Harold hadn’t heard from John in hours. He nervously drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting for something, anything.
He bit his lip and wondered if he should call John.
“No,” he thought firmly, resolutely.
“Everything is okay. John is okay. He’ll call any minute now….”
Harold thought back to that meditation seminar.
Breathe in slowly, through the nose, and exhale through the mouth…
His breaths were shallow, uneven, despairingly tremulous.
Harold couldn’t endure it any longer. His fingers flew to the call button, and he entered the shortcut for John’s number.
“Mr. Reese, are you there?” he asked urgently, trying to iron the quaver out of his voice.
When a moment passed, Harold felt his heart jump into his chest.
“John?”
His voice was higher, nakedly frantic, but he didn’t care.
He heard a soft, muffled noise on the other end of the line.
“F….Finch?”
“Yes, John?”
Harold’s hands were shaking now.
“I…I’m at her apartment, Finch. She’s okay. They got me good, though.”
There was a weak laugh and then a horrid, gasping cough.
“John, don’t move. I’ll be right there,” Harold said, and his words were clipped, precise.
He traced the GPS signal to Canal Street and raced out to his car. A jolt of pain shot up his spine, but he ignored it, willing his body to move and comply with the urgency in his mind.
“Please hang on, John,” Harold murmured.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, muttering prayers and hoping against hope that John was alive, please God.
The trip took a little over eight minutes, but it felt like the longest moment of Harold’s life, longer than the stretch of time between MIT and the Machine, or Iowa and New York.
He shook his head and collected his racing thoughts, forcing himself to think about the reality and gravity of it all, of John lying face down in an apartment, breathing his last…
It was almost too much to bear, but Harold gritted his teeth and parked on the side of the road.
He jumped out and felt that same searing pain pour down his spine like hot wax, and he grimaced.
Harold’s hand few to his neck, but he stayed in motion, hobbling past the janitor, up the stairs, running toward something, anything, just as long as John was there…
When he reached room 5C, Harold was winded and weak, but his concern overtook him, and he searched the room for John.
“John, where are you?” he cried, stumbling over pizza boxes and Budweiser cans, cursing in the dim light.
“Harold?”
The voice was nearly imperceptible, a desperate sigh, but Harold heard it nonetheless.
He whirled around and followed the sound to the back of the apartment.
John was there, lying on his back, and his face was covered in his own rapidly-drying blood.
Harold limped to his side and knelt down with some difficulty, calling his name all the while.
“John, what happened?” he asked, and his voice was a shuddering whisper.
“H-hit me over the head, Finch. I can’t-,” John wheezed. Harold looked at him in alarm. John’s chest was rising with rapid, shallow breaths, but he didn’t seem to be getting enough air.
“John, where does it hurt?” Harold murmured. He realized that the question sounded idiotic, but he needed to determine the extent of his partner’s injuries.
John lifted a weak arm and pointed at his head. His hand dropped to his chest, and his breathing slowed again.
“Hang on, John,” Harold said urgently. He put his hand on John’s arm and shook him with a firm, steady grip, but John didn’t move.
His eyes drifted shut, and Harold moved his hand to John’s face, cupping his chin.
“Wake up, John!” he commanded, but there was no response. Frantically, Harold felt for a pulse and breathed a shaky sigh of relief when he found one, weak and thready under his fingertips.
Harold’s relief was short-lived, however, when he noted that John’s chest was barely moving at all.
“Breathe, breathe,” he urged, but John’s head rolled to his side.
Harold’s mind was racing. What was wrong with John? Who had done this to him?
Harold was sure that he would hunt them down later, but he shifted his attention to his partner’s rapidly-declining status.
“It could be a concussion,” he mused, but there was no time, and he heard his own shallow, panicked breaths.
Breathe.
Harold leaned John’s head back and lifted his chin up.
He didn’t have much medical training, but the movements were natural, ingrained.
Harold felt his stiff neck scream in protest, but he lowered his head slowly until his mouth was flush with John’s, and he gave two breaths.
He put a hand on John’s chest and felt it rise once, twice, and he waited, begging John to breathe, please breathe.
John gasped once, and Harold’s eyes flew open.
He hadn’t even realized that they were shut.
“John? Can you hear me?” he choked, and John made a small noise.
Harold closed his hand over John’s and felt a sob of relief escape his throat. He blinked hard and wondered if he would’ve actually cried if-
No.
Nothing had happened. John was still here, safe and alive.
“John, I’m going to call for an ambulance. You probably have a concussion, and you- you stopped breathing,” Harold said quietly.
He could still hear the tremor in his voice, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except for the rhythmic rise and fall of John’s chest under his palms.
