The fall of their subway base does not happen dramatically after a long chase or after some culmination of a convoluted Samaritan plot or trap; it does not happen after a warning and a lucky escape so the subway is empty when the agents arrive, the three of them (four with Her in a box) long gone.

No.

The fall of their subway hide out – their safety zone – happens early in the morning, barely nine o'clock, no numbers in the process of saving with the Machine still packed away, with all three of them present and unprepared.

Root and Harold are arguing at their computers about the evolution of the Machine, what She should be – should become – now that the war is hot as a volcano, while John sits on the other side of the room cleaning his weapons in a long line for the second time that morning.

John glances up at Harold and Root as he have been having the same argument for several weeks now. Harold wants the Machine he made back, his daughter with all Her knowledge and history and heart and even Her faults. Root on the other, John has to admit the more logical, side wants the Machine to be harder, to be battle ready. The moral code Harold spent so much time instilling in the Machine is not necessarily the best course for a war. John has stayed resolutely out of such arguments. He is not the programmer here.

Then John hears a beeping from Harold's laptop.

"What is –" Root starts suddenly at the same time Harold gasps. "Samaritan!"

John tenses to attention at their shouts.

"It's the backup sensors I installed at the platform level. They must have disabled the street level cameras," Harold says hurriedly as he jumps to his feet. He whips around and stares at John. "We are breached!"

John heaves himself up, slamming a clip into the 9mm he just finished cleaning in his hand. "Where?"

Harold points to the stairs. "Main entrance; we can't stop them coming in."

"Get the Machine!" Root snaps as she pulls a gun out from underneath their computer desk.

Harold whips back around, types quickly on his laptop then snaps it closed. "Thirty seconds!"

John grabs a second gun, searching for a clip. Half of his weapons are in pieces waiting their turn to be cleaned. How could he have been so stupid to take them apart all at once? Weeks of nothing, of waiting, have made him sloppy, complacent.

"Root!" He tosses a Beretta in her direction, not waiting to see if she catches it. "I'll take point. What is our exit, Finch?" John looks in Harold's direction again.

Harold throws the strap of his laptop bag over his shoulders and across his chest with one hand then grabs the handle of the Machine with the other. Behind him, all of the monitors and remaining computer terminals spark, shorting out and smoking. He turns to look at John as he exits the subway car. "We can use the tunnel to –"

"John!" Root shouts and the first Samaritan bullet smashes into the wall behind John.

John fires back three shots in rapid succession, barely seeing the person he fires at, acting on training and instinct. He hears a cry of pain and sees a man fall down the stairs into a heap at the bottom. He hears shouts from the other Samaritan agents but they continue down the stairs despite their disadvantaged position. Root fires back, hits one woman in the shoulder so she falls back into the wall but there are more Samaritan agents still moving in a regimented line. John fires again, hits two people – both knee caps – and keeps firing until his clip is out.

"Finch!" John shouts ducking down behind his small wooden table, dropping the empty gun, as bullets start to hack away at the wood. He shoots a look across the room – curses how open and exposed their hideout really is – and tries to see where Harold has gone. "Finch!"

"I'm here!" Harold says.

John sees him crouched down behind the wooden desk outside of the subway car, clutching the Machine against his chest over the laptop case. Bear is on alert right beside him, barking and growling but not moving away from Harold's side.

John locks eyes with Harold for an instant as a bullet hits one leg of Harold's desk cover. It creaks and John knows another shot would make it snap.

"You can't stay there, Finch," John says as he turns and pops up to shoot again with his second gun at the agents still pinned down at the stairs. "It won't last!"

"Where do you suggest I go?" Finch snaps back, half annoyed but mostly afraid.

John wants to run across the room and pull Harold to safety right behind himself but the gunshots from Samaritan keep forcing him to duck his head back down.

"We have to go!" Root shouts from the middle of the room where she has her back to one cement pole. "We need your escape route, Harry!"

Root spins in place and gets off two more shots with the Baretta. Then one Samaritan agent jumps over the body of his fallen comrade and makes it onto their platform level.

"Advance!" the agent shouts just as Root tags him with a bullet in the shoulder.

