Author's Note: Hi everyone, here's part 2. A huge thank you (and a mega virtual chocolate chips cookie!) to DancingInTheDark85, who beta'ed this chapter too. All remaining mistakes are mine and just mine (because I'm apparently unable to stop tinkering with stuff even after it's done and checked over).

Oh, and I've just realized I've never put any disclaimer at the beginning of my stories (at least not recently) but I'm sure you probably already guessed I don't own anything.
If I did, John would have probably got hurt and then taken care of by Finch way more often then he actually did (though I realize he would have reached an alarming rate, considering he already does get hurt several times per season.)

Enjoy!

He knew it was bound to happen sometime. It's a dangerous job they do, the kind of job that will probably lead them both to their untimely demise, exactly as he's warned Mr. Reese the very first day of their partnership. Finch has always known that, with all those guns and weapons and deadly equipment that come into play daily, mortal danger lurks from behind every corner. He's seen with his own eyes what can happen – Mr. Dillinger's unseeing gaze has haunted his sleep for months.

And, in hindsight, considering how often Mr. Reese gets involved in brawls, fights, car accidents, shootouts, explosions and whatnot, it's a small miracle in itself that he still hasn't come up with a broken limb or a bullet in his body or any other dreadful if not fatal wound.

There have been some injuries, actually, but minor things. It happens quite often: cuts, bruises (a lot of them, truth be told) and bumps, but nothing more than that. Yet, an annoying voice in his head adds.

More often, in truth, that Finch had anticipated – and way more often than it happened to Mr. Dillinger.

And it's not a matter of skills, no, Finch knows that. Reese is definitely not less proficient than Mr. Dillinger was – quite the contrary, in fact. Harold knows for sure that Reese is way more trained and experienced and skillful. But, as Harold has realized during the first week they worked together, the ex-op is very committed, determined. He doesn't hold back for fear of getting hurt and while the billionaire certainly appreciates John's dedication in working the numbers, sometimes Harold can't help but wonder whether it's just due to a deep desire to be of help, or if the recklessness is the testament of an underlying, and rather concerning, appetite for self-destruction.

Mr. Dillinger had rarely sustained any injury while working for him (well, obviously excluding the gunshot wounds that had caused his death, but he wasn't actually working for him anymore, so those hardly count). A broken nose, once (and he'd carelessly bled on a first edition, no less!) and a deeply bruised rib another time, about which he had complained for more than a week. And quite loudly, too.

But Reese is different. He's often a little worse for wear – something that, strangely enough, instead of making him look weak or damaged, somehow adds to his scary appearance.

But this time, it's different.

Finch has lost contact with him this afternoon – something else that is unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence, since Reese seems to have very little regard for the pieces of technology that are unlucky enough to end up in his possession. Phones die quickly of horrible, violent deaths. Stomped on, ridden over, pierced through. One has even been drowned in an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

So Finch isn't exactly alarmed when he suddenly loses signal in the midst of a fight. (He's not really relaxed either, but it's just an obvious and mild concern for a well-chosen asset. Right?)

And he still isn't alarmed even if it apparently takes Reese longer than expected to get back to the Library. And of course, it's completely coincidental that he spots him on a street webcam a few blocks from their headquarters (he wasn't looking for him. He was just keeping an eye on the Library surroundings, because one is never too careful, right?) and he surely monitors his steps just out of boredom. Nothing more.

Reese moves slowly but, as far as he can deduct from the grainy image of the streetcams scattered along his way, there seems to be nothing seriously wrong with him. A bruised rib, maybe, or a sprained knee?

So, when Reese does finally turn up in the Library - it takes him longer than usual to climb the stairs, Finch notices, and he's now almost sure it must be a sore knee – Finch just throws him a dry remark. Something about the fact that he has murdered another fine smartphone, maybe.

He looks up when he gets no reply, and this time a pang of alarm works his way in his mind. Reese is rather pale, his hair slick with sweat and while he's not really swaying or anything, he gives the impression of not being completely steady on his feet either.

There's no obvious injury, though – a tiny cut on his brow is the only discernible thing Finch notices, definitely not enough to cause him such distress.

He's about to ask but he's interrupted by Reese.

"How good are you at administering first aid, Finch?"

The nonchalant tone is so incongruous that the question doesn't immediately register with Harold. But, when it does, he feels his eyes widen.

"Excuse me?"

"Does blood make you queasy or anything?" Reese goes on, and Finch still doesn't understand, because there's no blood at all and so why is the ex-op even asking? But then John extracts his left hand from his pocket – careful, measured movements – and oh God.

