John slipped out of the room, satisfied neither Gordon nor Alan would notice. He had persuaded Alan to show Gordon his new computer game – knowing his brother could handle it one-handed and it would stop Gordon moping. He was coping with the pain well, but after a week of being denied the pool, he was getting agitated.

John looked towards his father's study. The door was open but he couldn't hear anything. For once, it appeared the man wasn't there.

It hadn't taken John long to get his laptop back from his dad, but it had cost him a promise to ease back on the coffee and attempt to sleep. Five minutes of staring at the ceiling, trying to empty his mind that night, counted as an attempt. He hoped his dad saw it the same way.

He took a step in that direction, then stopped. He wanted to know what was going on, but if anything had changed, his dad would have told him. He knew full well what he was doing: Virgil wasn't the only one who had avoided the infirmary. So far, no one had noticed, but John wasn't going to push his luck, not after hearing what had happened between Gordon, Virgil and Scott. He wanted to do this on his own terms.

Now was a good a time as any. Forcing himself towards the infirmary, he paused outside the door, gritted his teeth then pushed it open and froze. Virgil was still in the room, his upper body cushioned across Scott's bed. John winced; his brother was going to be sore when he woke up. But his breathing was even and he looked relaxed for the first time in days. He wasn't the only one - Scott's eyes were also shut.

There was a screen next to the bed and John knew they had been on a vid-call with Matt for most of the morning. John still didn't know what had happened in that crypt – he wouldn't ask – but knew they'd needed to speak to Matt as much as they did each other. John himself had spoken to the officer only a couple times since they had returned home but was pleased he had made a full recovery. Matt had promised to fly out, but Nicole's due date was getting closer and he wouldn't leave his wife, nor would they ask him to.

John glanced at the screen, but it was blank. He wanted to talk to Matt properly himself, wanted to thank him for once again trying to save his brothers. He had barely seen their agent since this began and had been understandably distracted when they did speak. But Matt had been the one to help him hold it together after the first time and John had a feeling the man would be able to do it again now; despite the fact they were all adults now. He did want to make sure Matt was truly okay – but he also had selfish reasons for wanting to talk.

John looked back at the bed and smiled. Scott's hand was still resting on top of Virgil's head and he knew his big brother had been combing his fingers through Virgil's hair – probably without realising he was doing it. Seeing them together like this helped ease his own tension and John felt a little lighter. He turned to go.

"I'm awake."

The quiet voice called him back and he saw Scott's eyes open. John moved further into the room, his gaze locked on Virgil.

"He's going to feel that."

"I know," Scott muttered, "but what can I do?"

There was a bitter note in his voice. With one arm in a cast, the other attached to an IV line and a complete lack of strength, getting Virgil to sleep was as far as Scott could go. Moving him was impossible.

John stepped up to the bed. He slipped an arm around Virgil's chest and gently – pausing when Virgil snuffled – eased him up until he was resting back in the chair. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than before. Grabbing a spare blanket, he threw it over him. The last thing they needed was for Virgil to catch a chill, not after everything else.

"How close was it?" Scott murmured, his gaze locked on their brother.

John looked between them. If Scott didn't know, it was because Virgil hadn't told him. He couldn't break Virgil's trust… But neither could he forget how it had felt, sitting in the middle of nowhere, his brother's unconscious body in his arms, his own cry that Virgil wasn't breathing…

Scott swore. John suddenly realised his expression had given him away. He sighed, pulling another chair around and sitting down.

"Gords has quick reactions," he said, his tone flat. He swallowed hard; even the shadow of that fear, that panic, was enough to steal his breath.

Scott nodded. "Like getting between you and a bullet?"

"How did you-,"

"I can read between the lines."

John should have guessed. They all assumed Scott had been too out of it to be paying attention over the last few days. But he should have known better: Scott would have focused on them as a way of avoiding thinking about himself. He still looked awful: the injuries from the various beatings were only just starting to heal, the bruising more vivid than before. The previous red marks around his neck were turning purple and there were still dark hollows under his eyes.

"I froze," John said, self-loathing in his voice. If he had just realised that man was there before emptying his clip trying to stop someone else…

"So did I," Scott said softly. John looked at him. His brother was watching Virgil. "I saw them take him and I froze. If I'd just moved faster…"

He trailed off. His hand was clenched and John winced, knowing it would be making the needle uncomfortable.

"He would have found another way," John muttered. "He's always been one step ahead."

"Not always." Scott's attention turned from Virgil to him and John tried not to squirm at the look he was being given. "You tracked it, didn't you?"

John knew Scott wasn't referring to following him to Kansas. He closed his eyes. He could still hear Virgil's accusation that they had been sitting there doing nothing while waiting for him to regain consciousness.

But the images were burnt into his mind's eye and he couldn't escape them.

His brother, hands pulled above his head, gagged, bleeding, fury and despair in perfect balance in his eyes. Blag's calm voice as he voiced his demands for the oldest son of the legendary Jeff Tracy…

John shuddered. "He wasn't going to let you go, was he?"

Scott shook his head. "He wanted to know how much money they would of-,"

"You weren't fighting," John interrupted.

He didn't realise how much it had been playing on his mind until he said it. Scott had looked furious, but he hadn't been struggling. His gaze was drawn to a cut above Scott's eyebrow – one that had been bleeding freely when he saw the transmission. Scott shook his head.

