Chapter Text
John Reese met his unfortunate end at three in the morning in an otherwise empty alley on the twenty-second of September, two thousand and ten. His body was never claimed, and therefore he was buried in a plain pine coffin in a stack of the same wooden boxes three deep under exactly 36 inches of dirt in a potter’s field on Hart Island, full of people just like him- unknown, unclaimed, and alone. And he stayed that way until he met Harold Finch exactly one year later.
***
Harold Finch had been eight years, 5 months, and 12 days, and 6 hours old when he realized he was seeing ghosts. He was eight years 5 months, 12 days and 7 hours old when he realized this was not “normal”, and he probably shouldn’t tell anyone.
Harold Finch was a smart young man. He grew into an even smarter adult.
Today, however, this was not apparent; he thought bitterly, hands in the air and eyes fixed on the .38 pointed squarely at his chest. He should have known better than to take a shortcut.
“I’m sure we can work this out,” he said slowly, trying to keep any tremble out of his voice,
“I can give you my watch, my wallet, whatever you want if you would be so kind as to lower your weapon.”
The kid with the gun considered this for a moment, then shook his head and spoke fast,
“Naw man, sorry. This ain’t personal, y’know? You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harold Finch closed his eyes and prepared to die, but the shot never came. He opened them slowly, one at a time. The kid with the gun was staring over Harold’s shoulder, eyes wide, face pale, shaking from his head to his boots. He dropped the gun and it clattered on the cement, and Harold watched him run, listening to the retreating footsteps before he felt a very cold hand on his shoulder.
“Are you ok?” The voice was masculine but soft, almost a whisper. Harold felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Ah. That explained the young man’s terror.
Ghosts were very interesting beings. To those who could see them all the time they looked human. They looked and felt solid, albeit cold to the touch, and they resembled whatever they looked like the moments before their death. They had the ability to fade into invisibility, if they chose. Most didn’t realize they were dead, and mingled obliviously amongst their deceased brethren, living, if you could call it that, in a sort of limbo. Some realized they were dead, but refused to pass over to the other side, preferring to observe the living longing for what they had lost.
When they decided to reveal themselves to those without the sight, however, they looked monstrous, hellish creatures made of void and ethereal fire. The young man with the gun had seen the latter. Harold saw a man in a suit. He was tall, with broad shoulders and black hair starting to gray at the temples. He could possibly be described as roguishly handsome if one was so inclined to bestow that compliment. Harold realized he was gawking, and coughed once before answering
“Fine, thanks to you, Mister…”
“You can call me Reese”, the man answered, studying Harold, “You can see me? And you’re not running screaming? That’s new.”
Harold nodded, “You could say it’s a talent of mine, I suppose. Seeing things others can’t. Things hidden in the dark. The dead, for example.”
Reese studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. He was taking this remarkably well, Harold thought. He told him so, and the corner of Reese’s mouth quirked up, just for a second. They stood facing each other, silently evaluating their options.
“Thank you, Mister Reese.” Harold said, turning to go. He made it a few steps before he felt the freezing hand on his shoulder again,
“You know, a long time ago, before this-”,
Reese gestured up and down his body, which was growing slowly transparent “-A friend once told me sometimes we walk in the dark. But that doesn't mean we have to walk in it alone.”
Harold watched the man in front of him fade into nothingness, and pondered his statement. A drop of rain fell on his nose, and he realized he had forgotten his umbrella.