A/N: New chapter, and extra-long for the extended wait. Thanks for the reviews as usual. There are some things in this chapter that you might expect, and some you won't and I'd love any guesses as to what you think some of the little hints and clues might be leading to.

Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I wouldn't be able to play in this wonderful playground so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

Enjoy!

Still swimming in leftover puddles of sleep, I'm not really paying attention when I hear returning footsteps.

A hand settles on my left shoulder, coming from behind, and I jump about a foot into the air as I react, cursing beneath my breath as I start in surprise; nearly slipping off my chair until I catch myself painfully on the table.

At first, I'm afraid that my fright will force me into a paroxysm of coughing and spasming chest, but I'm pleased to find that a wheezing gasp of shock is all that results.

The hand, sharper and smaller to those of my brothers, suddenly smacks into the back of my head, and I bite my tongue hard, as I realise exactly who it is behind me, and why exactly they're slapping me.

"Ow! Grandma!" I yelp, turning around in my seat to look at her; trying not to pout like Alan as I rub my palm against the back of my head. "I've got a headache! What was that for?"

She raises an eyebrow at me, the look in her eye that means she's not in a concession-friendly mood translating bright and clear onto her face.

"You know perfectly well 'what-for', Johnny Glenn! I didn't teach any of you boys that sort of language, and I really don't think your papa did either! Don't let me hear those words spit outta your mouth and then you won't get a palm upside the thinker!"

My mouth twists in resignation as I nod in response, and I level a scorching glare across at Scott, where he's snickering at my predicament. He only smirks widely at me as he dumps the shopping parcels on the table, and then abruptly busies himself with setting on the coffee-pot to hide from any retribution I might get away with.

"Sorry Grandma… Oh be quiet, you!" I grumble, noticing Gordon's gleeful expression.

"I'm not saying a word Johnny." My brother assures me, but I know the words that are running behind those eyes of his. I know him far too well to think otherwise.

I'm glad that Grandma is treating me like she would the others when they're misbehaving (even Scott gets on the wrong side of her temper at times) even in spite of my illness, but the back of my head is still stinging. She gives me a pointed look, tinged with amusement, and picks up the bag of laundry items that were with the rest of the groceries, before heading out of the room.

Still furiously rubbing the back of my skull through the material of my hat, I reach out for the half-drained glass of water, and gulp it down before levering myself to my feet to stumble across the room to place it in the sink.

With Scott still packed into the corner cubby where the pot is set up, I take my chances in leaning on my brother's arm to peer near-sightedly at his watch in an attempt to divine the approximate time of day, figuring he won't be able to move unexpectedly and dump me on my backside.

Okay, Four pm. Three hours sleep, not counting the time taken to trip home from the hospital, and the time I've been sitting in here… that's not bad considering how rubbish I feel. Nearly dinner time then.

I process that thought, and then I groan, realising what will be coming for me after the meal. The nebuliser treatment to clear my lungs has been extended to every five hours instead of every four, but I know that in compensation, the dosage has been upped to keep me going for the longer time period. Makes sense, but it's more annoying anyhow.

Rubbing the back of my neck to ease some of the tension curled there, I straighten up to make my way back to my seat; pleased to realise that my feet are feeling a little more steady against the cool, grey-tiled floor. I feel Gordon's eyes boring into my back as he makes a drink at the sink, but I make it to my destination without hassle, resting my head on my arms again and watching Scott incredulously as he almost inhales his drink.

"You know, Scott," I murmur, eyeing Gordon as he curses - burning his fingers while picking up his mug (pretty stupid when you take your cocoa with no milk, idiot). "You'd probably find you sleep better if you didn't drink so much goddamn coffee."

In the midst of taking another large gulp of his probably lava-temp drink, Scott raises his eyebrows at me, before lifting his mug in a mockery of a toast to rich, roasted beans. Snark. "Bad habit John. You know that."

Yeah, I do know that. Scott's completely addicted to coffee. He's been drinking it since he was almost sixteen years old, but bad habits can be broken. Just like Dad and his cigarette smoking.

Took him two years and a mountain-load of patches and nicotine tubes, but it's amazing what five kids and a butt-load of persuasion can do when we want our parent to do something.

