You're all wonderful. And thank you to TigreMalabarista for the information about Houston - I hope I haven't mangled the city too badly to fit it into the story.

Oh, and there is as much medical accuracy here as you can expect from ninety seconds of googling. You have been warned.

Scott had sat in a hospital once before waiting for news about John. Grandma had been with him then, and a tiny toddling Virgil. Dad was in with Mom of course, and he had remembered sitting on a chair that was far too big, kicking legs that would take years to reach the floor. He was getting a baby brother! Well, another one, but he didn't remember getting Virgil, not really: he had always been there. So in a way this was Scott's first baby brother and he was excited to meet him. Grandma Tracy had given him chocolate milk and read him a story until Dad had come in with a something squirming wrapped in a blanket.

He was alone this time – Virgil had been instructed to go home and rest from the mild concussion he had been hiding, and he would obey a doctor in a way he would never listen to Scott. Besides, maybe it was better that Virgil was home, keeping everyone hanging together there: it wasn't really appropriate for the International Rescue clan to descend on a working GDF facility for a wait of indeterminate length.

At some point an intern of some sort had delivered him a coffee, but it had grown cold untouched, the accompanying sandwich warm and limp. For a while Scott had sat, then he had paced, then he had sat again, filled with an anxiety induced energy. Waiting was not his strong suit, the urge to leap into action usually tempered by the steadying influence of Virgil or John.

John's blanket had been orange. Mom had made it herself. John still had it, kept safely at home neatly folded in his dresser. He'd received some teasing through the years that his blanket matched his hair. He hadn't had hair the first time Scott met him of course, not even a wisp. That had puzzled a young Scott not used to babies. He had asked Dad who had taken his hair and if they would giveit back.

"Mr Tracy?" A doctor opened the door and asked. Scott came to his feet instantly with a shiver of fear.

"Yes. Is there news?"

"There is." Thankfully he was straight to the point, all business. "John is out of surgery and has been moved to recovery. We've removed multiple pieces of shrapnel and repaired the internal damage – we managed to save his liver. I'm going to get a burns specialist to look at his arms: it's not really my area of expertise, but I don't believe he will need skin grafts. Broken bones will just take time, but right now we are waiting for the swelling on his brain to go down."

There was a lot of information there and the usual clear-headed Scott couldn't really take it in – after all he didn't have John to feed him only the data that was critical.

"Is he awake? Can I see him?"

"You can see him, but he's not going to be awake. Not for a while."

"Is he sedated?"

"In a way, but medically no. He had a very severe blow to the head that has caused extensive swelling on the brain. He will remain unconscious until that has eased, and to be honest that's probably best right now."

"So you can't wake him up? You're telling me he's in a coma."

"That's right. Would you like to see him now?"

Scott just nodded dumbly and followed as he was led down the corridor.

Dad had laughed and told him that John would have hair later. He had knelt down so he was low enough for his two other sons to be able to see, though Virgil was more interested in the velcro on his shoes. Scott remembered being entranced by John's tiny fingers at the end of his tiny hands, that were waving and grasping at the air. He had reached out tentatively, hesitantly, encouraged by a nod from his father, and gently stroked John's cheek. John had burbled, probably a nothing noise made by new-borns the world over but for Scott that had been a hello, clear as day.

John had been put in a private room, the attending nurse excusing himself discreetly. The doctor left him at the door with a warning to be careful, to be quiet. Scott's heart softly broke at the second time he had ever seen John in a hospital.

It seemed a nice room, as hospitals went. Aside from the bed of course there was room for a couple of chairs, a small table and a door to the private bathroom. The old mission control facilities from the original moon landings had been revamped out of some form of nostalgia when space travel became more common, and now fused the theoretical and the practical. Command centers and training facilities and launch pads were now all at the same location rather than hundreds of miles apart and this particular room would have a much sort-after view of any landings.

John would be thrilled if he had been awake to see it.

All the essential accoutrements of a medical facility were in place: wires attached to John's chest, tubes in his nose, iv lines to the back of his hand and the crook of his elbow. Both of his forearms were wrapped in what Scott recognised as specialist bandaging for the treatment of burns while more standard bandaging wrapped his upper chest. Several surgical dressings were in evidence across his torso and legs. Had he been injured there as well? How had Scott missed that?

John had been a little yellow when Scott first met him, just a touch of jaundice that faded quickly to his naturally pale complication, but now his skin tone was more grey: sallow in a way that should be impossible in a few short hours.

Scott moved closer to get a look at the screens displaying his vitals: everything seemed steady but sometimes computers were no match for reality. Softly felt for John's wrist for his pulse, counting carefully and timing it against his own. Once satisfied he rested his fingers on John's chest – mindful of his injuries, as light as a feather – just to feel the slow movement for himself.

This time there was no response to his touch – John didn't so much as twitch. Of all the Tracy brothers John was definitely the least fidgety, tending to direct his energy inward instead. All that meant was that went he did move it was in sudden and unexpected bursts – reading in one position for so long he had become camouflaged John would leap up in a flurry and rush off to explain to the nearest victim whatever exciting thing he had just learnt. This wasn't the stillness of concentration, or even of sleep. It went much deeper than that.

Scott pulled a nearby chair closer to the bed so he could sit, elbow resting on the bed, hand covering John's. Baby John had gripped his hand that first day, held it firmly despite his small size. Scott couldn't hold on tightly as he wanted to, so he settled for less. But the promise was just as fervent as the one he had whispered the day John was born, leaning in close over the blanket wrapped bundle.

"I'm your big brother and I'm going to look out for you. Come home soon John."

I have also made John both the middle child, and Scott's first little brother. So everyone is happy, or no-one is.