Friendship I looked down at Finch; his face was contorted in a mixture of panic, severe concentration, and intense mental and emotional torture. I could see sweat glistening on his brow. My own was equally wet. He held out a slightly quivering finger, and pressed three numbers into the phone, then hesitated. I could see the extreme turmoil in his eyes. I looked away. I could not bear the thought of looking into the face of the man who was my best friend as the explosion killed us both. I waited a moment, then heard a faint beep coming from the phone that was my death warrant. I let out a choked gasp, and looked down; he had stopped it, with seven seconds left, he had stopped it. We stood staring at each other for a moment, blank in an overwhelming emotion. His eyes filled with tears, and he let out a stifled sigh of relief. I feel rather like I did something of the same thing, but I’m not sure, my mind was so dazed. In a split second, I felt like I reverted back tMore Like This
When they wake up Harold Finch felt a sudden sharp pain in the back of his neck which snapped him quickly out of his sleep. He let out a little groan, but did not open his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t have fallen asleep on his sofa, but he had been so tired the night before, it had just happened. He flexed his shoulders and his eyes flicked open then closed again. Suddenly his entire body tensed. He heard a noise – the slow, gentle sound of someone breathing in and out. He held his breath, the noise stayed. He opened his eyes and slowly, and somewhat painfully, turned his head. He let out a sudden gasp and sat swiftly up.More Like This
“John, what are you doing here!” he exclaimed. Alarm and confusion mingled with tiredness and the pain in his neck made him sound sharp and angry.
Reese flinched and his eyes shot open. “Good morning, Harold,” he said good-naturedly.
“Mr. Reese, how did you get in here?” asked Finch, regaining his c
Merry Christmas, Monsieur PoirotMore Like This
Hercule Poirot coughed. The cold, damp wind bit easily through his greatcoat and scarf. He shivered.
“Le froid, le froid,” he murmured. “L'humidité, Je n'aime pas ça.”
There was no one for Hercule Poirot to talk to, but he talked all the same. He was lonely, and he had taken to talking to himself some time ago. It had been a little over two years since he had moved from London for his official retirement, and only a little less than that since he had seen anyone he could call his friend. Yes, Hercule Poirot, once the world’s foremost detective, was now very, very lonely.
He walked slowly, labouredly, limping and leaning heavily on his cane. The English weather was not kind to his advanced years.
Hercule Poirot at last reached his destination, which was the village post office.
“Got a letter to post, Mr. Poirot?” asked the postman.
“Oui, Monsieur Bob,”