Chapter Eleven: Home At Last

Ed's arms tightened around his best friend and a solemn vow stole across his soul. We won't fail you again, Greg. We won't ever let you go again, I swear it. And the first step, the most critical step, was to free Greg from his imprisonment inside his own Animagus form. The rest would come with time. With healing and talking and learning to trust their Sergeant again. Ed didn't blame him for the undercover op or the lies that had accompanied it, but… Why had Greg never used the 'team sense' to call for help? They would've come for him in a heartbeat.

Then he registered that Greg was getting heavier and heavier. It only took a moment to puzzle out the reason. The gryphon's weight was bearing down on him, rather than the Animagus supporting it, and the head against his chest was slumping in an unmistakable manner. "Greg," he said aloud. "Greg, come on, buddy, wake up."

There was a gryphon snort and wuffle, then the animal shook his head in a manner just like someone waking up out of a daytime doze and hastily shifted back, taking his bulk off his friend. The team was too tightly packed for Greg to go far though, something Ed was grateful for. It was going to be days before he'd be comfortable letting his boss out of his sight and he knew his teammates felt the same way. Even so, he was pretty sure Greg needed some air.

"Guys." The single word was enough, though it took another minute before Team One's constables could disentangle themselves from the impromptu team huddle. Even then, they hovered close, an impossible, desperate longing evident on their faces. They wanted to reach out and touch, reassure themselves that it wasn't just a dream, but none of them wanted to crowd their precious, irreplaceable Sergeant.

Greg seemed to understand; despite the terrible, horrifically painful state of his feet, he lurched up, limping to his other teammates and sprawling out in a position that would let all of them touch without looking foolish. Ed scooted over, resting his own hand on Greg's flank, and unsurprised when his teammates joined him on the office's carpeted floor. On the far side, Jules pulled Greg's head into her lap, stroking his head while Sam petted his neck. Lou and Spike divvied up the Sergeant's upper back, trading grins as their hands bumped each other, and Wordy copied Ed, simply resting his hand on the gryphon's back, the contact itself enough to soothe his wounded soul. The gryphon tail thumped once or twice, then Greg went to sleep in Jules' lap.

Commander Holleran moved around his desk, expression softening at Parker's exhausted slumber. He cast the team an apologetic look, but Ed just nodded for him to go ahead. His friend and boss was going to need time to recover; the sooner they got him back to human form, the sooner that recovery could truly begin.

The commander turned the chair in front of his desk and sat down facing Team One, keeping his voice low as he spoke. "Director Briggs, before he and his colleagues departed for California, informed me of his suspicions, namely, that our friend here was far too old to be a seventeen-year-old wizard."

"He found Greg's gray feathers, didn't he?" Ed breathed.

A single nod. "That, in addition to the familiarity that our 'mystery gryphon' displayed with the barn, raised a number of red flags." A brief pause. "Team Four's Constable Young also expressed that view, along with noting that most seventeen-year-olds wouldn't have caught onto Team Two being positioned so close to Team Four."

Wordy grimaced at the reminder and the two techs paled. "His feet," Lou whispered, chagrin echoing.

"It was obvious," Spike agreed, just as stricken.

So obvious that Ed had to wonder if the magic had hidden it from them. But even as he thought of it, he realized he was wrong. Yes, the magic had hidden things from them, things that Ed had railed and ranted at when he'd found out, but to hide Greg's very survival from them? That hurt all of them and when the officer considered the idea, he felt an instinctive revulsion, as if the magic itself was protesting. No, Ed concluded, either another type of magic was at work or their belief that Greg was dead had coerced them into overlooking all the evidence and facts in support of who the gryphon truly was.

"You guessed it was Greg, so that's why you told us about the…" Ed stuttered to a halt, then forced it out. "That's why you told us about the report."