I tell Scott as much, but he just shrugs carelessly and changes the subject.

I roll my eyes but go with it as he goes on to grin at Gordon's stubble; the kid having clearly not bothered to shave the new sprouting this morning. It doesn't look quite as odd now that Gordon's got the bright red on his head to match, but it's still quite a shock against his pale skin.

Gordon rails back at him playfully, but I realise that my drink has posed the need for some pretty necessary actions. My first and third brothers just keep on bickering, so I lever myself quietly out of my seat, and wobble my way to the door; easing myself out into the hallway that leads to the foot of the stairs in the entry, and the stand-alone toilet nearest the front door.

It takes me longer than it should do, but I eventually finish, and am just about to head back to the kitchen when I hear soft footsteps padding down the hallway.

The hall is in shadow, so he doesn't see me, but I follow the form of my immediate younger brother with my eyes as he ducks into the downstairs bathroom, not far from where I'm standing. I find that I don't particularly like the hurried steps of his movement, or the sounds of low cursing that drift in his wake. I follow him back to the bathroom with minimum stumbling or dizziness - despite the distance - and lean tiredly against the doorjamb, digging my fingers into the wood to help me to stay upright.

"Virge?" My voice cracks as I don't quite get my shallow breath around the words, and I inadvertently startle my brother from what he's doing. "Are you alright?"

Even through his surprise, my younger brother barely spares me a glance from where he's hunched over at the basin. I'm confused, but no less concerned at what he's doing, and it isn't until Virgil reaches up to the twin-sided mirror above the sink that I see what the problem is.

His right hand is pressed against his torso as he reaches up to pull the Betadine and adhesive strips down from the shelf. There is blood over his fingers, and I wince, knowing precisely what has occurred, having had needles slip and catch a vein in an arm or stomach way too many times to count.

Moving as swiftly as I can, seeing how Virgil is struggling to hold his hand over the cut and stretch upwards at the same time, I reach up with my left arm to snag the items he needs.

Though the movement makes me slightly dizzy as I flatten my feet, I turn back to the basin and flip on the faucet, running a washcloth under the cold stream of water before turning toward Virgil and poking him in the ribs to get him to move his fingers.

The thin cut across the left side of his stomach —barely the length of a finger from tip to second joint— is already clotting, but I can see the fine sheen of sweat coating my brother's pale face, and I know that he's not dealing with the sight of the blood on his skin all that well.

He never has, but it's funny because other people's blood poses no issue for him. He's a medic-in-training and everything, Virgil, but the individual hematophobia is in part linked to his OCD, and it's not just the idea of uncleanliness that gets to him, but the fact that he can't control what happens if he's injured.

He's not normally half so anxious about it, being so calm and collected on rescues, but obviously the stress he's been under recently is making him more susceptible to the effects of his worries and fears.

I'm a little concerned as more and more situational anxieties are emerging in my younger brother, as he's not been this bad for years, but I promise myself that I'm going to keep an eye on him, no matter how badly I'm feeling, or alert Scott to the situation, at least.

Virgil's hands are gripping the edge of the counter; the knuckles turned white as I lean against the sink on my good side, but I'm happy to notice that my hands are steady and sure as I work, for once.

My brother relaxes noticeably as I finally smooth the sticking plaster over the skin, and I feel him grab my shoulder to keep me steady as I go to stand upright – he's back in control and calm once again.

I smile inwardly. We might struggle at times, but we 'pull up our socks and get on with it', as Grandma says; damning the consequences and possible ramifications as we go.

A nod of the head and a flash of gratitude flipped from one to the other is the only sort of acknowledgment that either of us have for the other's issues, and I realise that I have to remember to include Virgil on my list of Those Who Get It. I keep forgetting, silly me.

Damn the effing drugs.

Tamping down on momentary resentment, I quirk an eyebrow at my brother, questioning wordlessly as he supports me out of the bathroom.

He nods, taking the answering of my query a step further when he adds the words, including an explanation to account for his mad dash.

"I got the insulin in, but I wasn't perched on the bed properly. No balance plus sharp implement equals scratch."

