Six Covers John Reese Should Never Have Attempted
Title: Six Covers John Reese Should Never Have Attempted
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: none
Summary: Not all cases are solved smoothly. Some involve a little arson, a little drugs, and some role playing. Also, violas.
Disclaimer: The Machine has filed this under the fiction category.
Guidance Counselor, Boys and Girls Club of Harlem
Mrs. Leigh stared at the man sitting across the desk from her. Initial impression convinced the septuagenarian the ex-soldier possessed a solid moral compass and came to volunteer with nothing but good intentions. He also brought with him sterling recommendations from the branch’s most generous donor, so she thought he deserved a tryout at least.
Now Mrs. Leigh had to file that decision under ‘Worst Ideas Ever, Including Woodstock’.
“It’s not … well, you aren’t wrong, exactly,” Mrs. Leigh attempted to explain her reason for dismissal. “It’s just that…”
“I believe in equal opportunity,” John said tersely. “And more competent people the Army gets, the less chance of assholes making the grade.”
“I understand, it’s just that last week Hannah was talking about Bieber Fever,” here they both winced, “and what she wanted to do when she gets her first car…”
“And I understand those are … acceptable goals for a teenage girl,” John interrupted before wincing again; no doubt recollecting ‘Bieber Fever’. “But she is very gifted, and I believe the Army could…”
“John, all she talks about now are Symtex and target ranges,” Mrs. Leigh interrupted firmly.
John had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yes, well, I might have been a bit too enthusiastic.”
“John, she’s twelve…” Here Mrs. Leigh petered out as a yell from the hallway caught her attention. “Excuse me for a moment.”
She opened the door and walked down to the end of the hall. She didn’t see anything out of the norm so chalked it up to her imagination. She was about to re-enter her office when the yell was heard again.
Mrs. Leigh slowly opened the supply closet and found a man hog-tied and gagged with a cleaning rag.
“What the hell?” she whispered, eyes wide with fear and trepidation.
John suddenly came out of nowhere and loomed besides her. “Huh, the sedative didn’t work as long as we thought.”
Mrs. Leigh now gazed at the man standing next to her. “Excuse me?”
Bartender, Carthage Club
“Wow, I never seen the bar this quiet,” Louisa whispered to Jamie as the two took a break from their jobs as hostesses, which was, in reality, a glorified version of a waitress. But Carthage was one of those bars that catered to the elite, so naturally, they couldn’t just be waitresses. It was also the hostess’ job to peddle the expensive shit to the clientele, and Louisa had very little problem doing that since she got a cut of the sales.
Jamie elbowed her. “It’s the new bartender, John.”
Louisa studied the new guy more carefully. He was hot if also a little old for this scene, and though he had a nice face something was a little off about it. It took a moment but Louisa realized it was the smile.
It seemed more like a passive aggressive display of machismo than a sign of a good mood.
“Pay attention” Jamie said. “We’ve been having a blast watching this.”
A Wall Street Asshole Type A3 walked up to the bar. “Give me a Nightmare,” the man ordered brusquely.
John poured a tumbler of whiskey and handed it over.
The client looked down at the drink. “What the fuck? I didn’t order this.”
“I did,” John replied in a scarily monotone voice.
Mr. Wall Street opened his mouth but then had the wisdom to actually study the bartender. He blanched and quickly took the proffered drink without protest before slinking off to his table.
Louisa looked around and then realized most of the tables had nothing but whiskey, often paired with sullen and confused faces.
She turned to Jamie with wide eyes. “Are you shitting me? Who is that guy?”
Jamie was too busy biting back her laugh to answer. Louisa turned to study John once more so she caught him pouring a large bottle of vodka down the bar in a neat line.
“Umm … is he doing a volcano?” she asked. “Is the bar even fireproof?”
“No…” Jamie managed to strangle out as they watched him pull out a lighter. “Oh my God what is he doing?!”
