“You’re the only one I trust to do this.” - for platonic Finch & Shaw?
Notes: Series Finale spoilers. Some of this was inspired by @lithiumdoll's Symbolic Constant. (My beloved). Also, possibly, an allusion to Neil Gaiman's Death. Maybe.
The image of Grace standing near her easel vanished when he opened his eyes again. He had made it somewhere, far enough he no longer heard the sirens and people. Reality and time slipped by him.
It was the crunch of boots on pebbles that alerted him first, a kindness, he imagined on her part. “Miss Shaw.”
Harold felt rather than saw Miss Shaw kneel down next to him, felt her calloused hands feel for his pulse.
He let out a short laugh. “I imagine not.”
“She did it,” he said with something of wonder.
“Yeah, the Machine kicked ass.”
Miss Shaw pressed a heavy hand on his wound and he gasped from the sharp pain that jolted over his body. Smelled bourbon before he felt it splash over his wound and she pressed a makeshift bandage on his wound.
“Samaritan agents are all dead too.” She said conversationally, and he did not need any context clues to know she had made sure of this.
There was a heavy pause and then, “The missile hit the building. I don’t think John made it.”
Harold closed his eyes, he knew this. Still, he hoped. “I know.”
There was a brief movement, felt himself being moved gingerly to a wall. It wasn’t even painful. And then Miss Shaw was in front of him she looked at him, over him. Her hands were crisp and practiced, despite not being a doctor for years.
Once, long ago, when he realized the Machine had handpicked Sameen Shaw to join their team, he found the notes Dr. Shaw’s Chief Resident wrote. It struck Harold how much of a small-minded fool the doctor was to let such a talented and brilliant woman like Shaw go.
She was his doctor and he trusted no other doctor than Miss Shaw.
“I can’t move you, Harold.” There was an edge of frustration in her words. “If I’d made it here sooner–”
Shaw never needed comfort nor assurances but Harold regretted… He regretted too many things.
Over her shoulder, Harold fancied he saw a woman in Root’s form with a black belted coat. She smiled at him sadly and placed a ghostly hand on Shaw’s shoulder. Sharp and still.
Harold placed his hand over hers, his hand was sticky from his own blood. “I understand, Miss Shaw.”
Shaw finally stopped moving. She looked at him for a long, long moment and then she nodded. Harold watched as she wiped her hands on her pants, pulled his glasses from his face and cleaned them. Miss Shaw's features came to sharp focus when she returned them.
And then she sat next to him.
He had made it quite far after all. The Brooklyn bridge loomed over the horizon, there was smoke blooming somewhere.
“The Machine will rely on you now.”
“I don’t know anything about computers, Finch.”
The image of the woman in the black coat moved forward to stare at the bridge.
The woman -- the personification of the Machine his hallucinating brain conjured-- turned back towards them, a smile on her face. Harold angled his head and finally spotted the camera almost hidden but not quite out of sight.
Harold felt himself smile, Shaw had a hand on his pulse, counting. “It’s been an honor, Miss Shaw.”
He imagined he heard the beat of wings, the sound of an old dial tone, and in the distance, he imagined he saw Miss Groves – Root, the real Root and John waiting for him, and just beyond, Joss Carter and Nathan.