The hand is covered in blood. It's dripping in rivulets down his wrist and on his fingers, and some drops end up on the floor and Finch is by no means an expert but it looks like a lot of blood. A lot.

"What- what happened to your hand, Mr. Reese?" he asks in a tone that sounds strangely strident to his own ears.

"My hand is fine, Finch," Reese replies calmly, looking at it detachedly. "My arm a little less, though."

He takes off the jacket or, more precisely, he does his best to. The left sleeve, though, ends up in a struggle and it's only when John actually sways a bit that Harold snaps out of his stupor and finally hurries to help.

So, yes, this time is definitely different.

"You should really sit down," he instructs, grabbing the sleeve and trying to tug it off the bleeding appendage without jostling it too much, while nodding towards the computer station.

"Ah, bathroom would probably be better," John advises, wincing at the fumbling. "It might get a little messy. There's a bit of blood."

The understatement of the year. Harold's reply dies in his throat because in the meantime they've finally won the battle against the jacket, and he has got the first clear view of the shirt underneath. What used to be a completely white sleeve is now entirely sodden with blood, from the elbow to the wrist. Some red has even smeared on John's left side, and Finch feels just a bit lightheaded – and he has yet to see the actual wound!

But Reese isn't looking at his arm – he's looking at him, a weird expression on his pinched, clammy face – concern, it seems. For what, or whom, Harold does not know.

"You never answered my question, Finch," John says after a couple of seconds.

"What question?" the older man asks distractedly. He starts steering John towards the bathroom and keeps a hand on the ex-op's good arm in case the other man gets lightheaded. It's more like a token gesture than anything, as a matter of fact, because it's blatantly obvious that should Reese stagger or, God forbid, pass out, tall and heavy as he is, there's very little Finch can do to prevent him from crashing down to the floor. Worse than that, it'd probably end with both of them sprawled on the floor.

"Does blood make you queasy?" John repeats as they finally reach the bathroom. He leans on the countertop and rests his hand in the sink. Red drops immediately stain the white porcelain. They trickle down the basin, mixing with water in pinkish streaks that make Finch's stomach roll uncomfortably. The shirt sleeve is stuck to the arm, the cuff soaked in blood, and there's no point in trying to work the button open to take it off since the garment it's obviously as good as gone, so Finch rummages in the sink cupboard for a pair of scissors.

"It's a bit late to worry about that, isn't it?" he replies. He's finally located a suitable instrument and begins cutting through the material, trying not to take notice of the fact that it's warm and wet with John's blood – and failing spectacularly. The retort comes out a bit terser than planned, but Reese doesn't seem to mind.

"Probably," Reese concurs, then hisses through his teeth when the material gets unstuck.

Though Harold has tried to prepare himself for the sight – the sheer amount of blood making it rather obvious that it has to be quite a deep cut – when the wound is revealed Finch lets out an unintentional gasp.

And if he's feeling weak in the knees just by the mere sight of the bloodied injury, he can't even begin to comprehend how John, the one who's actually bleeding, must be feeling right now. And how he's still standing on his feet.

He belatedly realizes the ex-op has just said something – something about tweezers and a magnifying glass and shards of glass – and then understanding dawns. Reese wants Finch to…no way.

He doesn't refuse right away, but it must be clearly written on his face, because then John adds, "it's OK if you don't feel like doing it, but maybe you could just hold the magnifier for me? I'm one hand short at the moment."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Finch hedges, as his brain blessedly jumpstarts in search for a more viable solution, looking for an option that will ensure John gets properly treated by someone who's not Harold.

"Stitches can maybe wait for a bit," Reese objects, carefully removing his bloodied watch, "but this really can't, Finch. Trust me, there's a reason why having sharp slivers of glass close to veins and arteries is universally advised against."

And so, a couple of minutes later Finch finds himself removing foreign things from the arm of his partner and, no matter how many times he tells himself that this is no different than working the pliers to remove a broken or stripped screw from the memory bay of a laptop, it is different, and appallingly so.

By the time he's done, he can feel beads of sweat rolling down his neck, his shirt is glued to his skin and his back is aching from bending for too long over John's arm, but a quick look to Reese's face is enough to make him forget about his own discomfort. Even if he still has to make a sound, he is even paler than before and breathing strangely, staring fixedly at a spot between the faucets.

"Mr. Reese?" he asks tentatively and without raising his eyes John nods towards the first aid kit Finch has left open on the counter.

"Antiseptic now. Don't spare it." The same unnervingly calm voice as before, but Harold detects a hint of hoarseness in it.

And so he pours.

