Author's Note: And so we've reached the end of this story!
A huge thank you to all my readers, followers and especially to the ones who took the time who leave a review. It's always nice to receive some feedback, it brightens my day :)

Plans for further stories, since someone asked me via PM: well, I have a story in mind, another Finch-Reese adventure, and, me being me, there'll be plenty of hurt/comfort. I got it all planned out and I've already started writing it, but I don't know when I'll start posting it, since it'll depend on my work schedule.

Anyway, enough with the blabbering.

DancingInTheDark85: you rock! Her friendship, encouragement and help are priceless. There's a tiny tribute to one of her lovely Bear-themed stories in the epilogue. Brownie points to anyone who catches it!

Epilogue

When John woke up, it took a moment before he recognized the unfamiliar setting. He was in a bedroom – the safe house bedroom, his brain provided – where Finch had promptly and quite firmly steered him as soon as they had got back. In truth, it hadn't been too difficult for the older man to convince him – exhausted and in pain and still slightly breathless, the idea of a few hours' sleep had been impossible to resist.

It probably was late afternoon now, at least judging by the scarce light filtering through the window, so he figured he must have slept at least a couple of hours.

He took a tentative breath. He was sore – all that coughing had definitely exacerbated his already less than supreme conditions, all the muscles in his chest aching and tired - but whatever Finch had given him before sending him to rest had done a good job. He was feeling better. Not well-rested maybe, not yet at least, but not nearly as weary as before. And almost relaxed.

He slowly untangled himself from the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed, getting his bearings. He reeked – an acrid mix of smoke and burnt plastic – and he grimaced at the smell. A shower was definitely in order. And then food, coffee. Company.

The shower took longer than necessary, the hot water so soothing that he stood under the spray long after every trace of smoke had been washed off from his skin, and twenty minutes later he was standing in the middle of the living room, staring speechless at a huge, lavishly adorned and overly bright Christmas tree, that hadn't definitely been there a few hours before. Weirdly enough, it looked somehow familiar. Massive decorations of all kinds hang from the perfectly trimmed branches, and several strings of lights were wrapped around all its length, unrelentingly blinking, creating endless colorful and vibrant patterns which reverberated through the room.

"I see you found your Christmas present," Finch's voice reached him from behind. "Santa brought it specifically for you. Do you like it?"

Some uneven steps, and Harold joined him in front of the tree.

"Santa," John repeated, his tone blank.

"Stein," Finch replied. "He said he saw you looking at it, thought you liked it."

It clicked. That's why it was familiar – he had seen it in the actor's house the day before. It was literally Santa's Christmas tree. How or when Stein and Finch had brought it here was a mystery and the very fact that he had slept through all of it was quite disturbing.

"So, do you like it?" Finch repeated in a conversational tone.

Did he? He pondered the question, staring at that thing in silence. It was probably too colorful, too big, too bright, too much of everything, but he guessed it could be considered nice. Sort of. "It's rather…blinky," he finally offered with a shrug.

"Blinky." Finch repeated. "Your eloquence never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Reese," he added, stepping back. His tone was wry, but it held a certain fondness. He threw John a considering look, studying him. "And how are you feeling?"

John shrugged again. "Fine."

A pointed look.

"Better," he amended, well aware of Finch's close scrutiny.

The staring went on for a couple more seconds, then suddenly stopped, the older man evidently satisfied enough with his assessment.

"I was about to prepare some tea. Do you want a coffee, while I'm at it?" Harold asked, limping towards the kitchen.

"I can do it, if you want," Reese offered, but Finch shook his head and wordlessly signaled him to seat, then disappeared in the other room.

After one last look to the tree Reese turned towards the table. Finch had evidently been busy, the ever-present laptop turned on and surrounded by sheets of paper and photos. Reese sat down at the table and lazily leafed through the pages scattered around.

"Stein gone?" he asked, his voice slightly louder than usual to be heard in the kitchen.

"It's Christmas Eve, Mr. Reese. He's busy tonight," Finch answered. "Lots of presents to deliver."

"I thought we agreed he's not Santa," Reese commented, scanning the documents in his hands. They looked familiar – mostly pictures of recent numbers and related research – except for one. It was a mug shot of a middle-aged man and Reese was sure he had never seen him before. He studied the picture, frowning, then looked for the name. It didn't ring any bell, and he turned the paper, perusing its contents. Only when his eyes caught sight of another picture – a black pickup – did it dawn on him. He put it back where he had found it. "And Fusco?"

Some clattering from the kitchen. "I asked him to take care of a few loose ends," Finch explained emerging from the kitchen, a steaming cup per hand. He offered Reese one, then went on. "The Paulsens were arrested half an hour ago. A "routine" checkpoint found the drugs and the weapons in their car, while they were on their way to meet a friend."

