Wow, guys, we are getting so close to the end now! Thank you so much for those of you who have stuck with me and I'm really glad you've been enjoying the story.

Virgil threw the towel on the floor as he stepped out of the bathroom. He grabbed his top, but paused before pulling it on, instead moving across to the mirror. He was not a vain man but took a moment to stare at his reflection.

He had lost weight and still looked exhausted. The bruising he had sustained from the beatings were beginning to fade, although ugly splashes of colour lingered across his torso, and the marks around his wrists were still red. They didn't hurt – as long as Virgil didn't think about his frantic struggles as the water had lapped around his waist.

He shivered and pulled the top on. Despite the obvious marks, he had expected something else, something more. As his family liked to remind him, he had drowned. The mental scars ran deep and it would take time to get over that – he knew that. But he had expected some visible mark to identify what he had been through.

Turning away, he picked up the towel. He didn't want to stay away but Scott wouldn't be stirring anytime soon. Brains had re-administered the sedative and they had all heard the plan: keep Scott unconscious for a few days while they gave his body the chance to heal, then slowly ease him off it, letting him realise for himself it was safe to sleep.

Part of Virgil, a selfish part, was glad Scott was asleep. Being home had brought with it a whirlwind of emotions he was struggling to process and he wanted time before facing up to them. He didn't have much luck hiding how he was feeling from John and Gordon, but it was impossible to conceal anything from his oldest brother.

Scott needed to focus on himself, not using Virgil as a scapegoat for avoiding facing up to what had happened. At least this time, there was no denying it was over. Two bullets at point blank range had seen to that.

Someone knocked on his door.

"Come in," Virgil called, stepping back into the room again and kicking the bathroom door shut behind him. Alan appeared, staring at Virgil incredulously.

"Gordon said you died!"

Virgil raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Did he?"

It hadn't taken long for his father to arrange to have Alan brought home. He had arrived the day before but Virgil had barely seen him: he had spent the evening shut in their father's study with the man – not a place Alan normally voluntarily went.

When the door opened again, it was just so their dad could send Alan to bed - and the rest of them when he caught them lurking. Virgil had spent another night in the infirmary - another brother seeking out spaces normally avoided.

Despite having been physically safe, there were still dark circles under Alan's eyes and his face was pale. It had been frustrating stuck in the hospital, not able to act. Virgil dreaded to think what Alan had been putting his peers through and hoped Fermat had been able to get through to him, even when no one else could. He still didn't know what his dad had told the kid – Alan would have tried calling; he would have found out something was going on. But what he knew at school, and what he found out when in their dad's study the evening before, Virgil wasn't sure.

"He didn't mean to," Alan admitted, scuffing his feet and refusing to meet Virgil's gaze. He shuffled further into the room, shutting the door behind him. "But it's true, isn't it? You died."

"Doesn't matter," Virgil said, "I'm fine."

"But-,"

"You ever heard of a living, breathing, walking, talking ghost?"

It was easy, in a way. Alan had been sheltered from this, and Virgil had no intention of shattering that. Certain truths couldn't be avoided; everyone in the villa had heard Alan's reaction when he first saw Scott and it had taken their grandmother over an hour to calm him down.

If logic came into it, Virgil knew they should have left Alan at school, at least until some of the physical injuries had healed. But they had just gone through hell being torn apart; they all had a need for the entire family to be together. Facing it now, with all of them to support him, would ultimately be easier for Alan than things being let slip (as was now the case) and his brother assuming the worst.

Still, there were some things they could control and Virgil didn't intend Alan finding out how close it had been. He guessed when Gordon had let his drowning slip, he forgot to mention the explosion that could have taken both him and John.

Alan frowned at him. "Is it true?" he pressed.

Virgil sighed, running a hand through his hair. He sat down on the end of the bed, gesturing for Alan to join him.

"Do you remember anything from before?"

John had revealed Gordon remembered more than any of them thought. But Alan had only been a toddler and they had kept the full truth from him the best they could.

Alan shook his head as he sat down.

"A feeling," he muttered, "of being abandoned. I don't even know if it's from then."

Virgil smiled softly. Gordon had had the same; a fear of being left. Alan had probably picked it up from Gordon without ever realising why.

