Title: Provenance: Interludes

Author: NiennaTru

Summary: "There is a bed, John. Several, in fact," Harold said quietly, managing to sound amused and concerned at the same time." Missing moments from S3E14 "Provenance."

Author's Note: I didn't intend to write this one. In fact, I was in the middle of writing something else when "Provenance" aired, and while I thought the episode was surprisingly sub-par by POI standards, something about Jim Caviezel's performance in S3E14 pulled at me and this story was the result.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, nor do I make money from this.

III

As soon as he woke, John knew sleep was no longer an option. Glancing at the bedside clock he noted that he'd slept no more than four hours, and even though his body ached with exhaustion, his mind was buzzing. He'd been dreaming about…something…a series of events that had looped and repeated, leaving him with a vague sense of unease.

Rolling out of bed, he was greeted by a very happy and enthusiastic Bear. John reached out and rubbed his head and back, coughing a little as he did so. He'd managed to pick up a nasty strain of the flu somewhere between Rome and New York and had spent the majority of his return to the city sick in bed. Harold had been stopping by throughout the week in order to check on him, bringing him soup, and making sure he was taking his medication; and more often than not, he brought Bear with him. Most nights, they both went back to the library after checking in on John or else Harold took Bear to whatever place Finch happened to be staying that particular night. Yesterday, however, Harold had stopped by early in the evening and, seeing that he was mostly recovered, asked if he would keep Bear overnight, citing an early morning meeting as his reason for doing so. John hadn't minded, though he would have preferred Finch keep Bear all the same. He always felt more at ease knowing Harold had the extra protection.

Standing up and stretching, John wandered to the far side of the loft, Bear close on his heels. As John looked out one of the expansive windows, he saw that fog had descended, surrounding everything in an ethereal glow. It was strangely beautiful and he drank in the unusual scene until he felt a cold, wet nose nudge his hand. Looking down he saw that Bear was watching him, a hopeful look on his face. Knowing what was expected, John leaned down and massaged Bear's back, amused by the look of bliss that always followed the action. The canine enjoyed the attention for several long moments before bolting for the front door and sitting in front of it. John shook his head, amused.

"I'm guessing you want to go for a run?"

Bear wagged his tail and glanced at the door before looking back at John.

"Alright. Let me get dressed."

Five minutes later, the two were standing on the sidewalk at the street below. John was pleased that the temperature was markedly warmer than it had been in previous weeks. The city—along with the rest of the northeast—had been subjected to sub-zero temperatures and a crippling amount of snow throughout the end of December and into the beginning of January. As if in response to the weather, the Machine had kicked out only a handful of numbers in that time, for which John was grateful. He'd offered Finch to keep working in spite of being sick—he'd been forced to do so a number of times in the past after all—but Harold had shot down that suggestion in no uncertain terms. Barring catastrophe today would be his first day back.

John took a moment to stretch and then adjust Bear's leash in his hands before starting out. He set an undemanding pace to start with, a slow jog in order to get his legs under him and allow him and Bear time to warm up. Only after running several blocks did he pick up the speed somewhat. Glancing down, he checked Bear's progress and saw that though the dog was intent on the run, he was beginning to struggle.

John frowned, but continued to run at a steady clip for several more blocks. He'd left Bear behind in order to protect Harold and while he'd known that Finch would care for the dog, the older man wasn't capable of keeping up with Bear's conditioning. Given Shaw's enthusiasm, John had hoped that she would step in and deal with Bear's care on that end of things; obviously, that hadn't happened. He pushed his displeasure aside and focused on the run.

By this point, however, his own legs were burning and his lungs were starting to ache, so he knew he wasn't going to do much better. His bout with the flu had obviously sapped a good deal of his strength and the pain and pull in his shoulder and side let him know that his most recent gunshot wounds had not healed completely either. Irritated with himself he dropped the pace back to an easy jog and finally a brisk walk. Spying a bench not far away, he led Bear towards it and dropped onto it. He knew he should be walking in order to cool down rather than sitting, but the effort seemed too much for the moment. Bear sidled close and nuzzled his snout against John's leg. Breathing hard, he rubbed Bear's head and watched as the first hints of color leeched into the darkened sky overhead.