"Yes, Sergeant Lane, that's why I told you," Holleran confirmed quietly. "It also made sense. We all know how responsible Greg is towards you, towards his teammates. I concluded he was dead based on his failure to check in after the fire and the discovery of his Auror badge near one of the bodies." The older man managed a wan smile. "I never considered the possibility that he couldn't communicate his survival." His gaze dropped to the sleeping gryphon. "Thankfully, Miss Drake informed us about the collar, otherwise I would have recommended simply having an Auror magic it off."

Ed winced. The Auror in question probably would've been Giles, leading to an utter disaster and a nightmare of guilt for everyone involved. Although Amber hadn't been sure of all the details, she'd been very clear that she'd overheard the 'magic lady' – likely an American Auror – say that the collar around Greg's neck was imbued with a very nasty curse. Precautions would be necessary, but forewarned was forearmed. They would get the collar off, come hell or high water. Anything else was completely unacceptable.

"Now what?" Lou asked, practical as ever.

Sam glanced up from where he and Jules were taking turns scratching behind the gryphon's furry, feathery ears. Even in his sleep, Greg was squrr-ing away, soaking in all the attention and affection. "Maybe have Revan take a look?" he suggested. "He's an Unspeakable, maybe they've run into collars like this before."

As if on cue, someone knocked at the office door. Ed's brows shot up – if that was Revan, he was so calling shenanigans. But the man who poked his head around the wood when Holleran bade him enter was Giles Onasi, with a rather sheepish expression on his face.

"Um, sorry to interrupt, sir…"

"Not at all, Auror Onasi," Commander Holleran reassured the other man. "How is Dustil?"

The Auror lit up, joy unmistakable at the mention of his son. Ed couldn't help but notice that he seemed to have completely forgotten about nearly dying to the Killing Curse, something Greg and Wordy were unlikely to forget, seeing as they'd been only steps away when it happened. Then again, if it had been Clark in Dustil's place and himself in Giles', he wouldn't have hesitated for an instant and he wouldn't have regretted a thing afterwards.

"He's fine, sir," Giles replied. Then he fidgeted. "In fact, um, he'd like a moment of your time. And their's."

Team One traded startled glances, but looked to their Sergeant, deferring to him. Ed, in his turn, regarded Giles for several moments, doing his best to judge the sudden mask that the Auror had donned, expression almost unreadable behind the nerves. "What's this about, Giles?"

The Auror fidgeted again, then glanced down at the gryphon Animagus unconsciously curling close to Team One in his sleep. Even with the awkward angle, Ed saw the wizard's eyes widen in shock and recognition – and revulsion? Then Giles pointed squarely at the ugly black collar around Greg's neck. "He said he needs to talk to all of you about that."

Dustil was in a new set of robes, though they looked a bit too large for him. Wordy wondered absently why Giles had given his son a set of his own robes instead of regular techie clothing, then reminded himself that Dustil was heading straight back to McKean once all was said and done. Even though the young man had enlisted Airwolf's help to break the Imperius his former colleagues had cast on almost everyone in the barn, he'd still broken out of McKean to do it and he was still under a life sentence for Imperiusing an Auror – the charges for Imperiusing Sophie and Clark had been dropped due to his cooperation with the investigation, as had the charge for kidnapping.

The young man's expression was tentative and uncertain, but he kept his chin up despite his unease as his father guided him inside the commander's office. Holleran remained where he was, not wanting to step on the slumbering gryphon; inwardly, Wordy winced, realizing they'd not done their commander any favors by letting Sarge go to sleep in his office. Not that there'd been much choice in the matter; Sarge had almost gone to sleep in the middle of hugging Ed! Frankly, it hadn't really sunk in yet that Sarge was alive, that he was home, but one thing Wordy knew for sure. They were never, never, ever letting him go again! He had a sudden vision of himself, at eighty or ninety, dragging Sarge out of the nursing home to go on a hot call, and shivered inwardly. Okay…maybe they'd let him go…in about forty years.

