They gave that dubious honour to Grandma: she was usually the one left behind and had years of experience of waiting while her family was facing danger, it seemed needlessly cruel for her to have to wait this time. She was flown out by Gordon himself as Virgil was still barred from the cockpit. A few hours later Scott bought her back, got a shower, change of clothes and he went out again with Alan. It was a complex ballet of flights and sleep and too much worry and short words and nervous waiting.
Thinking was so difficult. It was dark and confusing and thinking was hard. His thoughts flowed like treacle: that is to say they moved, but nowhere fast. It wasn't always this dark. There used to be light and colour and movement but he was damned if he could remember where that was.
One of the first things they did was set up a holo-scanner in the hospital room so back on the island hung a permanent translucent image of John. It was a strangely morbid centrepiece to the couches and though it wasn't the same as being there it was somewhat of a relief to see him even if it was half a world away.
General consensus from the medical community was to talk to the patient, and talking was a thing that Tracy's could do in spades. They said good morning to the projection with cereal bowls in hand and goodnight when heading to bed. Alan moved his gaming from his bedroom and narrated non-stop for three hours. Virgil talked through the latest upgrades for Two, bouncing ideas off his unconscious brother. Gordon read aloud: magazines, books, the news: anything that was to hand. Scott was mostly a silent observer: he was there in person holding John's hand lost in his own thoughts while the rest of the family filled the airwaves.
Sometimes there was a rumble in the distance, a thunder of voices that echoed across the darkness. Sometimes it was silent. The thunder was awful because of the nagging feeling that there should be some sense to it. The oppressive silence was worse for the isolation it bought.
In general the doctors were pleased with his progress despite the stumbling blocks. One evening John had some type of fit and Scott was escorted firmly into the corridor to wait. They had said it was to be expected, that it didn't mean anything but Scott had felt his blood pressure rise a few notches when the alarms started to sound and John's previously lax form started to spasm and it hadn't gone down again when he was allowed back in the room. That had been after John was stabilised and there was another round of xrays to make sure that none of the broken ribs had shifted to pierce delicate internal organs.
Pins stabbed into, through him. Sharp and burning they came from nowhere with no warning. How could he protect himself if he had no warning? There was someone who was meant to help with that. Where was she? He wasn't used to being alone any more but there was no-one else here.
The next day John's temperature spiked despite the cocktail of antibiotics being pumped through his I.v. Scott didn't move from the bedside even to stretch his legs for the next twelve hours while the infection waxed and waned; potentially deadly for a body already under so much strain. John's face paled and flushed in turns, his skin taking on a clammy film of sweat until the infection lost it's hold.
It was too warm. It was cold. It was burning and icy and close and cloying and he couldn't breathe and the pressure was getting worse. The thunder was as loud as ever. Some of it sounded familiar now. Did he know it from before? Or was he just getting used to it?
Virgil was a problem spotter: senses always keen for the first sign of an avalanche or increased stress on a loadbearing yet damaged wall. He had a lot of practice and he had become rather good at it so he'd spotted a number of problems in the four days that John had been in hospital.
Luckily he was also a problem solver.
Good news! While writing this short chapter I have come up with an ending to this story, so I can write with a bit more confidence now I know where it's going to end up. Not that some of you would be exactly dissapointed with an infinite number of chapters with John in a hospital bed, but still.