Reese is now panting hard, impossibly white, leaning heavily on the wall near the sink and Finch decides it's high time he sat down.

The bathroom is hardly the best choice though, so, despite Reese's previous advice, he guides the other man back into the main room and steers him towards the table. Right now, he couldn't care less about possible bloodstains.

Once John is sitting down, a clean towel under his arm and sterile pads pressed over it, Finch breaths more easily. His brain is in overdrive now.

They need a doctor or a qualified nurse, someone willing and able to apply stitches professionally, because it doesn't matter what John was thinking when he decided to go back to the Library for first aid, Finch has simply no intention of doing that!

After all, there is medical personnel that can be used in case of emergencies. Finch has researched and selected them in advance, he knows where they work, what they specialize in and what can be used as a bribe, as motivation as he prefers to call it, with each one of them.

He just needs a few minutes – a quarter of an hour tops – to pick the best choice, to prepare a foolproof cover story for John and fix all the details, and then the ex-op can go get properly fixed by a real doctor.

But then he looks at John, who's intently pressing his right hand on the wounded forearm to stop the bleeding. He's doing that thing again, the whole staring-somewhere-unfocusedly bit and, judging by his sagging posture and his color – or lack thereof - there's no going anywhere in the immediate future.

With a sigh, Harold goes back to the bathroom to fetch the suture kit.

His hands are trembling when he rips the needle container open, and shouldn't such kind of procedures only be performed by people with steady hands? He is about to point that out and suggest they look for another solution, but Reese speaks first.

"Thank you, Harold," he says softly.

"I haven't started yet," Finch demurs, almost testily, then admits in a softer tone, "I'm not even sure I'm going to be able to do it."

"Don't worry. I'll tell you what to do, step by step. Easy, really. Piece of cake."

Finch doubts that, but at least his hands aren't shaking that much anymore. He holds the needle for a couple of seconds, testing its feel, when a sudden thought strikes him. "Shouldn't we – I don't know, – anesthetize the area? Won't it hurt?"

"Normally – yes, we should, but not this time, or I won't feel if you're doing it right."

Its reasonable and yet appalling, and Harold doesn't know what to reply, so he doesn't and he takes a seat next to the desk.

John's instructions are detailed and clear, and all delivered with a calm, detached tone, as if he is just explaining Harold how to properly prepare a coffee and not how to treat a serious wound.

Finch, instead, resorts to dry remarks, because otherwise he should acknowledge the fact that he's pinching closed the skin of his partner's arm, or pushing the needle through flesh and, oh Lord, better not think about that. And if he stays silent he'll be very aware of John's every hiss and sharp intake of breath and so he'd better talk.

"You should refrain from contaminating crime scenes with your own DNA, Mr. Reese," Harold chides the younger man, eyes focused on the needle. "Leaving puddles of blood around is hardly beneficial for staying undetected."

This time, Harold is almost sure that the sound John makes is more similar to a chuckle than a grunt of pain.

"Ya think, Finch?"

He doesn't, really, but again he doesn't reply, directing his attention to the black, thin thread he's handling.

And then he's mercifully done. The wound is stitched closed, a long row of neat sutures (not that Finch has any intention of looking at it any longer than strictly necessary to appreciate the precise evenness of his work), so he proceeds to apply a sterile bandage and secure it with adhesive tape.

It's quite evident that Reese instead isn't particularly troubled by the sight – on the contrary, he has closely inspected the now sutured arm with a disturbing expression akin to indifference – or maybe dispassionate scientific interest – and is now regarding Finch curiously.

"Is it really the first time you've done this, Harold? You did an impressive job," he says. He carefully bends and stretches his arm a couple of times, then closes his left hand in a loose fist and re-opens it. A grimace of pain crosses his features but he seems satisfied with the results nonetheless.

Is this another one of the ex-op's tricky questions?, Finch wonders. Reese has already proved to be blatantly curious about his secretive employer, and has already tried several times to take him off-guard with apparently innocent questions meant to make him inadvertently share personal details about his past. Or present. But Reese's face right now holds no inquisitiveness at all, just sincere gratitude and maybe a hint of admiration, and Finch unwillingly feels himself relaxing.

"Of course it's the first time," he says, "and I dearly hope it to be the last, too."

And it's true. One time has already been one too many. During the last half an hour, while he was trying to patch John's arm back together, his brain has been busy scrutinizing the current situation and has detected a couple of glitches that need to be solved – the sooner, the better.

