Thank you so much for those who are still following this. I really appreciate all the support

A few hours passed, but Virgil didn't notice as he stared at his brother. Scott needed help – more help than they could give right now. His father was bustling around the makeshift bed, a bottle of antiseptic in one hand and clean bandages in the other.

He should do something – anything - to help. But all he did was stare: his mind too fuzzy to contemplate anything more. His body was trembling, a forceful reminder that the drugs he had taken had worn off. He wanted to reach for more – wanted to help, damnit – but his father blocked him whenever he so much as looked, shaking his head without saying anything.

Virgil suddenly stumbled, instinctively grabbing onto the edge of bed. He looked up, hoping no one had noticed, but his dad was also holding on. The plane lurched again and Virgil realised this wasn't him.

"Strap in," his father ordered. The man moved easily across the jet, slipping back into the cockpit to take manual control. The plane steadied as his father guided it through the turbulence but Virgil obeyed and sat down. It took him a moment to remember to fasten his belt.

It took another moment before he snagged a spare bandage and started unravelling it, his fingers twitching with the need to do something.

He unravelled it. Then, without thinking, started winding it up again Then undid it…

"Virgil?"

Virgil blinked. His eyes were heavy, his body warm and comfortable. He looked around blearily. He was still strapped in but the chair was tilted back and there was a blanket draped over him, exactly as there had been for John. But John's chair was empty – as was the bed where Scott had been.

He lurched up, fingers scrabbling with the buckle.

"Easy," a voice soothed, and a hand rested on his shoulder. Virgil finally focused: John was standing over him, a soft smile on his face.

"Where is he?" Virgil begged, straining against the strap, not quite managing to undo it. His chest felt tight; that was what he had asked his father, days ago, only to learn Scott was beyond their reach.

It was over though. Blag was dead. Scott had pulled the trigger… Virgil was certain it had happened…

"We're home, Virg."

John's words cut through Virgil's fog-filled mind and he collapsed back against the seat, his eyes wide.

"Home?" His own voice was barely more than a whisper. The lump moved to his throat and he blinked rapidly. There had been so many times over the last few weeks when he truly believed he would never see his home again. Or, if he did, it would be little more than a shattered memory if they returned without Scott.

"Yeah," John said, "home."

Virgil shivered as John drew the blanket away and tossed it to one side before releasing Virgil's belt.

"C'mon, kid," he said, offering his hand. "Let's get out of here."

Virgil took his brother's hand and John pulled him up. For a second, his legs refused to support him and he clutched John's shoulder, attempting to remain upright. Then he steadied himself, took a deep breath and let go. This was something he had to do by himself.

He was glad it was John who had woken him. Virgil wasn't certain anyone else would understand his need to walk from the plane unaided, thinking he was just being stubborn. But although his brother shadowed him, close enough to stop him from falling if he stumbled, he let Virgil exit on his own.

They were in the hangar, but the exit was still open. The hangar was separate from the 'birds: secrecy wasn't needed here. Virgil's gaze was drawn outside, to the bright sunlight and fresh air. He took a step towards it without thinking.

"This way." John took his elbow and guided him towards the elevator. They went up to the house in silence but John opened the door and let Virgil enter first.

The lounge was flooded with the afternoon sun. The warmth hit him before he had taken a step. Familiar smells and sounds – his grandmother's cooking, the birds outside – washed over him and Virgil weaved.

He was home.

He closed his eyes, grounding himself. They were all home.

"Virgil!" His grandmother's voice made him open his eyes again. He looked up to see her hurrying towards him. Tears were in her eyes as she cupped his face, her gaze searching him anxiously. Virgil forced a tired smile.

"I'm okay, Grandma," he murmured. She didn't move, didn't look away, and Virgil knew she could see straight through him, just as she always had. She pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around him. He sank into the embrace, taking strength from the little old lady.

She eventually pulled back, wiping her eyes. Virgil felt lighter and his smile was genuine.

"I'm okay," he repeated. This time, he thought he might – just might - even mean it. She cupped his cheek once more before looking over his shoulder. Virgil knew her well enough to know the scolding look she was sending John was fake – the relief was too obvious.

"You, young man," she said sternly, "are in big trouble for just disappearing like that. And taking your brother with you!"

"Yes, ma'am," John said sheepishly. Virgil chuckled when his grandmother finally let go of him and moved forward, repeating her actions and pulling his brother into a hug as well.