The conclave of five agents which were trapped on the stairs now seem to ignore all logic of 'avoid the bullets' John and Root keep firing and surge down the stairs over steps and bodies at once. Root takes out another man and John shoots two more but the agents do not halt or fall back.

"Pull back, Root!" John shouts. "They are too many."

"I can't move!" She gasps, throwing her spent gun aside and holding tight to the other. "They're on both –" Then she shouts in pain and falls back onto the concrete, a leg wound John sees blossoming in her upper thigh.

"Root!" Harold shouts, half standing up from his meager cover, Bear barking all the louder.

John jumps up, grabbing a machine gun off his table – three pieces which he locks back together in five seconds – and moves toward Harold. "Stay down, Finch!"

John strides across the two meters between them letting off a hail of cover fire which takes out two more Samaritan agents. He reaches Harold, pulls the other man behind him just as a shot hits John in the shoulder. John grunts in pain, as Harold gasps in surprise, and stumbles but keeps Harold safe behind him.

Harold grips John's wounded arm tightly. "John, you –"

"We can make it, Harold," John says as he pulls them backward and shoves Harold down on the other side of his gun desk, Bear following. "We just need a gap."

John fires two bullets at a Samaritan agent stalking toward Root as she pulls herself backward, away from the fire line, another shot just missing her head.

"Keep moving, Root!" John shouts as he sees her flip onto her back, gun in hand.

"We have an exit, we just need to –" Harold starts and is cut off when Bear abruptly yelps high and loud, knocking back into the cement wall.

"Bear!" All three of them gasp sharply.

The dog whimpers and slumps against the wall, three of his paws scratching against the cement but unable to push up and allow Bear to stand again. Blood trickles down over his fur from a wound high up on his chest, near his neck. He whimpers again weakly.

"Bear..." Harold gasps, trying to reach the dog, but John cannot spare another moment to aid either of them.

John turns around again and takes the offensive. He walks determinedly forward, firing his machine gun in a line as the Samaritan agents advance from the stairs, several now taking cover behind the far cement pillars and two that have knocked over the cot near the stairs for the temporary cover it will provide. A pair of agents take off to the right and make it inside of their subway car. (John cannot explain why but that ground taken feels like a worse loss than the subway invasion itself). John fires at the car, shattering glass and sending one agent slamming into the wall of the car with blood streaming down her face.

Suddenly, two agents make it to Root as she starts to stand and tackle her to the ground.

"Root!" John shouts and rushes in her direction.

Then a gunshot hits John somewhere in the torso. He feels himself falling before he actually feels the gunshot he knows hit him. Pain spikes around his stomach and a memory of Mark Snow staring at him across a top level parking garage flashes behind his eyes. John hears Harold voice somewhere behind him shouting his name. John's fingers act on instinct, shooting in the direction the shot came from with his machine gun even as he hits the ground hard. John drops his gun and the world blurs sickeningly for two seconds.

Then his focus snaps into place again as he hears Harold cry, " – up, please, John!"

John hauls himself up onto his knees with his own cry of pain and pulls the handgun from the back of his belt, his last one. A Samaritan agent is almost of top of him now, gun flashing in the electric light, and John hits him with a shot in the knee so he screams and trips over himself. John shoves back out of the way just before the man smashes his head onto the concrete.

John counts thirteen agents down and only two agents still standing across the room by the stairs now behind cover, possibly another hunkered down in the subway car from when last John looked.

John turns and sees Root a meter away, one man beside her bleeding from a knife wound to the neck and a woman on top of her, both struggling for dominance. Root twists the woman's wrist at a painful angle to keep her gun away, a knife also grasped between them, but Root's face is pale and blood is splashed on the floor beneath her.

"Root!" John tries to stand, aims to shoot the woman in the head if he has to, when someone kicks him squarely in the jaw – an agent he missed behind a pillar. John shoots on instinct though he cannot see, hears someone farther away shout but the person who hit him is still standing. He kicks John in the stomach, right into his bullet wound making John groan in pain.

"I think Martine would be pleased to see you all like this." John recognizes the voice of his attacker as Lambert. "Broken and bloody was her favorite color."

