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Surveillance – Ch. 15

Eight days. Eight days since the shooting and Finch still had nothing on the woman, and if he didn’t he knew damn well that the police were all standing around, scratching their heads and eating donuts, but that didn’t stop him from calling Fusco on a daily basis. Megan called him every evening to update him on Reese’s condition and to remind him to eat something and get some sleep, after she’d noticed his weight loss and the dark circles under his eyes. He wasn’t expecting her to call at half past six, so when the phone rang, his thoughts automatically turned to the worst possible outcome, trying to prepare himself.

“Hello?” he answered, something he very rarely said. He took a bracing breath and waited.

“Harold, he woke up,” Megan said, but there was an incongruity between her words and her voice. She sounded like someone had died. “About an hour ago. I have to let the police know, but I wanted to call you first.”

“I need to see him,” Finch said. “Can you wait on the police, just a half hour?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.” She hung up and he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. He didn’t have time to wait for his car; he hailed a taxi and offered the driver an extra hundred to get him there in ten minutes. It took a bit longer than that, but Finch paid the man anyway and hurried into the hospital. At Reese’s door, he paused, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

He’d half expected Megan to be waiting for him, but she wasn’t. He walked over to the bed and his heart nearly stopped as Reese opened his eyes. He looked infinitely better than the last time Finch had visited – the intubation tube was gone, as was the drain in his skull, and he was breathing on his own, his gray-blue eyes glassy, but open and tracking Finch as he approached.

“Thank god,” Finch said, his voice cracking. “I was so worried. I thought-” He forced himself to stop, to take a breath, to start again. “Do you remember what happened, how you were injured? John, do you remember who did this to you? Did she say anything?”

“I don’t think he understands what you’re asking,” Megan said softly and Finch glanced back at her, standing in front of the door. He hadn’t heard her come in. She walked over, her hands in her pockets, wearing her ‘doctor’s’ face, the one all physicians put on when they have to deliver bad news. “The neurologist told me that it’s not uncommon for brain trauma to result in temporary and sometimes permanent memory loss.”

“So he doesn’t remember what happened, is that what you’re saying?” Finch asked.

“It’s more than that,” Megan said, glancing at Reese. “I don’t think he remembers me, and it doesn’t look like he remembers you.”

“Of course he does,” Finch snapped, suddenly unable to breathe, like he’d been kicked in the chest. He turned to Reese. “John, look at me. You know who I am, right? John, who am I?” Reese didn’t respond, he just shifted his gaze to Megan, then back to Finch, as though waiting, but only mildly interested. Finch shook his head, fighting back the scream that rose up in his throat. No. No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening.

“He’ll get better, though, right?” Finch asked, his voice tight and hoarse. “You said temporary memory loss, right?”

“Possibly,” Megan replied. “There’s no way to know. We just have to wait and see.” Wait and see. Wait and see. Finch threw himself across the room, into the small adjoining bathroom, and vomited into the toilet.

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