"Good. And Hansen?"

Harold sat down at the table, slowly sipping at his tea. "Released from hospital, currently in custody for suspected drug manufacturing and possession of illegal substances."

Reese nodded. After a beat he tapped a finger over the mug shot on the table. "And this? Another one of those loose ends Fusco is taking care of?"

Harold's gaze followed John's to the paper, his eyes narrowing minutely as he recognized the picture Reese was pointing at, then looked back up. "Maybe."

"Finch."

"John." Harold paused, frowning, then added, "he could have killed you."

"It was my fault," Reese replied meekly. "I was in the middle of the road."

"He didn't stop," Finch countered, persistent. Unmovable. His frown spoke of a righteous indignation that couldn't be easily placated.

John tried anyway. "Of course he didn't, I was shooting a gun! And this is New York, after all."

But Harold wouldn't back down. "Or, more likely, he didn't because he was afraid he'd get in trouble. They took away his license last year. A couple of DUI charges in 2010, and then a hit and run. That time he almost killed a woman with his reckless driving. He's lucky that they left it at that, if you ask me."

Oh. Reese looked away, pondering the matter. So, he wasn't the only victim. Did this change things? He couldn't say.

"And Fusco is taking care of it?" he asked, after a while.

"Maybe," Finch repeated, his tone definitive. A clear signal that, for him, the matter was closed.

"We're making him work overtime, Finch," Reese commented only half-joking, silently accepting the other man's wish. "On Christmas Eve, no less."

"You think?"

Reese shrugged then collected his and Finch's empty cups and slowly got up. "Do we have any donuts left? Or anything else, as long as it's edible. I'm hungry."

"Well, Mr. Reese, I would suggest something more adequate than stale donuts," Finch said. "Turkey and ham sounds more like Christmas, doesn't it?"

Reese stared back, perplexed. He Hadn't pegged Finch for someone fond of festive traditions, let alone of the food variety. And he definitely couldn't picture the older man cooking a Christmas dinner. "Turkey…? How?"

"I had it delivered. Being the owner of the Coronet has its perks."

"You don't say. Well, turkey and ham it is then," John approved with a smile, carrying the cups to the kitchen, Bear happily trailing behind him.

Just as he was drying them up and about to stash them back in the cupboard he heard Finch's phone ringing, and made his way back to the main room to investigate.

It was Fusco, and Finch had put him on speaker.

"…and Hansen has been blabbering about a dark- clothed intruder in his house who attacked him, but nobody's giving the slightest shit about him, so tell Wonderboy he's in the clear. An' I took care of that other thing that -"

"Very well, Detective, thank you," Finch cut him off, "we greatly appreciate your help."

"Yeah, of course," Fusco scoffed, obviously annoyed.

Harold hesitated for a moment, looking pensive, then suddenly added, "Do you have plans for tonight Detective?"

"What? If you're thinking about sendin' me off with another one of your little schemes you can forget that," Fusco retorted, in a rather incensed tone. "I ain't doin' that!"

"I was actually wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner," Finch replied, apparently unfazed by the cop's belligerent indignation.

For a moment, Fusco was rendered speechless. "Dinner?"

"Yeah, Lionel, dinner. You know, that thing that you do when you sit around a table with other people and eat," Reese piped in, the chance to mock the Detective too tempting to be missed, and he promptly earned himself an exasperated look from Finch.

"So, Detective? You'll join us?"

"No surprises? No last-minute jobs to pull off, people to arrest, places to go or anything?"

"Your lack of faith is insulting, Fusco," John complained, "have we ever lied to you?"

"Just dinner," Harold confirmed, shooting another glare in the ex-op's direction. "You said it yourself that we owed you lunch."

"Oh, well, then OK," the Detective finally decided with a nonchalant tone that didn't fool anyone. "I'll just hand in this paperwork and I'll be there."

And it was only a couple of hours later that, during a brief pause from the pleasant dinner, John realized it. Finch and Fusco were animatedly discussing in the background – some improbable analysis of baseball statistics over time, something that he wouldn't have normally expected from either of the two – and the twinkling and brightly colored lights of the Christmas tree shone intermittently on the window as he gazed to the snow-covered streets below, reflecting upon the now closed case.

That's when he realized it. He was feeling…peaceful. Content. Satisfied, almost.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out of it. A small smile spread on his lips as he read the brief text – just three words, but they were enough. He typed a response, equally concise, tapped the send button then slipped it in his pocket and got back to the table.

Merry Christmas, Joss.

The End