Okay, folks this is the last chapter that I have planned; I will be marking this story as "complete." This is not to say that I won't ever consider adding another chapter if inspiration strikes, but for now, this is all I have. Thanks so much to everyone for sticking with me through this series – it's been loads of fun!

This is a John chapter, in fulfillment of a request from…well, several people!

Enjoy!

John looks like a cat – a very wet, very annoyed cat.

He blows a drop of water off the tip of his nose and spears Scott with an icy glare. "Why did Gordon have to be sick today?" he asks coldly, as if Gordon's illness is Scott's fault. "I do not like to be wet."

My mind produces a couple of surprisingly Gordon-like retorts – Then how do you shower, Johnny? Or, This confirms my suspicions that you're actually a robot! I bite the words back and duck my head before John notices my smile and glares at me too.

Scott clears his throat and rubs his hand over his mouth in an attempt to get his own facial expression under control. Ignoring John's comments, he skips straight to the more important subject. "Did you clear that section okay? Any problems?"

John shrugs and moves stiffly over to the kitchenette counter, reaching for a coffee mug. "You mean other than everyone trying to bring along pets, luggage, furniture, prize antiques, and frozen slices of wedding cake? No, no problems at all." He fills his cup and takes a huge swig – black. He sighs in contentment, and his shivers subside a little.

I shudder at the thought of drinking it black and gulp down the last of my own creamy, heavily-sweetened coffee. Scott likes his with just two sugars and no cream. I've thought before that how we take our coffee probably reflects our personalities to some extent, but I've never quite dared to voice this thought – Gordon and Alan would probably have a field day with the idea.

I stand up – my break is over. I gesture for John to take my seat at the tiny table, and he settles down with a long, weary sigh.

Something about the movement catches my eye, and I frown, looking him up and down for any signs of injury. "You okay?" I ask.

He wraps his fingers around his coffee mug and allows his features to soften into a half smile as he glances up at me. "Just tired," he replies succinctly. "Going for twelve hours straight on the ground is way different than twelve hours on Five." He nods toward his coffee. "I'll feel more alive in a few minutes."

I cast him one more critical glance, then nod. "All right, well, take an extra five minutes on your break, okay?"

He raises his mug in a mocking salute. "Yes, Doctor."

I roll my eyes and head for the door, wincing as my waterlogged boots squelch loudly with every step. Okay, so Scott and I may have found John's predicament amusing, but I totally agree that being soaking wet for hours at a time really isn't any fun.

We've been at the scene of a widespread Mississippi River flood for nearly twelve hours now, cruising around in large, flat-bottomed hover boats, plucking people from rooftops, stranded vehicles, and small patches of high ground. When we have a full boat, we bring the people to a checkpoint a little ways outside the city, where other emergency aid organizations load them onto buses and bring them to temporary shelters.

The end is in sight, though, which is good, because I think all three of us are relying entirely on caffeine to keep ourselves going at this point. We've just got a few more blocks to evacuate, and then our work here is done.

Steeling myself, I step out of Thunderbird Two's warm hold and into the chilly, biting rain. By the time I'm steering the hover boat toward my designated search area, water is dripping off my eyelashes.

That makes me remember how a couple years earlier, Gordon had asked Brains to make him a pair of goggles with built-in miniature windshield wipers. To everyone's surprise, the inventor had taken him seriously, and Gordon had happily worn the goggles on a couple rescues. Dad and Scott had grumbled about how unprofessional they looked, and the goggles eventually mysteriously disappeared. The joke was on Dad and Scott, though, because unbeknownst to them, Brains had liked the idea so much that he had submitted it to Tracy Industries for general production. The goggles went on to become a huge hit, and Gordon bought himself a whole case of them. He mostly ended up using them to cheer up scared kids, and he still regularly gives away several pairs during each rainy rescue.

As I swipe water away from my eyes with my sopping sleeve for the dozenth time, I almost wish I had a pair of Gordon's goggles, unprofessional or not.

Scott's voice crackles over the comm. system as he returns to his boat, and after a few more minutes, John joins in on the radio chatter as we criss-cross the city searching for people to rescue.

I listen to them – and put in my own occasional reports – with the kind of half-muted attention that comes from years of practice.

I smile as I listen to John and think about how he speaks differently when he's on the ground. His voice is still as cool, calm and collected as ever, but the rhythm of his speech is far less assertive than when he's up on Five. As the team member with the least field experience, he's the low man on the totem pole down here, but he handles his role in typical John fashion – with his own unique combination of dignity and humility. If his pride is rankled by his position on the team, he rarely – if ever – shows it.

After another hour, we've each collected our final boatload of people. We drop them off at the checkpoint, and then begin a final sweep of the flooded area with our scanners set to their highest levels, just to make sure we haven't left anyone behind.

As we chatter back and forth during the search, something about John's voice begins to catch my attention – his responses seem to come ever-so-slightly slower than they ought to, and he seems confused – he keeps asking us which streets he's supposed to be checking.