Indeed, the bar wasn’t fireproofed for the volcano trick. So, when John set the alcohol on fire, the entire thing went up in flames.
Fortunately, since everyone in the goddamn club was sober or nearly so, they had no problem evacuating the premises.
Louisa was inhaling oxygen given to her by the paramedics when Jamie found her.
“Did you hear?” Jamie rasped out.
Louisa shook her head.
“There were two men in the bar … they were going to rob the place and kill Mike.”
Louisa ripped off the mask from her face. “What? Is Mike okay?”
“Yeah, it was his asshole partner: Jim. The guy wanted Mike out of the picture so he could gain sole ownership of Carthage. Good thing the fire stopped it.
“The cops told me the men were pros. The cute one also told me Jim ordered them to kill anyone who got in the way.”
“Wow, then the crazy bartender must have been a … godsend?” Louisa finished lamely. Calling the homicidal pyromaniac a godsend seemed sacrilegious to the lapsed Catholic.
“He was something all right,” Jamie agreed. “Guy’s done a dodo.”
Louisa looked at her friend. “He’s gone?”
“Like the smoke. The cops can’t find him.”
“But Mike can, right? He hired the psycho.”
“That’s the funny part. John was supposed to take over for Nick while he was out sick, but Mike can’t for the life of him remember hiring the guy.”
“So, this flame-happy nutjob just showed up for work one day and Mike didn’t question him? Oh my God, how stupid is our boss anyway?”
“He may be an idiot, but somebody’s looking out for him.”
Louisa couldn’t argue with that so she went back to sucking on air.
Physical Education Teacher, Stuyvesant High School
John marched down the street, his thunderous face parting the people ahead of him like Moses and the Red Sea.
“Mr. Reese,” Finch hissed through the earpiece. “Please return to the library immediately.”
Reese obeyed even though he wanted to go back to his loft and stay there for the next three months. However, he was just petulant enough to make his displeasure known by stomping his way up the stairs. He heard Bear bark his greeting and felt a little mollified that someone was glad to see him.
“Bear, hier!” Reese commanded and gave the dog a good rubbing when the Malinois bounded up to him.
He avoided the confrontation with Finch for few more minutes before finally stepping into the main room where Finch regarded him with thin lips and a disapproving gaze.
“It was necessary,” Reese said, hating how defensive he sounded.
Finch’s anger seemed to just melt away. “Well, yes, I do have to agree with you on that point. But only on that one.”
Suddenly, Reese wasn’t so pissed anymore. “They were going to kill that kid. It might not have been today, but their prank was going to end that boy’s life.”
Finch looked at the photo of a smiling African American child taped to the board. He looked no older than thirteen though he was actually two years older.
“Mr. Jason Kamon certainly has it in him for greatness,” Finch said softly.
The kid was athletic, intelligent to a degree that impressed Finch, and was genuinely kind. The only Achilles’ Heel he had was a fatal allergic reaction to peanuts. A weakness his detractors decided to exploit, not realizing that death could result in the hateful prank.
“Still, Mr. Reese,” Finch countered firmly but with less steel, “knocking them unconscious during a game of dodgeball was severe.”
Reese scratched the back of his neck: a nervous tell he’d thought he had lost during his Ranger training. This seemed to mollify Finch enough that the man resumed his typing.
In theory Reese agreed with Finch in that his methods were ‘severe’. But the kids were planning their gruesome prank in the near future and neither Finch nor Reese knew when or how. So, in the interest of expediency and saving his sanity since Reese hated this round of High School Horrors as much as he did the first time, the vigilante decided to take matter into his own hands. Or, in this case, a ball.
With enough force, the soft projectile turned hard as a lacrosse ball, which resulted in the three boys in the infirmary with various degrees of injuries. During the checkup the ringleader let slip their plans and was expelled from Stuyvesant, since premeditated mayhem and homicide were frowned upon by the school, no matter how smartly planned.
Reese was also summarily removed from the school, with Carter escorting him. She looked both torn and amused when Reese explained to her why he was banned from ever entering the premises again.
