Chapter Text
There was something wrong with Mr. Reese. That was the conclusion Harold reached on the chilled evening after wrapping up a number’s case. It was a tiring case for him, he could only imagine the toll it had taken on John. Yet usually Mr. Reese hid all of the effects the case’s cause him, only showing it if there was a matching injury that needed tending to. So why was he now staring off into the distance barely responsive?
“Mr. Reese, are you feeling alright?” The library remained still after the question. It had seemingly bounced off the recipient. With no response or movement Harold decided to limp towards John to see if he would react. This time he got a reaction.
John finally moved, his eyes vaguely moved in the direction of Harold as he stepped away. Without answering his colleague, he briskly walked away; further into the library.
“Perhaps he needs some alone time,” Harold mumbled to himself, trying not to take it to heart. He felt obligated to stay because John hadn’t gone to leave. So he put himself to work sorting out small chores such as making sure his false identities weren’t uncovered.
After an hour John returned from wherever he had been residing in the library. Harold noted he finally seemed more like himself, that is he was more alert and aware of his surroundings.
“If that’s all Harold I’ll be heading home now,” Mr. Reese spoke as if nothing odd had happened. Harold slightly raised his eyebrows but chose to not comment on it.
“Have a good night Mr. Reese,” he bid as his friend offered him a small smile and walked out.
—
The absent posture John had was growing and so was Harold’s concern. In the past five missions either after or in down time before another plan of attack was formed he observed Mr. Reese practically go unresponsive; with his eyes listlessly staring off to who knows where. The periods lasted from 30 minutes to hours. Each time he worried for his partner’s wellbeing.
“John, your recent behavior has been causing me great anxiety.” Harold spoke, trying to bring it up after the second time but he had a feeling it wouldn’t go well based on John’s expression.
“Sorry Finch, am I not sane enough for you?” John eerily responded. He kept his voice strong but his eyes sharp, clearly his mental status was a sensitive nerve.
“That’s not how I was meaning it,” Harold began slowly. “I simply think a professional opinion on these unresponsive episodes could be beneficial.”
“I appreciate your worry but making such a huge fuss about a few minutes I zoned out for isn’t necessary. I can work on my focusing skills if it’s an offense to you” John was willing to diffuse the situation after Harold walked back on his initial statement; but still had his guard up.
“A few minutes? Mr. Reese if only it was a few minutes. Are you unaware you’ve been silent refusing to look or speak to me for hours before?” Harold strained his voice in shock, surely John had noticed by now. “I thought maybe you were overexerted and simply didn’t have the energy to reply but if you truly have no memory…” His voice trailed off but his face betrayed his apprehension.
“Im certain I would remember that Finch, it’s likely our comms just went down or your camera froze. I don’t need to go to the doctor because of technical issues.” Before Harold could interject John finished with, “Now please drop it and tell me about our number.”
Harold respected his friend’s wishes for the time being, seeing as it was putting a strain on John. However, it would not be the last time he would speak to him about this.
—
This could not go on. It was only a matter of time until one of these episodes got John, or their number, hurt. This time Harold wouldn’t back down. He wouldn’t let his friend become hurt from this thing John tried to deny the existence of. He was better prepared this time, having found a psychiatrist that Mr. Reese would be able to tell most of the truth too. From what Harold could tell John may be having severe dissociated episodes intertwined with PTSD. However, Harold never claimed to be a people person so he left the diagnosis to the psychiatrists.
“Mr. Reese, I have something serious to discuss with you,” Harold started as he drew in a breath to ground himself. “I know your opinions on psychiatrists and I understand but I have found one you could be open to. If you refuse I will be pulling you from the field as I don't trust you’ll be able to keep yourself and others safe”
John balked, “You don’t trust me Finch? What do you think I’ll go crazy out there? Shoot someone? Shoot myself?” The idea he had lost his closest friend’s trust and confidence hurt more than if he had been shot. He knew he wasn’t compromised and had to fight Finch to believe him.
“No John, I’m not scared of you or what you could do. I’m worried you could be trapped or hurt from lack of attentiveness to your surroundings. While it hasn’t happened on the field yet I’ve observed you losing all training protocols and barely responding to outside stimuli.” He realized too late that the specific wording that I didn’t trust him was a mistake/
Silence grew between them as John squared his jaw and refused eye contact. “I do trust you John, with my life, but if you could go to this psychiatrist and get yourself cleared for action it would make me feel better.” Finch tried again.
“Fine.” John finally answered. He decided if Finch truly didn’t trust him right now the best choice forward was complete cooperation. He dug his nails into his palms as a form of punishment, feeling as if it was deserved if even Harold had lost his faith in him.
“Thank you John,” Finch relaxed for what felt like the first time in weeks. “I only want what’s best for you and your employment here. I’m giving you the rest of this day and tomorrow off as I have scheduled your appointment for tomorrow already.”
In return John nodded and left the library heading for his home.
—
Harsh, raspy breaths. Coughing and sharp inhales. After John left the online call with the psychiatrist it felt as though his world had ended. Everything was spinning for him. It was like his view was a tv spinning and slowly getting farther and farther away from his control. Now that his psychiatrist explained what that meant it only made him feel worse.
Finch had been right.
He was compromised.
The realization made him want to give up on everything. He knew Finch was kind, he wasn’t like his old CIA employers that would have taken him out immediately. Harold would be willing to fund his life til the day he died, all John needed to do was ask. But that ask seemed far too undeserving for a man like John. Truthfully if he had been in control right now he might’ve swallowed a bullet so the illness he had was protecting his body in that way.
When he finally came too again his arms ached. He realized he’d been grabbing and scratching them while panicking. Everything ached like his body knew what he was. What he was infected with. His hands felt tingly like they had been asleep even though they weren’t and his chest was still tight.
He checked his phone and saw it had been an hour and a half after the appointment. Finch was right, John probably knew it too; deep in his mind where denial hadn’t settled. He saw a text from an hour ago from the man himself reading: “How’d it go? I’d like to see you when you’re available.”
His hands were numb when he texted back, “You were right. Lose my number.” Deciding the quickest way through rejection was rejecting yourself first.