I half go to tell him that he's being a smart ass, but then I grin at his stab at self-depreciating humour instead, despite the slight embarrassment at his perceived weakness evident in his voice.

"Thanks."

"Anytime, Little Brother."

He makes a face at the name, but otherwise ignores the fact that I've once again reminded him that I'm the older one out of the two of us, not him.

It's an ongoing battle, that one, and it's one that he's never going to win, no matter how many times he manages to fish me out of the fire; physically and otherwise.

We've made it out into the hallway by now, and as if hearing our footsteps, Scott pokes his head around the corner from the kitchen; his dark hair mussed and tousled around the top and back, with the cordless phone tucked beneath his ear and his fingers in the process of un-wrapping a granola bar.

I grin. The Bottomless Pit is at it again.

"Don't let Grandma see you eating now." Virgil tells Scott, evidently thinking the same thing. "It's nearly teatime, and you know she'll have your hide if she knows you're snacking so close to the meal."

"Don't sweat it." Our brother retorts, now tapping his fingers on the casing of the phone, but not before shoving the end of the opened bar into his mouth and taking a savage bite. "You worry too much Virge."

Virgil snorts with half-suppressed laughter. "Hello Pot, have you met Kettle?"

Scott doesn't answer him, but it's less the fact that he's ignoring Virgil, and more that the person on the other end of the line has picked up; for his attention is diverted as he suddenly heads off down the hallway, bumping me affectionately with his hip as he passes, though his voice is hoarse and whispered in his conversation. I cannot hear what he's saying, which frustrates me, and the look on Virgil's face tells me that he's got no idea what he's doing either.

I frown, wondering who it is and why exactly Scott is being so secretive, but then I get pretty distracted by the fact that my feet have suddenly flown from beneath me.

Accompanied by pitching walls and simultaneously blurry vision, it doesn't exactly hurt as I flump to the carpet, because Virgil had enough grip on my elbow to slow the impact. My brother still ends up on the floor next to me though, and I'm torn between full-blown annoyance at my wobbly knees and the reason for them, and amusement at the entirely astonished look on his face, but it's the irritation that unfortunately wins out.

Ignoring (or more like tolerating) Virgil's hands suddenly running over my upper body to make sure I've not gone and injured myself, I let out a cry of utter frustration, irrational tears pricking my eyelids as my mood abruptly plummets somewhere past the floor beneath me.

It's probably a result of trekking to and from the bathroom, and all the stretching and standing I did in between, but the exhaustion I'm feeling, coupled with the emotional issues I've been trying not to think about is enough to makes the event of falling over feel much bigger than it should really be.

I cough harshly and deeply as my breath catches in my throat with my cry; sharp and choking, and I gasp as the mucus gurgles and fizzes deep in my chest. I swallow the hard knot of phlegm this time, instead of spitting it out, and though I can feel Virgil's eyes on me in disapproval (having my stomach full of sputum doesn't leave any room for food, apparently), I find I don't give any fucks about that right now.

I feel like lately I'm on an emotional see-saw, and I hate this feeling of unstable and precarious fragility; as though any thought can send me flying out into the never-nevers, or toppling off the edge of a sheer-sided cliff. This sort of situation is occurring far too frequently to be of much comfort to me, but it really appears that there's nothing I can do about it. I just hate the way it makes me feel; it's grating on my nerves, and making me feel as raw-edged as if someone had taken them and abraded the ends with sandpaper.

I pull my knees up to my chest, pushing away the vertigo, and bury my face in my arms, fighting the unpleasant urge to bawl like a child. No-one would care if I did, I've every right to fall to pieces if I want, but the truth is that I still want to hold onto my dignity and my sense of control, even though everything is falling apart.

I don't want to cry in front of Virgil either, not because I think it's shameful, but because my brother is dealing with his own overwhelming issues, and there's no way I want to burden him with mine as well, not when his episode from before shows that he's clearly still struggling to adjust.

Virgil seems to realise that, somehow, and even in spite of the way I've curled myself into an upright foetal position, he sits still and silent at my side, as though waiting for me to be able to get it together again.

