Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Characters: John, Scott. Rating: K+. Warnings: Implied Panic Attack

Drabble challenge from such-a-random-rambler: "Trapped and Beach" with John.

This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea and John had no idea why he'd ever agreed to it. Had he even agreed to it, or was it one of those times where no-one had bothered to ask him and he'd just been dragged along anyway? It had been a few years since the last time that had happened, his family learning their lesson about forcing him out of his comfort zone the hard way, and he found it hard to believe that they'd make that mistake again.

Then again, his family weren't here. His family were back home, probably fast asleep because of the time difference, leaving him with a group of college peers who had decided for some reason that the best thing to do was a day trip to the beach. He'd been dragged, entirely reluctantly, to join them with promises that it was a quiet beach and no, there wouldn't be many people.

Clearly, they thought it was a little white lie and that he'd get over it. His course mates were still strangers, acquaintances at best, and hadn't yet understood that his reclusive nature was entirely by choice. He wasn't shy, he just didn't like people.

And he hated crowds.

The beach was a hive of activity, teeming with humans in a living, breathing, pulse of people. He'd frozen up, unable to take another foot forwards, to join that monster, and his stupid, ignorant course mates had just laughed and dragged him through the sand until he was stuck right in the heart of it all.

Then they'd left him, dumped him on bag duty on the assumption that he was just being antisocial and therefore could guard their bags while they all threw themselves into the sea - teeming with almost as many bodies as the sand of the beach itself - and all John could feel was the pressure of so many people.

Packed in like sardines, people kept touching him, a hand on his shoulder as they skipped over the bags piled around him in a scrambled defensive barrier that completely failed at its designated task, tripping over his feet even though he was hugging his knees tightly to his body, trying to make himself small enough that no-one would notice him, no-one would touch him.

It didn't help. It didn't stop the noise, didn't stop the people brushing past him, didn't stop the claustrophobia or the choked-up feeling in his throat. Breathing was hard, too hard, and he should unfurl himself, but that meant making a larger surface area for people to interact with, and just the thought of that tightened his airways more.

He couldn't get out. He didn't care about the bags, would happily abandon them in a heartbeat if it meant escaping, no matter how his course mates would react, but getting out meant clambering over warm bodies, meant doing to other people what was being done to him, meant more physical contact, and the mere idea of it was enough to have tears running down his cheeks, air harder and harder to draw in.

He was trapped. No way out, no escape, and he curled up tighter, praying for the hell to miraculously disappear.

His phone dug into his thigh, poking through the thin shorts he'd been prodded into wearing for the trip, and it was stupid, but John was long past rational thought as he fumbled it from his pocket, almost dropping it into the sand when trembling fingers failed to grip it properly, and instinctively mashed the first number on speed dial.

Almost immediately, he went to end the call, a spike of rationality hitting again. A phone call wasn't going to help, and the time difference meant he'd still be asleep anyway and-

"John?"

The call connected before he could cut it, his big brother's voice distorted by the speakers and still drowsy with sleep, and his trembling fingers froze just short of the end call symbol.

"John, are you okay?"

Scott's first instinct was concern, even though he was clearly still waking up, but perhaps that should be because he was still waking up. John knew the timezones, did the math instinctively, and never called them before dawn.

Back in Kansas, dawn was still a little way off.

"John?"

Concern was rapidly shifting to worry, and it was that familiar tone, the big brother sensing something was wrong and immediately hunting for ways to set things right, that had him whimpering his brother's name.

Scotty. He hadn't called him that in years. Not like this, a plea and a prayer.

"I'm here, John," Scott promised, even though he was just a voice in his ear, not one of the warm bodies pressing against him - the only warm body John ever willingly suffered on a regular basis, because the rest of the world was one thing, but his big brother was a barrier of safety. "Can you talk to me?"

The sleep had vanished from his voice, big brother wide awake at the prospect of a little brother in distress. John hadn't been that little brother in years.

Since the last time he'd called for Scotty in that little whimpered plea and prayer.

He tried, searched for words, attempted to vocalise them, but he couldn't grasp them, couldn't get his breathing to stop hitching long enough for his lips to form them.

"Okay, okay." Scott cut through his attempts, calm and steady in a whirlwind world that wouldn't stay still. "Okay, John, you need to breathe. Can you take a breath for me? As deep as you can."

He tried, clinging to his brother's voice, but his throat hitched again and it turned into the gasp of a drowning man. Scott stayed steady in his ear, reassuring him, coaxing him to try again, counting him until there was air reaching his lungs again and wrapping him in the security of a big brother.

There was no demand what was wrong. No insistence that he talk to him, even though John knew Scott had to be panicking and running through scenario after scenario in his head, trying to work out what had sparked the whole mess. Just reassurance, a steady voice in his ear keeping him grounded and helping him breathe.

"Sorry." It slipped out, an apology for worrying his brother, for waking him up, for forcing him to help him from the other side of the Atlantic.

"Don't apologise." Scott's reply was quick, automatic, and predictable. "I'm always here if you need me, John. Always." The last word was more than a promise, it was an insistence, a full binding oath. "Where are you?"

The warm bodies were still there, but Scott's voice was like a forcefield, keeping the full force of them from hitting him. Keeping him safe.

He told him, even though there was nothing Scott could do about it. His big brother couldn't work miracles, no matter how hard he tried, but a small part of John clung to the childish hope that maybe, just maybe, Scott would appear in front of him and guide him out of there.

Of course, that didn't happen. Scott was in Kansas, teleportation still only existed in fiction, and John was on a beach in England.

What did happen, a while later but John was still on the phone, still talking to Scott about anything and everything and trying desperately to forget where he was, was a flash of blond and designer sunglasses covering bright blue eyes.

"John, darling," Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward said, delicately picking her way past the warm bodies towards him, her own forcefield of upper class and a scowling bodyguard parting them like the old story of Moses and the Red Sea. "You look rather lost."

A perfectly manicured hand hovered in front of him, not quite touching but an invitation, and John accepted it.

The bags were forgotten, a lesson for course mates to learn, as she led him out through the crowds and into a familiar pink car.

His phone was still pressed to his ear, the call still connected even though Scott had stopped talking when John had stopped responding, and John didn't know how he'd done it, but, "Scott?"

"Yes, John?"

"Thank you."

"Any time, little brother."

There was only one way Penelope could have known to come looking for him.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari