Finch nods faintly, still stuck in a mode where processing isn't fully happening. He takes a few steps, forgetting to ask if the dog is allowed. Something about the sound of running water, the sense-presence of two people around a sink, draws his gaze up (how many times has he enacted that with Mr. Reese, washed out a wound or a scrape-- of course, clearly this is not that, it's just a dish being washed or--)

--the visual impact of dark red stains makes the breath wheeze out of him. Finch makes an involuntary noise, then says-- "Bear, zit--" before hurriedly hobbling in the direction of the two women, face aghast.

"Are you alright? Is she alright--? Should I call a doctor," Finch manages, fumbling for the new strange sleek phone he'd been given, before coming to the unhappy realization he has no idea what he'd call or if there are doctors. He stumbles to a stop, staring at the bloody stains on this shy-looking young woman, scanning for injuries with rather more urgency than a simple passerby might evince.

(Detective Carter, she's barely been buried a week, and John, John is hurt, John is missing, John is God knows where--)