Once the door shut, Holleran got down to brass tacks. "What can you tell us about the collar, son?" he asked, gesturing to the black collar fastened around Sarge's neck. Wordy scowled reflexively; he'd seen both Sam and Jules inspecting the thing, but his teammates had shaken their heads at him afterwards. No dice. He'd been planning to get Spike and Lou on the task before Giles knocked on the door, but if the blasted collar was fastened by magic, there was no way someone without magic was getting the thing off.

Dustil's shoulders straightened, anxiety falling away in the movement. "It's an Animagus control collar," he replied.

"It's a what?" Giles blurted, horror ringing. At the demanding looks, the Auror shivered violently for an instant, then explained, "Animagus control collars used to be used by families to force Animagi into their forms. It was supposed to be a training aid, to help Animagi transform even before they learned how, but…" He trailed off and shivered again. "They're brutal and once they're on, the Animagus can't shift back." The Auror bit his lip. "From what I remember, you can't use magic on an Animagus with the collar on, unless you're the person who put it on. If you do use magic or you touch the collar, it's like a shock collar." Or worse, his eyes added.

"D…Dad's right, but that's only the old family collars," Dustil put in. Uncertainty filtered into his eyes. "Umm…Father…he wanted to figure out how the old Animagus collars worked and make them better."

"Better," Ed deadpanned.

Dustil flinched, but nodded. "Yeah, he wanted it to be completely impossible to remove and for it to be able to control the Animagus, like the Imperius. The idea was that the collar would let Father control transforming in both directions and it would be disillusioned if the Animagus was in their human form." The young man fidgeted at the swirling outrage and horror. "He was only ever able to get the Animagus transformation part working, though. It was still a prototype."

Wordy felt his shoulders relax a hair. "So all it's doing is preventing him from shifting back?" he asked.

Swinging around, Dustil met his eyes for a moment before he looked down. "I think so, but Father never put any emblems on the collar."

Jules frowned. "So someone else found the collar and used it?" she offered.

Dustil tilted his head to the side, thinking, then gave a clipped nod of confirmation. "If…if they haven't changed it too much, I can get it off."

"Then do it!" Wordy cried. To have Sarge back, for real, not just in his gryphon form, he needed it, they needed it.

"Wait," Ed ordered, lifting a hand. "He's still injured; we can't change him back."

Dustil lowered his head miserably. "Auror Sergeant Lane, until the collar comes off, he can't be healed. And once I take it off, he'll change back automatically. That's one of the reasons they stopped using the collars; it didn't work for training because the collar was doing all the work and the Animagi never learned how to control their shifting."

It was on the tip of Wordy's tongue to say that Sarge did know how to control his shifting, but he bit down on the claim. The truth was, Sarge hated his gryphon form and only used it as a last resort. Wordy was pretty sure he hadn't shifted even once since Fletcher Stadium, well, at least until he'd had an Animagus control collar slapped around his neck. But Dustil's points were well taken; they couldn't leave Sarge as he was indefinitely and that meant removing the collar before his feet could heal.

Ed hesitated, obviously weighing the possibilities, then his shoulders slumped and he nodded. Without speaking, he knelt, gently shaking their Sergeant's shoulders until the gryphon stirred, a complaining noise escaping. "Come on, Greg," the lean man coaxed. "Up and at 'em."

Sarge made another noise of complaint, almost sounding like an annoyed cat displaced from a comfortable nap location.

"Greg. We got a way to get that thing off."

For an instant, the gryphon froze, then he rolled, ending up in a sphinx-like position. Still lying down, but alert, with his head up, wings high, and hope glowing in hazel eagle eyes.

Dustil shifted, but Ed held up a hand. "Listen, buddy, we're gonna get that off, but Dustil here thinks you're going to shift back automatically." A brief hesitation. "Greg, if you can, try to stay like you are."

Sarge let out a whine of protest, muscles stiffening at the request.