III

They were supposed to meet at the designated safe house and then drive to the Met together. He'd left the library several hours earlier as there had been nothing for him to do and Shaw's incessant verbal jabs had begun to get on his nerves. John knew sarcasm and ridicule were simply Shaw's go-to settings, so he'd kept his mouth shut and irritation in check, but he hadn't missed the concerned looks from Harold or the way the older man had tensed every time Shaw started to speak. He knew Finch had better things to do than play referee, so he'd made an excuse and left.

Now he found himself wishing he'd stayed at the library or at least brought Bear back with him. As he paced the perimeter of the apartment, the sense of unease and restlessness he'd woken with came back full force, and with nothing to occupy his mind or body, he felt tense and on edge. Perching on the arm of the couch, he forced himself to practice a breathing exercise he'd learned years ago, but his mind refused to focus. He tapped his fingers against his leg in an erratic rhythm, feeling an odd pressure in his ears as the near complete silence of the loft closed in around him. Pushing off the couch, John made one, final circuit around the room, and then collapsed onto the king-sized bed. He'd never bothered with window treatments, so there was nothing to block the glare. Pulling a pillow in front of his face in order to shield himself from the harsh light, he closed his eyes.

The sound of his phone ringing startled him, and he pulled himself into a sitting position. John opened his eyes and was confused to see darkness punctuated by the gleam of the streets lights bleeding through the windows. His fingers scrambled around in his pocket, searching for his phone. As he looked, he glanced at the bedside clock and was surprised to see that he'd been asleep for hours—and judging from the stiff way his body was moving, he thought he'd probably not moved the entire time. Cursing under his breath, he pulled his cell from his pocket and answered.

III

Apart from an occasional instruction from Harold as to the quickest route to the museum, the drive was largely silent. John was grateful as it allowed him to concentrate on navigating through the steady downpour. His eyes felt gritty and he rubbed them absently, wishing he'd thought to grab some coffee before they'd all left. The added sleep seemed to have done nothing to alleviate his lingering exhaustion; taking a shower, driving to the safe house and then getting into his tuxedo and tie had taken far more effort than it should have.

He grimaced as his fingers reached up to brush the bowtie at his neck. He wanted to loosen it, but was afraid that any adjustment would unravel the thing completely and it had been hell getting it tied in the first place. In the end, he'd simply given up and allowed Harold to do it for him, much to Shaw's amusement. The female agent had also taken a certain amount of glee in making various pointed remarks about John being Harold's "plus one" for the event, but had seemed disappointed when neither man responded.

Making a concentrated effort to leave the bowtie alone, John dropped his hands back to the steering wheel, shooting a fleeting look in Finch's direction. Glancing in the rearview mirror he saw Shaw smirking at him. He glared in irritation and dragged his eyes back to the road, listening to the rain as it battered against the windows and roof of the car.

III

John sat on the cold, hard steps of the brownstone across the street from Kelly's apartment, eyeing a Bodega down the street. He was hungry and the smells coming from the place were making his stomach growl. Bear followed his gaze and sniffed the air with interest. There had been time for Bear's run this morning and a shower, but Harold had called and directed him here before he'd had a chance to grab anything to eat. Now that Kelly was asleep, there was little to do but wait until she left the apartment, which presumably wouldn't happen until later that evening. John sighed. At times his work with Finch felt weirdly similar to his stint in the military: long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of absolute terror. Standing up, he dusted himself off and headed down the street. There was a diner not far from here that made a pretty good Eggs Benedict. He glanced down at Bear as he walked; the Belgian Malinois wasn't wearing his service vest, but maybe that wouldn't matter. Turning the corner, he spotted the diner a block away and headed toward it.

