Thank you, John

I hung up the phone. “Do you think she will be back?” I asked slowly.
But Finch didn’t answer. I turned and looked at him. He stood, stiff, staring off strangely into space – his eyes bulging, blank – his mouth open, gasping a little – he looked shell shocked. Everything I imagined he must have gone thought in the past 48 hours, was finally taking its toll – it seemed to be all falling on him at once now that he had let himself relax a little. I took a step closer to him, worried, and put my hand on his arm.
“M-Mr. Reese, I, I’m not feeling very well,” he stammered, almost dazed. He let out a little groan, wavered, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, half fainting, directly into me. I caught him with some difficulty, he was heavier then I had expected. He seemed only half conscious as I picked him up and sat him in his old computer chair.
“I – I’m sorry,” he managed to gasp out, trying to pull himself into a standing position.
“No,” I said sternly, pushing him back into the chair. “Sit!”
He was still, staring at me with his wide, terrified eyes.
“It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?” I asked gently.
He closed his eyes. “I think I’m going to throw up,” he said, taking in a sharp breath. He leaned forward – slowly, stiffly – dry heaved, and expectorated on the floor in front of him. I imagined he didn’t have any food in him to regurgitate. Root had probably offered him food, but I doubted he accepted it. He groaned, and sat back up, his face blank – dazed. His breath came in heavy, inconsistent gasps and he passed a shaking hand over his forehead.
“You need a drink,” I said.
“I’m fine, Mr. Reese,” he said unconvincingly.
I stood from his side and walked into a recess of the library. I had stashed a flask of brandy there some time ago. I took it back to Finch.
“I’m really alright, Mr. Reese,” he said, standing quickly from his chair and falling back just as quickly, with a low cry of pain, onto the floor in front of him. I fell down onto my knees by his side. I grabbed his head and forced the whisky between his quivering lips. He looked up at me with his large, helpless blue eyes. “What, what’s happening to me?” he asked, his voice shaking.
“It’s like you’re coming down off of a high,” I said, realizing the symptoms I myself had felt on previous occasions. “Your adrenaline has been kicking the past 48 hours, and now that you’re relaxed, you’re crashing.”
He grabbed my arm. “Help me up,” he said slowly. This I did, but he resisted when I began to lead him to his computer chair. “Mr. Reese,” he said with deep emotion. “You saved my life.” He reached out his hands and placed them on my arms. We looked into one another’s eyes for a moment. I hesitated, then wrapped my arms around him, supporting his weak, trembling frame, and lead him to his chair again. He sat, reached out his hand and turned on his computer. He didn’t turn to look at me as he straightened his tie. I looked at him in silence for some time. At last, he spoke.
“Thank you, John.”