"Greg, listen to me," Ed insisted. "You darn well walked every last bit of skin off your feet coming home. If you think it hurts right now, I bet it's gonna be ten times worse once you're back in human form."

The gryphon cringed as did the rest of Team One. Even Holleran, Dustil, and Giles went rather pale at the pronouncement.

"Buddy, if I had my way, you'd stay like that, collar on, until your feet are all healed up, but Dustil says as long as the collar's on, the Healers won't be able to use magic on you at all." Ed stopped, searching their boss's fixed eagle gaze. "So will you try, Greg? I know you want to be back to human; heck, we all want you back to human; but will you try?"

Furry, feathery ears flicked back and forth, Sarge's unhappiness radiating off him, but he finally huffed a sigh and lowered his head to his forelegs, resignation plain. His wings slumped down, just as dejected. Wordy edged closer as his boss's eyes closed, the animal's muscles tightening in concentration.

Ed read the silent response as clearly as the rest of them and glanced up at Dustil. "You're up, kid."

Dustil frowned, but crouched down, shifting to let one knee down entirely as he ran his hands over the black collar. He turned it so the intricate silver buckle with the emblem of a red tree on a black background was facing him, forehead furrowing as his fingers quested behind the buckle. For several seconds, not a single occupant of the office moved, hardly even daring to breath as the young wizard worked. Then his expression cleared and Wordy saw one finger shift against the back of the buckle. A soft click came from the collar, the buckle coming apart, and Dustil gripped the leather, yanking it away from Sarge's neck in one smooth move.

Light flashed, the collar's magic giving way, and Wordy sucked in air as the gryphon form before them flexed and shifted. No smooth blur of animal into human, no, it was more like when Giles had used the Animagus reversal spell on Sarge. Bones broke audibly as the gryphon writhed under the magic, though he never cried out. Feathers and fur rippled, reluctantly giving way to skin and soot-stained clothing. Sarge's wings folded in on themselves, blending into his back and revealing that the shirt beneath was one of his custom-altered shirts, specially tailored to allow for his vanishing wings. The tail vanished and that great gryphon head blurred, giving way to human features. Though Wordy had half-expected a beard and hair down to his boss's shoulders, Sarge looked just as he always had. In fact, he looked as though he'd just had a haircut and a fresh shave.

But he was terribly thin and gaunt. Not quite starving, but Wordy felt his stomach lurch at the way Sarge's skin hung on his frame, the gray tinge to that skin, and the hollowness of his cheeks and face. His clothing and shoes looked as if he'd been through a fire – Wordy felt a second lurch at the confirmation that Sarge had definitely been in the same fire that had killed the Castor siblings – and the constable spotted his boss's gun still tucked in its holster on the gun belt around his waist. Worst of all, his hands were bleeding and his face was already twisting in sheer agony.

"Giles, get him off the ground," Ed snapped, retaining his wits – though how he managed that one, Wordy had no idea. "Wordy." The brunet straightened, but Ed flinched at the way the team leader's hands were shaking. "Never mind; Lou!"

Lou sprang forward, following Ed's lead. The men were almost in sync as they flew through untying the laces on Sarge's boots – hiking boots, a distant part of Wordy's brain helpfully observed – and pulling them off. Jules and Sam swooped in, pulling the socks underneath down and off. Blood stained the white fabric and liberally coated the bottom of now human feet.

A loud thump brought Wordy around with a snap; he gawped at the determination on Commander Holleran's face as he regarded his clean desk and the piles of scattered files on the floor next to it. "Ed, keep him on his stomach," the commander ordered. "Onasi, get him on my desk."

The Auror shook his head. "Some of you catch him," he counter-ordered.