He turned to the window. He had believed that crypt would be his grave and he would never again enjoy the warmth of the sun. He ignored everything else, focusing on the slither of ocean he could see. Sunlight sparkled off the waves and Virgil concentrated on the view, and that alone.

"Virgil?"

He blinked, turning at John's voice. His grandmother was nowhere to be seen.

"Where-?"

"The kitchen," John said. He smiled. "You're not with it, are you, buddy?"

Virgil shrugged. He took another look out of the window before turning his back on it. Moving across the lounge, he was aware of John following him but didn't care. He had spent too long up here. He had to get to the infirmary – he had to get to Scott.

When they passed the bottom of the stairs, though, John took his arm. Virgil pulled against him but his brother was stronger right now and Virgil couldn't shake him.

"You can't help, Virgil," John said. "You need to be in bed."

"You need to be in bed," Virgil retorted, not caring if it was childish.

"I slept the whole way home."

"So did I."

"I haven't spent the last week in hospital."

"Technically-," Virgil knew he was being difficult. But he didn't care. He pulled against the grip John had on his arm.

"In a hospital bed. Virg, you-,"

"Don't say it!" He was sick of people telling him he had died, as if he might forget that fact.

John changed tack. "Kyrano's in there with Dad. You'll get in the way. Get some rest, Virg, then you can see him."

"No." Virgil shoved his brother and John relented, letting go of his arm. "I'm not leaving him. Not again."

"Virgil-," John sounded resigned, but the stubborn glint in his eye meant Virgil knew he wouldn't back down either. He even knew why – John was feeling out of his depth and focusing on his younger brothers was the only thing he could think of doing right now. But Virgil had no intention of doing what John wanted, and he refused to back down.

"Stop it." The quiet voice was unfamiliar and Virgil whipped around. Gordon was slumped against the wall, looking at the floor. Virgil glanced at John, who returned his look with equal concern. Their heated words were forgotten as they both moved towards their brother.

"Gords?"

If both he and John had slept the entire way home, there was no way Gordon had. His face was pale and drawn, his arm bound in a sling across his chest. The pinch on the bridge of his nose told Virgil how much pain Gordon was in. He looked again at John, seeing the guilt flicker across his face as he too noticed Gordon's haunted appearance. Virgil had picked up enough to know Gordon had taken the bullet for John.

They reached him, but Gordon still refused to look up.

"Have you taken something?" Virgil asked softly. Gordon was between them and the infirmary and he bet his brother had just come from there. Gordon nodded but withdrew when Virgil reached out a hand.

"What is it?" John said, stepping closer. Virgil was not the only one realising this wasn't anything to do with his arm. Gordon shrugged, then went deathly pale, his eyes closing as a soft grunt escaped him.

"Tell us," Virgil said.

"We can help," John added.

Gordon finally looked at them and - to Virgil's relief - there was a faint smile on his face.

"Maybe I should have left you arguing," he muttered.

"We weren't arguing," John said and Virgil raised an eyebrow.

"Speak for yourself." His tone was light and when John pretended to glare at him, Gordon smiled properly. Virgil shared a look of triumph with his big brother. They always knew how to get through to their younger ones.

It wasn't enough for Gordon to wriggle his way out of not answering them, though. John repeated the question and Gordon sighed.

"He doesn't look like Scott in there," he murmured, staring back down the hallway towards the infirmary.

Virgil sighed. He knew exactly how Gordon felt. He had seen Scott in that place, seen the defeat and helplessness in his expression. Although Gordon had been spared that, seeing Scott unconscious and unresponsive was unnerving enough. Their father had tried to shield them the first time around but they weren't children any longer. It didn't make it any easier facing it now.

Virgil looked at Gordon, narrowing his eyes. Then he looked at John and jerked his head back towards the stairs. John nodded in understanding. He gently took Gordon's good arm.

"He will," he said quietly. "You just need to give him time."

Virgil watched, smiling, as John slowly led Gordon off and up the stairs without their brother appearing to notice. Just before he disappeared from view though, John glanced back over his shoulder. Virgil pretended to ignore the look: John wasn't through with him yet, either.

Rather than wait for his brother to continue his argument about why he should be in bed (he knew too well that both of his big brothers had the power to make him listen, whether he wanted to or not), he slipped down the hallway to the infirmary. His hand hovered over the door, unable to bring himself to open it. Seeing Scott had unnerved Gordon – the man who had charged down a tunnel yelling, knowing there were armed hostiles waiting for him. Virgil wasn't as brave as his brother.

