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Harold slunk down, his hand holding the fatal bullet wound. The last wound he'd ever feel. His face was paling and quickly.
Staggering, John Reese made his way to his faithful friend. On his face was his smug smile and his hand was his gun. Blood stained his shirt.
If-if you go now," Harold said oh so softly. "y-you could make it."
"Nah," John said, softly. "I'm.. n-not going.. anywhere."
John fell down to be next to Harold.
"John."
"I don't leave people, Harold."
A whine could be heard as Bear walked to his masters and sat down between the two men, his head resting on John's lap.