Wordy moved forward reflexively, ending up opposite his current Sergeant as they reached under Sarge's body and locked arms to support the gravely injured man under his chest and stomach. Giles lowered Sarge down to them, then briefly canceled the levitation to cast another spell in the direction of Holleran's desk. An instant later, he levitated Sarge again and directed him over to the desk with careful wand movements. Ed followed, guiding their boss down onto the desk and carefully turning him in midair so that the gaunt, but still stocky man ended up facing the office door as he laid across the desk on his stomach.

The Auror released the levitation spell again, then jabbed his wand at the fallen files. They lifted into the air, reorganizing themselves before drifting to an out-of-the-way spot in the office and settling once more. "Dustil, stay here," Giles commanded. To the rest of the room, he added, "I'll get the on-duty Healer." Without waiting for a reply, he ducked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

In his absence a dreadful silence fell over the office. It had been one thing to deal with a thin, injured, but still on his feet gryphon, but to see their beloved boss in such a terrible state… Wordy had no idea how the man had even still been on his feet, except by sheer, obstinate will. He looked like he'd lost a good fifty or sixty pounds and there was that awful, horrid gray gauntness to him, gauntness that seemed to grow worse and worse the longer his face was twisted in pain. And the worst thing of all was the fact that Sarge never made a sound…

Ed sternly ordered his stomach to stay in place and forced himself to focus. He could lose it over Greg's condition later. "Wordy," he snapped, waiting for his friend's ghost pale gray to lift. "Check his feet." At the instinctive protest on the other's face, he shook his head. "I know they're in bad shape, but we need to know how bad." Plus, if Wordy was looking at the boss's feet, he wouldn't be looking at Greg's gray-tinged features or the way his skin was hanging, used to far more padding than his friend currently possessed. Nor would he be looking at the way Greg was panting and swallowing reflexively to keep from throwing up due to the pain he was in.

The Sergeant checked Greg's hands himself, well aware that the rest of his team was still in shock. Lou had stepped up when Wordy froze, but even he was pale and shaken at Greg's dreadful condition. Belatedly, it occurred to Ed that the miracle that had brought his brother by heart back to them hadn't done so without cost. And Greg, it seemed, would once again be paying the lion's share of that cost. Privately and to himself, Ed wished whoever had put that collar on his friend could suffer the same fate. Vicious and vindictive, but Lane didn't care. Greg's hands looked like he'd put them through a meat grinder and judging by the way Wordy was going ever paler, his feet were just as bad – or worse.

"Wordy!" Ed barked, dragging his friend's gaze up to him. Softening his tone, he continued, "Word, I need you and Jules to get a camera. We need pictures."

"But Ed!" Wordy protested.

A slashing gesture cut the big constable off. "Wordy, think. Everything Greg's wearing is evidence. All the injuries he's got, they're evidence." Turning, the Sergeant fixed his two computer techs with an equally inflexible stare. "Evidence bags and a notebook," he ordered. "Far as I'm concerned, we're not giving IS any room to wriggle out of this one. The Boss is still assigned there and we are not letting them have any excuse to stick him back undercover."

The declaration broke the room's stupor; Team One snapped to attention and moved. In the background, Commander Holleran nodded approvingly and quietly sent Sam to tell Winnie that he and Team One were not to be disturbed. More, Winnie was to inform him immediately – and by telephone – if Intelligence Services showed up at the barn. Spike went for the camera instead of Jules, trailed by Lou who was on the hunt for evidence bags and Wordy who was trying to look like he wasn't running away and failing miserably. Jules pulled out the same binder she'd used to take notes during the phone call with Greg's American friend and flipped to a fresh page, pen flying as she began to document her boss's injuries.

Lou came back with both evidence bags and a box of blue forensic gloves; donning the gloves, he put the Boss's shoes and socks into individual evidence bags. Although the team had already touched the clothing, Ed knew they could reasonably argue that emergency aid came before a perfect chain of evidence, thus nipping any IS protests in the bud.

Accordingly, once Spike returned with the camera, Ed sent him back out for a set of sweats and donned his own set of gloves. Gently, he shifted Greg's body to the side and tugged his sidearm free of its holster, noting with some surprise that it was his friend's SRU pistol rather than a brand-new untraceable piece provided by IS.