I'm struck again by the knowledge that he knows at least something of how I'm feeling at the moment, and I'm forever grateful that he knows me well enough that I just want to sit and try not to sink, and he's just being here, strong as a pillar. He emulates Scott so much, and I feel overwhelmed at how much I love my siblings for the support they've given me.

It's so much closer and more real this time, somehow. The memories of the times I was sick before were more of a tooth and nail battle than the race it is this time to get to the finish line. We're pressed for time now; the avenues we have to try are so much more limited, and that thought scares me more than I'm willing to admit.

I shudder again, and have to resist the urge to punch something, biting my lip as I try not to cry, because I know how much I'm hurting them.

I can feel the panic riding on the coattails of exhaustion, as it pulls at the innards of my stomach and chest. I hate that I'm at the mercy of my feelings; tired of collapsing in a heap at the tiniest of provocations, sick of being sick and afraid of being scared.

I close my eyes and try to breathe past the constriction in my throat, my hands and shoulders shaking as I feel Virgil's fingertips rub tentatively between my shoulder blades. I don't know how he is able to keep things together so well when it comes to taking care of us, Scott either; but I've realised that I do enough of that myself, pushing things away by helping someone else with their problems.

It takes a while, but I manage to talk myself down from the ledge I'm on, hating the desperation I can sense in my own thoughts and emotions. It's been so long since the depression has reared its ugly head as badly as this, and I hate the fact that there's such a delicate balance there that affects each and every tiny movement I make.

I hate the fact it's entirely out of my hands, the effect it has on my psyche; that it makes me feel so out of control. Like the thought of falling without a parachute, it's infinitely terrifying, and that just makes me feel even worse, not knowing if or how hard I'm going to be hurt when I finally hit the ground.

Once I've calmed myself sufficiently enough that it doesn't feel like I'm going to fly apart, I raise my head, meeting Virgil's gaze unexpectedly.

He doesn't say a word, acknowledging that I don't want to talk about it, but instead gets to his feet, and holds out a hand for me. I comply, grabbing his wrist, and I smile weakly as I'm drawn up into a standing position once again.

I clasp his shoulder in gratitude, even as I lean against him, tiredness slipping through me again, thanking God that Gordon has obviously gone elsewhere, because there is no way I'd let him see how much my mood swings (for lack of a better description) are affecting me. I'm sure he knows that they're there, that I'm feeling so frightened of what's happening to me, but he far from needs to see the proof of it.

Maybe it's stupid of me to want to protect my little brothers like this, to try and shield them from the reality of what is happening to me, that I'm dying, but even in spite of the experience they've just been through with me trapped and almost suffocating on my own lungs in that hospital bed, I still want them to know that I'm still trying to fight this thing with all I've got, even though it's currently looking like it's a futile endeavour.

##

It's far from being unexpected, given my nap from earlier, but I find myself awake in the early hours of the morning.

It happens suddenly, the awakening, but I'm still surprised to find myself staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. They've been there for the last twenty years, and they're as much a part of my life as the fact that Dad was an astronaut and that I have five brothers and a mother, a grandfather and a grandmother, and that the sky is blue.

The fact that one of my brothers died before I knew him, and that Mom has been gone for over eight years now doesn't matter. I know those facts, among many others, as well as I know my own name, and it's the same with the room where I did most of my growing up.

The exact details of it escape me at the moment, as I don't have my glasses on yet, but I've memorised every corner of my bedroom; from the dim outline of the window, then the navy blue wall straight ahead where the bureau rests against, and across to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. My old desktop computer is still perched on the desk at the end of the bed with the rickety chair, and the closet door still contains the canvas of the Orion Nebula that Virgil painted for my fifteenth birthday; shining in the pale moonlight streaming from beyond the curtains.

I imagine it all with my eyes closed; the room has been almost exactly the same since Scott moved into the attic when I was twelve. Although the spot where his bed once rested is now filled with the canvas-sheeted form of my first-ever telescope, and the packed-cardboard box of my astronomy books and star-charts, the memories of the room - both before and after still sit snug in my mind like the familiar pages of a well-thumbed book. Unchangeable and comfortable, despite the many weeks I was laid up in here, unable to get out of bed because I was so ill.

