Author's Note: So, when I was watching episodes 1.10 and 1.11, there were a few thoughts that popped up in my mind. Mostly, what happens between the morgue scene and John's arrival at the condo where Trask works?
This is my take, I hope you will enjoy it.

Many thanks to DancingInTheDark85, who beta'ed it and gave me a lot of valuable suggestions. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: as you probably already guessed, I don't own the show. I'm just playing around a bit with the characters, but I promise I'll give them back relatively unarmed when I'm done.

Chapter 1: Making Plans

Finch's POV

Had anybody told him, just a few weeks ago, that he would end up spending a night at someone else's bedside in a sort of vigil, he would have definitely found the thought ludicrous, Finch mused, staring at the monitor of his laptop without really seeing it. And yet, there he was, sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a cramped room at the morgue, all but crammed against the bed where Reese lay sleeping.

Well, maybe it didn't really count as a whole night vigil, he amended, since he had been sitting there for no more than a few hours. After retrieving a hurt and heavily bleeding Reese from the back entrance of St. George Hospital, when he had finally managed to bring him to medical help, it was already after midnight – and they were supposed to be leaving the morgue before the beginning of the morning shift. Yes, he decided, a meager six hours hardly counted as a night.

But the fact remained that he had been there all along, and, as natural and right as it now felt to Harold to just be there, he had no doubts that, just a few weeks prior, he would have hardly thought this possible. And not for lack of caring for other human beings – Harold liked to think that, as socially awkward as he might be, he was a fairly decent person.

Just, he was very reserved. Private. Discreet. Bedside vigils, mad dashes though the city with a bleeding, dying man on the backseat, silent pleas to hold on – all those things sounded terribly melodramatic and preposterous and very unlike him – and yet he had done each and every one of them.

He let his gaze wander around the cramped space, a place which obviously wasn't even supposed to be a room, let alone something akin to a hospital room. Patients in a morgue usually did not need beds, IV poles or any other sort of medical equipment for that matter, but Reese did, so Harold had done everything in his power to acquire all the necessary items. There was almost nothing money couldn't buy – and, luckily, money was a commodity Finch possessed in abundance.

Truth was, he had been prepared for the event of things going south. What they did was deadly dangerous – Reese's part of the job even more so – and so Harold had made sure to have dozens of contingencies planned out in due advance. What he hadn't anticipated, though, was how soon in their partnership he would need to implement such plans. That had been quite a troubling epiphany. A wake-up call.

He sighed as his eyes surveyed for the umpteenth time the pale and pained face of his employee. It had been a very close call, so close that the adrenaline had yet to leave Finch's system, or so he thought. Caught in the middle of the action, with lots of planning to do – for medical care, for the next few days' accommodations, for the organization of the very same room they were currently in – he was still full of nervous energy. The contrast with the unsettling stillness of his partner was stark and disquieting.
Even in his sleep, lines of pain were etched on John's face and his eyes moved quickly under the closed eyelids, a clear sign that the younger man wasn't far from regaining consciousness. The doctor, much to Harold's dismay, had opted only for a mild dose of sedative and pain relief, even before extracting the bullets and putting the stitches, because the lack of proper medical equipment made it impossible to thoroughly monitor the patient's vitals. Thus, deep sedation, however desirable, was unfortunately out of question. Besides, they would need to relocate soon and, for that, it was essential for Reese to be awake and alert and as able to move around as possible. Harold bit back a shiver at the thought.

He focused his attention back on the laptop, checking for the third time the specifics of the facility he had chosen for the next few days. John clearly still needed some sort of medical attention, and he had made his pick accordingly. Hotels were obviously out of questions – they would have raised way too much attention. The kind of dingy motels John seemed to prefer – the ones where nobody asked questions as long as payments were regular- hardly sounded up to the necessary standards. As their very name suggested, safe houses were a much wiser choice, but the ones Finch usually preferred while working the numbers were too big or impractical and generally devoid of high-level medical equipment. So, in the end, he had opted for a two-room flat they had never used - almost small by Finch's usual standards – but well-equipped, free of stairs, steps and any other architectonic obstacles, secluded enough and yet not too far from the morgue where doctor Madani worked. The best option, he silently repeated to himself, trying to assuage his doubts.

