It shouldn’t have happened. John was a grown ass Sub; he should have been able to overcome something as trivial as his own biology. It certainly didn’t help that he hadn’t even known that it happened until he was already two days deep.
When it started he thought it was just the day, the whole number really, wearing on him, making his bones seem heavy and his brain falter over anything that wasn’t a direct question. He had gone home, taken a long bath and went to bed.
The next morning when he woke to his alarm and had to fight the urge to hit the snooze he should have known something was wrong. He still wasn’t feeling better and but through the mud in his brain he figured it was a cold and forced himself out of bed. He grabbed two teas that morning on the way to the library. After he drank his tea - and got a hum of approval from Finch - he felt better and forgot all about his new cold.
Then there was the number, nothing complicated, a little intimidation and an assurance that someone was watching was all that was needed to stop the man from killing his grandfather for the inheritance. It didn’t even register that the longer he was away from Finch his temper got shorter or when he used more force than might have been strictly necessary when the twerp of a Dom made a disparaging comment about what Johns’ own Dom must be like. It all seemed like the right thing at the time.
Finch gave him the rest of the night off, concern covering his tone but not actually asking. He wasn’t sure if he was thankful that Finch hadn’t said anything so he didn’t have to admit to just feeling… icky or if he was irritated that Finch hadn’t cared enough to ask. John didn’t allow himself to dwell too long on that question. If he did he would start to lean towards the irritation side and that could only lead down dark paths. They all started with Harold doesn’t owe you anything and ended with John crying, only staying out of the whisky bottle at the thought of Finch’s frown. Instead he went to bed after kicking off his shoes and not much else.
He woke on top of the blankets, his legs still half hanging off the bed. He pulled himself off the bed and considered shooting the alarm clock but thought of Finch’s frown again and gently turned it off. In a haze and through the mud in his mind he left the loft and he headed to the library.
“Did you sleep in those?” Finch asked when John walked in.
“Yes, Harold, I did.” He braced for a lecture but instead Finch just nodded and went back to the computer screens.
“We don’t have a number yet.”
John shrugged, crossed the room to sit on the deep sinking leather couch that was against the wall, and grabbed a random book from the stacks. That was a mistake, the book he opened had tiny print that made him have to squint to read the words. He gave up before one word came into focus and chose instead to stare blankly at the page.
It took Harold coming up to John, resting a hand on his shoulder and looking concerned before he looked up. “John? Are you okay?”
John wanted to lean into the touch and revel in Finch’s concern. “Fuck.” With a shock of clarity it all made sense. There had been a split second when Finch had fallen at the same time a shot fired, a split second when John had thought Finch was hurt and John wouldn’t be able to help. It had turned out that Finch had just tripped on the uneven ground and the shot was being fired at John but since that moment he had been in a free fall.
“John?”
“I dropped,” John said and braced himself for some scolding from Finch. It didn’t come.
“Oh. Can I help?”
John had to fight back the whimper that rose in his throat. “Please.”
“Alright. Of course.” Finch stood up a little straighter and his hands fluttered for an unsure second. “We haven’t discussed boundaries or prefaces and I’d rather not have that talk while you’re in a Sub-drop, so please, bear with me and… forgive me.”
John couldn’t think of anything that Harold could do that would need forgiveness but didn’t argue. Harold was going to help him.
Finch sat down next to him after arranging an extra cushion for support. “Take off your shoes and jacket,” Harold said in the firm tone that made John jump to the task and a calm wash over all his nerves.
When he settled again Finch put a hand on the back of John’s neck and pulled towards his lap. As John leaned down his mouth watered and he wondered again what Harold thought he had to be sorry for. He mouthed at Harold’s clothed groin and drank in the moan that sounded above him. “Not right now,” Harold whispered. The hand on his neck moved to coax him into laying his cheek on Harold’s thigh then moved into John’s hair.
“It occurs to me, Mr. Reese, that I do not express very often how critical you are.” Harold’s voice was measured and barely above a whisper but John hung on to every word. “Would you allow me to remedy that situation?”
John couldn’t form the necessary worlds. Not because he didn’t know the answer - Please, please, Harold, tell me I’m good. Please, please - but because he couldn’t let Harold know just how desperate he was. When he had thought about what Harold might like, and he had repeatedly, he always assumed that he would want John to obey, to listen, but not to beg. If Harold ever wanted John he was sure he’d want him to be as stoic in bed as he was on the job. So John just rubbed his face against Harold’s thigh and tried to be good. The fingers in his hair stilled.
