameen, is he ok enough that you can come and get me? I require the services of a hospital as well." Finch breathed.

"What? You're hurt? How bad? How did John let that happen?" when she got no answer, she knew something was wrong, very wrong.

"Harold, where is John?"

Harold closed his eyes and more tears quietly rolled down his face.

"Harold?"

"He's...he's..." Finch's voice broke. He could not say it.

Shaw said nothing. Only her breathing changed. She was still working through the loss of Root and now Reese...the two deaths had almost breached her inability to feel.

"Where are you Harold; we'll come and get you."

Ending the call with Harold, Shaw closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The death of Root was still very fresh in her mind...that she had not been there for her, had not been able to protect her OR to comfort her as she died. That ache was a constant background pain that she had tucked away. Now adding to that, the loss of John was unexpectedly hard. She admired him, she respected him. They worked very well together because of their similar backgrounds. Their abilities complimented each other's abilities...as long as he let her drive, of course. That stray thought brought a glimmer of a smile to her lips. But the fact that John was gone, that he was dead...it just did not seem real. He had always seemed larger than life. But the fact that Harold was injured brought home to her that Reese was indeed gone. She knew nothing would ever get between Reese protecting Finch…..except death.

Exhaling calmly, Shaw opened her eyes and looked over at Lionel. He was sitting on a bench at the bus stop near where they had exited the subway. He didn't look good. The doctor in her took in the slight sheen of sweat on his face and the pale skin. She could see the blood seeping through his fingers where he held his hand over the bullet wound. She knew Lionel's condition was beyond what she could fix in whatever safehouse she decided to go to. How was she going to get Lionel AND Harold to a doctor? And and not just any doctor, but a doctor who wouldn't ask too many questions?

"Come on Lionel." she said as she helped him stand up. "We've got a little side trip to make before getting you to the doctor."

Through eyes glazed by pain, Lionel looked at Shaw sideways as he put his arm over her shoulder when he stood up. The pain made him gasp out loud.

"Side trip? I don't need the scenic tour, just get me to the closest ER." he whispered.

"Well we have to make THIS side trip. We gotta go get Harold."

"Why, what's wrong with Glasses?"

"He's been shot too and needs our help. That was him on the phone." That made Fusco pull away from Shaw.

Swaying slightly on his feet, he asked "Shot? He got shot? I thought he and Wonderboy were in that basement taking care of Samaritan with an upload thingy?".

Rolling her eyes, Shaw pulled Fusco's arm back over her shoulder and continued moving down the sidewalk. "They were, but something happened. I didn't get any details but Finch asked us to come and get him and get him to the hospital. I assume it was bad if he's asking for help while we're supposed to be helping hide The Machine".

Staggering down the street, Fusco's fevered brain was working overtime. He was a detective, a very good detective, which meant he was very good at taking pieces of information and making an intuitive leap to the proper conclusion. That was something that the others tended to forget.

Suddenly he stopped, almost pulling Shaw off her feet. Turning around toward Lionel in anger, because time was of the essence, she was stopped by the look on his face. He knew...

The pain in Fusco's gut was nothing like the pain in his chest. It was like someone had punched him in the chest.. The world shrunk down to a pin point and all he could hear was the roaring in his ears.

He was gone. The larger than life Reese was gone. Yeah, he knew that wasn't the guy's real name but that didn't matter to Fusco. At first he'd given the man a few not so nice nicknames just to piss him off, like the bane of my existence. But then slowly, his nicknames had become more and more like ones a friend would give another.

Fusco's legs buckled as he sank to the sidewalk. His breathing was reduced to short pants. Gone...Dead….Gone...kept repeating in his mind like a mantra. Closing his eyes, he slowly shook his head from side to side. Denying what he saw in Shaw's face. No way could Reese be...dead. The man could be shot and still come back fighting. Reese was the man who was always there just in time. The man who always came out on top no matter what the odds. The man who always had a plan…...was dead and gone. If HE didn't survive this, how could any of them hope to? Despair twisted in his gut, sharper than any bullet wound.

Every moment between them from the past flashed through his mind. He could almost hear Reese's growl when he balked at doing something he needed Fusco to do. He remembered the time Reese had thrown him to the wolves in the guise on the Sinaloa Cartel. Out of desperation, Fusco had set Reese up to be captured/killed and yet in the end, Reese let HIM live. In some weird way, Fusco had respected him more after the incident. By not helping him deal with the Cartel, Reese had forced him to deal with the issue by himself, forcing him to take responsibility for his own actions. He remembered the raised eyebrow, the snarky comments, the smiles that started out as sneers, the barked commands to hurry up ...and yet, Reese was the man who saved him in the woods that night that he thought he'd finally come to the end he deserved at the hands of the corrupt IA agent. Reese was the guy who'd rescued him and his wingman out of the semi-trailer just as they were about to die from heat exhaustion. Reese was the guy who time and time again had saved his life literally and figuratively. The man who saw the good in him...no matter how deep it had been buried. Who never lost faith in him...was gone.

One tear slowly rolled down his face from his closed eyes...an uncharacteristic sob rose in his chest...his friend, his GOOD friend...his partner….was gone.

Feeling something pulling on his arms he looked up and saw Shaw trying to get him to his feet.

"Get your ass up, Lionel." she said through clenched teeth. "We have got to go get Harold so I can get you both to the hospital...or doctor..." her voice trailed off. "Where are we going to get help? Hope Finch has a plan."