John tries to bring his gun up but Lambert grabs John's hand, cracks his wrist so it nearly breaks – maybe even fractures – and John cannot hold onto the gun any longer.

John hears Root gasping in the distance, the sound of kicking feet and Root's voice higher with pain.

Lambert's face inches closer to John's, a gun in his hand against John's chest. "The game has to end sometime, Mr. Reese."

Then a gunshot whizzes by Lambert's head. He jerks around in surprise and turns just in time to see Harold standing above him, just two feet away, with a gun in his hand. Harold shoots Lambert in the chest so he falls back off of John, Lambert's gun clattering away to fall onto the subway tracks.

John stares up at Harold in complete shock. "Harold..."

Harold, however, is not looking at John, he is walking toward Root and her attacker, firing as he goes. He is not a good shot, missing three times before the woman looks up. She tries to train her gun out of Root's hand on this new threat but Harold's fourth shot finally catches her in the stomach and she falls down over Root's legs. Root kicks her off – heel to the jaw – in one last display of strength then falls backward onto the concrete exhausted. The last Samaritan agent far across the room starts to back away toward the stairs.

"Requesting back up, repeat, back up. Team six is down, we need –" But Harold fires three more shots, finally hitting the man in the upper chest so his head cracks against the cement wall, knocking him out and ending the plea for assistance.

Everything goes quiet. No more voices, no more gun shots.

John stares at Harold's back, the gun still held up in Harold's hand. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Root with her head turned toward Harold as well. Harold is not moving.

"Finch," John says, his voice edged with pain. Harold still does not move. "Finch..." He glances at Root and she looks back. John looks at Harold again as he struggles to pull himself up. "Harold," he finally says with more insistence.

The gun slips out of Harold's hand and clatters onto the concrete. He turns and strides back across the room behind the desk. John sees him swoop the strap of his laptop case over his shoulders again and then pick up the secure black box of the Machine. He walks back across the room as quickly as his limp will allow then crouches down near John, not quite looking at him, and holds out his hand.

"We have to leave, now."

John takes his hand. "Finch, are you –"

"Their response time will be swift," Harold continues, pulling as best he can as John uses his other hand to push himself up from the floor despite the stabbing pain. Harold's face is blank, his jaw clenched and his lips in a tight line. "If we take the tunnel past the security gates, before the active lines begin there is a maintenance exit."

"Finch..."

Harold leans John up against a pillar with one hand once John is standing.

"Finch."

He turns away again, ignoring John, as he walks over to Root.

"Harry –" she starts.

Harold grabs Root's hand almost violently and yanks so she stops speaking with a gasp but pulls herself up at the same time, the two of them counter balancing their weight so Root does not even need to use the floor as leverage. Root sways as she stands and favors her left side, her hand going instinctively to the wound in her right leg. She hisses and stumbles against one pillar, holding herself up with her other hand.

"The Machine..." she asks.

"Is fine." Harold's fingers clench once around the handle. "As you know this case is bomb proof; nothing will harm Her."

"Harold," John says as he forces himself to stand up and step closer to Harold who does not seem to have stopped moving since he dropped the gun. "Wait, just – "

"We cannot wait, Mr. Reese," Harold says finally looking John in the face. "We have to move." He glances at Root and holds out his arm to her.

Root does not move. "Harold, you... Bear, is he..."

"Bear is gone, Ms. Groves!" Harold snaps. "Now, I will help you as best I can but you both must keep moving despite your injuries. I will get you to Dr. Enright once we are free but now time is against us." He pauses and points with his free hand behind him. "And those agents still alive will not remain unconscious forever."

Harold turns, takes a step closer to Root and grips her arm, gently this time. She slings it over Harold's shoulder and the two of them limp toward John. Harold passes the Machine to Root's free hand and offers his other arm to John.

John wants to scream at Harold – wants to grab him, scoop him up and just run – but shakes his head once instead. He cannot lean on Harold now with Root on Harold's other side and the blank, almost frightening expression on Harold's face.

"I can make it," he says, lying.