But, if anything, her silence during the drive meant a great deal to him. Reese knew how hard it was for her son to attend his school on a scholarship. Not to mention having a mother who was a cop.
He stared at Finch through his lashes until he was sure the tempest had blown its course. Then, cautiously and with a soft voice, Reese asked,
“Finch, do you know a television show called Buffy?”
Finch frowned at the computer screen before turning to face him. “Yes, what about it?”
“One of the kids who saw the … incident told me I re-enacted perfectly the ‘hyena dodgeball of doom’. He also kept repeating, ‘here piggy piggy piggy.’ Do you know what he’s talking about?”
To Reese’s chagrin Finch buried his face in his hands and made what sounded startlingly like whimpers.
Deacon, St. Agnes Church
“I was raised a Catholic, you know…” John said somewhat contritely.
“I don’t want to hear it!” Finch interrupted as he navigated the Lexus down Broadway.
John looked at the EMS vehicles and the fire trucks as they tore down the avenue, towards the smoking building.
“They’ll get there in time,” he said confidently. “Probably just smoke damage.”
He didn’t hear anything from Finch and decided to stay quiet. At least until a stream of police cars whizzed by them at top speed, forcing even the suicidal NY cabbies to pull aside.
“Huh, I guess someone must have told them about Mr. Vallion in the sacristy.”
“What sacristy?” Finch all but howled. “Oh, I’m sorry, the one that you set on fire? That sacristy? How stupid of me not to remember that! Wait a minute, I do remember that. I have a bloody video recording of that particularly heinous act so I’ll never ever forget about it, no matter how hard I try!”
Reese wisely remained quiet for the rest of the drive.
Cardiothoracic surgeon, Beth Israel Medical Center
“You’re not Dr. Kim,” a nurse said the moment Reese walked in.
Reese smiled. “No, Dr. Kim was indisposed so I stepped in.”
Nurse Jacobson frowned. Nearly ten years of dealing with the peacocks in surgery, she had little patience in reserve to handle blatant stupidity. “Excuse me? This is a heart transplant. You can’t just jump in and replace the primary surgeon!”
“What the fuck is going on?” the anesthesiologist asked, wide-eyed. “And who the hell are you?”
When the calmest person in the room started to lose it, it validated the panicky feeling everyone else was secretly laboring under.
And suddenly the room was filled with voices.
All of which petered out when a technician lunged at Reese with a scalpel.
He was expecting something this desperate and sudden, including the killer’s surprising talents with sharp objects.
The fight was swift but brutal. Thankfully, the medical staff had formed a protective circle around the unconscious patient and had the balls to actually strike out with whatever was at hand when the fighting got too close.
It took less than two minutes to disarm the man. Reese even managed to drag the assassin through the door by holding onto the ankles, bumping into Dr. Kim who studied them with visible shock.
“What happened?”
“Tech passed out during prep. Must have drank decaf,” Reese answered lightly as if it were an everyday occurrence while continuing to drag the would-be assassin away from the surgeon.
He dumped the unconscious baggage in a janitor’s closet, called Carter while smoothly dodging the security personnel swarming the floor. He even helpfully pointed out the surgical room when a young guard appeared at the end of the rush.
Finch was waiting at the designated spot and looked greatly relieved when Reese entered the car.
Reese would like to think that it was because he wasn’t injured, but he knew it was because he hadn’t burned, leveled, or cratered a business, an entire city block, or a single church.
“So, I guess impersonating a surgeon is a lot more complicated,” Reese offered as he peeled off what was left of his surgical blues.
Finch looked at him askance. “What makes you say that? The metric ton of medical gear attached to our Number or the seven-staff personnel surrounding her?”
“Give me a break,” Reese countered. “Every time I’ve visited the OR, I was either out of it or counting backwards from ten, ready to be out of it.”
Finch nodded his understanding and drove away. And though outwardly he didn’t show any emotion, Reese could almost hear his partner whistling a jaunty tune fueled by relief.
