Chapter Text
Predicting upcoming events has been the focus of Harold's life for years, but he's never known with such precision what will happen during the next few moments. It brings him no comfort, because the future that awaits him makes him profoundly nervous. Not fight or flight, but freeze; stuck in his tracks, his pulse racing, hands shaking, cold sweat slithering down his neck.
One could think that after surviving the seemingly impossible, not to mention excruciating, feat of engineering that brought him here, nothing would faze him anymore. Certainly not something as mundane as this—but he's never been shot before.
The weight of the bulletproof vest around his body isn't all that reassuring. "It will still hurt," Reese warned him, before, as he helped Harold close its straps. Even though Reese tried to hide it, Harold could tell that he was concerned. There's a chance that the vest won't be enough.
Even if Harold knows what his immediate future holds, he only has a vague idea of what comes after. Besides, things could still change. He can't be certain that he will make it.
He had thought he'd made his peace long ago; he never expected to live even this long after the ferry bombing. Still, facing his own mortality is not easy, especially when it comes burdened with such heavy responsibility.
Hypothetically, he still has a choice—he could change his mind and decide to do something different—but the reality is that he's committed to this mission. If he doesn't go through with this, the consequences might be catastrophic, and he doesn't intend to put that to the test. He will have to trust those words that he may or may not come to write in the future.
It's remarkable how much weight one short sentence can carry, in the right context.
He can't put this off any longer. It is time.
He takes a deep breath, pushes open the door, and steps outside.
The daylight is blindingly bright after the emergency lights in the warehouse. Even if he can't see much as he blinks against it, he can feel the eyes of every Fringe agent around the building suddenly focusing on him.
He raises his hands in surrender. In this particular context, he doesn't expect his exact words to influence anything, but even so, perhaps it's best not to deviate from the script.
It's a struggle to keep his voice steady as he repeats the words he heard himself say on the video. "I'm not him. I'm not Dr. Shrike. I only want to talk. Please. It's important."
Just on cue, a second after he's closed his mouth, he hears the first gunshot. He's barely had time to register that terribly loud noise before the bullet slams into the vest, punching the air out of his lungs.
Two more follow in quick succession, just like he knew they would. Three hits to center mass.
John was right. It really does hurt, even worse than he could've imagined, Harold thinks, as he falls into oblivion.
"So, our number is a chemist?" John asked, inspecting the latest photo taped to the board.
The picture was a classical depiction of a scientist at work, to the point of being clichéd: a middle-aged white man dressed in a lab coat and holding a test tube, with an expression of deep focus on his face. His wavy dark hair was styled in a way that made John think of the eighties. The rest of the scene looked somewhat dated, as well, showing a glimpse of laboratory equipment and furniture that was clearly not contemporary.
"A biochemist, actually. Dr. Walter Bishop," Finch introduced the man. "Endowed chair of Biochemistry at Harvard University from 1972 to 1991, at which point his rather esoteric publication list comes to a stand-still."
"That was a while ago. What's he up to, these days?" John asked, curiosity already piqued.
"It was a challenge to determine that, because he has no online presence whatsoever, but there is a very good reason for it." Harold picked up another photo, a smaller one, and pasted it next to the lab coat picture. In this one, Dr. Bishop looked clearly older, with gray streaks in his frizzy hair and unkempt beard. "In 1991, after a laboratory accident of some kind, he was institutionalized at St. Claire's Hospital. I was able to access their records, and it appears that he was only released in 2008."
"That still doesn't answer my question," John pointed out. "What's he been doing for three years? Do you think we got his number because he's a danger to himself or others, or is someone actually out to get him?"
"All that, I'm afraid, remains a mystery. The person who signed his release forms is an FBI agent by the name of Olivia Dunham." Finch pointed at another photo on the glass, this one showing a serious-looking blonde woman in her late twenties or early thirties.
"FBI, huh? Any idea what they want from Dr. Bishop?" John asked.
"Not yet. Trying to access their files for that information is something I would prefer to avoid, unless there are particularly compelling reasons to do so," Finch said. "Luckily, I might not have to do it at all. While Dr. Bishop appears to still reside in Cambridge, I found hotel bookings that suggest he's currently in New York, together with Agent Dunham."
That definitely simplified things, and made the next steps obvious. "Tailing an actual mad scientist and his FBI handler? Now, this should be interesting," John said.
The hotel was conveniently located within walking distance of the Library, and the hour was early enough that there was a good chance the duo hadn't set out yet. John sat down in a cafe with a view of the hotel's entrance to wait for them to make an appearance.
Finch, of course, spent the time digging further into their case, sharing bits of intel with John as he found them. He seemed quite excited—in his low-key Finch way—about the fact that Bishop turned out to be connected to a late Dr. William Bell. That name didn't mean anything to John until Finch told him that Bell was the founder of Massive Dynamic, a name John had heard plenty of times. Anyone who wasn't living under a rock would have: the tech giant seemed to be involved in everything, from airplanes to cutting-edge medicine.