"It was hell," Virgil admitted. Alan looked at him in surprise. Virgil knew he had to give Alan something, even if it was to protect him from the full story.

"But we got through it. We pulled together."

"We nearly didn't," Alan said. "Didn't Scott end up back in hospital?"

"I thought you didn't remember anything?"

Alan shrugged. "I shared a room with Gords for years. I pick up stuff."

Virgil chuckled softly. He slung an arm around Alan's shoulders. "We got through it," he said, his voice sincere. "And we'll do it again."

Alan nodded. Virgil suddenly realised how close to tears his brother was and knew that, by avoiding the question, Alan had got his answer.

"Come on," Virgil said quietly. He gripped Alan's shoulder, guiding him to his feet. "I know what will help."

"I'm not going to the infirmary," Alan said. Virgil knew Gordon's influence was already affecting him: one younger brother wouldn't do something, so neither would the other.

"Something better." Virgil led Alan from his room, down the stairs and towards the kitchen. Alan tried to shrug him off but Virgil tightened his grip.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yeah, right."

His brother was sixteen – Virgil highly doubted there was ever a time when Alan wasn't hungry. But that wasn't why he had brought him here. Pushing the door open with his hip, he glanced around.

"Grandma?"

"Over here, dear."

His grandmother was sitting at the table with a cup of tea in front of her. She was finding it as hard as Gordon and Alan to see Scott in the infirmary, preferring to focus her attention on the rest of them until her grandson was awake.

"Al needs a sugar boost."

"I see." Their grandmother crossed to them, cupping Alan's face for a few seconds before drawing him away from Virgil. "I know just the thing."

"But-," Alan didn't stand a chance as his grandmother guided him further into the kitchen, sitting him down.

Virgil slipped out before the attention was turned on him. Long afternoons at the kitchen table, cradling hot chocolates and talking to their grandmother were memories they all shared of their childhood. They admitted things to her they would never say to one another and she was the only person Alan would truly let his guard down around.

Virgil knew his father was in the infirmary: it was where Virgil should be. But he detoured via the lounge, realised his brothers were outside and went that way instead. John was on his laptop, brow furrowed and fingers tapping. Gordon was sitting on the edge of a lounger, staring wistfully at the pool.

"I want a word with you," Virgil said, making Gordon jump. His brother sighed.

"This is about Alan, isn't it?"

"What did you tell him for, you idiot?" Despite his words, his tone was soft. Gordon looked so miserable he didn't have the heart to be angry.

"I didn't mean to," his brother said. His expression was one of contrition and Virgil believed him. "But he wouldn't let up about my arm and it just slipped out."

"He's going to ask questions," John said quietly. "We all know hiding stuff doesn't work."

"He's a kid."

"So we were, Virg."

Virgil looked at John, then looked away. His brother was right: Scott had been Alan's age, the rest of them younger, when this had started. Alan had three of them to quiz – four if he started on their dad. If their answers didn't match up, he would form his own idea of what had happened.

"Can't fly in reality," Gordon murmured softly, also looking at John. Virgil didn't know what he was talking about but the expression on John's face revealed he did.

"He'll start imaging worse if we don't give him something," John explained.

Gordon laughed – a humourless sound that fell flat. "What's worse?"

No one had an answer to that. Virgil sighed, taking the chance to stare at the view, drinking it in, enjoying the fact he was here, alive, in order to see it.

Then he moved.

"I'm going to-,"

"Sit and stare at Scott until he wakes up," Gordon said. "Got it."

Virgil looked at his brother. He knew the pain was only partly to blame for the tension running through Gordon.

"Al's looking for you," he said. "Think he said something about trying the kitchen first?"

Gordon stood up, cradling his arm. "I'll go get him before he decides to search the forest."

His tone was hollow and Virgil bit his lip as he watched his brother go inside. Despite all they had spoken about in the hospital, Gordon was struggling to deal with everything that had happened.

"Alan knows he's out here." John sounded suspicious and Virgil grinned.

"He's with Grandma." It was the only explanation needed. She could handle Gordon and Alan together just as easily as one of them and her fussing over both would unite them. It was what Gordon needed.

"Nicely played." John turned back to his laptop.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping Dad," John murmured, already engrossed again. "We still need to find a way to explain what happened. We've got Scott here: they'll know we're involved."

"What's Llina said?"

