Chapter 2: Dirty Harry

"Hey." Someone was poking him in the shoulder. Reese's hand shot out, made contact and jerked. Shaw all but fell into his lap. Still in defense mode, Reese had a hand around her throat before he registered the stream of invective being directed at him, his lineage and men in general.

"Sorry. Sorry, Shaw—I was…."

He released her and she sprang up like a scalded cat.

"Asshole," she muttered, then, "I should have just poked you with a big stick."

Fully awake, Reese waggled his eyebrows at her. "Better men than you have tried," he said. "Didn't go well."

Shaw gave him the "Welcome to New York" sign with both of her middle fingers.

"You're up," she said. "Your turn to keep an eye on Dirty Harry."

John rolled up on his knees and leaned over Finch's still form. Breathing was good, color was better. Without his glasses, Finch looked younger maybe, less professorial, but no less smart. John had been pinned with that gaze with and without the glasses and it made no difference—Finch was still always the smartest guy in the room.

"Hey Finch," he called. His voice was raspy with sleep. There was no reaction, so he put one hand on Finch's shoulder and squeezed. "Finch—wake up for a second, will you?"

There was no reaction for a moment, then Finch stirred, coming awake with a start. He reached for his face, feeling for his glasses and stopping suddenly when they weren't there. John pressed them into his hand. Finch exhaled with relief, fumbled them on, and opened his eyes.

"Mr. Reese," he said.

"Finch." John took his cues from his friend. When Finch tried to sit up, he resisted the urge to help him and let him manage on his own. Finch sat up and made a grimace, then reached for his head.

"Ouch," he said deliberately, touching the gash on his temple. His fingers lingered, wondering at the feel of something that was not skin, then his face cleared. "Ah." He looked at John dryly. "Did Ms. Shaw…glue…my head, or was I hallucinating?"

"Just be glad there wasn't a stapler in Lionel's glove compartment."

"Hmm. Small mercies." Finch looked down and saw Root's familiar blankets draped over him, then the jumpsuit, and John saw a tremor start in his hand. Finch saw it too and pressed his hand firmly onto his knee.

Reese had the penlight out again and held it up for Finch to see. "Time to follow the bouncing light."

Finch nodded, then grimaced against the pain of moving his head up and down.

"Use your words, Harold," John said, and was pleased when Finch gave him a dirty look. He shined the light in Finch's eyes, then snapped the light off. "Good. All your marbles are still there."

"Thank you, Dr. Reese," Finch murmured. He half-rolled and started to get up. John backed up and gritted his teeth with the effort of not helping, but he managed, even when Finch let out a sharp exhalation that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Finch got to his knees and used the arched doorway to haul himself up.

"I want a shower," Finch insisted, as though daring John to argue.

It was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. Shaw might beat him to death if he didn't try to stop it.

"Okay," John said. "But you'd better hurry. Shaw just went to crash, and if she wakes up, she'll kick both our butts."

John didn't wait to be ordered about. He walked into Finch's "room" and began gathering the things his friend would need. There was a plastic pull-drawer cabinet and he opened drawers until he found what he wanted. Socks, underwear and an undershirt that felt like silk. Finch's fashion had come down a bit as Professor Whistler, but no one was likely to be looking at his underwear unless Root got overly domestic and tried to do Harold's laundry. There was a jury-rigged hanging rack made from old pipes and scavenged hardware. On it hung a half-dozen suits, all of them more or less off the rack. John snagged a shirt, making a face. He always wore a white shirt. Finch had checks and stripes and little patterns—it was like there was some sort of invisible fashion code that Finch understood and John didn't, but then Harold had always been good with codes. He fished out a tie, wondering if it matched and looked around to see if there was anything he had forgotten.

As he turned, the sparseness of the room made itself felt. John thought of Finch's library home, the home he had shared with Grace, his own apartment that Finch had funded. How did Harold feel about living out of plastic cabinets and showering in a makeshift stall in an old subway washroom? Professor Whistler had an address, presumably, but they had decided—hadn't they decided? —that Finch wasn't safe aboveground and so….

John put the tie back where he'd found it and went to the doorway just as Finch entered.

"Finch," he said. "Get in here and tell me what tie you want. I can't tell what matches."

Finch had just paused to lean on the doorway, but he shot John a look of patient longsuffering and made his way slowly into the room.

"The tattersall," Finch said.

John looked at him.

"The checked one," Finch said wearily, pointing. John bit the inside of his mouth—hard—to keep from smiling.

"I, um, got you more socks, but you're already sporting a clean pair, so…." This time, he let the smile spread across his face.

Finch glared at him and made a suggestion that would have made Shaw proud.

"Language, professor," John said cheekily. He edged past Finch in the doorway, catching his elbow in a conspiratorial way and half-pulling him down the hall. "And as I said, if Shaw hears us, we're both toast." Finch allowed himself to lean a little on his friend as they made their way toward the bathroom, but John stopped at the door and stepped back. "Okay," he said, looking back the way they had come. "Do what you gotta do."

He saw Finch's visible relief, and just a flash of hesitation. John looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "I'm assuming you don't need someone to wash you back."

"I'm quite capable—" Finch gritted.

"Good. Cause I'm going to guard the door. You've got five minutes." John turned away first.

"I'm not sure five minutes will do it, Mr. Reese," Finch said dryly, "but I'll do my best."

"That's all I'm asking," John said, and waited until he heard the water running to smile.