Then he snapped himself out of it and opened the door.

Scott might be pale and unconscious. But Virgil had seen him chained to a wall in agony. This had to be better.

His dad and Kyrano were bent over Scott. Virgil didn't say anything, but pulled a chair closer to the bed. He didn't want to get in the way, painfully aware that he couldn't help right now. But as their soft voices washed over him, his gaze locked on his brother.

Surrounded by the starched white of the bed linen, Scott looked paler than before. It made the bruises more obvious. Someone had removed his top, and a thick wad of bandages were wrapped around his torso. Virgil had already suspected broken ribs. There was a splint on his broken arm and Virgil knew they had to wait for the x-ray before they could support it properly.

As he watched, Scott suddenly frowned, twitching. His father looked up briefly but neither man stopped what they were doing; they had their work cut out for them as it was. Virgil moved forward, perching on the very edge of his chair so he could reach his brother. He didn't know what time his father had given Scott the sedative, or if his brother had had anything since. He couldn't do anything drug-related without clearing it with his dad. But that didn't mean he couldn't help.

"Easy," he breathed. He rested a hand on top of Scott's head, not wanting to cause his brother additional pain. It also kept him out of the way.

"You're safe now," Virgil continued. "You're home. We're both home."

His voice hitched as he finally accepted the truth of those words. Blag was dead: it was over. They had made it home.

Scott frowned again and Virgil sniffed. It was typical of his brother to pick up the distress in his voice despite being unconscious.

"I'm okay," Virgil told him. "The others got there in time. They pulled me out. He didn't win, Scott. You hear me? I survived, so did Matt, John and Gordon. Now you as well. You beat him, Scott. You saved us again. We're all okay, so you just focus on yourself, you hear?"

Scott's expression eased and his face relaxed as he sank into a deeper sleep again. Virgil had no idea how long it was going to take until his brother stopped fighting against everything. He knew Scott relaxing could be dangerous – he had been running on adrenaline for so long. Virgil hoped that Blag had been too twisted in his plans to let his men do any life-threatening damage to his brother – it wouldn't have been a victory for Blag if Scott succumbed to his injuries.

A hand suddenly rested on his shoulder and Virgil looked up to see his dad smiling down at him.

"How about you take your own advice and focus on you for a little bit?"

Virgil shook his head. "He needs me."

"He does. Which means I need you rested for when he wakes."

"I'm not leaving him."

"I won't ask you to."

Virgil followed his father's gaze and saw him looking pointedly at the other bed in the room. Virgil swallowed. He didn't want to give in, but he could feel his body protesting what it had been through since he left the hospital. He ached and couldn't deny he was tired again. It would also be the only way he could stay in the infirmary; if his father and John teamed up together, he was fully aware he would be in his own bed before he knew what happened.

"Just an hour." Virgil reluctantly stood up, leaving his hand resting on Scott for as long as he could before turning away. It felt like a long way to the other bed, his feet dragging, but with his father following him, he couldn't turn around. He lay down, instantly rolling on one side so he could continue watching Scott. The warm weight of a blanket settled over him and his father's hand brushed through his hair.

"Sleep, Virg," his dad whispered, "Scott will be here when you wake up."

His choice of words did it. For the first time since this began, Virgil allowed himself to drift off, content in the knowledge his brother would still be in the same room as him when he opened his eyes again.

John was up before dawn.

He felt ill as he stepped onto his balcony. A faint hue brushed the horizon, but there was no sign of the sun yet. Despite battling Gordon into resting and returning to find his father had beaten him to it with Virgil, he had barely slept himself. Days of keeping himself awake were taking their toll; his mind and body now refused to relax, even though he knew they were home and safe.

He raided the (thankfully deserted) kitchen before moving through to the infirmary. Virgil hadn't left the previous day but to John's relief, he was still asleep. He wasn't sure if he was feeling up to acting as a big brother right now. Not while standing at the end of Scott's bed, staring at his own big brother and chewing his lip, feeling helplessly out of his depth.

They all had first-aid training and John could handle more injuries than an average civilian. But he spent most of his time on Thunderbird Five – he hadn't picked up the same instincts as his brothers when it came to dealing with wounds. He couldn't help Scott.

None of them were doctors but John couldn't bear the thought of even mentioning taking Scott to the mainland. It was selfish, but he knew the others would agree with him. They had the equipment and they had the supplies, but Brains was the only one with any real qualifications. Virgil had taken a budding interest when he was young, but his brother wasn't well either; they couldn't put this on Virgil's shoulders.