The three of them walk affectedly but quickly down the platform until they reach the end by the stairs, nearly blocked by their subway car – John picking up one discarded Samaritan handgun and full clip as they go. Root sits down on the edge then slides mostly one legged through the narrow space onto the tracks. She grimaces but holds out her hand to help Harold down with her. Root takes John's hand as Harold holds onto John's side for support. Then John braces himself against the subway car so he can climb down onto the tracks without further aggravating his stomach wound.

Once on the tracks, they hurry down the tunnel toward freedom. Harold takes point with Root at his side, the Machine still tight in Root's hand. John stumbles as he tries to keep up and feels himself growing weaker.

John remembers years back the sound of Harold's voice in his ear telling him 'I'm coming' as John told him not to. He remembers struggling down flights of stairs, blood coating his stomach and his hand and John knowing he would die here and was it really so bad a time now? He remembers seeing Harold coming toward him, holding out is arm to take John to the car, to safety, to not leave him behind.

John feels suddenly that he is going to fall.

Then Harold is beside John, clutching his arm, pulling John close so John can lean some of his weight on Harold.

"Harold... no, I..."

"Keep moving, Mr. Reese," Harold says and Root gasps on Harold's other side. "We are nearly there."

They reach a maintenance door with badly faded and graffiti marked signs. Harold pulls his one arm away from Root to open the door, his hand around John still gripping hard and firm. The door leads to a short tunnel, a battered metal lamp on the floor and some old hooks in the wall, and then a ladder toward the surface. Harold takes the Machine from Root. Then Root begins to climb first, pulling herself up more with her arms than her legs. Harold follows next awkwardly with the Machine in one hand and his laptop still hanging across his chest. John brings up the rear gritting his teeth against every painful motion and willing himself not to pass out until they are at least at street level.

When they reach the hatch at the top, Root practically rolls out and sits on the ground for a moment, catching her breath. John sees they have come out in an alley. Against the alley wall, only partially obscured behind a forgotten industrial trash bin, Harold pulls a brown tarp one handed off of a black sedan.

"Let's go," Harold says as he walks back over.

Root waves him away as he approaches and struggles on her own to her feet. Harold instead moves toward John and holds out his hand. John grips it and stands again, woozy and breathing fast, arm wrapped protectively around his stomach.

"It's all right," Harold says softly. "It's all right. You'll be all right."

"Are you all right?" John gasps out.

Harold turns his face away toward Root and does not answer John. Harold leads John carefully toward the car, Root right behind them. Harold unlocks the car, deposits John carefully in the front seat as he hands the Machine to Root. John sees Root disappear out of his vision toward the back of the car then Harold is beside John again in the driver's seat. Harold's hands grip the steering wheel tightly, one of the rear car doors shuts and Harold starts the car.

"Go, Harold," Root says.

The car knocks into the large garbage bin, shoving it aside, and Harold drives them down the alley and swiftly out into the New York City streets. John sags deeper into the car seat, looks sidelong at Harold – his knuckles are white on the steering wheel and his face is the same tight, blank mask.

John worries for a moment, just as he passes out, if maybe they left his Harold behind on the subway.

John wakes sometime when it is still light out – is it still the same day? He is lying in a hospital bed judging by the side bars and even through the fog of pain medication he can tell he is at the safe house. Light from the large floor to ceiling windows shines on the foot of his bed and he feels Harold right beside him holding his hand.

John turns his head, sees Harold sitting in a chair, no glasses on his face. "Harold..."

John's eyes unfocus and he has to blink several times to clear them again. Harold squeezes his hand and John's eyes close.

"Sleep, John," Harold says, though his voice sounds far away.

"Are you still here..." John says.

"Always, Mr. Reese."

John wants to shake his head because he does not think Harold knows what he was asking, but he falls back into the void of unconsciousness instead.

John's eyes snap open. He turns his head and sees Root standing beside his bed. The chair is empty. It is dark outside.

"Root?"

"How are you feeling?"

John shifts carefully, feels the tug of bandages around his middle and on his shoulder. There are probably stitches as well and John still senses drugs in his system, his response time sluggish.

"Better," he says.

"Good," Root says, obviously not caring if his answer had been something like 'bad' or 'deathly' instead of what he said. "You need to talk to Harold."