Because while it's true that Finch has carefully planned in advance some emergency options – the doctors, the safe locations, the bribes – he hadn't really realized until now how urgent an emergency can be. Silly, really, because it should have been painfully obvious, but this is all kind of new to Finch. He silently hands Reese a small range of orange bottles, leaving to him the choice of the medication, still engrossed in his train of thought.

He'll need to keep close tabs on the availability of each doctor, save the GPS coordinates of the clinics on Reese's phone, maybe even keep a bag of money in his car trunk. So, in case of emergency, all will be ready.

He collects the unused supplies from the table, puts them back in the first aid kit – which he makes a mental note will need to be restocked soon – and carries it back into the bathroom. Then, he makes a detour in the other room at the far end of the Library, where he stores some spare clothes for both of them. When he gets back in the main room he is alarmed for a second because Reese is no longer sitting at the table. Then he spots him – he's crouching down, collecting the blood-stained jacket from the floor where it has been dropped upon his arrival, and then, when he's getting back up he sways unsteadily, his face chalk white.

"You better sit down, Mr. Reese," Finch urges him for the second time that afternoon, hurrying towards him as quickly as his uneven gait allows him. "I'll take care of that," he adds, snatching the soiled garment from the ex-op's hands and replacing it with the clean dark shirt he's selected. If the younger man is surprised by the notion that his boss has a supply of fresh clothes stashed away for him, he doesn't say.

But Finch is eyeing the bloodied jacket intently. The now stiff sleeve is soaked in blood, just like the shirt that lies discarded in the bathroom, and Finch frowns. He had already taken notice that it was a lot of blood – it would have been hard to miss – but how much exactly is too much? Reese's disquieting pallor, the evident dizziness, the slight trembling in his hands as he fights with the buttons of the clean shirt – they all add up, and paint an alarming image. Is he going into shock? Is he just dehydrated? Finch is not sure. He knows something about medical emergencies and procedures – but just theoretically. Reality is another matter entirely. He does his best to recall the instructions for hemorrhages – he's fairly sure that transfusions shouldn't be necessary under a 30 percent of blood volume loss, but it's not an overly informative data per se since he has no idea about how one is supposed to measure that.

Reese is now sitting on the couch – sprawled on it is probably a more accurate description – eyes closed, head resting on the backrest. Finch decides is better to ask him directly.

"You should replace your fluids – do you need an IV? A transfusion? It can be arranged," he says matter-of-factly.

An eye pops open. "Don't worry Harold – sugared water will be enough. A Gatorade, maybe." The eyelid closes again, the pull of gravity evidently overwhelming, then he adds after a brief consideration, "a good steak wouldn't hurt, either."

Harold blinks.

"A steak?"

"Mmmmh-mh."

"You bled everywhere – how can a sports drink and a steak be enough?" Finch is mildly surprised by how indignant, almost outraged, his voice sounds. The whole ordeal has evidently left him more unsettled than expected. It must be the sight of all that blood, he decides. That's why he's so upset and nothing else.

"Red meat is an iron-rich food, Finch," Reese comments placidly, apparently unaware or perhaps just totally unfazed by his employer's dismay. "Besides, it's good. Food for the soul, you know." Pain meds must be kicking in, Harold notices, because the younger man's expression is slacker than a few minutes ago, the lines of pain less tight, his breathing slower and deeper.

Finch shakes his head but lets the matter drop and hands Reese a bottle of water and a sugar packet he has retrieved from the small cupboard in the corner of the room – both of which he has already opened in advance, being the only one in the room with two functioning arms.

He sits at his station and taps his password in. It's not like he has anything to do right now but being in front of a computer brings back a semblance of normalcy in what has become a frighteningly anomalous afternoon. It makes it easier to reflect, to understand, to get his thoughts in order. When the monitor wakes from sleep mode, the picture of the number (definitely a perpetrator!) pops up on screen, and Finch suddenly realizes he still hasn't asked Reese if the situation has been resolved. Such lapse of memory is uncommon for him, inexplicable. He opens his mouth to speak but, looking up, he sees that the ex-op's eyes are still closed, and that he's rearranged himself on the sofa so that he's now comfortably stretched out on it. Finch closes his mouth.

After all, he reasons, if it hadn't been solved, Reese would have told him, right? Besides he can check on his own, going through the record of the calls to NYPD in the last hour or so, and so he does, while the younger man dozes on the couch. It'll take a little longer, but he has no more work to do today, so he might as well get on with it.

He will let him sleep for a while, he decides. Rest is, after all, one of the best medicines for all ailments (and he reiterates, there's nothing else to be done for the day, anyway).

Then, perhaps, they could go out together for that steak – an iron-rich dinner.

And food for the soul.

The end

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