"Get in the car, John."

He ignored her and stalked on limping a little, holding his torn overcoat around him. Tape had taken care of his ripped pants, and the doctor had taken care of the other problem.

He resolutely ignored Carter and Fusco's barely suppressed smirks. It was only when he stalked out of the car park, made a sharp left that Carter realised that he was intending to walk back to wherever he hung out. Somewhere in Manhattan.

"John." She pulled the car ahead of him, "get in the car. Now."

He frowned, shook his head. Kept on walking.

"It's twelve miles, John."

Good. Perhaps he would burn off just a touch of the irritation he was feeling. Not at Carter or Fusco, but at himself for being played for an idiot.

She threw up her hands then. "Fine." She snapped, and got back in the car, peeled out into the traffic.

As soon as she was gone he regretted his churlishness. Truth was, he was hanging on to the shattered remnants of his dignity, and not entirely sure if he could get into the car. Sitting was a little problematic at the moment.

It started to rain around 161st, which set the seal on his misery. He turned his collar up, not that it made the slightest scrap of difference. By 135th the surprise trickles of ice cold sleet down the back of his neck threatened to freeze his spine. He was having trouble remembering a time he'd been colder.

By 92nd he was wet through, and the rain had set in heavy waves which continually broke over him. His clothing seemed more water than overcoat, suit and shirt. Even his boots were squelching.

His phone had smashed. Otherwise he really could have used the reassurance of his partner's fussy, cultured voice.

By the time he reached the Library, he was starting to feel as though he would never be dry again. He limped up the stairs, dripping every inch of the way.

"Mr Reese?"

"Finch."

"So you have returned." There was something comforting in the preciseness of his partner's speech patterns he imagined. "Detective Carter was worried about you."

The half-smirk on Reese's face snapped clean off.

"She rang?"

"Several times."

John dropped his dripping ruined overcoat on the floor and added his suit jacket on top, handing his shattered phone to Finch.

The older man studied his face for a moment. "You might want to consider calling her back. She was really very worried."

John made a non-committal gesture and a grunt that might have been consent or refusal and continued on to his dry, clean, stash of clothes.

Once he had toweled himself off and changed into another charcoal suit and white shirt, he contemplated ringing Carter.

He was embarrassed.

Finch had lunch arranged. A local Chinese restaurant. It was good food, and Reese's stomach rumbled.

He leaned forward to snag a carton, and some chopsticks.

"Have a seat, Mr Reese." Finch expertly snared a shrimp with the chopsticks.

"I'll stand, thanks."

"Detective Carter filled me in on the details, Mr Reese." Finch indicated the spare chair, Reese glanced at it, and rolled his eyes.

"Unless you intend to stand up for the next couple of weeks, John, I suggest using the cushion."

John stared at the donut-shaped object and sighed testily. He couldn't very well stand up for the next fortnight, the long and weary trudge back from the wilds of the Bronx had been miserable and he was in need of sustenance. It would be a lot more comfortable if he could sit down.

The stitches were pinching.

Grudgingly he headed for the chair. Gingerly he lowered himself into it. Irritatingly, Finch was right, despite the soreness of his left buttock and the pinching stitches, the cushion eased the pressure over the area so he could sit down in relative comfort.

John picked at his food. "So Carter told you all about it?"

"Anyone can slip, Mr Reese. Detective Carter appreciated your help and she was worried about you."

John conceded that Finch had a point. "I'll call her."

"How's the cushion."