“John,” Harold said, his voice having an edge to it. “I need you to answer the question.”
“Yes, please, I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of him, anything to make Harold happy with him again.
“You don’t need to be sorry.” Slowly, Harold’s fingers started to move again and his voice became distant. “It’s not just that you’re beautiful, though you are extraordinarily beautiful, you drive me to distraction more often than I would like to admit, but you’re so genuinely kind.”
Something in John shivered and shrunk away at this but Harold seemed to want so badly to say it that John stayed quiet.
“I chose you because I thought you could do more than just protect the numbers, that you could be kind and good to them. What I didn’t expect was for you to be so good to me. You take such good care of me John and I don’t tell you enough. You’re so extraordinarily good.”
He knew that Harold was just picking the obvious routes, the ones that every sub wanted to hear, but every time he said good John curled up a little closer. The fog in his mind had completely lifted, leaving him in the stark clarity of sub space where everything was Harold and the world outside the library didn’t exist let alone matter.
It had been years since John had been all the way down; the CIA had trained him to live off of half scenes provided by fellow agents who couldn’t be trusted or more often than not, a target. Now John was able to drift knowing that Harold would take care of him and use him in whatever way he needed. So John laid there on the couch in the library with his head in Finch’s lap and let Harold talk.
“You’re doing so good for me, John.” Harold’s voice had changed from the soft whisper that he had been using to list every decent characteristic and action John had to his name. Now his voice was louder but no less genial. “Can you open your eyes for me?”
John hadn’t even known his eyes had drifted shut. Fear that he had disappointed Harold shot through him as his eyes shot open.
“Thank you,” Harold said instead of the anticipated admonishments. “Color?”
“Green.”
They lapsed into silence after that and soon Harold’s hand stilled and moved to John’s shoulder. A few minute more and Harold shifted. “Can you sit up for me?”
John sat up and knew the scene was ending. He had forgotten how good it felt to be brought up slowly, carefully even. He took a deep breath and looked at Harold who was smiling at him, holding a half drank water bottle.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, titling the bottle towards John in offering.
More silence followed as John took the water bottle and sipped. Slowly, John came back to himself. He wondered if Harold was doing the same thing or if he was as unaffected as he looked. John hoped it was the former and his only hope was the way Harold was holding his hand.
John took a deep breath to try and level himself just a little more before he had to face the truth. “Thank you, Harold,” he said and stood. “Won’t happen again.” He didn’t wait for Finch to respond before fleeing into the city.
It was three days before John heard that they had a number and it wasn’t even from Finch. Carter called him. “So you are alive. Did you get shot again?” She was tired and irritated and obviously blamed Reese for it all. For once he genuinely didn’t know why.
“No.” John wondered what Finch had told her. Probably that he was simply busy or indisposed. Whatever it was obviously hadn’t convinced her.
“Should have known better than to expect an explanation,” she mumbled more to herself. “Well I thought you might like to know that Jenkins is in custody and Fusco wants you to know that you’re welcome for solving your case for you.”
“Tell Fusco that it’s payment for all the anonymous tips.” He could hear Fusco shout something in the background.
“Goodbye, John,” she said instead of relaying the message.
“Have a nice night detectives.” John frowned as he hung up. Finch was being Finch again and while sometimes it was cute given the last time they had seen each other it was more irritating. On the bright side, at least John had something to focus on now.
It was getting late but Finch would still be working in the library for a few more hours. John showered, shaved, and dressed in the suit Finch had tailored himself with the tracker in the lining. If Finch wanted to send him away John wouldn’t argue but he was going to have to do it while looking at John with the closest thing he had to a mark.
The library was silent and dark. John wondered if he had been wrong about Finch’s work habits. He made himself check anyway. As it turned out Finch was just sitting in the dark, too absorbed in the screens to notice that the sun had set. He had large headphones on and was frowning his I-wish-people-were-computers frown.
After nearly ten minutes of watching Finch from the dark and waiting for him to realize that John was there he continued forward and put his hand on Finch’s shoulder.
Finch startled hard, jumping away from the desk and moving himself away from John in one jerky movement. “Mr. Reese, I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” Finch said as he pulled the headphones off and set them on the desk and reached to turn off the screen. Before he could John caught what Finch had been watching and saw himself curled up on the library sofa with his head in Finch’s lap.
