Archive of Our Own ^beta

He finally found Quinn, the one responsible for Carter's death, the rat hiding behind layers of protection. Now, he’s right under John’s gun.

"Time's up." His finger rests on the trigger, his breath steady, the barrel pointed at the center of Quinn’s forehead.

Let it end.

This was one of John’s two remaining objectives after escaping the hospital. Along the way, he’d taken down quite a few people, whether they were rats in the clues or anyone else. He didn’t care about the methods. Everything Finch had tried to build in him—all that talk about justice, about morality—it meant nothing now.

In a way, he and Quinn were alike. The only difference was that Quinn wore the skin of civility while John was an untamed wild dog who had never been domesticated.

“Mr. Reese.” A voice broke in, completely out of place.

He didn't need to turn around. He'd heard that voice too many times not to know it.

The sound of footsteps grew louder—Shaw, maybe Fusco too. They had come for him.

"We should have killed him in the first place." His own voice barely sounded like him anymore—scraped raw, hollow.

"Why didn't we, Finch?" 

John seemed genuinely puzzled. For some reason, it felt like his knees were being pulled out from under him. His body collapsed, his knees slamming into the ground, his body tipping to the side, but his hand stubbornly still held the gun.

Finch could only see his profile. Sweat-soaked. That one eye fixed on the target—stubborn, confused, burning.

“Let us help you.” Finch cautiously extended his hand, just as John’s gun slowly drooped, ready to be taken from him. His hand was covered in his own blood. Finch’s heart clenched for a moment.

“NO.”

John’s eyes filled with bloodshot fury again. In that instant, Finch felt real fear—not that John would kill someone, but that he might make an irreversible mistake. Of watching him trample everything Carter had died for.

Click. Click. The trigger didn’t budge. Blood had seeped down his arm, into the chamber, soaked the round. Somewhere along the way, the gun had drowned in it.

John understood, in that instant. He would soon pass out. He couldn’t kill Quinn, couldn’t kill Simmons...

No one had stopped him. Except his rage. His grief.

His own blood.

It was almost as if Carter, in her final moments, had reached out to stop that bullet.

John’s mind went blank, and then, a profound sense of confusion swallowed him, drowning out all feeling. His blood-soaked hands mixed with the sweat in his palms as the gun slipped from his grasp.

Finch didn’t have time to breathe a sigh of relief—he quickly caught John’s limp hand, his fingers shaking as he held him up.

John seemed to instinctively search for something before his mind completely crumbled, lifting his head just long enough to look at Finch. Finch met his gaze—those sea-green eyes, the bloodshot veins fading, replaced by a helpless, almost pleading look.

And somehow, Finch understood. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to do. 「Why... am I still alive?」

...

Once in the car, John slipped into a brief state of shock due to excessive blood loss. Shaw thought he’d be fine, but Finch wasn’t so sure.

“Mr. Reese.”

No response.

“John.”

A slight flutter of his eyelids. That was the only answer, and everyone exhaled in relief.

Blood kept flowing, staining his white shirt and soaking his jacket, dripping onto the car seat below.

The car hit a bump, took a sharp turn, then slammed on the brakes before accelerating again. John’s body slid helplessly to the side, his shoulder colliding with Finch’s. But he didn’t have the strength to move. Finch didn't move either.

Finch looked down at him. John’s breathing was shallow—too much blood lost, his body conserving energy. From Finch’s angle, he could see John’s eyes still open, his lashes trembling slightly as he stubbornly kept them wide. His fingers rested on his leg, just beside Finch’s hand, blood dried to a dark red, but the knuckles still faintly white.

"...Misfired," John’s lips barely moved. Finch didn’t quite catch the words.

But John didn’t speak again. His head fully collapsed onto Finch’s shoulder. His breathing grew slow, light.

Now, Finch could think about what would happen when Mr.Reese woke up. Strangely, the look John had given him—so lost, so helpless—kept playing over and over in his mind.

Because that was John Reese. The man who always stood tall, always protecting others, now collapsed onto him, the one person he—perhaps—needed protection from. Finch wasn’t sure.

Luckily, this time, he’d made it in time. For Mr. Reese, he had finally caught up.

Shaw glanced back from the front seat, noticing the rare silence from Finch. He didn’t know what was going through his mind.

Finch looked down again. John’s blood clung to the back of his hand, their hands pressed tightly together.