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[7 hours and 12 minutes]

"I should let you sleep," Harold says, but the hardness poking John in the thigh seems like a good sign Harold could be convinced otherwise.

John stretches, pushing backwards into Harold's body. Harold's braced into position with enough pillows to populate an IKEA. He can take a little bit of John's weight, probably.

Before John can ease off guiltily, Harold's hands clamp onto his shoulders. "Are you trying to tease me, Mr. Reese?" He sounds incredulous.

"Trying to means I could fail," John says. "That's kind of insulting." He grinds back against Harold.

With a clutching-at-straws tone, Harold says, "Aren't you sore?"

"You say that like it's a deterrent," John says, and pounces.

[45 minutes]

"I can't believe this," Harold says, watching John. "I can't believe you."

John more or less ignores Harold in favor of fucking himself with two fingers. He's still open from the last round, wet and easy, and it feels fantastic. "What's the matter, Finch? Need more hard data?"

"I'm not going near that pun with a ten foot pole," Harold mutters. "Or a ten-inch dildo, which I suppose is more relevant to the case."

"You could always leave." John's hoping he doesn't, though.

Happily, Harold doesn't. He flips off the covers to show his rapidly hardening dick. "I can't believe myself," Harold says. His wail as John straddles him, takes him in, is more exasperation than pleasure, though there's plenty of the latter.

[102 hours and 43 minutes]

"I can't come back yet," John says. His shoulders are hunched. He raises the blinds a fraction, just high enough to peek at the street. No sign of Walton, but that's no guarantee.

"I imagined so," Harold says. "At the same time, I have an eye out for Walton, and should be able to give you at least twenty minutes of warning." Harold clears his throat. "Even if I'm... distracted."

John straightens. "Really," he says.

"I left you a little, ah, gift in the bathroom closet," Harold says with a discreet cough. "If you wanted to--"

The rest of the sentence is lost to static as John moves to the bathroom. The connection comes back while he's looking at the closet. "--No obligation," Harold says.

"Oh, trust me," John says, taking out the surprise Harold left for him. "Obligation is not what I'm feeling right now." He grins. "I gotta say, Harold, calling this little isn't exactly honest."

Harold huffs. "Poetic license, Mr. Reese."

Whatever. John's not going to split hairs. It's been far too long: he's had his desires on lockdown, but they came springing to the surface the minute Harold hinted at safety, even momentary.

The only safety they have in this life is momentary. They might as well enjoy what they get.

The dildo Harold left him has a suction cup. John eyes the tile floor, then opts for attaching it to the door. He's struck by curiosity. "Can you see me?"

"No," Harold says, deadpan. "Why would I want to see you pleasure yourself with a toy I picked for you?" He huffs again. "Look above the mirror, Mr. Reese."

There it is, the telltale green flicker. John smiles up at it. He imagines the light winks back.

He slicks the toy up hurriedly and moves himself into position.

"Mr. Reese," Harold says, admonishing, "I'm fairly sure you need more preparation than--"

John leans back into the toy, letting Harold's voice wash over him, grunting when the toy's head breaches his entrance.

"--that," Harold finishes, voice gone faint. "Dear God."

It makes John grin wider. He forces himself to move slowly, letting himself adjust. Harold wouldn't want to see him getting hurt, and if John's lucky, he may be able to get Harold with him in person soon enough.

He lets himself groan a little louder than he would if he were alone. He's not faking anything, just emphasizing what's there. "Wishing you were here?" he says.

"Very much so," Harold says, fervently. It makes John's eyelashes flutter.

Only a little bit of the toy is actually inside John, but that does it for him, too: knowing that as full as he feels there's so much more he could have if he wanted. John drops his head, rocking slowly on the toy and panting. "You give the best gifts," he tells Harold.

"I try." Harold sounds strangled. "Although, trust me, it's the opposite of selfless."

"Good," John breathes. He braces himself and takes, lets the toy impale him, lets the keening noise that climbs up his throat be heard. He could probably jerk himself with one hand and still support his weight with the other, but fuck, he doesn't want to. "Tell me to come," he asks Harold. "Please. I need you to tell me to."

"Oh, my dear," Harold says, soft and infinitely sweet. Then his voice firms. "John. You're taking this so beautifully for me. Fuck yourself, yes. Very good. Now, on the count of three..."

Sweat beads on John's forehead.

"Two. Keep fucking yourself. Very good."

John's head jerks. He pants, shuddering. The toy is thick inside him, sweet wonderful friction.

"One. Come."

John fucks himself hard on the toy and does, muscles clenching around the length inside him, feeling himself ripple over it. His dick twitches, spilling untouched.

He manages to disentangle himself from the toy before collapsing to the floor. "Fuck," he says, with great feeling. He looks up and gives the camera a sly smile. "Nice view?"

"The best," Harold says, with such warm sincerity that John wants to hug Harold even more than he wants Harold to fuck him.

He gets to his feet. "Where's Walton?"

"According to the tracker you planted on him..." a faint click of keyboard keys comes across the comms. "Mr. Walton just wandered into an NYPD ambush," Harold says, distinctly amused. "How handy."

John puts his clothes back in order, feeling his pulse in his throat and fingertips. "I'm on my way." Every beat of his heart says Home.