Second Viola, The New York Philharmonic
Reese pulled the frantic woman behind him and belted the crazed second violinist as he lunged at them with a goddamn ceremonial dagger the props department accidentally left behind. Unfortunately, though the thing was a replica, it was still sharp enough to do serious harm, if Reese’s bleeding right arm was anything to go by.
“Don’t damage the Guarnerius!” Finch yelled from the corner where he had managed to build some kind of a barricade made out of drums, hiding half the brass section behind it.
Reese snarled in frustration. The goddamn fifty-one-year-old violinist had decided to kill his rival for the esteemed First Chair when he found out there were only two of them in the running. Fortunately, all his mediocre attempts at premeditated homicide in the last four days failed thanks to Reese and Finch. Unfortunately, the man had what seemed to be a psychotic break during rehearsal and was actively trying to kill the youngest First Violin in the history of the Philharmonic.
To make matters worse, the bastard was holding a world-famous Guarnerius in his left hand, which basically put the security personnel on the sidelines, not to mention most of the orchestra. A brave guard tried to interfere and was tackled by the cellists before he could grapple the madman.
The conductor looks ready to pass out, Reese thought.
As if hearing Reese’s mental comment the man promptly keeled over.
Reese almost rolled his eyes then had to quickly dodge a skilled parry as the would-be murderer lunged, as if he decided to skewer his rival through Reese’s chest.
That was enough. Reese kicked the man between the legs, tore the Guarnerius out of his grasp and then kicked again, this time aiming for the jaw.
The contact made a sickening crunch but did the job: the attacker was unconscious.
Reese was only too glad to hand off the violin to Finch who reverently carried it off the rehearsal stage.
The First Violinist burst into tears and had to be ushered by the two security personnel, which allowed Reese to give a hasty farewell to the rest of the viola section and slip away in the ensuing chaos.
He knew better than to wait for Finch to join him in their getaway and went straight to the library.
To his surprise Finch was waiting for him.
“So, is the precious Rose Violin safe?” Reese asked sarcastically. He couldn’t help but feel betrayed that Finch was more worried about a friggin’ musical instrument than his partner.
Finch looked up and gave a small, secretive smile. “Please, sit,” he said.
Reese immediately tensed up, wondering if he were in for another lecture.
To his shock Finch returned from the stacks with a violin case. And then had the gall to open it as if it were a normal course of business for them.
“I wanted an Amati, of course,” Finch explained softly, almost in a dreamy tone. “But none came up for auction.”
“I thought you’d be more a Stradivarius type.”
Finch wrinkled his nose. “Not worth the asking price in my opinion.”
“What are you holding? Another Guarnerius?”
“No, to purchase such an instrument would draw too much scrutiny,” Finch explained sadly. “I couldn’t risk it. This is a Guadagnini. The bow is a Kittel.”
Reese didn’t bother to comment since he couldn’t differentiate Guadagnini from Guadalajara, so he gave a slight nod instead.
As if given permission Finch tuned the violin. “The first is from Massenet’s opera, Thaïs. It is titled Méditation.”
That was all the warning Reese got before Finch began playing. Twenty seconds in Reese had completely forgotten the injuries he’d received the last few weeks. A full minute and Reese would have died to protect the violin in his friend’s grasp.
When Finch started in on the Mozart pieces, something truly extraordinary happened: Reese forgot about his bloodied past and was able to enjoy the here and now without a drop of guilt.
Finch, sensing something nearly miraculous was happening continued to play. Not that he was surprised. Magic often happened with instruments such as the Guadagnini he was holding.
The End
Author's Notes:
I am convinced that in PoI world, the ones we see are the successful cases, and the rest are well ... what I've written.
The PoV jumps erratically because I couldn't decide which one would be funnier for the specific case. Seriously, can't you just see Finch howling in the Lexus?
Also, the Buffy episode I am referring to is The Pack. An episode that made cannibalism somewhat mainstream wayyyy before Hannibal.