"Eddie." The plea was weak and hardly audible, but the desperation rang all too clearly. Ed handed the gun off to Lou for bagging and tagging, then stripped the gloves off, resting one hand on Greg's back as he crouched down next to him. If IS complained about his handprint on Greg's shirt, they could go take a long walk off a short pier; he wasn't going to let his best friend go unanswered, suffering through pain Ed wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

"I'm here, Greg."

"S…sorry. So sorry…" The words were faint, but even with eyes half-glazed with pain, Greg's aching regret dominated.

"For what, Greg?"

The rasping gulp sounded painful. "For lying." A solitary tear trickled down. "For pushing you away like that. I didn't mean it, Eddie. I never meant any of it."

"We know," Ed murmured, adjusting his hand's location and starting to rub. "Holleran told us everything, Greg. You didn't have any choice; we get that."

"Shoulda known better."

Ed shook his head; truth be told, if he'd been in Greg's position, he probably would have made the same decisions – the same mistakes. But that wasn't what Greg needed to hear. No, he needed to hear… "Greg, we forgive you."

A faint smile traced across that haggard face, a mere ghost of the smile Ed had feared he'd never see again. Then Greg sighed and turned his head towards his friend, slipping back into slumber between one breath and the next. The Sergeant remained where he was, still rubbing, a tiny smile of his own appearing. It was good to know that Greg still had that particular sweet spot on his back, right between where his wings would be. Given how much pain the stocky man was in, sleep was probably the best protection he could get.

They needed to know what had happened, but that could wait until Greg's hands and feet had been treated. Another thing Ed needed to know was why Greg hadn't called for help via the 'team sense' – and why the 'team sense' was still dormant. Not something Ed could ask in front of their commander and also not something that was in his top ten list of questions. No, he was sure the 'team sense' would work itself out in time along with everything else that needed to be rebuilt.

"Onasi, I'm not a Healer!" a familiar voice protested.

"Close enough, Queenscove," Giles growled.

"Oy! I was two weeks into an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's when my older brothers died, I don't know anything!"

"Queenscove, you're the only one I trust right now, so get in there and do something."

Ed kept rubbing, grateful when the trick worked; Greg remained asleep, oblivious to the squabbling Aurors getting closer to Holleran's office. Some of his success was undoubtedly due to his friend's extreme state of exhaustion, but Ed had used this particular trick enough times to know that Greg could hardly ever stay awake if he was being rubbed in his sweet spot. Even as the noise grew louder, the sleeping man never even twitched, a surprisingly content expression appearing.

"Would you two shut up?" Wordy demanded from right outside the office door. "What, you wanna let the whole barn know what's going on?"

The Sergeant rolled his eyes. Yep, his team leader was handling all of this splendidly. Not. Then again, Sam was taking it just as well, since he still hadn't come back after heading out to brief Winnie. At least Spike had come back with sweats for the Boss and he was keeping busy with the camera, taking pictures of Greg's injuries and clothing. Jules was following just a step behind, scribbling so furiously that Ed half-expected the pen to snap in two. Her head was buried in the notebook and she was still pale, but the team's backup negotiator was tough. She'd make it.

"Ed."

One eyebrow hiked inquiringly in Lou's direction; the less-lethal specialist's expression was grim.

"He's been in his form, so I don't know how much of this is from the fire," Lou confessed.

"All of it," Dustil offered up. When the team swung to him and Holleran cast the young man a demanding look, the wizard squirmed. "His clothes are the same, so the gun is too," Dustil explained. "If…if your elf hadn't groomed his fur and cut it…"

Ahhh…that did answer a lingering question. "He'd have long hair and a beard," Ed finished smoothly.

Dustil jerked a nod.

