Harold Finch. The name amused him, but it wasn't his any more than "John Reese" belonged to his tall associate. Associate. Friend? Maybe. People pitied him when they saw the limp, even more if, like the little doctor, they found out what it came from—spinal fusion surgery. But he didn't mind it. What's a little spinal surgery when you've been around for 150 years? It reminded him he was still alive, that limp. No doubt in another 50 years, they'd have figured out a way to fix it anyhow.

Reese didn't understand why he'd been picked; that was clear. And it was better that way. Better that he not know it had been his eyes. The day Reese had first popped onto the screen was a day for missing. Finch only let himself miss his brother once every six months or so. Not like they'd seen each other often anyway when they were both alive, but the loss, nearly a hundred years gone now, still wrenched at his psyche. It was nearly unbelievable that such a brother could ever be dead.

Finch had never been one for doing things himself. He was the brain, the eyes, the knowledge, but not the doer. Staring at himself in the mirror, he'd always found eyes that saw and knew, but never eyes with the impetus to fix things. His brother's eyes had been different. There had always been something clear, something alive, something righteous in them. Something that couldn't let evil go on without stopping it. It was those eyes that had gotten him killed. And his death had changed Harold.

No one knew it had taken him 90 years to build The Machine, that his plans had been long in place before the US government had ever given a contract to an unassuming billionaire, that he had theorized before the first giant computer ever made it onto the first college campus. It wasn't September 11, one day in a long history of terrorism, that had given him the will. It was one lone bullet, the bullet that had taken his brother.

That's why his breath had caught in his chest the day John Reese's picture flashed onto the screen. Finch had looked into his eyes, and there was no question. Reese's record didn't matter, his expertise, his knowledge. Later on, Finch would realize how lucky he'd been in all those areas, how much like his brother Reese truly was, but it was those clear eyes, those righteous, uncompromising eyes, that had sealed the deal.

One rainy, fall morning, Harold limped over to his closet and pulled out his coat. Funny how little the standards for male attire had changed in 150 years. His object this morning was the New York Subway. He could have used a taxi, but he liked the subway; it was so much like the Tube in London. He slipped into a car and sat down, waiting for what he knew was coming. Sure enough, a tall, dark form came noiselessly down the middle of the car and sat down beside him. "Morning, Finch."

"Good morning, Mr. Reese."

He had to stop himself saying Good morning, Sherlock. It was so very similar.