Scott notices too. "John, you holding up okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," John says. "I'm just really, really tired, but that's normal, right? So I'm fine."

His voice has the tiniest hint of a slur in it, and that, combined with the rather disjointed reply, sets warning bells off in my head.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you been shivering at all?"

"Well, yeah – it's cold out here! But it's mostly stopped now. Why? Are you cold too?"

I let out a sharp sigh – I can't believe I didn't catch this earlier. "John, I want you to meet me back at Thunderbird Two. You probably have hypothermia."

There's a long pause.

"John?" Scott and I speak our brother's name at the same time.
"I'm still here," John mutters, the slur in his voice more pronounced now. "I'm just trying to remember where we parked…"

There's a snort of laughter over the comm. system, and I realize that Alan must be listening in from Thunderbird Five. "Hey, you," I tell him, "this isn't funny. Make yourself useful and guide John back to Two. And make sure he takes it nice and slow – fast movements aren't good for him right now. I'll go ahead and set up the sickbay."

"FAB," Alan says, and begins giving John directions.

I tune them out and guide the ungainly hover boat back toward Two, pushing it to its top speed – which really isn't very fast. These things are built for their hauling capacity, not for speed or maneuverability.

When I board Two, my first stop is at the kitchenette to get some hot cocoa going. I duck into the sickbay and turn the heat way up, then put some saline in the warmer in case I need to do a heated I.V. I lay a blanket over the cool metal surface of the exam table and then set a few other blankets within easy reach. Finally, I prepare several first-aid warm compresses.

I've been listening with one ear to the radio communication, so I'm ready and waiting outside when John arrives. I wince as he cuts the motor a little late and drifts a bit too far, thumping up against Two's side. He doesn't seem to notice; he stays in his seat, his expression blank and his hands still wrapped around the boat's controls.

I jump over into his boat, and he turns very slowly to look at me. It's good that he's still conscious, but I flinch at the apathy in his eyes.

"C'mon, let's get you inside," I murmur, cautiously helping him stand and trying not to wince at how cool his skin feels. I know that I have to be careful because if he's cold enough, too much movement could trigger a heart attack.

I'm not surprised when Scott suddenly appears at John's other side and helps me move him inside. We stop in the sickbay and gently maneuver John out of his wet uniform, wrapping him up in a blanket.

"Slowly," I say, as we lower him onto the exam table.

Scott grabs the heat packs.

"Just on the neck and the chest wall," I warn him. "If you put them on his arms or legs, it could push cold blood back into his core and make his temperature drop more."

Scott nods and positions the heat packs, then starts piling blankets over John.

I check John's temperature. "Eight-eight Fahrenheit," I say. "Not good, but could be worse."

"Why didn't he tell us?" Scott asks.

"He actually might not have noticed," I say. "Since hypothermia occurs gradually and messes with your awareness, you don't always know your temperature is getting too low."

Within a few minutes, John has warmed up enough to start shivering again, and he is much more aware of what's going on around him.

He looks up at me, teeth chattering, and says, "Hypothermia, huh?"

"Yep," I say. "You were down to eight-eight degrees."

John tries to push himself up, but doesn't quite make it on his own; Scott helps him sit up and wraps the blankets more securely around him.

I duck out to the kitchenette for a minute to fix John a mug of hot cocoa. When I deliver it, I keep my hands nearby until I'm sure he can hang onto it despite his shivers.

John stares gloomily down at the tiny marshmallows floating in the steaming beverage. "How did I get hypothermia?" he demands. "It's not even that cold out! And why didn't you two get it?"

I shrug. "Some people are just more susceptible. I'm guessing that the reason you got cold and Scott and I didn't is that we're used to working in all kinds of conditions, whereas you spend most of your time in a highly-controlled environment. It's cool out, and that combined with fatigue and wet clothes was apparently enough to drag you down."

Scott adds, "We actually do have rain gear; Virgil and I just tend to get too hot in it. But we should've reminded you that we have that equipment available…sorry, John."

"Well, I should have known better too," John replies. He wraps his fingers more tightly around the mug; clearly his grip strength is improving. His face is slowly flushing as his body warms back up, making his eyes look even more vivid than normal. "I know we have rain gear, but since you guys weren't wearing any, I figured I could tough it out too."

"Well, next time, if you're cold, then for goodness' sake, put on a raincoat!" I tell him. "Don't just do whatever Scott and I are doing! I mean, I know we're awesome, but…"

"Oh, you are both just unbelievably awesome," John says with a straight face. "Don't worry, I stand corrected. Not only that, but I have seen the error of my ways, and I will not make the same mistake twice."

"Well, good-" Scott starts to say.

John's not done yet. "And by 'the same mistake,'" he says, "I mean attending any rescue that involves water. Next time I'm sending Gordon, sick or not."

And once again, something in John's expression reminds me of an annoyed cat.

I turn away to hide a smirk – I've just gotten a great idea for a painting…