Pilgrimage: a journey or search of moral or spiritual significance. That was what this felt like. John zipped his bag closed and laid his hands on it for a moment. He closed his eyes. He thought.

This was it. Finally, he was going to give evidence in Grace's trial.

How long would it go on for? He didn't know, though doubtless it would seem like an eternity. The case had already been on-going for three weeks, although John – as a witness – wasn't allowed anywhere near it until required to give evidence. It seemed as if the prosecution was saving John as the pièce de résistance, to come in at the end and bang the last nail in Grace's coffin. John clenched his fingers around his bag, feeling the coarse material bite into his skin. It was a job he would be glad to do.

Lady Penelope had been attending the hearing every day as the Tracys' ear on the ground through the arduous trek towards justice. After all, there were a lot of charges to consider; John had memorised every one.

Murder: four counts

Kidnapping: three counts.

False imprisonment: three counts.

Causing sexual activity without consent: nine counts.

Nine was nowhere near the total amount. However, it was the total amount the prosecution felt they could prove. There were date-stamped digital images or testimony from Amelia.

Amelia.

John released the bag and took a step back. At least the girl wasn't being forced to give evidence. As far as he knew, her testimony had been recorded and would be played during the trial. Neither she nor Georgie would be anywhere near the court.

Shaking his head, John lifted the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He wasn't required to give evidence in person, either. He was classified as a vulnerable witness, entitled to special measures. He didn't want any. He wanted to be present in the court so the jury could see him, hear him, not through a screen or speakers, but in person – a flesh and blood human being.

There was something else, too. He wanted – needed – Grace to see him. Free. Healing. Not Giving up. In a way, that was even more important than a guilty verdict. He needed her to see that he had won.

A verdict of guilty, though. That would be the icing on the cake. There was so much evidence, an almost insurmountable catalogue of proof. However, it was not as simple as the jury seeing it and agreeing that Grace was guilty. She had already admitted, in a sense, that she had committed the act. The problem was her plea.

Not guilty by reason of diminished responsibility.

John tightened his fingers around the strap of his bag as his face darkened. In essence, Grace was saying, "Yes, I did it. However, I didn't know it was wrong."

"Yes, you did," John spat. "You knew it was wrong. You knew that everything you did was wrong. Yet you kept doing it anyway. And by Christ, I hope you rot in jail for it."

As he turned to the door, he heard a knock.

"Come on in," he said. "It's open."

When Elijah stepped in, John smiled.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

Instead of saying anything further, Elijah stepped forward and pulled John into a hug. John slipped the bag off his shoulder and wrapped his arms around the other man's waist. They remained that way for some time, simply existing in each others' arms.

When they did finally part again, Elijah had a pasted wobbly smile on his face.

"I wish I was going with you," he said.

John nodded and slid his hands down Elijah's arms, taking his hands in his own.

"I do, too," he said. "But you're needed here."

Elijah gripped John's fingers.

"Are you going to be alright?" he asked.

John breathed out slowly as he considered the answer.

"Yes. And no. I don't really know. I want to do the right thing. I want to give my evidence in person. I want to see her again… And yet I don't. I'm terrified. What happens if…" He swallowed hard. "What happens if I see her again and I break down? What if I can't speak or answer questions?"

Elijah shook his head and squeezed John's fingers even more.

"That won't happen," he said. "You're the strongest person I know. You will be able to do this. Show her that she's lost. Show her that the truth will out."

"Thanks, Eli," John said, leaning in for a kiss. "I can't wait until this is all over."

Elijah reached up to brush John's cheek with his thumb and nodded.

"Tell you what," he said. "Once the trial has finished, I'll fly out to meet you and we can take a mini vacation to Ireland. Your da said I could have some time off. I haven't been back to Donegal in years and it would be nice to drive you around the hills and crags where I grew up."

"That sounds great," John said. "But, do me a favour, yeah?"

Elijah nodded.

"Anything."

"If we see anyone needing help at the side of the road, don't stop the car…"

Elijah stopped for a moment, blinked a few times, and then started to laugh.

"Whatever you want, Johnny," he said. "Whatever you want."

~oOo~

Comfortable or not, the journey to England was still arduous. The little group – John, Jeff and Grandma Tracy – flew in style from the island to Sydney on a Tracy Industries jet, then took the Fireflash to Heathrow, and then it was a chauffeur-driven car to Chelmsford, where the Crown Court was.

John went through periods of being hyper-alert, not able to stop talking or thinking. Then there were the periods of darkness, of self-doubt, of terror, where he couldn't even form a simple yes or no. The countryside passed by in a blur and by the time they arrived at the serviced apartment that was to be their home until the trial was over, John didn't even know what day it was.

He was unceremoniously put to bed by his grandmother – something that had not happened in two decades – and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out cold.

When he awoke again, the world was still bathed in darkness. He glanced at the digital clock; it was blinking 4.30am. I don't think I'll get back to sleep. I might as well just get up.

He showered and dressed, trying to think of anything but the case. As he passed a comb through his thick blond locks, he grinned. I wonder how Scott is coping? Not only being in charge of International Rescue, but being in charge of a baby, too! With John, Jeff and Grandma off-base, the issue of who would look after Lyra was a pressing one. However, Scott had immediately volunteered.

"I can take the challenge," he had said, scooping the girl up in his arms and making all manner of silly faces at her. "She'll be my wingman."

