Finch supposes it's stupidity that led him back to the wall, again. It is absolutely stupidity to have done it without John Reese, at his side to serve as guardian against unknown threats. Although--
--well, it's perhaps not the worthiest thought in the world, and he wouldn't vocalize it aloud on pain of torture, but on some level, Harold Finch's estimation of his friend-and-employee's mental health is: not always the most solid.
He'd had to tell John some very unpleasant news, quite recently, and it had inspired an existential crisis for John Reese back 'home,' and he is not altogether certain that this Wall (it's acquired a capital letter in his mind) might not... be... the best thing... to inflict on a man who is just hearing of the death of a friend.
(It does not really cross Harold Finch's mind that it's probably not the best thing to inflict on a man who's recently buried two friends, namely himself; with unconscious arrogance his mind swoops past that.)
It needs to be dealt with, is all, so he has returned, grimly determined to deal with it. He has Bear, if there are threats, and Bear doesn't seem affected by it, after all. And he has a blanket-- a thing from the dispensers, and it's a coarse ugly scratchy woolen thing that he is just as glad he isn't intending to actually use to sleep on, but for these purposes, it should suffice.
And he is standing here, forcing himself to stare at the damned Wall, when the intelligent thing to do (some corner of his mind acknowledges this) would have been to approach it backwards, or by feel, and spare himself this, this, this hideous lurching oily weight in his belly that screams that everything he has ever tried to do, every life he has ever tried to save, is so much pointless chaff...
Motion from the corner of his eye pierces the bubble of blackness. With an effort, Finch wrests his gaze away, pivoting with his whole body to see--
--another pale young man, as respectably dressed as the other one wasn't. Finch takes him in perfunctorily, his senses still swimming a bit with the dizzy relief of not feeling like that again.
"Hello," he manages. "Awful, isn't it. I came here with some notion of covering it up."
Come to think of it, this new young man is rather tall; he could be of use in that, Finch thinks.
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--well, it's perhaps not the worthiest thought in the world, and he wouldn't vocalize it aloud on pain of torture, but on some level, Harold Finch's estimation of his friend-and-employee's mental health is: not always the most solid.
He'd had to tell John some very unpleasant news, quite recently, and it had inspired an existential crisis for John Reese back 'home,' and he is not altogether certain that this Wall (it's acquired a capital letter in his mind) might not... be... the best thing... to inflict on a man who is just hearing of the death of a friend.
(It does not really cross Harold Finch's mind that it's probably not the best thing to inflict on a man who's recently buried two friends, namely himself; with unconscious arrogance his mind swoops past that.)
It needs to be dealt with, is all, so he has returned, grimly determined to deal with it. He has Bear, if there are threats, and Bear doesn't seem affected by it, after all. And he has a blanket-- a thing from the dispensers, and it's a coarse ugly scratchy woolen thing that he is just as glad he isn't intending to actually use to sleep on, but for these purposes, it should suffice.
And he is standing here, forcing himself to stare at the damned Wall, when the intelligent thing to do (some corner of his mind acknowledges this) would have been to approach it backwards, or by feel, and spare himself this, this, this hideous lurching oily weight in his belly that screams that everything he has ever tried to do, every life he has ever tried to save, is so much pointless chaff...
Motion from the corner of his eye pierces the bubble of blackness. With an effort, Finch wrests his gaze away, pivoting with his whole body to see--
--another pale young man, as respectably dressed as the other one wasn't. Finch takes him in perfunctorily, his senses still swimming a bit with the dizzy relief of not feeling like that again.
"Hello," he manages. "Awful, isn't it. I came here with some notion of covering it up."
Come to think of it, this new young man is rather tall; he could be of use in that, Finch thinks.