Author's note: Hi everybody. This is my first venture in this fandom. I've discovered the show at the end of the summer and literally fell in love with it, so...here I am!

Feel free to leave some feedback, if you'd like. I'd love to hear what you think!

The characters and the show obviously don't belong to me. I'm just playing around a bit, and I promise I'll return them unscathed (more or less) when I'm done!

This is a tag to episode 3.13 4C. The next (and last) chapter is already written. It'll be posted in a couple of days.

Many thanks to DancingIntheDark85, a wonderful beta reader!

Never had the library felt so comfortable, so welcoming, Finch thought as they climbed the dimly-lit stairs towards the first floor.

They had just got back from Rome, and he still almost couldn't believe that John had finally accepted to come back. To come home.

Finch was exhausted – two intercontinental flights within a couple of days did that to you, not to mention everything that had occurred before said flights – and the geek could only imagine how tired the ex-op must feel. He highly doubted that Reese had got any real sleep in the previous days, or weeks, really. Being passed out or in drunken stupor hardly counted.

"Bear?" Upon entering the library, as they passed near the Malinois' empty bed, John spoke up for the first time since they had left the airport. Whether the prolonged silence was a mere consequence of tiredness or the sign that his employee was struggling to come to terms with all that had transpired, Finch could not tell, but he suspected it was a bit of both. John had been furious with the machine and, vicariously, with Finch himself, Harold knew that. It was obvious that the younger man needed time to sort things out on his own, and Finch was more than willing to give him some space; so, throughout the journey back he had acquiesced to the quietness and refrained from trying to engage the other man in unnecessary conversation.

"I asked Detective Fusco to take care of him," Finch promptly explained, "but he told me that Ms Shaw, ah, dognapped the fleabag, and I'm obviously quoting the Detective here."

At the mention of the burly Detective a curious expression crossed Reese's face, a shadow so fleeting Finch could have missed it, had he not been looking closely at the younger man. He wondered what the reason could be.

He had only a vague idea about what had happened in Colorado between the two men – both had been remarkably reticent about the whole ordeal and Finch himself hadn't been able to listen in, being otherwise occupied with Claypool, so to speak.

It was clear that there had been some kind of physical confrontation, if the matching bruises on both men were anything to go by. The exact reason of the fight, though, remained a mystery, the only vague clue being Detective Fusco's drastically concise recollection, something that went along the lines of 'we argued, he reiterated his low opinion of me, we ended up spending the night in lockup'. Expressed in a more colorful language, maybe, but that had been the gist.

And Harold was pretty sure that John's reaction to Fusco's name had everything to do with that, whatever it was. Yet, looking at the pale, shadowed face of his employee, he chose not to pursue the issue, for the moment at least.

"Any new number, Finch?" The raspy murmur coming from John snapped Finch out of his reverie. The question sounded achingly familiar. Like they were back in their usual routine, in their everyday normalcy. Yet, so much had irreparably changed.

"Yes, Mr Reese," Harold replied, sitting down at his station. "Eight. Which is, before you ask, the number of hours of sleep you require, at a minimum, before we could start this conversation again," he stated in what he hoped was a firm and determined and convincing tone.

Unsurprisingly, though, John didn't look particularly thrilled at the idea of being sent to bed. "Finch, it's like - afternoon," he objected, raising an eyebrow.

"It's 7 p.m., Mr Reese," Finch pointed out, "which can hardly be considered afternoon - not that it really matters. You can sleep here or go to your apartment, if you'd rather. Just, please, get some sleep."

John glared, jaw clenched, eyes ablaze.

Harold stared back, unwavering.

"John."

"Fine," John finally relented, almost deflating, and Finch had to stifle a sigh of relief at the avoided confrontation. "I'll take the couch," Reese added as he shrugged off his coat and headed towards the far end of the room where the leather sofa lay.

"A bed would be a much more appropriate choice," Finch firmly suggested, getting up to follow his employee. Though the ex-op acted as if he was fine, Harold knew that he couldn't possibly be a hundred percent yet, his recovery from already serious wounds having been further slowed down by everything that had followed Detective Carter's death. Sleeping on a couch, no matter how comfortable, was hardly going to do him much good.

