Grieving

It was one of John's dark moments; not the darkest, that honor was reserved for the days after the crossover. In a haze of vengeance, he had come after those responsible. No, it was just one of many over the past several weeks.

Shoving back from his kitchen table, he overturned his chair with a sudden burst of blind fury. He headed for the sink and grabbed a vase and threw it at the wall, shattering it into pieces. It didn't even make a dent in easing his anger, his pain. Heading towards a closet, his heart stuttered a step at the thought of using one of his weapons to do some damage. Upon opening the door though, his only reaction as a growl of frustration. It was empty. Clearly the handy work of some busybody who had shuddered one day at seeing guns, bullets and knives strewn haphazardly across the his apartment floor.

His breath coming in quick pants, he wrenched the cabinet doors of the kitchen open and began grabbing out whatever he could reach: plates, saucers, bowls, and glasses. He threw each one with such force, grunting in wordless agony as he launched plate after plate, sending debris flying across the room.

His dinner companion didn't move. Sitting quietly, patiently watching him systematically destroy the kitchen and staying out of the way until the enraged burst of energy depleted itself. It wouldn't have mattered how long the fit lasted, it could have taken hours or mere minutes; the waiting wasn't a concern. John having an outlet for his anger and pain was.

Finally spent, he was on his knees, breathing heavily staring at the ground when John felt himself being led to his bed. Laying down, he curled up on his side as he felt his hair being brushed from his forehead and gentle pats on his back, as if he were a baby being lulled to sleep.

Instead of falling asleep as he needed his rest, he instead considered his current state of mind.

He had never dealt with loss well. When he had been too late to save Jessica, he had plunged into the darkness of the bottle; emerging only because one very determined billionaire picked him out of his rat hole and gave him a reason to live, a purpose. One of the people that had led him from his darkness was gone. She was taken too soon in a vengeful act of violence. Joss was taken, taken from her son, her family, her partner, her . . . whatever he, Shaw and Finch had been to her. Shot dead in an alley right by the police station where the streets were eerily silent. The traffic lights had slowly gone from green to yellow to red as she took her last breaths. She died in his arms calling out her son's name, asking John to look out for him.

Detective Joss Carter, his - he still wasn't sure how to define what their relationship was. All John knew was that what they had meant to each other. The kiss they had shared at the morgue was a flash of sentiment and reaction that felt like the right thing to do at that moment. In hindsight it was as if he and Joss knew that neither one might make it out alive; and that it could be the last time they would see each other. When people were at their most vulnerable, they did what came naturally to them. It was a shared moment of support between two people who had formed a bond. To define their relationship by that kiss would cheapen what they truly had. A friendship that had grown and a bond cultivated over the years by saving each other's lives.

When John woke several hours later and stumbled out of bed, he found the kitchen had been cleaned and swept.

"Damn busybody . . . " he muttered under his breath as he headed towards the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water.

Hearing a footfall, John turned towards the source, his gaze immediately drawn to the plastic grocery sack that had just been laid on the counter. Paper plates, cups, and utensils were pulled out and stacked neatly into the corner of the counter.

Involuntarily, a snort came out, after which he asked, "Nothing breakable?"

A raised eyebrow was all the answer he needed.

John's head pounded with a dull headache, his eyes still grainy, his voice still scratchy from his recent slumber. "I'm sorry," he rasped.

A quiet nod was the only sign of acceptance of his apology.

John stared at his almost constant companion for the past several weeks, popping up at the most unexpected times to check in on him, she was a thorn in his side. Yet, he wondered what kept her coming back and subjecting herself to his fits of rage. When they had started seeing each other, it was with the understanding that it was a no strings attached situation. An agreement between two consenting adults, no going further than either one of them allowed. He was surprised to realize that she had indeed, checked in on him every few hours, sometimes to bring nourishment, sometimes, just to keep him company.

John was always aware subconsciously, that she watched out for him; as if she had this sixth sense about what he needed and when and for how long. She knew when to push him to talk and when to just sit with him. She certainly knew when he needed a shower, as he found out one day, being unceremoniously pulled out of bed and dragged by this tiny slip of a woman into the bathroom and shoved, still fully clothed into the shower.

He ate, he slept, and he worked with the numbers. His fits of rage only ever came about when he wasn't working. Only his work with the numbers kept his mind off of his pain and guilt. He felt the pain of the senseless loss of a life and guilt for not being able to save it. And in the dimmest corner of his mind, he could always sense her presence. Though not many words were spoken, he always felt her strength and support through mere gestures. The squeeze of a hand to say, "It's okay John, grieve." The gentle rub on his back to ask how he was feeling. A flick to his head when he was being an ass, even for a grieving man.

As the weeks went by, the periods of rage became less and less frequent. Though he wasn't sure if he had completely survived this second tour of darkness, he knew that he was well on his way.

"I have to go," she said. "Another politician, another dollar," she quipped as she grabbed her purse and headed towards the door.

"Zoe," he called out stopping her in her tracks just as she reached the door. "I want my closet re-stocked."

Her dimples flashed as she gave him the stink-eye.

"I'll see if I can get them back from Shaw," she responded as she walked out the door.

"Wait, you gave my weapons to Shaw?" John asked a hint of panic tingeing his voice.

Too late, John realized he was talking to air.

The End

AN: Fire at will folks!