"Thunderbird 5. Major damage sustained. Possible strike by a meteorite."
Major damage sustained...
Yes.
Second to third degree burn on the back. The size of the palm of a hand.
IVs were taking care of the loss of fluid from that area. The doctor had explained to him that burn victims lost the most fluid because the skin in that area could no longer contain the vital liquid. So John was receiving two bags of Ringer Lactate to compensate for it. Add to it the stress and the heat and the lack of air aboard Thunderbird 5, and he really needed to be rehydrated.
Twenty-four hours.
The critical first twenty-four hours after injury.
Concussion.
The back of John's head had impacted with the walls of Thunderbird 5 and not only had he been cut, there was also a sizeable egg that spoke of the force with which he had collided. The concussion was mild, considering the other wounds.
Deep cut from a shrapnel to the upper arm, biting into the muscles, severing some, and it had needed extensive stitching. There was no apparent nerve damage.
Be grateful for little things.
Contusions.
Most of John's back was a motley assembly of bruises of varying degrees, but none of them were life-threatening, just painful.
Jeff Tracy leaned against the hospital wall, emotionally and physically drained. Still dressed in his stained uniform, aware that he had so much still waiting for him, so many responsibilities, he just waited for the fatigue to lessen.
It didn't, really.
It got stronger.
His own body was aching everywhere, his head hammered, and he wished for nothing but a bed and twenty-four hours of no interruptions.
As it was, he had one son in the hospital, four waiting for updates on his condition, and a lot of friends who wanted to know how John was.
John was fine. Really. He wasn't about to die.
But he nearly had.
Accidents happen. Yes, accidents did. But this hadn't been an accident. This had been intentional. John hadn't been flown to a private hospital Jeff knew would keep their confidentiality because he had bumped his knee or knocked an elbow playing ball. He had nearly been blown apart by a missile aimed at Thunderbird 5 by a crazy man calling himself The Hood.
The doctor talking to him had been very specific where the injuries, the treatment and the healing phase was concerned. The destructive impact on John's body had left its visible and invisible marks.
He sighed.
The flight to the hospital had been both swift and way too long. Jeff had had too much time with John, staring at the injured young man, taking in the damage that he had been able to ignore on the station when they had fought to stay alive, or even on the ground in London. But he hadn't been able to continue doing so, especially up close and personal, and then when Thunderbird 2 had landed at the private clinic and nurses and doctors had swarmed around them.
No one knew who they were, but everyone had heard of International Rescue, was ready to help. John had been placed on his good side on the gurney, an emergency doctor looking at the burns and cuts, face grim.
Jeff had insisted to be there while the uniform was cut off.
And he had seen the hideous burn mark.
He still felt sick remembering the injury that was now hidden underneath the white gauze. John had been running around, in pain, with that injury, had done whatever had been possible, until his body had shut down.
The news of the attack on Thunderbird 5, first believed to be a meteorite strike, had shocked him to the core. He had been unable to really think, had just reacted, until the moment the first danger had been battled, the fires had been put out, and John had been leaning against a damaged console, breathing through an oxygen mask.
Like right now. Only that the mask had been replaced by a nose tube.
Jeff's eyes were drawn to the pale face of his son and he sighed softly.
He could have lost him. To a rocket striking the defenseless station. To the revenge of a lunatic. To a mad man.
All his sons, with the exception of Alan, were in danger every time they went out on a rescue, but he would never had suspected anyone to attack Thunderbird 5. Never.
Someone had.
Someone who had nearly killed John.
Just like this someone had nearly killed Alan, the only son he had never seen as to be in any danger at all until that very moment, until their safe haven had been breeched and he had to watch helplessly from the wrecked Thunderbird.
The station was a mess, he knew. It would need extensive repairs. And John needed to heal.
Twenty-four hours.
Assured anonymity, Jeff had allowed the doctors to keep his son here. John needed these hours, had to heal, had to make the first steps to a complete recovery before they could take him home. But he didn't really want to leave him alone.
John could have died.
But he hadn't. He was alive. Battered, bruised, burned and cut, but breathing and alive.
Jeff pushed away from the wall and walked over to the hospital bed, smiling faintly down at the bleach-blond young man. John was sleeping, thanks to the medication, and he would live. He had been rolled onto his good side to keep his weight off the back injury, and a few pillows had been shoved against his back to keep him from accidentally rolling over in his sleep.
Jeff sat down on the hospital chair and watched the rise and fall of John's chest.
He should be home, talk to his other four sons, reassure them, be the father and steady rock in the sea they needed, but right now he was just tired and worried and had to stay.
They would understand.
They had each other and John shouldn't be alone.
A nurse found him two hours later, sleeping in the chair, face smudged from soot and sweat, uniform rumpled and equally stained. She quietly checked the nameless patient in the bed, then smiled briefly as she studied the older man, sleeping off his exhaustion.
She left again, silent, making barely any noise, and returned to her station.
tbc...