The woman behind the counter seemed busy, but took a moment to greet the incoming customer all the same. She smiled at Bear—apparently the lack of vest didn't matter to her—and gave John a long, appreciative look before returning to the elderly gentleman standing at the register waiting to pay. It was early, but even so the place was packed. Not wanting to sit down, John placed his order and stood by the door to wait. Overlapping conversations, the bang and crash of dishes, and the scrape of utensils against plates beat against his ears and made his head throb. He'd forgotten how effective sound could be as an implement of torture. He shifted his feet and willed his order to come up.

He was only blocks away from the library when Harold suddenly called to tell him that he'd been called away to address an issue at Heritage Insurance and not to expect him back until later that afternoon. John sighed, staring at the bags of food he was carrying. "Want some eggs?" he asked Bear.

Entering the darkened inner chamber of the library, John sat down in the empty chair next to Harold's desk. Opening the container of Eggs Benedict, he was pleased to find that they were still hot and wouldn't need to be reheated. He ate with enthusiasm, but couldn't ignore Bear's doleful looks for long. Standing up and crossing to Bear's bowl, he emptied out a container of scrambled eggs into the dish and watched as the dog bolted the food down in seconds. He shook his head in amusement and went back to finish his own breakfast.

The library was silent, save for the hum of Finch's computer equipment and the thump, thump, thump of Bear's tail hitting the floor in a semi-steady rhythm. As soon as he'd finished the scrambled eggs, the dog had trotted into the stacks in order to retrieve one of the squeaky toys John had hidden there. It was an on-going source of exasperation with Harold, but Bear seemed to love the noisy toys best, and John couldn't help but indulge him in that. The long-suffering looks Finch sent his way when Bear produced the hidden toys were just a bonus. John tossed the stuffed animal for Bear a few times, watching as he gave chase. Eventually, however, Bear tired of the game and wandered back into the stacks leaving John alone.

Drifting back to Harold's desk, John sat down in the chair and checked his watch. He groaned inwardly at the hour and the lack of activity to fill the day ahead. He drummed his fingers against the desk for a moment and then stood up. Grabbing a few thermal bags from the pantry area, he placed the untouched food from the diner inside them and whistled for Bear to come. Grabbing Bear's service vest, he fastened it over the dog's back and then clipped the leash onto the collar. Leading Bear down the stairs and out the back entrance, John raised his arm to hail a cab.

III

Adam had taken his decision to help care for these people seriously, and to that end had pumped a lot of his own money into the upkeep of the building and bringing in supplies on a regular basis. Looking around, John saw several people he recognized looking far healthier and cleaner than he remembered, but the building was also emptier than it had been when he'd lived here himself. He wasn't surprised. To some, the threat of starvation or death by exposure was an acceptable price to pay for anonymity.

Joan greeted him with a smile. "It's been a while," she said.

John nodded as he unclipped Bear's leash, allowing the canine to lope over to Joan in order to be pet. While Bear enjoyed having his head scratched, John began to unload the food he'd brought with him onto a makeshift table nearby. He'd stopped at a fast food place on the way here in order to supplement the leftovers from the diner. He felt a hand on his back and turned to look down at Joan, who was now standing next to him and surveying what he'd brought.

"I hope it's not cold," he began to say, but was waved off.

"Don't be silly, John. It's fine."

John reached into his pocket and pulled out the chocolate bar he'd grabbed from the library pantry and placed it in Joan's mittened hand. She slapped his arm good-naturedly. "My favorite! You're sweet to remember."

Now that the food was unloaded people were congregating around the table and helping themselves to the containers of food. Only then did John realize that he'd forgotten to bring plates or silverware.

"Don't worry about it," Joan assured him, seeing the problem. "We've got plenty here. Adam makes sure of that." Gesturing to a few lawn chairs nearby, she asked, "Why don't you sit with me a while?"