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: none
Summary: Not all cases are solved smoothly. Some involve a little arson, a little drugs, and some role playing. Also, violas.
Disclaimer: The Machine has filed this under the fiction category.
Guidance Counselor, Boys and Girls Club of Harlem
Mrs. Leigh stared at the man sitting across the desk from her. Initial impression convinced the septuagenarian the ex-soldier possessed a solid moral compass and came to volunteer with nothing but good intentions. He also brought with him sterling recommendations from the branch’s most generous donor, so she thought he deserved a tryout at least.
Now Mrs. Leigh had to file that decision under ‘Worst Ideas Ever, Including Woodstock’.
“It’s not … well, you aren’t wrong, exactly,” Mrs. Leigh attempted to explain her reason for dismissal. “It’s just that…”
“I believe in equal opportunity,” John said tersely. “And more competent people the Army gets, the less chance of assholes making the grade.”
“I understand, it’s just that last week Hannah was talking about Bieber Fever,” here they both winced, “and what she wanted to do when she gets her first car…”
“And I understand those are … acceptable goals for a teenage girl,” John interrupted before wincing again; no doubt recollecting ‘Bieber Fever’. “But she is very gifted, and I believe the Army could…”
“John, all she talks about now are Symtex and target ranges,” Mrs. Leigh interrupted firmly.
John had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yes, well, I might have been a bit too enthusiastic.”
“John, she’s twelve…” Here Mrs. Leigh petered out as a yell from the hallway caught her attention. “Excuse me for a moment.”
She opened the door and walked down to the end of the hall. She didn’t see anything out of the norm so chalked it up to her imagination. She was about to re-enter her office when the yell was heard again.
Mrs. Leigh slowly opened the supply closet and found a man hog-tied and gagged with a cleaning rag.
“What the hell?” she whispered, eyes wide with fear and trepidation.
John suddenly came out of nowhere and loomed besides her. “Huh, the sedative didn’t work as long as we thought.”
Mrs. Leigh now gazed at the man standing next to her. “Excuse me?”
Bartender, Carthage Club
“Wow, I never seen the bar this quiet,” Louisa whispered to Jamie as the two took a break from their jobs as hostesses, which was, in reality, a glorified version of a waitress. But Carthage was one of those bars that catered to the elite, so naturally, they couldn’t just be waitresses. It was also the hostess’ job to peddle the expensive shit to the clientele, and Louisa had very little problem doing that since she got a cut of the sales.
Jamie elbowed her. “It’s the new bartender, John.”
Louisa studied the new guy more carefully. He was hot if also a little old for this scene, and though he had a nice face something was a little off about it. It took a moment but Louisa realized it was the smile.
It seemed more like a passive aggressive display of machismo than a sign of a good mood.
“Pay attention” Jamie said. “We’ve been having a blast watching this.”
A Wall Street Asshole Type A3 walked up to the bar. “Give me a Nightmare,” the man ordered brusquely.
John poured a tumbler of whiskey and handed it over.
The client looked down at the drink. “What the fuck? I didn’t order this.”
“I did,” John replied in a scarily monotone voice.
Mr. Wall Street opened his mouth but then had the wisdom to actually study the bartender. He blanched and quickly took the proffered drink without protest before slinking off to his table.
Louisa looked around and then realized most of the tables had nothing but whiskey, often paired with sullen and confused faces.
She turned to Jamie with wide eyes. “Are you shitting me? Who is that guy?”
Jamie was too busy biting back her laugh to answer. Louisa turned to study John once more so she caught him pouring a large bottle of vodka down the bar in a neat line.
“Umm … is he doing a volcano?” she asked. “Is the bar even fireproof?”
“No…” Jamie managed to strangle out as they watched him pull out a lighter. “Oh my God what is he doing?!”
Indeed, the bar wasn’t fireproofed for the volcano trick. So, when John set the alcohol on fire, the entire thing went up in flames.