John suddenly realised there was something he could do to help his brother. He slipped out of the infirmary and sped through the villa. The door to his father's office was ajar and hearing voices made John change direction. It was early but it was no surprise he wasn't the only one awake.

He didn't go in. Hovering uncertainly outside meant he overheard enough of his father's conversation. The man was on the phone to Alan's school, arranging for the youngest to come home for a while. School had been safe while Blag was loose: it offered the best security. They also knew that Blag would have likely forgotten about Alan – he had been too young to be part of the drama when they were young.

But now it was safe, there was no reason why the family couldn't be properly reunited. John smiled as he stole away again. Knowing what his youngest brother was like when he felt he was being left out, he imagined the school would be glad to get rid of Alan for a few days.

Slipping into the silos, he moved quickly to Thunderbird Three and started running through the pre-flight checks. He knew what his dad would say if he asked permission, so he wasn't going to ask. It reminded him of how he had handled going to New York in the first place – something that felt like years ago now.

Once Three was ready, John muttered an apology to the rest of the family. No one (apart from Virgil) would sleep through the launch but he figured this was the one time they would accept it. He opened the concealed exit and pulled back on the throttle.

The radio crackled to life immediately.

"What the hell are you doing?" His father sounded more drained than angry, though. John knew he was doing the right thing; his dad couldn't handle this on his own.

"Getting Brains," John said shortly. "Stand by for launch."

"No. You're not rested. You don't have a co-pilot."

"We need him."

"I forbid it."

"Sorry, Dad." John cut the radio and focused on the launch. He didn't need a co-pilot. Apart from his father, he was the only one in the family who had done this for a career as well as with International Rescue. He knew what he was doing.

He launched – possibly quicker than he should have done. But he couldn't give his father the chance to override him. There would be words when he got back, but he had to do this. It was what Scott needed him to do – and if their positions had been reversed, John knew his brother would act just as rashly if it meant helping.

After that, the flight was fairly uneventful. The radio flared a few times – one was his father but he seemed to accept that now John had launched, there was nothing he could say. The other was Gordon, his voice hazy with pain, demanding to know why John hadn't woken him to assist.

Both times, John cut them off after only a few words and concentrated on flying. He needed the time alone, to process what had happened and what their future was going to be, without being asked if he was alright. He was used to being alone – his role as the Space Monitor had taught him that much. All this time in a confined space with his family meant he needed some breathing space.

It was a smooth flight and John was soon docked. He disembarked, running his fingers fondly over the walls of Thunderbird Five as he entered. Brains was waiting for him, a bag by his feet. John knew his dad had been in touch and was glad it meant he didn't waste time while Brains packed.

"Are you ready?" He wasn't in the mood for small talk. Brains nodded and it only took the pair of them a minute to flick Five onto autopilot: it was a job they had done together since International Rescue had begun.

Brains left and John followed him out. He paused before activating the airlock, though, looking back at his 'bird. This was the first time he had come here without any intention to stay. He wondered when – if – they would be operational again.

It didn't matter now though. Only his family mattered. The rest of the world would have to look after itself for a while.

He entered the code, sealing Thunderbird Five before making his way back to Three. Brains was already preparing for launch and John didn't argue, slipping into the co-pilot's seat. As Brains disengaged, turned the rocket around and started streaking back to Earth, John closed his eyes. He didn't sleep, but the vibrations of a rocket in space soothed him in a way he couldn't explain. He felt much calmer a few hours later when Brains requested permission to land and skilfully brought Thunderbird Three back to her resting spot.

His father and Gordon were waiting as they climbed down from the ship. John loosened the collar of his flight suit, catching Gordon's eye. His brother shook his head, not attempting to hide his smirk.

"Don't you ever do that again." His father's sharp reprimand made him look over. Brains slipped past them and John knew his friend would head straight to the infirmary. Brains would understand why John had acted the way he had done, and wouldn't waste time now he was back on Earth.

"I had to," John said. "Scott needs him."

"You're exhausted. Scott did not need you burning up in the atmosphere because you were too stubborn to wait for help."

"I knew what I was doing."

"That's not the point!"

"Dad?" Gordon stepped forward. "It's done. There's nothing you can do now and yelling at him won't help. John's right: Scott needs Brains. I know you were planning to go this afternoon."