Not waiting for an answer, Joan crossed the distance to the chairs and sat down, taking a bite of her chocolate bar and making a satisfied sound in her throat. John followed and sat down in one of the rickety-looking chairs with caution. He noticed that Bear was watching Joan eat with rapt attention. Glancing back at the makeshift table behind them, John saw that most of the food had been distributed and people had settled back into their own 'apartments' throughout the building. His attention was drawn to a bearded man strumming a guitar. The instrument hadn't been tuned in quite a while from the sound of it, and the man's neighbors were now hurling abuse in his direction. John saw that the bearded man didn't seem to notice.

Joan followed his gaze and chuckled. "That's Rex. He's deaf as a post, and I doubt he's ever known how to play a guitar, but he insists that he can make music with that thing."

"Maybe you should find him some neighbors who are hard of hearing, too," John suggested.

Joan's mouth quirked. "Maybe." Taking the last bite of her chocolate bar, she crumbled the wrapper up in her fist. Bear adjusted his limbs and sat back down, now several inches closer to Joan's legs, still hopeful.

"I've missed you, you know. Adam's great, but he doesn't make things interesting like you do," Joan said after a few moments of silence.

"I'm sorry. I left the city for a while. But now I'm back." The explanation sounded lame even to his own ears. He opened his mouth to offer something better, but Joan reached over and touched his arm, stopping him.

"It's okay, John. I'm just glad you came to see me." Giving him an appraising look she asked him, "You still have someone looking after you?"

His stomach clenched uncomfortably as his mind flitted to the misery of the past few months, but he nodded. "I do."

"That's good." She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "You need that."

John's mouth turned up a little at the reminder. He watched as Joan got up and pulled a battered box of dog biscuits from her cart and dropped several on the ground. Bear wagged his tail and wolfed them down within seconds. John raised his eyebrows at Joan, but she simply shrugged her shoulders.

Pushing himself out of the lawn chair, John stood and clipped Bear's leash back onto his collar. "We'd better get going. Sorry we couldn't stay longer," he said truthfully. In the past, working the numbers had been an effective outlet, but something about this case was only serving to exacerbate his feelings of restlessness and agitation.

"Just don't stay away so long this time," Joan said, and pulled him to her in a quick hug. "You know you're welcome here anytime."

III

John felt an odd sense of déjà vu as he again found himself handcuffed in the backseat of a car Fusco was driving—though this time he was fairly certain the cop was not planning on murdering him and dumping his body in an unmarked grave. Given the number of furtive glances Lionel kept sending his way, however, John was afraid another pep talk might be coming. He certainly appreciated Fusco's help—the other man had done a great job assisting with this case—but he just wasn't in the mood for it tonight. He gritted his teeth and shifted in his seat as he saw Fusco leveling yet another concerned glance in his direction.

"You planning on pulling over any time soon?" he asked, more to stave off the lecture he felt coming than out of any real curiosity—though Fusco did seem to be taking his sweet time waiting to remove the handcuffs.

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Fusco scowled. "Keep your panties on. You want this to look legit, right?"

John grimaced as the car hit a pothole, shifting his weight back and jostling the handcuffs against his wrists; they were too tight. He leaned forward to alleviate the pressure and waited. Finally, after driving several more blocks, Fusco pulled over and got out of the front seat, searching in his jacket pocket for the key. John twisted his body in order to give Lionel access to the cuffs and then sighed in relief when they were loosed. Sliding out of the backseat, he walked around the rear of the car and got into the front passenger seat.

He stared out the windshield as he again ran through the plan to rescue Kai, only half aware of Fusco as he pulled his seatbelt over his chest and clicked it in place. From the corner of his eye, John noticed the cop raise his hands to the gearshift and then drop them back into his lap. He glanced at Lionel and saw the other man draw in a breath to speak. John winced and looked away, his hands balling into fists. "I'm going to miss my flight," he said, his voice sounding too loud in the enclosed space.

In the silence that followed, John waited, expecting more unsolicited advice, but instead, Fusco shifted the car into drive. The other man hesitated a moment and then asked, "You sure you don't want help?"

John's hands unclenched. "No," he said and tried to arrange himself more comfortably in the cramped seat, pretending the question was only about the case. "But thank you, Lionel."