“Carter called, said they had taken Jenkins into custody,” John said lightly, ignoring the now dark screens and turned back to Harold.
Under his hand John felt Harold go impossibly stiffer. “Ah, yes. I noticed that they had logged him into the computer system.”
“You mind telling me who the hell Jenkins is?”
The sentence was barely out when Finch apparently got irritated with having to look up at John and stood. With a click of another key the lamp in the far corner clicked on and splashed them both in faint yellow light just enough to see the tight line of Finch’s mouth. “William Jenkins. A bar owner who was being targeted by one of his female employees for assaulting her.”
“I thought we agreed that my sensitivities wouldn’t be a problem anymore,” John said through a tight jaw.
Finch turned away from him and went to face the board. “We did. Still, I thought you might appreciate some space.” In the reflection of the board John’s could see Harold blinking a little too much as he pulled at the tape holding the pictures up.
“Why would I need space?” John asked.
“I had hoped, rather selfishly, that if I gave you enough space you would forgive me.”
“For what?”
Harold whipped around to stare at him, first in anger and then with something more sad. “For taking advantage of you.” Once the words were out Harold didn’t seem able to stop himself from continuing. “I should have taken you to a real doctor, someone who could help you properly and instead I just did what I wanted, without your consent.”
“You did me a favor, you helped me. If you don’t want me you’re going to have to say so without making it into some favor for me.” John continued forward until he was right in Harold’s space. It wasn’t the most submissive thing he could do and probably wasn’t going to help win Harold over. Even still John needed him to understand that he hadn’t pressured John into anything even if that meant reminding him of who John was.
“Oh, please, Mr. Reese. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want you? I’ve been slowly marking you as mine for far too long. Your pay comes from me, the food in your loft comes from me, the loft itself was me trying to win you over. For god’s sake, I know six excellent tailors who do all of my suits and yet I tailored that suit by hand myself so I could put trackers in the lining. You have graciously put up with that for too long and I went too far this time and put my desires ahead of your needs. It shouldn’t have happened.” Harold’s hands fluttered in a very un-Finch like manner before stopping statue still at his sides.
John smiled. Harold wanted him. Of all of the people in the world Harold wanted him. Still, maybe more now, it was going to take some careful maneuvering to get Harold to take what he wanted. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have dropped. But I have a solution.”
Finch sighed. “Whenever you say that it usually involves explosives which I don’t think will make me a better friend or stop you from dropping in the future.” Harold fixed him with an unamused look.
“Then you’ll like this idea.”
Harold arched a brow but didn’t interrupt.
“Be my Dom and we don’t have to worry about either.” John sank to his knees as smoothly as possible and stared up into Harold’s wide eyes. “I’m already yours. Make it official.”
Harold’s hand reached out but stopped just short of touching John’s cheek. “We should take you to Dr. Tillman.” His voice strained over the words but continued. You’re obviously still not feeling well.”
“I feel fine. The only way I’d feel better is if my Dom would stop being so stubborn.”
“You could have anyone,” Harold said but still ran his fingers through John’s hair.
“I want you. Please.” Harold had seemed okay with it when he begged last time, so he tried again.
“What else do you want?”
John didn’t ever think before he answered. “I want to suck your cock.”
There was a sharp intake of breath then Harold was quiet for a long second. When he spoke again his voice was lower and with a hint of command in it. “Very well. Go ahead.”
John had never undone another person’s pants faster. He needed to get his mouth on Harold before he changed his mind. John took the half hard cock in front of him and wrapped a hand around the base while he sucked at the head. Harold let out a sigh and rested his hand on John’s head, not pushing or holding, just resting. “Hands behind your back.”
John wrapped one hand around the other wrists at the small of his back and started to bob his head until Harold’s cock hit the back of his throat, moaning as he did. Above him Harold was making small choked off noises that John couldn’t help but try to memorize and make him repeat. He looked up and saw Harold watching him. Without looking away John took him as deep as he could and swallowed around him.
Harold closed his eyes and whispered “John” at the same time he gripped John’s hair, thrust forward and came down John’s throat. He licked Harold clean and then a little more just for fun until he was pulled away by his hair and told “that’s enough.”
John sat back and smiled up at his Dom. He felt light everywhere and like nothing could hurt him. He was happy.
Harold offered his hand to John and smiled when John took it but didn’t actually use it to support his effort to get up. When John was up Harold kissed him long and deep before saying “let’s go home.”