Their father opened his mouth, but Gordon wasn't finished.

"Alone."

John watched his dad flush, glare at Gordon, then glare at him.

"Don't do it again," he said. He turned and hurried after Brains, muttering under his breath about troublesome sons.

John looked at Gordon and saw his brother was grinning at him.

"I'm impressed, Johnny," he said. "You stole a rocket."

John rolled his eyes but he was smiling. Not only would Brains help Scott, it seemed his actions had helped Gordon as well. Either one of those reasons would be enough for him to do it again.

"How did you know what Dad was planning?" he asked.

"He was asking Brains for advice last night. He knows Scott needs him and wouldn't let us go."

"You guessed?"

"I was right," Gordon said, looking affronted. "And just saved your ass."

"Thanks, kid." John motioned for Gordon to lead the way out of the silos. It was cold down there and John wanted to change before returning to the infirmary. As they moved upstairs, he unconsciously massaged his shoulder: the cold air had caused it to stiffen. He only realised what he was doing when he saw how closely Gordon was watching him.

"You'll have to teach me that trick," Gordon said quietly. John stopped, sighing.

"You shouldn't have got in the way."

"I should've just let you be shot then?" Gordon's tone was incredulous.

"Yes!" John ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze locked on Gordon's arm. "That shot could have killed you."

"It didn't."

"It could have!"

"John-," Gordon paused, struggling to find the words. "You did it for me. When we were kids. I remember that, clearer than anything else from back then. I'm a trained WASP agent and a member of International Rescue. I did it knowing full well what I was doing. You did it only knowing you had to look out for me."

"Do you think I could bear it if you'd been killed?"

"I wasn't."

"But-,"

"How often do you tell me not to dwell on the what if's?" Gordon said, looking him directly in the eye. John flushed, shifting. After every bad rescue, he always had words of comfort to offer his brothers to help them deal with what had happened.

"This is different," he retorted. Gordon shook his head.

"No, it's not. Saving people is my job. And if that means saving my brother, then it's just a job well done."

John tried to think of a comeback. Gordon should never have been put in a position where he could have been killed in the first place, let alone one where he was saving John's life. But they had survived an explosion, together. They had raced across several states after their brothers, not knowing what they were walking in on, together. And they had sat by Virgil's bedside, together, after rescuing him.

Gordon was right; this was what they did.

It didn't mean he liked it.

He reached forward, curling his fingers around the back of Gordon's neck.

"Don't ever do that again."

"Yes, Dad," Gordon said. John shook his head in amusement before letting go and nudging his brother towards the kitchen.

"Go on, smart-ass," he said. "Make Grandma's day and let her fuss over you a bit."

Gordon pulled a face but obediently turned towards the kitchen. John headed upstairs, quickly showering before returning to the infirmary.

Virgil was awake, sitting on the bed with his legs dangling off the side. His gaze was fixed on the other bed, though, where Brains was bustling around. The portable x-ray machine was to one side and John recognised the equipment needed to make a proper cast for Scott's arm. He smiled, crossed the room and hitched himself onto the bed next to Virgil. Both watched Brains work silently for a few moments.

"Thanks," Virgil muttered. John looked at him.

"For what?"

"Getting Brains," Virgil said. "Scott needs him."

"I know," John murmured, watching as Brains pushed up his glasses and picked up Scott's good arm, tying a tourniquet above his elbow. As he picked up a needle, clearly intending to draw blood, John realised he was not the only one to flinch. They both knew how much Scott would hate it.

"He can't feel it," John said, reassuring himself as well as Virgil. "Better now than when he is awake."

Virgil nodded and they both watched Brains work silently.

"Hey John?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks," Virgil said again. John looked at him.

"Now what?" He had an uncomfortable feeling of de-ja-vu, as if he was repeating the conversation he had just had with Gordon. Virgil shrugged.

"For letting me go in there. I know you didn't want to."

"You weren't going to turn back."

Virgil gave him a sheepish smile. "Nope. But you still agreed."

John sighed. Another brother he had let run into danger. But then he stared across the room and sighed, his gaze fixed on Scott.

"This started with the two of you," he muttered. "It felt like that was how it had to end."

Virgil followed his gaze.

"No," he said. "It ended with all of us. Together. As a family."

John smiled. He knew what Virgil meant. This had begun, all those years ago, because their family was falling apart. But now? No matter what Blag had tried, they had pulled through it, together.

He only hoped that was enough to get Scott through this.