AN: I hadn't planned a second chapter to this story, but I was interested in exploring the same situation from John's perspective. So, here it is—once again using the events of "A Sort of Homecoming" as a jumping off point.


Drained. The word had nested in his brain. It was the perfect word to describe him—drained—both figuratively and literally. His powers, the abilities that made him who he was, were taken from him, drained away.

John knew that his struggle to hold onto his powers left him battered and bruised, and the faces of those he passed as he walked down sidewalks, through parks, and up crowded streets told him that his face bore the signs of that struggle. At first, he let his feet take him … he wasn't sure where.

He was not ready yet to face the life he was forced to leave behind. He was not ready yet to be among others who still possessed all that had been drained from him. So he walked. He walked seemingly aimlessly, then with purpose that revealed itself to him. He knew there was one person he could turn to; one person he wanted to see right now.

It was a long walk, and when at last he arrived at her door, he felt drained of more than his powers, he felt physically spent. Exhaustion had crept in. Fatigue had taken hold of him, even as reality set itself in his consciousness. His powers were gone. He was human.

And now, it was a human he turned to for help. He braced himself against the doorjamb, and stood for a long time trying to decide whether it was a mistake. Was it fair to her to turn up like this … looking like this … being like this? He tried to imagine her reaction, and found he was too tired, too drained to do so. And now that his feet had brought him this far, brought him to her door, it was already decided. He rang the bell.

Her face said it all. It was one of the things he liked about her. She wore her feelings on her face. She made no effort to hide her true self from others. "John!" Astrid's face suffused with worry. Her arms went out to him at once. He allowed himself to feel supported, as her arm encircled his waist, and she helped him inside. Then she helped him lower himself into a chair, in a book-lined room that seemed as safe and warm as any his imagination could create. She took him in hand, and helped him out of his jacket.

He watched her as she surveyed the damage. He could see her shock at the bruises and abrasions on his wrists—a testament to the ill treatment he'd endured. "We need to get these cuts cleaned up," she told him. As she turned to leave, he reached out and caught her wrist. Though he couldn't say why, the thought of being alone again struck him with force, and left him feeling strangely bereft. "I'll be right back," she told him. The sound of her voice reassured him. He felt her hand over his, "I won't be a minute—I promise."

John closed his eyes, and let the fatigue wash over him. And then she was back. It could have been a minute, or an hour. He wasn't sure, and it didn't matter. "John?" There was her voice again in his ears. He looked at her—looked at her face—taking in every feature—the color of her eyes, the way she knit her brows, the way she cloaked her nervousness in a shy smile. "I'm afraid this is going to sting."

What could he say? That the sting of antiseptic would be the gentlest thing he'd experienced that day. That the sting would remind him that he was safe and cared for. That he welcomed it. That it would not hurt; it would validate. He bit back the bitterness and grief, and said nothing. He simply nodded, closed his eyes, and looked forward to surrendering to the feel of her hands, and her ministrations.

She worked in silence, cleaning each cut one by one. He would have welcomed the sound of her voice; he would have welcomed the distraction. Instead, his thoughts filled the void of silence. Instead, he let his mind drift to the two men … the two brothers who played, and used him for so many years. One, he had spent years despising; the other, he had spent years canonizing. Neither was right; neither was wrong. They used him. Together they had stolen his innocence, his virtue, and his youth. Together, they had made him a liar. Together, they had let him believe the worst of himself. One had watched him spend everyday seeking to atone for what he'd done … or, as it turned out, for what he believed he'd done. He'd long since come to terms with the role Jedikiah played in reshaping his life, but learning of Roger's role was a fresh betrayal. It set in motion the events that led to this moment … to his being stripped of his powers, to his being made human.

When she was done dressing his wounds, he felt her settle in front of him. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked. Did he? Who else could he tell? And if he didn't, why had he come to her at all?

"They used me." His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears. And then he told her. He told her as much as he could … as much as he dared, not wanting to alienate her or scare her away. Jedikiah … Roger … they were the same. What they had taken from him, he would never get back. And together … and he now understood that they had done this together … together, they instilled the kind of guilt that leached the joy from his life for years.

To her credit, she listened without judging him. She probed, but gently … softly. It was only when she asked whether he was strong enough to teleport again, that he felt the impotent rage and frustration flood back. He couldn't bear to face her. He turned away. A wave of emotion took him under. His mind flooded with the memory of the Founder's face, and the sound of his voice.

"I can't. The Founder took my powers," he told her miserably. And then the words came, and more than that, the flood of emotions came—emotions that he could ill afford to show in front of the Founder—or indeed anyone else—they flowed readily now. Through it all, she held him as best she could until the storm had passed.

She looked him in the eyes. "You're the same person you were before, John."

But he was not—far from it. He was someone else—a human version of himself. He had spent his entire adult life trying to find and protect others like himself. But now, he was no longer one of them. More than that, he was no longer sure who he was. Who was he without the powers that defined him since he broke out—first at Ultra, and then among the Tomorrow People that he gathered together for their mutual protection? "You have no idea, Astrid," he allowed the bitterness to speak for him.

But she was having none of it. Instead of pity, she reminded him that he was not alone in suffering such a fate. She reminded him that it was all too common among humans. People lost abilities but they learned how to go on. He would too. He wondered how he'd lost touch with that truth, how he let the grief and self-pity squeeze out the recognition of what seemed so plain to her.

"And I'll be here to help. I promise," she concluded.

It reminded him of how he'd once helped her. Now it was her turn to anchor him when things looked bleak and threatening. "Hey, that's my line," his humor returning like a slender ray of light in the darkness.

"It is, isn't it?"

He looked at her face. It offered neither pity nor false hope. Yet her expression was at once sad, and hopeful. He took her hand and squeezed tightly in his. It felt so affirming that he knew it was time to take the next step.