"She's stalling the officials," John said, "but she can't keep it up for much longer. Dad's in talks with the GDF."

Virgil nodded distractedly. The Global Defence Force knew their true identities. While they would help, it would also reveal they had taken the law into their own hands when they stormed that bunker. Blag wouldn't have been the only one who hadn't made it out alive and Virgil wasn't certain what would happen next.

"Go on," John said with a fond laugh, "I know you don't want to be out here with me."

A flash of guilt shot through Virgil. His brother had stayed by his side, had saved his life, but Virgil couldn't deny his words.

"Do you need any help?"

"Virg-," John looked up, shaking his head. "Go and relieve Dad. I'll be in shortly. You need to rest, kid, before your body remembers that you were in hospital three days ago. Go and sit with Scott."

Virgil scowled. "He's not awake. If you need-,"

"Virgil: go away."

Virgil went. He had tried but they both knew that if he truly wanted to stay with John, his brother's dismissal would have meant nothing. They both knew where he wanted to be.

The soft murmur of voices from the kitchen made him smile. He'd originally planned to get a coffee but didn't want to interrupt – or let his grandmother set her sights on him. Instead, he moved straight to the infirmary.

His father was slumped in a chair, watching Scott with a vacant expression. It was no surprise he needed John to help figure out a plausible explanation for all of this: his mind was stuck in the past, remembering the last time he had been in this position. Although whether that was waiting for Virgil to wake up in the hospital or when Scott had been re-admitted when they were young, Virgil couldn't say.

He touched his father lightly on the shoulder.

"Go and get some air, Dad," he murmured. "I'll watch him."

His father stretched, his hands resting on his lower back as he straightened out.

"Brains will be in shortly," he said. "Tell him there's been no change."

"I will."

"And tell him-,"

"Dad," Virgil interrupted. "It's okay. I know what I'm doing."

His father rested a hand on his shoulder before moving towards the door. "I won't be long."

"Get some rest, Dad. You're exhausted."

His father heard him but Virgil doubted he had listened. He would return shortly, looking just as drained as he did now.

Virgil couldn't blame him. He felt the same. He took the man's vacated chair and moved it closer to the bed, sitting down, toeing off his shoes and putting his feet up. He couldn't shake the memory of Scott's wide-eyed look of terror when the hole in the crypt had been widened, or his brother's broken whisper, his promise to stay alive until he had avenged them.

Virgil couldn't leave him. Not now. Not after everything.

"He's dead and it's your fault. You chose him: you killed him!"

"Brains, he's stirring."

"He s-shouldn't, uh, be."

"What would your mother think of you?"

The same words, hissed in hatred as the men closed in; shouted in glee when he fought back. The same phrase, echoing in his soul…

"His heart-rate has rocketed!"

"It's all your fault."

"Shh, Scotty. Sleep."

A pinch…Blackness…

He couldn't get up. Someone kicked his knees, someone else held him down…

"Brains?"

"He seems to be, uh, fighting it."

"Then do something! He's burning up."

Rope burnt his wrists, his arms twisted around the chair. His smirking face as his men asked questions he didn't understand…

"Easy, big brother."

A pinch…Blackness.

A hand closed around his throat.

"Don't fight it, son. It will help you. You're safe, just relax…."

"I own you. You trained, because of me. You fight, because of me. I own you."

Unable to breathe…

"You'll never escape me."

"It's over. You're safe. We're all safe. Don't fight it, Scott…please, stop fighting us."

A pinch. Blackness…

"What would your mother think?"

Blackness…

"I own you."

Blackness…

"They're alive, Scott, they're here. We're all here."

Blac-

Light.

His eyes opened.

He stared around incomprehensibly. He wasn't in his cell any longer. Bright light washed across his vision and he was warm and comfortable. His gaze moved and he carefully looked around. He recognised this place.

Home.

He was home.

"Scott?"

His breath caught at the voice. Turning his head was effort but he managed it, trying to focus. His dad smiled at him, reaching forward, the back of his fingers resting against Scott's cheek.

"You're okay," he murmured softly, "you're safe."

But his dad hadn't been there. Virgil had.

Hadn't he?

He was certain he hadn't imagined his brother being there, promising the others were there as well. But Virgil wasn't here now…

"V'g?" His voice betrayed him; hoarse with misuse and his throat burning as he attempted to speak. His father understood him though – and he wasn't the only one.