John blinks his eyes slowly and forces himself to sit up. "Harold?"

Root nods once and it is then that John sees the expression on her face. She is worried.

John climbs out of the bed, pulling out his IV drip and shoving back the sheets. Root holds out a white shirt and black pants. John discards the hospital shirt and pulls on his real clothing as Root discretely looks away.

"Where is he?" John says as he glances behind himself at the rest of the apartment then back to Root, buttoning up his shirt.

Root points at a closed door. "I woke up on the couch." She gestures at her leg which must have a bandage on it under the loose pants she is wearing. "And he was in the bedroom."

John looks at the closed door. "How long?"

Root shrugs. "I don't know."

John frowns. "How long have you been awake? Is it still the same day? How long, Root?"

She breathes out slowly but does not rise to his level of irritation. "If you count three AM as the same day and I woke up two hours ago."

John grits his teeth in frustration and moves quickly around her. "You should have woken me up right away."

John flinches as he moves the wrong way but ignores it as he stops in front of the closed metal door. He knocks once. "Finch?" Harold does not answer. "Finch?" John says again. John looks back at Root quickly. She presses her lips together and does not move. John turns back to the door and knocks on the metal once more. "Harold." Still no answer.

John walks around the small corner, past the Japanese inspired wall to the second , wooden door to the bedroom. He tries the door handle; it is locked.

"Root, do we..." Before he can finish his thought she is beside him holding her set of lock picks.

He raises his eyebrows and she smiles. "I was going to do it if you didn't."

"Thanks."

John quickly picks the lock and hands the lock picks back to Root. Then John opens the door, steps inside and closes it again behind him. He peers around the sparse room quickly – bed near the wall, dresser, two paintings in a similar vein to the ones in the apartment proper up on the walls and one desk in between the metal door at the far end and the windows. The lights in the room are off, only what is coming in through the window illuminates Harold where sits at the desk. His laptop is open in front of him but the screen is dark. John walks over until he is just a step behind Harold's chair.

"Finch?"

Finch's head turns just slightly to indicate he has heard John but he does not turn around. "Mr. Reese."

"What are you doing in here, Finch?" John asks gently.

"I was..." Harold gestures to his computer but stops half way when he notices the screen is dark. He puts his hand down on the desk. His hand begins to shake then he pulls it away again into his lap.

"It's dark in here," Harold says.

"The lights are off," John replies.

"Oh."

John takes a cautious step closer so he is right beside Harold now. He sees Harold's hands clasped tightly together on his lap. John's eyes tick up to Harold's face. Harold's expression is the same blank mask he has had since the subway.

"Harold."

"You should be resting, Mr. Reese," Harold says. "You were shot."

"And I've been stitched up."

"Rest is still required."

"Right now I'm needed here, Finch."

Harold swallows once and John sees him shiver. Neither of them speaks for a minute, Harold staring somewhere between the desk and the door, John standing still beside him. Then Harold tilts his head a fraction toward John.

"I know this..." Harold blows out a breath slowly. Then Harold breathes in again with a quiet clearing of his throat. "I know this is a reaction. Emotional responses are inevitable in the event of trauma or in such..." he sighs. "Such situations. I shouldn't..." He shakes his head once but his expression is still blank. "I shouldn't expect to be... immune."

"Of course not, Finch."

"I... if I... if I know the cause and the result, I can counter the reactions..."

"Finch, you can't logic this," John says as he puts his hand on Harold's shoulder.

Harold jerks away and stands up abruptly from his chair, stepping toward the window.

"It's just me, Harold," John says with his hands up as he steps around the chair. "It's just me. I just want to talk to you, all right?"

Harold huffs and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. He glances quickly at John then out the window.

"You told me it would come to this. You knew. Your clumsy attempt at target practice. Trying to push it on me." Harold's words sound bitter but his tone is not, only flat. "You told me you wouldn't always be around, doubtless because you always want to put yourself in the way at every opportunity." Harold finally looks at John again. "I suppose it did not go the way you planned."

John swallows and wishes he had never suggested Harold pick up a gun, wishes he had never even tried to hand Harold one. "I'm sorry, Harold."