Lou offered a thoughtful nod of his own. "Okay, then." Straightening, he reported, "Seven rounds in the mag, one in the chamber. Figure he started with a full mag, so…"

"Ten rounds fired," Ed concluded. The rounds would almost certainly match to the bullets found in the Troy siblings, not that the sniper cared about that part. As far as he was concerned, the pair had gotten exactly what they deserved.

The office door creaked open just as Ed made his conclusion, admitting Wordy, Sam, Giles, and a vibrating, unnerved Junior Auror Queenscove. As soon as young Neal saw Greg lying on Holleran's desk, his eyes bugged out. "Bloody hell, don't you people ever die?" he blurted before cringing at how insensitive his exclamation had been.

Ed couldn't help it; he laughed. The tension in the office, which had been steadily ratcheting ever higher since Greg's reversion to his human form, shattered as the rest of Team One snickered, Spike and Lou laughing outright. Pointing at the Junior Auror, Ed forced his tone to something halfway stern. "No, we don't, not unless we have permission." A deliberate pause. "Which Greg doesn't have."

"You bet he doesn't," Sam agreed fervently.

Lane never batted an eye. "Neither do you, Braddock."

"Hey, I'm not the one who got trapped in a fire yesterday," Sam retorted.

"Could we stop talking about anybody dying?" Wordy pleaded, a note of peevishness in his voice.

Ed relented at once, well aware of how badly Wordy had taken nearly losing him in addition to already losing Greg. Glancing over at Neal, he arched a brow. "Anything you can do?"

The green-eyed wizard crept closer, nibbling his lip as he took in Greg's dreadful physical appearance. Cautiously, as if wary of triggering a reaction from Team One, he drew his wand, waving it in a medical diagnostic. The nibbling grew worse as he regarded the results. "He's underweight," the brunet murmured. Impatiently, he brushed his fringe out of his eyes. "Looks like he was exposed to three Cruciatus-level pain spells, but that was about two months ago." A slight cringe. "His hands and feet are a complete mess…"

Crouching next to Greg, Ed's sharp hand gesture cut off Spike's budding sarcastic retort. He understood, but Neal looked nervous enough already without the team interposing their biting wit in the face of the obvious. Team One subsided at their Sergeant's order and Commander Holleran nodded approval in the background.

"Got some smoke inhalation, too," Neal mused, not even noticing the byplay. "Muscle strain, physical exhaustion…" The Auror finally huffed, shaking his head and dispelling the diagnostic. "Sir, he needs a Healer, not a few first aid spells!"

Ed ignored the 'sir' and shut Onasi up with a lethal glare. "All right, Neal, we hear you. What's your call here?"

Green met blue. "Call my Dad in," Neal replied bluntly. "I get the feeling you lot don't want too many people to know Parker's alive. Dad's used to working with Aurors, he gets 'need-to-know'." Gesturing to the abraded flesh on Greg's hands, the brunet added, "And Dad's your best option if he ever wants to use those hands again."

Ed was very proud when he managed not to flinch. Instead he offered a solemn nod of acceptance. "Okay, make it happen," he ordered. A beat, then, "Only…"

Neal stopped in the middle of a turn and looked back, one forked brow rising. "Yes?"

"Could you do a sleep spell?" Ed asked.

Emerald eyes softened. "Sure thing." And, so saying, Neal flicked his wand and Ed felt Greg's entire body relax under his hand as the spell took effect, pulling him down into a deep slumber and ensuring he couldn't wake. A pang of regret ran through the Sergeant, but it was for the best – and it would spare his friend at least some of the pain he was in.

Once Neal left to contact his father, Commander Holleran cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone left in the office save Parker. "Ed, while Auror Queenscove contacts his father, we'll need to move Sergeant Parker to the magic side of the barn."

"Sir?" Ed asked in confusion.

The commander's expression turned stern. "Additionally, none of you are to inform anyone outside of this room of Sergeant Parker's survival. Not your coworkers, not your families, no one. Am I understood?"