Finch then checked again the NYPD bullpen – still no trace of Carter and her CIA pals – and his thoughts briefly turned to the Detective. She had crossed a line tonight, choosing to let them go, to help them escape. He was considering turning on the microphone on her cellphone and find out whether she was still with Snow, but the sudden arrival of the Iraqi doctor made the decision for him. He powered off the laptop and watched the doctor as he moved closer to John.

"It's almost time for you to leave," Madani said in a low voice, and went to check the IV. The bag, administering saline solution and antibiotics, was almost empty. "The morning shift will start in half an hour."

Finch nodded with a sigh and put the laptop back in his bag. "Is it safe to move him?" he asked.

"I believe so, but I will have to check his vitals," the doctor answered.

The brief exchange, although very quiet, had evidently been enough to wake Reese up, since the younger man began stirring. He stilled for a moment, then opened his eyes and looked around in frenzied confusion.

"John," Finch softly attracted the younger man's attention. "We're leaving soon. The doctor is going to have a look at you now."

Reese's eyes immediately focused on Harold's face, the fleeting look of panic replaced in a blink by alertness and he wordlessly nodded.

Madani made a quick job of checking his patient's vitals and, evidently satisfied at what he found, he gently removed the IV.

"Doctor?" Finch quietly prompted.

"He's as fine as he can be under the circumstances," the doctor stated. "As long as he doesn't move around any more than strictly necessary, you should be able to drive him somewhere safe without problems."

Finch nodded, relieved, and the doctor turned his gaze to Reese and added, "I'll bring you something to wear now and I can help you get a little cleaned up before you go."

"Ah, yes, but we will also need his old clothes," Harold interjected. "I'll make sure to get rid of them properly. Oh, and also anything else which has his bloodstains on. Gauze, sheets, everything."

If the doctor was alarmed or surprised by the request, he made a good job of masking it. "I will bring them to you," he assured and quickly exited the room.

Finch shifted his attention back on John. The younger man's gaze was still browsing the room, eyes keen and sharp under the deep frown, as he took in the pieces of advanced medical equipment scattered around his bed. Something shone in his eyes as he realized that Finch had procured them – bafflement, surprise, awe – but that moment of unguardedness was quickly replaced by his usual stony mask. He finally focused back on Finch. "Not exactly the stuff I'd expect to find at the coroner's office," he murmured with a pointed look.

"No indeed," Harold succinctly replied, acknowledging the unspoken question but refusing to offer an explanation.

He was spared any further possible pursuing of the matter by the return of the doctor, who was carrying several items in his hands.

He handed Finch a bag which, as he found out with a quick inspection, contained John's blood-soaked clothes, the belt he had used to staunch the bleeding of his leg and the sheets that had been on the gurney.

As Harold perused the contains of the bag, Madani had expertly guided John in a sitting position and was now helping him don a t-shirt over his dirty and blood-stained suit trousers.

"You will have to keep your weight off that leg," he instructed. "No crutches for a couple of weeks, though, until your side heals. Bedrest for now, then a wheelchair will do."

Finch curtly nodded, taking a mental note to acquire all the necessary items as soon as possible. He registered the fact that Reese hadn't objected to any of the doctor's suggestions. Strangely enough, he found such an unexpected compliance from the younger man to be somehow troubling instead of reassuring.

The trip back to the Harold's car, made with the help of a cart similar to the one Finch had used just a few hours ago to wheel Reese in, was quick and uneventful and in a few minutes the wounded man was settled in the car. He hadn't uttered a sound during the short trip from the morgue to the car, but the tight set of his jaw, the fine sheet of perspiration on his face, the faraway, unfocused look and the measured and shallow breaths he was taking spoke volumes about the level of discomfort he was currently in.

Finch was about to reach for the car door but the medic stopped him before he could get in, and the geek cast him a questioning look. He had already been given detailed instructions about the treatment of his partner – do's, don'ts, meds dosages and so on – and, until now, the doctor had abided by the no-questions rule Finch had laid down earlier in the night. Finch could only hope that the man wasn't about to go through a last-minute change of heart over the moral dilemma of letting a potentially dangerous fugitive go.

"Doctor?" he asked, his calm tone belying the underlying worry.

Madani hesitated a beat, then, taking a breath, he finally said, "you can take your money back. I might not be a proper doctor here, but as you said, I was one back in Iraq and still am. It was my duty to try and save his life. I can't accept your payment."

For a second, Finch remained speechless. While he had feared that the medic was having second thoughts, this wasn't what he was expecting.