The time spent in my childhood bedroom allowed me to really think about what I wanted to do if I was to get past my illness, and in part – staying up most of the night with nausea and fever with Dad, allowed me to really want to reach for the stars and create my computer and walk the path that I'd created in my dreams. The personalisation of my room, and the freedom and ability to look out of my window and see that path in those stars was what had allowed me to realise that I could have a future if I wanted.

Thinking back on my small meltdown from earlier this evening, I know that I need to get back into that sort of mindset if I want to get anywhere, but the truth of the matter is that it's so damn bad that I struggle just to think about the next hour, let alone consider what could be coming tomorrow, or even next week, when it really comes down to it.

It's a frightening proposition, not being able to at least plan what is going to happen, it's all out of my hands now, and I don't like that at all.

Musing through those recollections as I am, I'm still half-asleep really, and am very well inclined to go back there again, but I realise exactly why I've been roused to think so existentially about my room in the first place, when I hear a muffled cry, coming from what seems to be the ceiling above my head.

Scott, I think; frowning as I rub my eyes and slowly drag myself into a seated position, using the headboard the way the nurses taught me. I stand up slowly, jamming my feet into my slippers and yanking the blanket off my bed to ward against the midnight air, before shuffling across the room with the intention of going to my brother's room to sort him out.

He'd seemed fine earlier, all but ignoring my question about who he had been speaking to on the phone. He'd seemed gleeful almost afterwards, sharing a secretive, nearly scheming look with Dad that none of the rest of us seemed to understand. He'd ribbed Alan about his new retainer, and then consoled the kid when he realised how much Al's mouth was hurting after the wire had been tightened, and had even gone so far as to challenge Gordon to a game of Rummy after the meal, which having the Tracy Twist rules as it did, went for a good two hours longer than any game a normal person would've played.

I don't know what the outcome of that had turned out to be, but I know that it had probably been something Gordy hadn't liked, judging from the outraged yelp that had resulted from Scott's teasing when they'd finally called it quits not long after eight.

It takes me much longer than I initially anticipated, but I finally get to the top of the attic stairs; the moonlight filtering through the skylight in the ceiling to lend the floorboards an almost ethereal glow. It also allows me to find my way to Scott's bedroom door without worry of falling ass over tea-kettle, a significant plus in my mind, seeing as I really shouldn't be doing this on my own in the first place.

I don't bother knocking on the door, because I can still hear the whimpering sounds of Scott's nightmares through the wood, so I push it quietly open, and shuffle my sock-clad way over to his bed, glad for once that my only older brother is a neat-freak and doesn't leave stuff lying about on the ground like Gordon and Alan. Their room is an accident waiting to happen.

Stopping at the side of Scott's bed, I can see that he must have fallen asleep reading, because the book by Tom Wolfe: The Right Stuff, is perched haphazardly on the edge of the mattress, the blankets tangled around my brother's rigidly-shifting form in the lamplight. The sloping ceiling is low enough that I have to be careful not to hit my head as I stand up from picking up his book, and I study Scott's face as I place the novel on his bedside table.

I've never gotten over how well Scott manages to hide his worries and insecurities from the rest of us; how he is able to tamp everything down behind the impenetrable mask he's always managed to keep in place. I'd blame his Air Force training for it, if not for the fact that this is how Scott has always been; even before the accident. It's just more amplified than it otherwise would've been, after he had been trapped in the avalanche with Mom and Alan.

He always looks so much younger and more exposed when he sleeps, and the wall he builds during the day clearly gets broken down at night, which clearly explains the nightmares that have been continuing since the attack on Thunderbird Five.

I remember listening to him yell in his sleep back at home, and the reality of knowing that he was carrying around his pistol to protect himself in some obscure way sort of terrified me, but I had been too exhausted to get up out of bed and go to him. Dad's room is on the other side of the house, both in the villa and here, and despite the fact that I'm still sick, I'm really the only one who is close enough to be able to hear him and do something to help.

I reach down to gently shake Scott's shoulder, leaning heavily on the bed as my legs threaten to give out after the hike up the attic stairs. Scott snaps instantly awake, grabbing my wrist hard enough that I know I'll have a bruise, his eyes wide and wild from the nightmare I know I've woken him from.

