Part of this chapter I had in mind since the very beginning of this fic, and I'm so glad to be able to write it at last (several other fics and real life and Christmas getting in the way which is why it's been so long) but here it is! Some of this was inspired by a piece of stand up by Irish comedien Dara O'Briain about the movie 2012. Go search it out, I think it's hilarious and I think John would react in much the same way.
Feel free to leave a comment about what you think of this chapter :)
p.s. sorrynotsorry
Slow days passed on the island. One of the benefits of living in such beautiful isolation was ample opportunity for quiet contemplation. One of the disadvantages of living in such extreme isolation was being trapped in your own private echo chamber. When there was no new stimuli John found his thoughts chasing round his brain as he gradually became accustomed to this strange routine.
The four would get up at various times, but congregate for breakfast together. Gordon would have been up early for a swim, Scott would have been up late dealing with paperwork. Virgil would disappear to do maintenance or upgrades on the large hulk that was Thunderbird Two, badgering Gordon to join him. Evenings were spent cooking together and doing housework.
That was unless a call came through, and the three capable members of International Rescue would spring into action while the less capable John sat and listened anxiously. He occasionally was able to contribute – a suggestion, a feeling, an instinct that had always checked out but still...
John was mostly left alone, as if he didn't really fit into the usual routine. Which he didn't. The shape of his day to day life was – like everything else – very much a mystery but John knew it certainly wouldn't have been here. On the second morning John had discovered a set of data logs (they weren't really personal enough to be called diaries) that recorded how little time he actually spent on Earth these days, and how long it had been since he had spent more than three consecutive nights in his own bed. That would explain the weary feeling in his bones: unaccustomed to the drag of gravity that made him feel heavy and sluggish still.
Most of the time that John spent alone - which was most of the time - was spent reading those logs, reading case files, studying and drawing and redrawing the schematics for Thunderbird Five. The paneling, the wiring, the conduits: each circuit and system came under his intense scrutiny. This wasn't just the world's finest collection of monitoring and communication equipment, it was the machinery on which his life depended and his home. John felt a driving need to understand exactly how it worked and to know the placement of each nut and bolt.
As he worked John felt a creeping feeling of déjà vu. He didn't remember any of this - he really didn't - but at the same time none of it felt new. After spending yet another long night hunched over a text book - this one about micro circuitry – and a pile of diagrams of one of Five's systems and yet again feeling that he hadn't actually achieved anything John was becoming frustrated.
He couldn't rely on his memory to just come back with a snap of his fingers and was prepared to put in the hard graft to get back to being an effective member of the organisation. Even if it took years to relearn everything he once knew. Dull, relentless years.
John pushed back from his desk, stretching his back with a slight scowl. Completing this work was essential, filling his time a good idea but it was putting him in an increasingly bad mood. It was hard to match the easy comradery that the others shared and John noticed the occasional glance they exchanged when they thought he wasn't looking. Looks of worry. For him? Because of him? John wasn't sure.
All was quite in the house as John went looking for a distraction, the long corridors dark and silent. The others were probably still asleep, having returned from a forest fire late last night. They had headed straight for their beds but John had been too full of nervous energy to rest and had worked through the night. John was – yet again – left to entertain himself. He tried not resent that. None of this was their fault. He was trying to join in but just didn't get the jokes, understand the references or join in the reminiscing – even if it was reminiscing about last week. This was his fault. For falling over in the damn shower – further tests had shown he hadn't had a seizure or a blackout and the bruises that had developed on his hands showed he had tried to stop his fall. It was all just some stupid accident.
Sighing John found himself in the tv room – a giant screen dominated one wall: a collection of sofas, comfy chairs and beanbags covered the floor. He hadn't spent much time in here but maybe there was something to watch that would shake him out of his bad mood.
A quick hunt found the remote control and a few moments found John scrolling through a list of folders – seemingly pre-recorded programmes. He paused, looking at the names of the bottom five. Maybe his brothers weren't complete strangers after all because he thought he knew who would be watching the contents of 'Top Gun's Model Planes' 'Mechanic's Making Mess' 'Space Face's Geeky Space Stuff' 'Fine Fishies' and 'Toons for the Little One.'
John scrunched up into the corner of a chair and picked the first thing in what he assumed was his folder – a documentary by the description – and settled in to hopefully learn something new.
Gordon was, as always, the first one awake. He had spent too many years doing laps in the pool as the sun rose, determined to get his first training session done in privacy for a mere shattered sleep pattern and eternal jag lag to counter.
As much as he loved his family Gordon treasured the stillness of the house at rest and the ability to slide through cool clear water with only his thoughts for company. Not today it would seem, as from down the corridor echoed the sound of yelling. Specifically John yelling – usually calm but he had a very distinctive shouting voice that Gordon counted himself lucky to have only been on the receiving end of once or twice.
Gordon could have turned and gone back to bed, pulled the covers over his head and left this problem for Scott, but if there was one thing worse than John yelling it was John simmering. Yelling was good compared to the havoc John could generate having spent two days mulling something over. So Gordon dragged his reluctant feet to see what John was making such a fuss about.