Fortunately, since everyone in the goddamn club was sober or nearly so, they had no problem evacuating the premises.
Louisa was inhaling oxygen given to her by the paramedics when Jamie found her.
“Did you hear?” Jamie rasped out.
Louisa shook her head.
“There were two men in the bar … they were going to rob the place and kill Mike.”
Louisa ripped off the mask from her face. “What? Is Mike okay?”
“Yeah, it was his asshole partner: Jim. The guy wanted Mike out of the picture so he could gain sole ownership of Carthage. Good thing the fire stopped it.
“The cops told me the men were pros. The cute one also told me Jim ordered them to kill anyone who got in the way.”
“Wow, then the crazy bartender must have been a … godsend?” Louisa finished lamely. Calling the homicidal pyromaniac a godsend seemed sacrilegious to the lapsed Catholic.
“He was something all right,” Jamie agreed. “Guy’s done a dodo.”
Louisa looked at her friend. “He’s gone?”
“Like the smoke. The cops can’t find him.”
“But Mike can, right? He hired the psycho.”
“That’s the funny part. John was supposed to take over for Nick while he was out sick, but Mike can’t for the life of him remember hiring the guy.”
“So, this flame-happy nutjob just showed up for work one day and Mike didn’t question him? Oh my God, how stupid is our boss anyway?”
“He may be an idiot, but somebody’s looking out for him.”
Louisa couldn’t argue with that so she went back to sucking on air.
Physical Education Teacher, Stuyvesant High School
John marched down the street, his thunderous face parting the people ahead of him like Moses and the Red Sea.
“Mr. Reese,” Finch hissed through the earpiece. “Please return to the library immediately.”
Reese obeyed even though he wanted to go back to his loft and stay there for the next three months. However, he was just petulant enough to make his displeasure known by stomping his way up the stairs. He heard Bear bark his greeting and felt a little mollified that someone was glad to see him.
“Bear, hier!” Reese commanded and gave the dog a good rubbing when the Malinois bounded up to him.
He avoided the confrontation with Finch for few more minutes before finally stepping into the main room where Finch regarded him with thin lips and a disapproving gaze.
“It was necessary,” Reese said, hating how defensive he sounded.
Finch’s anger seemed to just melt away. “Well, yes, I do have to agree with you on that point. But only on that one.”
Suddenly, Reese wasn’t so pissed anymore. “They were going to kill that kid. It might not have been today, but their prank was going to end that boy’s life.”
Finch looked at the photo of a smiling African American child taped to the board. He looked no older than thirteen though he was actually two years older.
“Mr. Jason Kamon certainly has it in him for greatness,” Finch said softly.
The kid was athletic, intelligent to a degree that impressed Finch, and was genuinely kind. The only Achilles’ Heel he had was a fatal allergic reaction to peanuts. A weakness his detractors decided to exploit, not realizing that death could result in the hateful prank.
“Still, Mr. Reese,” Finch countered firmly but with less steel, “knocking them unconscious during a game of dodgeball was severe.”
Reese scratched the back of his neck: a nervous tell he’d thought he had lost during his Ranger training. This seemed to mollify Finch enough that the man resumed his typing.
In theory Reese agreed with Finch in that his methods were ‘severe’. But the kids were planning their gruesome prank in the near future and neither Finch nor Reese knew when or how. So, in the interest of expediency and saving his sanity since Reese hated this round of High School Horrors as much as he did the first time, the vigilante decided to take matter into his own hands. Or, in this case, a ball.
With enough force, the soft projectile turned hard as a lacrosse ball, which resulted in the three boys in the infirmary with various degrees of injuries. During the checkup the ringleader let slip their plans and was expelled from Stuyvesant, since premeditated mayhem and homicide were frowned upon by the school, no matter how smartly planned.
Reese was also summarily removed from the school, with Carter escorting him. She looked both torn and amused when Reese explained to her why he was banned from ever entering the premises again.