"John?" He asks, squinting at me in confusion; his expression vulnerable and weary all at once.

His hair is matted and damp from the tossing and turning he's done, and he runs a hand wearily through it as he recognises me, releasing my arm and slumping back onto the pillows with his eyes firmly closed, as if to block out the terrors I know are haunting him. I want to help him get rid of them, but I have no idea of what they are, so I'm at a loss at how to help.

"What are you doing up here? Did I wake you up?" He sounds unbearably guilty, and I fight the urge to smack him senseless.

"You were having a nightmare Scott. I came up here because you didn't sound like you were enjoying yourself." I say, dryly, ignoring the apologetic look in his eyes, knowing that I will end up getting mad if I allow myself to acknowledge his idiocy.

"You shouldn't have come up the stairs," He frowns, tugging me down onto the bed as he shifts towards the wall to make room. "You could've hurt yourself."

I sigh in resignation, knowing what he's trying to do, and having no intention of letting him accomplish it. Not this time. "I didn't and I'm fine, and we're talking about you Scooter, so could you try not to take evasive action? It's me. The kids aren't going to hear about anything unless you want me to tell them, so can you answer me one question. Please?"

Scott's eyes are more violet than blue in the lamp light, and the tousled look of the lengthening hair around his face makes him seem so much more vulnerable than he has for a long time. The muscles along his jaw tighten, and I can see that there are cracks appearing in his façade of impenetrability that he almost never allows during his waking hours, appearing as though something is pushing from the other side. I feel like I'm taking advantage of the barely-awake state of mind my brother is in, but I see the almost relieved look on his face, and I wonder if this is what he's needed this entire time.

He nods, and I ask him what's bothering him; knowing that somehow, this time I'm going to get a proper answer.

He begins to speak, and the words are as quiet and raw as anything I've ever heard come out of his mouth. Not even the memory of him crying as he told me the news about the secondary cancer was quite as significant as this. I grip his shoulder tightly and he smiles grimly at me in response, his eyes sad.

"I'm just… scared, John. I thought for so long that this was all over for you, that when Dad said that when you reached the five-year mark without having a relapse, you were considered cured. I'd squared all of those memories of you being so sick into this dusty, locked box in my head, and just seeing you there in that bed, it terrified me."

I can see something in Scott's eyes that pleads me to not interrupt, that tells me if I am to break his stride now he's gathered up the courage to tell me what he's feeling, that I'll never get it out of him.

I nod, gesturing for him to continue in what he's saying, settling onto the bed beside him and smiling affectionately as he unconsciously wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling the blanket up over my chest like he did to Gordon and Alan when they were small.

"I thought that I'd gotten it all out of my system when I did this…" He runs his fingers over the cast on his hand, "but I've come to realise that it's not just the kids and Dad and your health and Virgil's that's worrying me, it's something else, and I've sat on it for so long I'm not exactly sure how to explain it."

Scott suddenly hesitates, twisting his blanket in his hand, and I'm not sure whether I should prompt him or not, afraid that if I speak I'm going to derail whatever his train of thought is, and prevent him saying what he feels he needs to.

I needn't have worried though, because he takes a deep breath, as though he's about to plunge into icy water.

"What did you feel when we were up on 'Five, John? And you realised that we probably wouldn't be coming home, that we were most likely going to die up there?"

I look at him in confusion, trying to work out where he is coming from; my brain struggling through the hazy memories caused by concussion and pain, sticking with the conclusion that it's not just the thought that we were going to die that he is worried about, but something else, something that I should probably know but just can't remember.

Scott doesn't seem to be expecting an answer though, because he powers on doggedly, his voice a tired drone against the silence of midnight, and the beating of our hearts.

"If you're thinking that we'd be trapped up there, dead and isolated, with no way out, and no chance of saving ourselves or each other, then that's what I was feeling, and it terrified me John. It's not that we had to be rescued by Alan, it's not that at all. I'm so proud of what he and the kids did, I can't express it in words. It's that I couldn't save us. I'm responsible for all of you, and I was trapped in something that I couldn't fix. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything to save my family like I wasn't able to save Tom and Paul."

A/N: Please review and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

- Pyre. Xx