"You shouldn't be. We are in a war after all." Harold looks away again. "It has happened, we are all alive, and that bridge has been crossed."

"But you don't have to hold onto it, Harold. You did what you had to do."

"What I had to," Harold repeats and his voice sounds empty, devoid of that care which centers all of them, keeps them on some semblance of the moral path.

"Finch, this... it happened but it doesn't have to change you." John knows it sounds weak, like a lie, to his own ears. He can't figure out what to say to someone like Harold; someone who has tried so hard to value every single life, even the lives of their enemies.

"I have been the cause of death before, Mr. Reese." Harold's voice is steady, calm – shell shocked.

"Harold..."

"A whole dock full of people waiting for a ferry were murdered, my best friend included, because of me." Harold's jaw clenches again. "I am not an angel."

"Harold." John reaches out and grips Harold's arm. Harold flinches but John does not let him pull away this time. "Please."

At the word 'please' a shudder runs through Harold, his arms drop down and his expression finally changes, devastated and mournful and confused and tired. He turns to look at John, his body shaking now. He swallows and looks at John like John should have the answers, like John should tell him what to do. John did not realize how used he had become to Finch being the strong one, the one with all the answers.

"How have we... how have I come this far?" Harold whispers.

"I can't tell you how to feel, Harold."

"I..." He looks at John. "I shot three people."

"I know, Harold."

"It was... it wasn't a byproduct. It wasn't just because of me, it was me. It was..." Harold gasps hard. "It was intent."

"You intended to save people you cared about."

Harold swallows. "But I... I shot three... I killed at least two of them, John. I shot them!"

"I know. I'm sorry." John steps closer, grips Harold's hand with his other hand so he is grounding Harold in two places. "It is going to change you, Harold," John says, keeping Harold's eyes on him. "I won't lie."

"Yes."

"But," John loosens his hand on Harold's arm. "But that doesn't mean you have to give up either; it doesn't mean you've lost that moral code you keep us all on."

Harold laughs once just a little at that. "Haven't I?"

John shakes his head. "It wouldn't hurt you this much if you had."

Harold gasps heavily and pushes a hand up over his face and under his glasses. John pulls Harold gently until he sits them both down on the edge of the bed. Harold breathes sharply in and out, hand still over his face. John keeps a steady hand on Harold's shoulder and his other clasped over Harold's on the edge of the bed. Harold keeps breathing hard, on the edge of a panic attack, until his breath starts to even out and slow.

After a couple minutes, John shifts slightly where he sits to ease the ache in his middle. When he does, Harold tenses and his hand under John's squeeze the tips of John's fingers.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harold," John says. "You've always been there to catch me when I fall. Might as well return the favor."

"You have saved my life countless times, Mr. Reese."

John tilts his head. "I think you know what I mean, Harold."

Harold drops his hand and he smiles a little over at John. "Yes." Harold sits up straighter then pulls his hand away from John's. He adjusts his glasses on his face and turns to look at John. He opens his mouth to say something then closes it again and smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Reese."

John feels Harold still shaking somewhat. "You should rest, Finch."

Harold huffs. "I should be saying that to you, Mr. Reese."

"You already did."

"The fact remains."

John nods and winces as he shifts his shoulder in a painful way. "We both need to rest. Plus," John gestures toward the window, "it's probably near four in the morning now."

Harold looks at the windows and nods.

John pats the bed then stands up. "Go to sleep, Finch."

John walks slowly to the door, the wound in his stomach starting to hurt again. Then Harold's voice stops him as he touches the door knob. "John, I, uh.."

John looks back. Harold watches John from where he sits on the bed. He clears his throat once and rubs one hand over his thigh. He opens his mouth but appears confused as to what to say.

John drops his hand from the door and turns back. "I'll stay with you, Finch."

When John wakes up several hours later the sun has risen but it is still early, probably just seven. Beside him on the bed Harold breathes slowly in and out, still asleep, lying on his side. His glasses are off, his jacket and tie are also gone. And he still holds John's hand on the bed between them.

John smiles and runs his other hand lightly over Harold's hair. "You'll be all right, Harold. You will."

And John wills it to be true, for all their sakes.