"Do you think Massive Dynamic is related to why we got his number?" John asked Finch. "Maybe some disagreement about intellectual property rights?"
"Could be. There's still not much to go on, and Bell has been dead for years," Finch replied thoughtfully.
They didn't get any further with the speculation before John spotted their number and his handler exiting the hotel. Dunham looked exactly like her photo, a picture of professionalism in a suit mirroring John's own, while Bishop, now clean-shaven, resembled someone's favorite grandpa, flat cap and all.
"They're on the move," he informed Finch. "Should I go for Dunham's phone?"
Finch seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering, "If you get the chance, you might as well try. It may not work, but at least we will find out. Just be careful."
"Copy," John acknowledged.
Bishop and Dunham stopped for a moment in front of the cafe where John was sitting, peering in through the windows. Bishop didn't seem to like what he saw: he shook his head and pointed away. As they kept walking, John stepped out to follow them. They weren't moving very fast, so he started up the forced pairing software on his cell. While it was running, he picked up the pace to pass them by.
All he got for his troubles was a "pairing failed" message.
"No luck," he told Finch.
"Yes, I suspected the FBI might have additional protections installed," Finch said. "You'll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Keep the line open, I want to know everything that's happening."
John ducked into a nearby clothes shop to wait for his targets to catch up to him, and made sure to keep plenty of people between them as he set out to follow them again. The best he could tell, their current task wasn't work, but breakfast. They had an animated discussion in front of a diner, but that didn't seem to make the cut, either, and they kept walking.
As they were crossing a street, Dunham turned to look over her shoulder, and in spite of John being as careful as ever, her eyes went straight to him.
"Finch, I think I've been made," he admitted.
"I told you to be careful," Finch said unhelpfully.
John was out in the open while he was on the crosswalk, so he rushed over to the other side and took the opposite direction to where Dunham and Bishop seemed to be headed, making sure not to look back. Finally, at a distance he deemed far enough, with plenty of people around him, he slipped into a quiet alley.
"You should see a fire escape to your left," Finch informed him. "That's your quickest way to get out of sight."
John risked a glance around the corner at the street that he'd come from. He was soon able to spot Dunham, who very much seemed to be on his tail, although going by her frown and her searching eyes, she must have missed him taking the turn. There was no sign of Bishop. Hopefully, Dunham had left him somewhere safe.
He considered his options. He could disappear, let Dunham return to Bishop, and go back to stalking them, but it would be much more difficult now. Dunham knew what he looked like and would know to expect him. Maybe a more direct approach was in order.
Instead of climbing up the fire escape, John settled in to wait.
"Mr. Reese, what are you doing?" Finch asked him urgently. "You need to get out of there!"
"I'm going to have a chat with the agent, first," John said.
It was a risky move, but since their number had no phone and he couldn't clone Dunham's, he would only get so far without talking to them. He would come up with an exit strategy later, if this turned out to have been a mistake.
A minute later, Dunham appeared at the start of the alley. As soon as she spotted him, she raised her sidearm and pointed it at him. "FBI! Put your hands where I can see them!"
John did as she asked, careful to avoid sudden moves.
"Who are you and why were you following us?" Dunham demanded, approaching him slowly, her Glock still trained on him. Her hands looked steady, her expression unflappable.
"John Taylor. I'm a private investigator," John replied with the alias that he and Finch had put together for the day.
"I'd like to see some identification," Dunham said.
"Of course." Still keeping every motion obvious and non-threatening, he pulled out his wallet and showed her the driver's license. "Can I see a badge?" he asked in turn.
Dunham gave John a look that was as close to an eyeroll as one could get without actually moving one's eyes. Pistol held in one hand, she produced an FBI badge from her jacket pocket with the other. Obviously, he had no reason to doubt her credentials, but John Taylor wouldn't have access to all the information that John Reese had.
"Agent Olivia Dunham," she introduced herself. "I'm still waiting to hear why you were after us."
"Sorry, I had no idea who you were. It's Dr. Bishop I was tailing. I have reason to suspect that someone might want to harm him," John said, sticking to the truth.
"What makes you think that?" Dunham asked. "Who hired you?"
"My client's identity is confidential, but Dr. Bishop's well-being is important to them," John replied, keeping it purposefully vague, because they hadn't actually worked out any kind of a detailed backstory.
"That's awfully convenient," Dunham said skeptically.
"Please keep in mind that your alias is far from solid," Finch said. "I'm setting up more of an online presence for Mr. Taylor as fast as I can, but if they start digging, they might not be convinced."
"What else can I say?" John commented in response to both Dunham and Finch. "That's the truth. Look, I'm sorry, Agent Dunham. If I'd known Dr. Bishop was with the FBI, I would've taken a different approach. I think we're actually on the same team. Could we start again from the top? Maybe sit down somewhere with a cup of coffee and talk things through?"
Dunham seemed mildly amused at this. "So, your investigation revealed that we were looking for breakfast?"
"Didn't take much detective work, this time of the day," John answered, going for a benign smile. "So, how about it? I assume Bishop is unprotected, at the moment. Unless you're planning on arresting me, we should get back to him."