Maybe his concern was plain to see, or maybe John was even more tired, or hurting, than he let on, because after just a quick glance in Harold's direction, Reese capitulated again without making a fuss. He nodded and wordlessly turned back, heading toward the small, but well-furnished room adjacent to the main area of the Library, Finch still on his wake, took off his suit jacket and neatly draped it over the back of a chair nearby. He looked up at Harold, his gaze resolute, as he finally lowered himself on the bed. "But wake me up right away if we get a new number."

It hadn't been 8 hours when Reese reemerged from the room, just a meager six and a half, according to Harold's calculations, but Finch figured it was as good a compromise as he would get, so he refrained from commenting.

John did look a little better – less pale and haggard, for starters, even if his eyes still bore a distant, gloomy expression. He had also shaved and changed into the new suit, and he seemed ready to leave. For where, Finch had no idea whatsoever.

The younger man began pacing around the Library, apparently lost in his thoughts. He finally stopped to rummage behind one of the lower left stalls – one of the several caches in the room in which Finch knew small firearms were stashed. The ex-op retrieved a gun and put it in the small of his back, then went back to rummaging. Despite Harold's lifelong awkwardness around weapons, he couldn't help but find it somehow encouraging; first the suit, now the gun – it looked like John was trying to settle back in their old routine.

That, or he's planning to go out and kill someone. Finch cringed at the unwanted thought, and vehemently fended it off.

"Are you feeling better, Mr Reese?" Harold tentatively inquired, trying to gauge the other man's intentions without being too obvious.

"Peachy, Harold," was the completely uninformative answer he got. John got up, holding something else in his hand – a jacket maybe? Finch couldn't tell – and went to retrieve his coat.

Then, he is actually going out on some mysterious errand, the annoying voice in Finch's head said and, as much as the computer genius wanted to just cast those disturbing thoughts aside, a part of his brain couldn't help but wonder and worry.

What in the world was Reese going to do at 2 in the morning? Was he…leaving again

For a couple of agonizingly long seconds, Finch debated whether to ask Reese where he was going but his worry was probably clearly written all over his face because John, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, spontaneously spoke up, "I'm just going to see Fusco, Harold."

Momentarily nonplussed, Finch stared at him. Fusco. Oh. Then he recovered and asked, "and do you need a gun to see the Detective?"

This time, it was John's turn to look baffled. He blinked. "Gun's not for Lionel," he slowly said. "But this is New York, Finch."

"Oh. Yes – Of course," Finch shook his head, annoyed at his own unwarranted paranoia. Of course John would want to carry a gun – nothing surprising about that; on the contrary, now that he thought about it, it was almost obvious. It was second nature to him, an ingrained, necessary habit given his line of work. Come to think of it, the only times Finch had known Reese to be unarmed had been before the beginning of their partnership, when he was living in the streets, and the past couple of weeks, after leaving New York. Both times the younger man had been trying to give up his old life.

Now it was different, wasn't it? Reese was here to stay. No need to worry. Yet, Finch couldn't help but recall all too vividly that the last time an armed Reese had been left free to roam the streets of New York, he had left a trail of death and destruction on his wake.

"But do you think it is a wise idea to visit the Detective at this time of the night, Mr Reese?" Harold finally settled to ask.

"Ah, it'll keep him sharp," Reese deadpanned with a shrug. "Besides, you know what they say, crime never sleeps, so Fusco shouldn't either."

"John," Finch tried to reason with the ex-op, "can't it wait?"

"Listen, it's…" Reese cut him off, but then hesitated, an odd expression crossing his features. An expression Finch couldn't quite identify, a strange mixture of sadness, discomfort. Urgency, almost. "It's-…important, Finch."

"All right," the geek gave in, decision made. He had made a judgement call more than two years ago, deciding to trust the other man, and there was no going back. He reached into a desk drawer and presented him with a new phone and earpiece, that Reese accepted right away with a small smile.

"In case a number comes up before you're back," Harold unnecessarily stated, as the other man expertly slid the ear-bud in his right ear.

"In case a number comes up," John meekly repeated and, nodding Finch his goodbye he left the Library.

To be continued...