Which was not any clearer when Gordon found him. John was standing in the middle of their tv room, blankets and cushions spilled around him. He'd obviously slept here last night. But now he was far from dozy, gesticulating energetically with the remote control at a frozen image in the screen while ranting something like 'that's not even how neutrinos work!'
Right. So how was Gordon going to deal with this? This really was a Scott problem, but Gordon was not a quitter.
"What's not how neutrinos work?" He started with.
"I don't know!" John yelled, rounding on him, his angry expression melting into surprise when it he realised that Gordon was standing not three feet from him.
"Sorry." John muttered. "I didn't hear you."
"Yeah, no wonder."
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't, don't worry. What's up?"
"Nothing."
"Sure. Nothing's up. Yet you spent all night here and end up shouting down the house. Try again and tell 'ole Gordo what's wrong."
John sighed and lowered himself back onto the couch.
"What's right Gordon? I've spent days trying to relearn everything I've forgotten and still have years to go. I've been trying to jog my memory by looking through my highschool yearbook but they're all just strangers. From my online shopping account I can see I have ordered and received somebody's birthday present but have no idea where I've hidden in. And then he- " John pointed at the screen "well, he's just getting under my skin."
Gordon sat on the nearest chair arm and rubbed his face, considering, before he opened his mouth and put his foot in it.
"Right then, one thing at a time. We are you trying to cram like it's finals? You aren't taking any tests you know."
"But I am, Gordon." John said, anguished. "Every time you guys go out. With Alan and the others on their way back from Mars. What if there was something I knew – something I should know – that I don't - that you need? What if one of you gets hurt because of me?"
"Nah. Nuh-uh. Do not start thinking like that John. We are all responsible for ourselves, for making sure that we have the information we need. Sure it's convenient that it comes in a brother-shaped package but if there's something we need to know we go out there and get it. Got it?" Gordon leaned forward to emphasise the point but John didn't look convinced.
"Even when you are not 100% you are still part of the team, still making a contribution – you translated for Scott didn't you? And prompted Virgil to look into that fault line a little more? That could have quickly turned nasty. No one person can know everything all at the same time, not even you."
"I've read the missions logs though. You rely on me and don't you think I'm unreliable at the moment."
"Nope. I know you would jump in to help in a heartbeat. If it makes you feel any better I know where your secret present hiding place is. I've been pretending not to for years but I'll show you later. Those people in your yearbook – I doubt you could have recognised them last month to be honest – you were already so far down the astronaut path at that point finishing school was just a formality and you hardly spent any time there."
"Not really, as once again, something I didn't know about myself."
"Oh, come on John!"
"Yeah, I know, a pity party is seldom pretty." John said, but he was slightly less glum than before.
"And not needed. I know all of that knowledge is tucked up safe in there somewhere, you just need time to let it come out."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. Take him for example." Gordon pointed at the screen. "You're annoyed at him."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but he is just... so..." John frowned and faltered.
"That man is Langstrom Fischler. You may recognise him from such programmes as 'I'm an idiot but also very rich so I can do so many more idiotic things than most people'. His very existence is permanently aggravating, seemingly only born for the purpose of keeping us in work. I swear you almost pushed him out an airlock once. Whatever he's saying about neutrinos or whatever he's probably getting it wrong and you can tell on an instinctual level how much hogwash he spouts." Gordon looked with some derision at the freeze frame of Fischler that John had managed to catch in a particular unflattering expression. He should keep a copy of that as it was particularly amusing. "I'm surprised you haven't thrown anything to be honest. And that's how I know you still know what you know. Even if you don't know that you still know what you know. I know it."
John looked at him blankly for a second, trying to follow Gordon's thought process. A challenge under any circumstance but even harder if John had been up all night like the bags under his eyes suggested.
"Gordon. That was. That was actually reassuring. Sort of." John smiled slowly, shoulders dropping and face uncreasing.
"Don't look so surprised, I've had whole minutes of training on how to calm someone in distress. And I even listed to some of it." Gordon tried to pretend to be offended but couldn't keep a straight face.
"You know what would also be reassuring? If we went downstairs and had pancakes, I'm starving."
"Yes, I distinctly remember reading about the beneficial properties of pancakes. They're even better than neutrinos."
That got a laugh out of John, who grabbed Gordon by the arm and dragged him in the direction of the kitchen.
Gordon was feeling inordinately pleased with himself: he had somehow managed to solve a Scott-like problem with a Gordon-like solution. He had found John angry and self doubting, and now look at him! He was practically bouncing – ok not bouncing – errrrr striding. Striding along the corridor in front of him, eager to get cooking some tasty pancakes. At least he hoped John was intending to cook: Gordon was rubbish at pancakes. Better check.
"What sort of pancakes are you making me then, for imparting my pearls of wisdom? Chocolate chip I hope."
John looked back, probably to check if Gordon was joking or not. He looked back but kept on walking. As they approached the stairs that led down to the kitchen. He kept walking. Not looking. Kept going. And took a step that met neither floor nor stair, just thin air. And gravity took him.