"I'm here, Scott."

His brother came into view, smiling at him. Scott stared. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a trick. His brother was alive. So was he. And they were home.

"J'hn?" he rasped. "Gord'n?"

"All present and correct." The cheerful voice came from the end of the bed and Scott forced himself to squint in that direction. John and Gordon were standing there, relief obvious in their expressions. Scott took in the sling supporting Gordon's arm, then realised someone else was there.

"Al?"

"I'd have stayed in school if I knew I was coming home for roll-call."

Scott stared, not understanding how his youngest brother was here as well. Gordon frowned momentarily, then turned to Alan.

"They'd have kicked you out. Scorch marks don't come out of ceilings, Sprout."

Gordon's words distracted the family from Scott's confusion, and Alan glared at him.

"Shut up," he said, elbowing him.

"Ow, watch the ribs."

"There's nothing wrong with your ribs."

"Okay, boys, enough. Go and give your grandmother a hand."

His father's voice washed over him: firm, in control and safe. Scott shut his eyes, leaning back, unable to support his own weight any longer. He had never realised he associated his father with safety until that moment.

"Literally," Alan snorted.

"Alright, smart-ass," Gordon said. Scott opened his eyes to watch as Gordon pulled Alan into a headlock and bustled him towards the door. Alan left but Gordon paused in the doorway, looking back.

"Man, it's good to see you awake," he said before disappearing after Alan. Scott tried to smile - it was what his brothers needed - but he couldn't.

"Go back to sleep, Scotty," his father murmured, his voice soft.

Scott shook his head. He couldn't sleep: sleep wasn't allowed, it was… exactly what he needed, safe with his family, on their island, where no one could reach them.

His hand scrunched into a fist, trembling violently, as he tried to accept he was allowed to rest. A hand covered his.

"You don't have to," his dad said. "Just relax."

Knowing it was his choice stopped him fighting it. As soon as he did so, his entire body relaxed and his eyes slipped shut again.

It was dark when he woke. The infirmary was bathed in a soft yellow light and he could focus better when he looked around. John and Virgil were still there. John was working on his laptop and Virgil looked to be asleep, sprawled in a chair. But John looked up as soon as Scott opened his eyes and kicked Virgil's chair, making him also open his eyes.

"Hey," Virgil said, leaning forward. "How are-,"

John cleared his throat meaningfully and Virgil's mouth snapped shut. Even in the dim light, Scott saw him flush.

He tried to speak, but only croaked. Attempting to clear his throat backfired: once he started coughing, he couldn't stop, each gasp of breath feeling like a fire raging in his throat. As he struggled to breathe, both of his brothers stood up.

Virgil reached for something hooked over the edge of the bed but Scott didn't notice it was an oxygen mask until his brother held it over his mouth. As the fresh oxygen flooded him, he managed to catch his breath. John appeared as Virgil drew back, a glass of water in his hand. Scott stared at it. He remembered chasing droplets in the bottom of a bucket, desperate for a drink. He remembered Blag making a show of drinking in front of his prisoner while Scott was tied to a chair, unable to react.

He couldn't remember the last time he had drunk.

John slipped a straw in and held it up for him. Scott gulped eagerly, only his brother pinching the straw now and again to slow the flow stopping him from going too fast. He sat back when the glass was empty, panting.

"Better?" John said, smiling, as he set it to one side and perched on the edge of the bed.

Scott stared at him. The last time he had seen John, an explosion had ripped them apart. He had had no idea if his brothers had survived it – they had been so close – and he wasn't sure he believed what his senses were telling him.

"They're alive, Scott," Virgil said softly, reading him. "We all are."

Scott's gaze shifted onto Virgil. His brother smiled at him, and shame greater than anything he had ever known overwhelmed him, catching in his chest and forcing him to lower his gaze rather than face Virgil.

It didn't matter that Virgil had survived Blag's test. Scott had chosen. He had condemned his brother to death. He hadn't known a rescue was coming; hadn't dreamt of a way Virgil would escape.

He had killed his brother.

The fact Virgil had survived was neither here nor there.

"Scott?"

He realised too late his thoughts must be showing in his expression. He stared at the bed instead, not knowing what to say. Virgil shifted closer, and suddenly a hand touched his neck gently as his brother swore.

