Reese lay limply on the old army cot in the Periodicals section, just outside the latrine. The dull blue spines of the run of Foreign Policy next to his makeshift bed seemed to waver slightly as his eye fell upon them. Another round of the chills hit him and miserably he tried to burrow under the blankets. But the movement set off his stomach again…

Hurriedly he grabbed for the bowl on the floor next to the cot and dry retched into it. As his stomach settled again he dropped it the last couple of inches to the floor. The rattle as it hit the deck brought Finch from his workstation.

"John. Are you all right?" Finch looked worried. Three days into the flu it seemed to him that Mister Reese had assembled every single miserable symptom, gastric or respiratory, that a flu virus could inflict on its victim.

"I'm fine, Harold," Reese croaked after a pause.

Finch shook his head slightly. "Here. Keep your fluids up." He passed Reese the water bottle which had sat next to the bowl. Reese gazed at him piteously, but Harold hardened his heart. "Drink. You can't afford to dehydrate."

Unable to resist, Mister Reese took three long swallows of the water. Then dropped the bottle, rolled onto his elbow and with an abject groan made another shaky grab for the bowl. The water came straight back up, and even when there was nothing left to come Reese continued straining until a few drops of bile dripped into the bowl. He collapsed back onto his pillow and handed the metal bowl to Finch, who took it wordlessly.

There was a silence. Traffic muttered outside the Library. Reese closed his eyes. He was extremely pale, Harold thought anxiously, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mister Reese?" he asked. Some of his anxiety leaked into his voice. After a moment, Reese opened his eyes. His pallor was changing to a flush as his temperature soared. Harold seemed to be standing a long way off, and he had to concentrate to extract any meaning from his words.

"Uh. Uh..." Reese pulled himself into focus. "Could you sing to me?"

"Sing?" Harold seemed doubtful.

"Yeah. Like Mommy used to when I got sick." Reese gave the other man a vague smile. Yes, a song would be great, if he could hear it over that strange sound in his ears, like a million million crickets chirping…

"Oh." Finch looked dubious. Reese's eyes slid closed. He looked suddenly very young. Harold blew out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and lowered himself stiffly onto the end of the cot.

As Reese drifted off to sleep, he could hear over the crickets the sound of Mommy – or someone – softly singing in a slightly hoarse voice, "Hush little baby, don't say a word. Pappa's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."