Re: Fill: Breath, Reese&Finch [Reese/Finch if you squint], Teen
Harold hadn’t heard from John in hours. He nervously drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting for something, anything.
He bit his lip and wondered if he should call John.
“No,” he thought firmly, resolutely.
“Everything is okay. John is okay. He’ll call any minute now….”
Harold thought back to that meditation seminar.
Breathe in slowly, through the nose, and exhale through the mouth…
His breaths were shallow, uneven, despairingly tremulous.
Harold couldn’t endure it any longer. His fingers flew to the call button,
and he entered the shortcut for John’s number.
“Mr. Reese, are you there?” he asked urgently, trying to iron the quaver out of his voice.
When a moment passed, Harold felt his heart jump into his chest.
“John?”
His voice was higher, nakedly frantic, but he didn’t care.
He heard a soft, muffled noise on the other end of the line.
“F….Finch?”
“Yes, John?”
Harold’s hands were shaking now.
“I…I’m at her apartment, Finch. She’s okay. They got me good, though.”
There was a weak laugh and then a horrid, gasping cough.
“John, don’t move. I’ll be right there,” Harold said, and his words were clipped, precise.
He traced the GPS signal to Canal Street and raced out to his car. A jolt of pain shot up his spine, but he ignored it, willing his body to move and comply with the urgency in his mind.
“Please hang on, John,” Harold murmured.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, muttering prayers and hoping against hope that John was alive, please God.
The trip took a little over eight minutes, but it felt like the longest moment of Harold’s life, longer than the stretch of time between MIT and the Machine, or Iowa and New York.
He shook his head and collected his racing thoughts, forcing himself to think about the reality and gravity of it all, of John lying face down in an apartment, breathing his last…
It was almost too much to bear, but Harold gritted his teeth and parked on the side of the road.
He jumped out and felt that same searing pain pour down his spine like hot wax, and he grimaced.
Harold’s hand few to his neck, but he stayed in motion, hobbling past the janitor, up the stairs, running toward something, anything, just as long as John was there…
When he reached room 5C, Harold was winded and weak, but his concern overtook him, and he searched the room for John.
“John, where are you?” he cried, stumbling over pizza boxes and Budweiser cans, cursing in the dim light.
“Harold?”
The voice was nearly imperceptible, a desperate sigh, but Harold heard it nonetheless.
He whirled around and followed the sound to the back of the apartment.
John was there, lying on his back, and his face was covered in his own rapidly-drying blood.
Harold limped to his side and knelt down with some difficulty, calling his name all the while.
“John, what happened?” he asked, and his voice was a shuddering whisper.
“H-hit me over the head, Finch. I can’t-,” John wheezed. Harold looked at him in alarm. John’s chest was rising with rapid, shallow breaths, but he didn’t seem to be getting enough air.
“John, where does it hurt?” Harold murmured. He realized that the question sounded idiotic, but he needed to determine the extent of his partner’s injuries.
John lifted a weak arm and pointed at his head. His hand dropped to his chest, and his breathing slowed again.
“Hang on, John,” Harold said urgently. He put his hand on John’s arm and shook him with a firm, steady grip, but John didn’t move.
His eyes drifted shut, and Harold moved his hand to John’s face, cupping his chin.
“Wake up, John!” he commanded, but there was no response. Frantically, Harold felt for a pulse and breathed a shaky sigh of relief when he found one, weak and thready under his fingertips.
Harold’s relief was short-lived, however, when he noted that John’s chest was barely moving at all.
“Breathe, breathe,” he urged, but John’s head rolled to his side.
Harold’s mind was racing. What was wrong with John? Who had done this to him?
Harold was sure that he would hunt them down later, but he shifted his attention to his partner’s rapidly-declining status.
“It could be a concussion,” he mused, but there was no time, and he heard his own shallow, panicked breaths.
Breathe.
Harold leaned John’s head back and lifted his chin up.
He didn’t have much medical training, but the movements were natural, ingrained.
Harold felt his stiff neck scream in protest, but he lowered his head slowly until his mouth was flush with John’s, and he gave two breaths.
He put a hand on John’s chest and felt it rise once, twice, and he waited, begging John to breathe, please breathe.
John gasped once, and Harold’s eyes flew open.
He hadn’t even realized that they were shut.
“John? Can you hear me?” he choked, and John made a small noise.
Harold closed his hand over John’s and felt a sob of relief escape his throat. He blinked hard and wondered if he would’ve actually cried if-
No.
Nothing had happened. John was still here, safe and alive.
“John, I’m going to call for an ambulance. You probably have a concussion, and you- you stopped breathing,” Harold said quietly.
He could still hear the tremor in his voice, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except for the rhythmic rise and fall of John’s chest under his palms.