But, if anything, her silence during the drive meant a great deal to him. Reese knew how hard it was for her son to attend his school on a scholarship. Not to mention having a mother who was a cop.
He stared at Finch through his lashes until he was sure the tempest had blown its course. Then, cautiously and with a soft voice, Reese asked,
“Finch, do you know a television show called Buffy?”
Finch frowned at the computer screen before turning to face him. “Yes, what about it?”
“One of the kids who saw the … incident told me I re-enacted perfectly the ‘hyena dodgeball of doom’. He also kept repeating, ‘here piggy piggy piggy.’ Do you know what he’s talking about?”
To Reese’s chagrin Finch buried his face in his hands and made what sounded startlingly like whimpers.
Deacon, St. Agnes Church
“I was raised a Catholic, you know…” John said somewhat contritely.
“I don’t want to hear it!” Finch interrupted as he navigated the Lexus down Broadway.
John looked at the EMS vehicles and the fire trucks as they tore down the avenue, towards the smoking building.
“They’ll get there in time,” he said confidently. “Probably just smoke damage.”
He didn’t hear anything from Finch and decided to stay quiet. At least until a stream of police cars whizzed by them at top speed, forcing even the suicidal NY cabbies to pull aside.
“Huh, I guess someone must have told them about Mr. Vallion in the sacristy.”
“What sacristy?” Finch all but howled. “Oh, I’m sorry, the one that you set on fire? That sacristy? How stupid of me not to remember that! Wait a minute, I do remember that. I have a bloody video recording of that particularly heinous act so I’ll never ever forget about it, no matter how hard I try!”
Reese wisely remained quiet for the rest of the drive.
Cardiothoracic surgeon, Beth Israel Medical Center
“You’re not Dr. Kim,” a nurse said the moment Reese walked in.
Reese smiled. “No, Dr. Kim was indisposed so I stepped in.”
Nurse Jacobson frowned. Nearly ten years of dealing with the peacocks in surgery, she had little patience in reserve to handle blatant stupidity. “Excuse me? This is a heart transplant. You can’t just jump in and replace the primary surgeon!”
“What the fuck is going on?” the anesthesiologist asked, wide-eyed. “And who the hell are you?”
When the calmest person in the room started to lose it, it validated the panicky feeling everyone else was secretly laboring under.
And suddenly the room was filled with voices.
All of which petered out when a technician lunged at Reese with a scalpel.
He was expecting something this desperate and sudden, including the killer’s surprising talents with sharp objects.
The fight was swift but brutal. Thankfully, the medical staff had formed a protective circle around the unconscious patient and had the balls to actually strike out with whatever was at hand when the fighting got too close.
It took less than two minutes to disarm the man. Reese even managed to drag the assassin through the door by holding onto the ankles, bumping into Dr. Kim who studied them with visible shock.
“What happened?”
“Tech passed out during prep. Must have drank decaf,” Reese answered lightly as if it were an everyday occurrence while continuing to drag the would-be assassin away from the surgeon.
He dumped the unconscious baggage in a janitor’s closet, called Carter while smoothly dodging the security personnel swarming the floor. He even helpfully pointed out the surgical room when a young guard appeared at the end of the rush.
Finch was waiting at the designated spot and looked greatly relieved when Reese entered the car.
Reese would like to think that it was because he wasn’t injured, but he knew it was because he hadn’t burned, leveled, or cratered a business, an entire city block, or a single church.
“So, I guess impersonating a surgeon is a lot more complicated,” Reese offered as he peeled off what was left of his surgical blues.
Finch looked at him askance. “What makes you say that? The metric ton of medical gear attached to our Number or the seven-staff personnel surrounding her?”
“Give me a break,” Reese countered. “Every time I’ve visited the OR, I was either out of it or counting backwards from ten, ready to be out of it.”
Finch nodded his understanding and drove away. And though outwardly he didn’t show any emotion, Reese could almost hear his partner whistling a jaunty tune fueled by relief.