John set the comb back on the dressing table and shook his head. That man is absolutely smitten, he thought. And why not? She is gorgeous.

Just as he was about to stand up, John caught sight of himself in the mirror. Reflected in a ring of gilded wood was the face of a man he had not seen since January 2069. He leaned in to get a closer look, even reached his fingertips out. The reflection met his touch. John nodded.

"Trauma does not define me," he said. His mirror counterpart mouthed the words as well. "My experiences help shape me but they do not control me. I am more than a collection of past events."

He traced the outline of his face on the mirror, his fingertips ghosting over the polished surface. There he was, still alive, still important. Still loved.

In that moment, it was all clear.

No matter what happens, nothing will change, he thought. Even if she isn't convicted of the offenses against me, it won't change who or what I am. I have a great family. I have an amazing daughter – despite how she came into this world. And I have… He gave the tiniest of laughs. I have a boyfriend who has stuck by me and supported me, even when I pushed him away.

John stood and gave himself one last look in the mirror, before turning away.

I am more than a collection of past events.

~oOo~

Sleep hadn't been easily won but eventually, Jeff had managed to catch a few hours of shut-eye. He was glad for it. The next few days – or weeks, or months, who knew? – were not going to be easy for any of them. Not only would John have to give his evidence and be subjected to what, Jeff knew, would be a tough cross-examination, but they would also be entitled to sit through the defence – and no doubt, John would wish to do so. I don't blame him, Jeff thought. But it's going to be very difficult.

He rose, washed, dressed and went to the apartment's kitchenette, not expecting anyone else to be there. His mother, though she had coped like the incredible woman she was, could not be expected to be awake just yet. However, sitting at the raised bar and sipping a cup of something hot, was John.

"Have you been awake long, son?" Jeff asked as he approached.

Clearly lost in thought, John jumped at his father's voice. Jeff mouthed 'sorry' but John waved it off.

"It's fine, Dad," he said, grabbing a napkin to wipe up what he had spilled. "What time is it now?"

Jeff looked at his watch.

"It's six-thirty," he said.

"I've been awake for about two hours, then," John said.

He stood and crossed to the coffee maker, gesturing towards it. Jeff nodded, so John went about fixing his father a drink. He accepted the cup gratefully and took a small sip.

"Adequate," he joked. "I've found it hard to get a decent cup of coffee in England."

John went back to his seat at the breakfast bar and took another gulp of his own drink.

"But remember, Dad, it might have been made in England, but it was made by an American."

Jeff chuckled and joined his son. The bar faced a bank of sweeping windows that revealed a beautiful April dawn. Trees swayed gently in the breeze and the sky was giving way to a watercolour blue.

"Are you ready for this, son?" Jeff said at length.

John placed the cup on the counter and started to twist it around in circles.

"Yeah, Dad," he said. "I am. I know it won't be easy but I know I have to do it." He snorted. "In some ways, I think the most difficult thing will be not leaping at the bitch in the dock and wringing her neck."

Really, Jeff should have admonished him for the comment. Instead, he merely nodded.

"Agreed. The best way to get back at her now is to show no weakness."

John smiled.

"Give her the ol' Tracy stoicism, eh?"

"That's right," Jeff replied. "And remember, when you're in the dock and the defence goes for the jugular, it's nothing personal, even though it might seem that way."

John nodded and drained his cup.

"I've been well-briefed by the prosecution. Don't rise to the bait."

At that point, they heard a loud tut. Both men turned around.

"Land's sakes," Grandma Tracy said. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

Jeff and John looked at one another and then, in unison, shook their heads.

~oOo~

They arrived at the court for nine and after John handed over the letter detailing his summons, he was spirited away to a waiting room while Jeff and his grandmother were directed to the public gallery. Doubtless, Penelope was already there and waiting for them.

So, John found himself alone and studying the walls and floor of the small room.

"You won't wait longer than two hours," the attendant had said.

John sat back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. It's nearly been two hours, he thought. It must be soon.

There was a knock at the door. John stood and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket as the usher entered.

"Mr Tracy," the robed man said. "It's time."

John nodded and, palms sweating, he followed the other man the short distance to the courtroom. He hesitated for a few seconds, steeling his nerves, before finally crossing the threshold.

He walked into the wood-panelled room and his gaze immediately went to the public gallery. When he saw his grandmother's red-rimmed eyes, he knew she had already seen or heard things she likely never thought she would. Sorry, Grandma, he thought. It's not about to get any easier. He then took in the comforting presence of his father and Lady Penelope. Parker raised one hand, giving a thumb's up, though his face was hard.

Prompted by the usher, John moved to the witness stand and there, for the first time, his gaze fell on Grace.

What did he think? How did he feel?

Many things, on both counts. Shit, shit, shit, was his first thought. It was quickly followed by, Man up! She can't hurt you now.

The feelings were more complicated. First there was terror. Then rage. Fury, even. She looked at him with flinty eyes, her face hardened, lined with disdain and disgust. It looked as though she wanted to spit at him.

John didn't shy away from her gaze, even though his heart was pounding so hard he was sure people could see it. No, instead he kept those hard eyes locked with his own until he was forced to look at the usher and place his hand on the Bible.

"I swear by almighty God that I will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

He made sure when he said the last word, he was looking right at Grace. He wasn't certain, but he thought he saw her mask slip for a moment. What was underneath?

Fear.