"Well," he replied, after gathering his thoughts, "consider this a gift that will enable you to afford a medical license."

"I don't need such a sum to do that," Madani promptly objected. "There's way more money than necessary in that bag."

Finch offered a tight-lipped smile. "Well, do something nice with the rest. Open a clinic, buy some advanced equipment, bring your family in the States if you want. Either way, keep it. It's yours." He met Farouk's gaze and, reading in the man's eyes his internal struggle, he understood what the problem might be. He bit his bottom lip and carefully chose his words. "Listen, if you're worried about the source of the cash, I can assure you it's not, ah, dirty money."

The medic slowly nodded, searching Harold's face for a sign of untruthfulness. "Very well," he said at last, evidently finding none. "Then, thank you." He threw a last glance at John, who was waiting in the car with his eyes closed, and added, "should his condition worsen, you know where to find me."

"I do, indeed," Harold agreed and after nodding a farewell to the doctor he got in the car and sped away.

Getting John out of the car and inside the safe house wasn't an easy mission, but, in hindsight, it wasn't even as remotely challenging as Finch had anticipated. Judging by the way John held himself – with measured, precise movements which minimized any unnecessary fumbling and pull on the wounds - it was evident that the ex-op wasn't new to the task of moving around when badly injured. It didn't really come as a surprise, given the man's past, but the thought still made Finch quite uneasy.

The safe place Finch had picked wasn't particularly luxurious or spacious, especially if compared to other apartments they sometimes had to employ, but it was equipped with, among other things, a fully-fledged hospital bed, towards which Harold was currently steering the younger man.

He helped him sit down on the bed then went to retrieve some necessary supplies – some clean, comfortable clothes, some water and the vial with the painkiller. He threw a considering look towards the ex-op. He was clearly in pain – pale, sweaty, listing to his uninjured side, hands clenched hard.

Finch made a quick job of helping him change into the clean garments, steadying him gently with a hand as Reese tilted forward in a spell of dizziness and John was eventually settled into the comfortable bed.

Harold deftly prepared the injection – sadly, a routine he was very well acquainted with, due to the painful injuries to the back he had sustained – and turned his attention back to John. "I'm going to inject you a pain killer," he quietly advised, loath to dose him with anything without his express consent. "It's a slightly higher dose than before, so it should help you rest more comfortably."

John simply nodded, apparently too tired and hurting to even try to talk. He didn't even spare a look at the vial Finch had brought, implicitly trusting the older man with it.

"There's a bottle of sugared water on the nightstand," Harold added as he quickly administered the medicine. "You should try and drink some if you feel up to it."

"Mm-hmm," Reese quietly agreed but made no move to actually do so. Eyes already closed, he was clearly on the verge of sleep. Finch hated to disturb him, but the doctor's orders had been clear so he reached out for the water and carefully helped him drink some, trying to ignore the feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over him at seeing the younger man so out of it.

He sighed, putting the bottle back on the nightstand. There was nothing else he could do for John to ease his discomfort, at least for now – only let him sleep and hope for the best.

Finch himself was beginning to feel the results of that long, stressful, scary night, tiredness inexorably turning into a bone-deep exhaustion. He eyed longingly the comfortable-looking sofa in the corner of the room, but after a brief hesitation his paranoia overrode his need for sleep. Maybe there wasn't really anything else he could do for Reese on the more practical side, but he could however ensure that they were as safe as possible given the circumstances. He powered on his laptop and swiftly ran through various feeds – the NYPD precinct, the Hospital roof, the outside of the morgue and the entry of the building they were currently occupying. All was quiet. He even went as far as activating Detective Carter's microphone and GPS, and found out she had gone home, and, judging by the silent audio feed he was receiving, she was in all likelihood sleeping. Either they had given up the search for tonight or she had been kept out of the loop – probably the latter, he mused. Anyway, for now it seemed that they had got away. He made a mental note to find a way to acquire access to Snow's mobile GPS, maybe through Detective Carter's phone and, after turning off the computer, he went to check on Reese. The ex-op was apparently sleeping, and comfortably enough, at least judging by the deep, slow breathing. He was still very pale and a little sweaty, some loose strands of hair clinging to the forehead, but the lines of pain on his face had eased up a bit.

Satisfied, Finch settled on the couch.

For now, everything was under control.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to relax slightly, and soon enough the long-needed sleep finally claimed him.

To be continued...