Fusco studied him for a moment longer and then nodded. "Yeah. Ok."

III

John watched with fatigued eyes as Kai chased Bear across the park. While her mother was still in police custody it had fallen to him to occupy the girl. Not that he minded: Kai was a surprisingly easy-going child and, in spite of the ordeal she'd endured, she seemed happy enough. He'd been worried about keeping her busy and distracted until they learned whether or not Interpol would release her mother, but the child seemed happy to play with Bear for the most part. Currently, she was throwing a tennis ball for the dog and then inexplicably running for the ball herself. Bear loved the game and was giving enthusiastic chase. The odd competition continued for several minutes until Kai began a new game, marching along the outskirts of the park, Bear trotting along beside her. John settled in behind them, his eyes scanning the park for any sign of a threat. He doubted there was one at this point, but he didn't want to be careless.

As they neared the south end of the park, movement from behind the tree line caught his eye and his hand automatically moved to the gun tucked into his waistband. Sensing the increased tension, Bear whined and turned to see what was wrong. John moved to step between Kai and the threat just as a man in a red ball cap stepped out from behind the trees. The gun was in his hand and aimed at center mass before John saw the Frisbee dangling from the other man's hand.

"I found it!" he called out and jogged back to a blonde woman standing with a border collie thirty feet away.

"What's wrong?" Kai asked from behind him.

Tucking the gun out of sight John turned toward her and shook his head. "Nothing. You ready to go or do you want to stay longer?"

"Stay!" Clapping her hands excitedly, Kai ran in the direction of some swings nearby. Bear stared at him a moment longer and then ran after her.

Taking a breath, John followed on unsteady legs as his heart hammered in his chest.

III

John sat at the table alone, the heat from the fireplace warming him far better than the glass of whiskey he'd been nursing for over an hour. Bear was stretched out at his feet, head resting on one of his shoes and belly turned toward the fire, enjoying the warmth. Fusco had been the first to leave the safe house, announcing that he had an early shift and wanted to see Lee before the teenager fell asleep. Shortly thereafter Shaw had grabbed the bottle of Scotch from the middle of the table and left, barking out a terse, "Good-night," as she'd walked out the door. Finch stood then and gathered the whiskey glasses from the table and headed into the other room.

Taking a deep breath, John shifted in his seat. From the kitchen he could hear the sounds of Harold cleaning up: water running and glasses clinking together as they were rinsed before going in the dishwasher. It was an oddly soothing sound, John thought, and he found himself relaxing for what felt like the first time in days. He allowed the sounds to wash over him, to lull him as he rubbed his neck and sighed in relief, muscles he hadn't realized were clenched beginning to relax. The restless, agitated feeling he'd been battling for days was finally seeping away, making his body feel boneless and limp. Leaning forward, he rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes. He felt himself drifting down toward sleep when a warm hand on his shoulder pulled him back.

"There is a bed, John. Several, in fact," Harold said quietly, managing to sound amused and concerned at the same time.

John sat up and blinked his eyes. "You going home? Take Bear if you do."

At the mention of his name, Bear rolled off of John's foot, stretched languidly and yawned.

"I'll probably stay here tonight as well. I'm rather tired myself," Harold answered, his gaze flicking between John and Bear. "Go, get some sleep."

John nodded and stood. Walking toward the back of the safe house, he picked a bedroom at random, pausing only a moment to take off his suit jacket before dropping onto the bed. The mattress was not as comfortable as the one at the loft, though it hardly mattered: the release of tension he was experiencing would have made it possible for him to sleep on the hardwood floor. Rolling onto his side, John felt the mattress move as Bear jumped up and dropped down beside him, the dog's body a welcome warmth against him. A blanket materialized over him then, and John realized that Finch must have followed him down the hall.

"Thanks, Harold," he whispered to the room at large, no longer able to keep his eyes open.

"Good-night, Mr. Reese."

John was asleep before he remembered he hadn't bothered to remove his shoes.