"What about Sarge's kids?" Wordy protested.

"No one, Constable Wordsworth," Holleran repeated, the words harsh and ripping. Dark eyes went harder. "And Sergeant Lane, before you even go there, you are not volunteering for a demotion so Sergeant Parker can take command of Team One back. I won't accept it and neither will Parker."

Ed swallowed around a lump in his throat; Holleran was right. Greg would sooner accept a retirement than displace his former team leader. But… "So what happens to Greg?" he questioned. "What, we just leave him out in the cold 'cause IS made him lie and stuck him undercover without asking?" Blue eyes narrowed, a flinty glitter appearing. "Greg's Team One, sir. And his kids have suffered long enough."

Holleran returned the glare with interest. "Sergeant Lane, that's my decision. No one outside of those who already know is to be informed of Parker's return." A beat, heavy with meaning. "And regardless of anything else, Sergeant Parker is not a member of Team One anymore. The sooner you accept that, the better."

He wanted to argue, he wanted to fight, but maybe it wasn't the time. The reality that Greg had survived, had come home, was still sinking in. To hide it from Greg's kids felt wrong on so many levels, even more than Holleran's declaration that Greg wasn't Team One anymore. But… Ed's eyes strayed back to Greg, to the gray pallor of his skin, the gauntness of his face, and the way his clothes just hung on his frame, even with him lying down. Was this a sight he wanted Greg's kids to remember? Already, Team One's current Sergeant knew he'd be living with nightmares over Greg's horrid physical state – did he really want Greg's kids to live with the same memories? Perhaps a few days would let him govern and marshal his arguments. Holleran couldn't keep Greg's kids in the dark forever, but if they waited until he was a little better, maybe until he was free of IS's shadow…

So Ed Lane bowed to his commander's orders, his posture warning his teammates not to argue either. "Yes, sir." But inside, he plotted and began to plan. Because there was one thing Commander Holleran had dead wrong.

Greg Parker was still Team One – as far as Ed was concerned, he'd never left.

And he always would be.

~ Ad Alia

Author note: Okay, this is almost as much for myself as for everyone out there, because it took me a couple months after I finished this story to realize that I'd made a miscalculation with Greg's gun. A small one, yes, but small details make up the whole.

So. The Glock 17 can hold seventeen rounds in the magazine. As Ed said in this chapter, Greg fired ten of those rounds in "Face/Off", so how many are left? Initially, when I was first writing this story, I had Lou report that there were six rounds left in the mag, one in the chamber, thus leading to Ed's statement. Seems the math is right so far, yes? Except…it's not…

See, what I forgot to add into my grand calculations is that someone who is used to carrying a gun around all day, ready for use (like a cop) isn't going to have just the rounds in the magazine. Oh, no, they're going to have a chambered round, ready to go if they run into trouble. Thus, my intro to the Glock 17 should be: seventeen rounds in the mag, one in the chamber. Eighteen rounds total.

Which leads me to the grand finale: if Greg really fired ten rounds in "Face/Off" (he did – I triple-checked that count and then counted a fourth time, just to be sure), then there should be seven rounds left in the mag, one in the chamber. Big d'oh! moment for me and I hastily changed both this story and "Face/Off" to reflect that. None of you would've seen any changes, though, 'cause I hadn't gotten close to posting either story when I finally figured out this whole spiel. Thank you for bearing with me in what is really a note to myself, but I thought maybe ya'll might be interested. If I'm wrong, sorry and again, thanks for your forbearance.

Annyway! He's baaaccck, but we are just gettin' warmed up. After all, we still have quite a few loose ends to tie up, so we'll be charging full steam ahead into "No Home Like the One I've Got", back in the main Flashpoint archive on Tuesday, February 9th, 2021.

I hope everyone enjoyed and, as always, please read and review! I really do respond to every signed review and I treasure each one for a lifetime.

See You on the Battlefield!