"What did he do to you?"

Scott shrugged, squeezing his eyes shut. Virgil shouldn't care, not after what Scott had done. But he could still feel Blag's hands around his throat, still hear his claims that he was responsible for who Scott had become.

"It's alright," Virgil continued, "you can talk to us."

He couldn't. He couldn't admit to anything after what he had done to his brother. He kept his eyes shut, turning away.

"Scott?"

"Virg, get out."

"What?"

He heard John move around the bed, but kept his gaze averted. He heard his brothers whispering – Virgil furious, John calm – until the sound of footsteps and the door opening, then closing rang through the room. There was a moment of silence.

"Just us, big brother," John said quietly. There was the scrape of a chair and Scott opened his eyes. John sat at the end of the bed, giving him space. Scott looked at him, then looked away.

"So," John continued. He folded his arms and looked steadily at him. Scott tried to flinch away, but he couldn't escape John's gaze.

"You gonna tell me what this is about? Why you won't look at Virgil? Or do you need me to say it?"

Scott knew he would – he had lost count of how many times John had accurately known what was bothering him. Virgil was there when he needed someone to confide in or to rant at. Both Virgil and John could read him, knew what he wasn't saying. But while Virgil knew and let him address it in his own time, John forced him to confront it, knowing he needed to speak often before Scott himself did.

He didn't speak this time though and John sighed.

"Stop me when I'm wrong," he said, straightening up. "You think that, because Blag was a deranged madman, it's somehow your fault that Virgil was in that crypt when it flooded? That it's your fault Virgil got taken, your fault that Gords and I were caught in that explosion? Your fault that you went through hell?"

"I led you there." Scott suddenly found his voice. It was hoarse and it hurt, but he needed John to stop sounding so calm. He needed his brother to understand this was his fault – and to hate him for it. "I pushed you to go to that hanger. I didn't get down to the street in time, I froze. And I chose."

The last part was little more than a whisper, but Scott knew his brother heard him.

"Did you kidnap Virgil?"

"No, but-,

"Did you blow up the hanger?"

"No, but-,"

"Did you lock Virg in that crypt? Did you let the water in?"

"He made me choose-,"

"Have you been through absolute hell, physically and emotionally, over the last few weeks, fighting with everything you have just to stay alive?"

"To avenge-,"

"Remind me again: how is any of this your fault?"

"I didn't shoot!" Scott's voice rose and another cough tore through him. John shifted but Scott caught his breath, even if the effort left him shaking and slumped back against the pillows again.

"I had the chance and-,"

"Scott, stop." John's voice was firm, a tone used to being listened to in difficult situations. "You did shoot. You saved Virgil's life. You saved us all. You ended it."

"That's not when I meant."

"I know," John said softly. "I don't know what you went through, Scott. I can't pretend to understand. But I do know who is to blame, and it's not you. I know exactly what Virgil needs right now, and that is you."

"But-,"

"You're not the only one who nearly got a brother killed," John muttered. Scott stared at him, then remembered Gordon's sling. He shifted.

"What happened?" It was suddenly instinctual: something was troubling John. But his brother laughed softly, shaking his head.

"Later," he said. He stood up. "Can I get Virg back now?"

Scott lay his head back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "Only Virg," he murmured. He couldn't face the others. Couldn't even face his father.

He had always prided himself on being Jeff Tracy's son. Now, he didn't know if that was true, or whether someone else had been a bigger influence on his choices.

John's hand was suddenly on his shoulder. "You're not alone, Scott," he murmured. "Remember that."

He gave his arm a squeeze and left, no doubt to track Virgil down. Scott knew he wouldn't have far to go: Virgil was probably right outside the door. John was giving him the chance to pull himself together. Scott looked at the IV line running into his arm and his hand clenched.

He was on his own – and knew that wouldn't be a common occurrence over the next few days. A wordless, soundless scream ripped from him as he acknowledged the pain, the fear and the anger. As his emotions surged, he was vaguely aware of an insistent beeping and realised he wasn't truly alone – he was being monitored.

But even as the door opened and hurried footsteps crossed the infirmary, Scott realised he was tired of fighting. He didn't have to be strong now.

As his brothers and father reached the bed, he surrendered back to the blackness.