"All right," Dunham said, and finally lowered her sidearm. "Just don't assume this means that I trust you."
"I wouldn't be so bold," John said.
They hurried back, moving almost at a jog. John was aware of Dunham keeping a very close eye on him all the way, and made sure not to do anything that would appear unusual.
"If you can't avoid giving them more details, you should tell them that you were hired by a representative of GeneVitax, a biotech startup that's building on some of Dr. Bishop's work," Finch briefed John while they walked. "They could be worried about activists who are against genetically modified organisms. There have been some protesters around their premises. Never anything violent, but it's not a huge stretch to anticipate an escalation."
Luckily, Bishop hadn't gone anywhere, but was sitting in a cafe where Dunham had parked him. He seemed to be happily working his way through what, going by the empty plates in front of him, had to be at least his third portion of pancakes. "Olivia!" he greeted Dunham cheerfully. "This place is wonderful! I almost can't believe it—this is exactly how you should make blueberry pancakes! Their recipe must be very close to mine."
"I'm happy to hear that, Walter," Dunham said. She sat down in the chair that John would've picked, the one offering the best view over the entire space. John appreciated how careful she was, even if that might end up making his life more difficult.
"Who is your friend? Did Agent Broyles send us backup?" Bishop asked, glancing up at John.
"No, he's not with the bureau. This is Mr. Taylor, a private investigator who's worried about your safety," Dunham explained. "Hopefully, he's about to tell us why."
John settled in the second-best seat that was on offer around the table. "Like I told you, I can't disclose my client's details," he began, "but they're concerned that some aggressive anti-GMO protesters could be targeting Dr. Bishop."
Bishop let out a guffaw at that, waving his fork at John. "Anti-GMO activists? That's your concern? I'm afraid you're wasting your time. We face threats far worse than that on a daily basis."
"Hearing that wouldn't make my client happy," John said, taken by surprise. That clearly confirmed that Dr. Bishop might be in danger. John just hadn't thought that he might be so blasé about it.
"And just who would your client be? I bet that devilish woman, Nina, must be somehow involved," Bishop said, narrowing his eyes. "Did Massive Dynamic put you up to this?"
"That would be Nina Sharp he's referring to. She's the executive director of the company," Finch noted.
"I can neither confirm nor deny that," John told Bishop. Most likely he would take that as confirmation, which was great: someone that Bishop already suspected worked out even better as a backstory than the biotech company Finch had suggested. "Who do you think is after you, then, Dr. Bishop? Maybe I can help," John offered.
Dunham spoke up before Bishop could answer, looking entirely unimpressed. "I seriously doubt it. If that was all you had to say, I think you should head back to your client, tell them that everything's fine, and move on to your next case."
So much for the backstory; even if it had come together nicely, it still hadn't been enough to sell him as an asset to these two. John kept his face carefully neutral as he racked his brain for another angle he could try. Going by the silence in his earwig, Finch didn't have any instant bright ideas, either.
Unexpectedly, before John had come up with anything, Bishop offered the solution to him. "Oh, but I know! If he needs another case, perhaps we could hire him. You live and work here in New York City, I presume?"
"Yes, that's right," John confirmed.
"We're here because we're looking for a missing person," Bishop told him, then turned to address Dunham. "Maybe he could help us, after all. We could use the local knowledge."
"I don't think Mr. Taylor will have better resources than the FBI," Dunham said, looking from Bishop to John.
John answered Dunham's glance with the most confident and charming grin he could put up. "You never know, I might. Besides, I'd appreciate the chance to stick around a little longer, just to be sure that Dr. Bishop stays safe. Give me that, and I'll be happy to throw in some pro bono work. Help you find your person."
"Surely, it wouldn't hurt? So far, we have nothing but literal dead ends," Bishop said to Dunham.
"I suppose it wouldn't," Dunham replied, with a shrug. "As long as you don't mind if we run a background check?" she asked John.
"Go right ahead," John said.
"Oh, I wish we could've avoided that," Finch commented. "I've done my best, but your alias is still fairly superficial. Depending on how thorough they are, there's a very real risk that this will not go well. Try to see if you can get them to give you something before she gets a response."
It was too late to regret this now; Dunham had already picked up her phone to message her colleagues. Once she was done, she turned to face John again. "Just so that we're clear, no matter what, we'll only be able to give you minimal information."
"That's fine. You'll have to tell me who we're looking for, though. Otherwise, there won't be much I can do," John pointed out.
"We can tell him that, can't we? We've already been asking around and showing that picture to various people," Bishop said, again providing some unexpected support to John.
Dunham glanced at her phone, but it had barely been a minute. No background check would be that quick. "All right, we might as well," she decided.
She reached into a pocket and pulled out a photo, which she placed on the only corner of the table that wasn't covered in plates or crumbs—and John did a double take, losing his casual façade for several seconds.
The photo wasn't of the best quality, a little blurry like a screenshot from a surveillance tape, but there was no mistaking that familiar face, glasses and all.
It was Finch.