Second Viola, The New York Philharmonic
Reese pulled the frantic woman behind him and belted the crazed second violinist as he lunged at them with a goddamn ceremonial dagger the props department accidentally left behind. Unfortunately, though the thing was a replica, it was still sharp enough to do serious harm, if Reese’s bleeding right arm was anything to go by.
“Don’t damage the Guarnerius!” Finch yelled from the corner where he had managed to build some kind of a barricade made out of drums, hiding half the brass section behind it.
Reese snarled in frustration. The goddamn fifty-one-year-old violinist had decided to kill his rival for the esteemed First Chair when he found out there were only two of them in the running. Fortunately, all his mediocre attempts at premeditated homicide in the last four days failed thanks to Reese and Finch. Unfortunately, the man had what seemed to be a psychotic break during rehearsal and was actively trying to kill the youngest First Violin in the history of the Philharmonic.
To make matters worse, the bastard was holding a world-famous Guarnerius in his left hand, which basically put the security personnel on the sidelines, not to mention most of the orchestra. A brave guard tried to interfere and was tackled by the cellists before he could grapple the madman.
The conductor looks ready to pass out, Reese thought.
As if hearing Reese’s mental comment the man promptly keeled over.
Reese almost rolled his eyes then had to quickly dodge a skilled parry as the would-be murderer lunged, as if he decided to skewer his rival through Reese’s chest.
That was enough. Reese kicked the man between the legs, tore the Guarnerius out of his grasp and then kicked again, this time aiming for the jaw.
The contact made a sickening crunch but did the job: the attacker was unconscious.
Reese was only too glad to hand off the violin to Finch who reverently carried it off the rehearsal stage.
The First Violinist burst into tears and had to be ushered by the two security personnel, which allowed Reese to give a hasty farewell to the rest of the viola section and slip away in the ensuing chaos.
He knew better than to wait for Finch to join him in their getaway and went straight to the library.
To his surprise Finch was waiting for him.
“So, is the precious Rose Violin safe?” Reese asked sarcastically. He couldn’t help but feel betrayed that Finch was more worried about a friggin’ musical instrument than his partner.
Finch looked up and gave a small, secretive smile. “Please, sit,” he said.
Reese immediately tensed up, wondering if he were in for another lecture.
To his shock Finch returned from the stacks with a violin case. And then had the gall to open it as if it were a normal course of business for them.
“I wanted an Amati, of course,” Finch explained softly, almost in a dreamy tone. “But none came up for auction.”
“I thought you’d be more a Stradivarius type.”
Finch wrinkled his nose. “Not worth the asking price in my opinion.”
“What are you holding? Another Guarnerius?”
“No, to purchase such an instrument would draw too much scrutiny,” Finch explained sadly. “I couldn’t risk it. This is a Guadagnini. The bow is a Kittel.”
Reese didn’t bother to comment since he couldn’t differentiate Guadagnini from Guadalajara, so he gave a slight nod instead.
As if given permission Finch tuned the violin. “The first is from Massenet’s opera, Thaïs. It is titled Méditation.”
That was all the warning Reese got before Finch began playing. Twenty seconds in Reese had completely forgotten the injuries he’d received the last few weeks. A full minute and Reese would have died to protect the violin in his friend’s grasp.
When Finch started in on the Mozart pieces, something truly extraordinary happened: Reese forgot about his bloodied past and was able to enjoy the here and now without a drop of guilt.
Finch, sensing something nearly miraculous was happening continued to play. Not that he was surprised. Magic often happened with instruments such as the Guadagnini he was holding.
The End
Author's Notes:
I am convinced that in PoI world, the ones we see are the successful cases, and the rest are well ... what I've written.
The PoV jumps erratically because I couldn't decide which one would be funnier for the specific case. Seriously, can't you just see Finch howling in the Lexus?
Also, the Buffy episode I am referring to is The Pack. An episode that made cannibalism somewhat mainstream wayyyy before Hannibal.