"No."

"Why?"

"I thought you guys were dead," he murmured. "I saw the speed of that water and knew there was no chance for Virg. I didn't care about escaping. I just wanted to take him down."

John couldn't breathe past the lump in his chest, a grip squeezing so tight it hurt.

"Scott-,"

"I knew Brains would be searching. I wanted Dad to finish it if I couldn't. I had to let him send the transmission. And I failed. I never wanted…"

He trailed off but John knew what he was going to say. He had never intended for a younger brother to see him in that position. An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Scott cleared his throat.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For bugging me. For saving Virgil. For tracking me down, again. You saved my life, Johnny."

"We tried to leave Virg behind," he admitted. He hadn't properly spoken to anyone since this had begun. His father had got a little from him, but that hadn't been who John needed. He had been there for Gordon, then for Virgil - even if Scott would have done a better job. But there had been no big brother for him to turn to and he wondered, not for the first time, how Scott did it.

"He played us all, even Dad."

"He would," Scott said, casting a fond look at Virgil. John shook his head.

"He wouldn't have fooled you."

"Where are you going with this?"

John opened his mouth, then shut it. He wanted to make up an excuse, but his mind wasn't working fast enough. He settled on the truth.

"I missed you," he whispered. "I thought I was too late."

"No." Scott's voice was firmer than John had heard it yet. "You saved me. You all did. You're not alone anymore, kid."

John didn't know he needed to hear the nickname until Scott said it. He sniffed, straightened up and wrestled his emotions back under control again. He even managed a smile.

"It's good to hear you sounding like yourself," he said. He stood up. "I should let you rest."

"John-,"

"I need to show Dad something," he said. Scott frowned at his tone but didn't protest, clearly understanding this was important. He nodded. John put a hand on Scott's shoulder.

"Welcome back," he said, before moving out of the infirmary. He didn't go straight to his father's office though. He went to his room, picking up his tablet before returning to the office.

This time, there was movement from within and John entered when his father bid him.

"How's it going?" John asked. His dad ran a hand over his face, looking as exhausted as John felt.

"The GDF have persuaded the Russian authorities they were there. They said we received a ransom, giving a location and instructions not to tell anyone. We informed them – trusting their discretion, but not the police, understandable given what happened with the KPD. They told us to stay behind but we followed, arriving after them because we only have a normal plane and can't reach their speeds."

John snorted. He hoped no one told Brains that – their resident genius would give the game away if he thought someone was underestimating one of his designs.

"They're buying it?"

"I don't know." His father sat back in his seat. "They don't really have a reason not to but we're missing details. They want to know how we received the ransom note."

The frustration and annoyance were obvious. His dad was used to being in control, dictating who got to ask what. It had been a long time since someone had grilled Jeff Tracy.

"I can help with that," John said quietly. He tapped a few buttons and put the tablet on the desk. His father leant forward, frowning at the numbers scrolling across the screen.

"What am I looking at?"

"Code," John said, unhelpfully. He continued at the look his father gave him. "I wrote it. It-," he paused, taking a deep breath, "it tracked the message Blag sent. It's how I found Scott."

"But you said you didn't know where it was originating from until we were airborne."

"I didn't. He also didn't mention a location on it."

"How does this help us?"

"We fake a message," John said, his voice calm despite his racing his heart. "I can use this to ensure it looks like the message originated from the same place, the same source. Average person won't be able to track it, but the authorities will have experts. They'll find a way of tracking it - and the original message - and it will look like they'll come from the same place."

"Are you sure?"

John nodded. "Just don't ask me to write the message," he said, shuddering.

He had been thinking about it for a while, but knew his coding was the best. No one would realise it was a fake trail. He also believed no one would look that closely. Blag's original transmission confirmed his guilt and the maniac could no longer defend himself. The authorities wanted to tidy up everything neatly, and this would do just that.

He looked up and saw his father was frowning.

"What is it?"

His father shook his head. "Nothing. I just never thought I'd be using my influence to deliberately mislead the authorities."

"We do it all the time with IR."

"This is different," his dad said. "This is personal."

John didn't know what to say. He didn't know how else they were going to get away with it – and from what he understood, the GDF had come up with the idea in the first place.

"Do you regret it?" John asked.

His father looked at him, a fierce expression on his face.

"Never. I will do whatever it takes to keep you boys safe."

"I know," John said, smiling. Any doubts he might have had as a young child about whether their father loved them or not had been put to rest a long time ago. He knew nothing would stop his dad if he had a plan that would keep them safe.

"Go and get something to eat," his father ordered, reaching for the phone. "I've got some calls to make."

John obeyed. As he moved towards the kitchen, he couldn't help but wonder whether, with this phone call, they might finally be able to look to the future rather than worrying about the past.

TBTBTB

Gordon held his breath, easing himself off the bed. It was tricky one-handed, but it had taken him long enough to get Alan to sleep – he wasn't about to wake him up now. The kid had refused to go to bed, until Gordon had quietly offered to stay. Alan had been adamant that he wasn't going to sleep, but it didn't take long for him to give in once he knew Gordon was there.

Now he was asleep though, Gordon knew he wouldn't stir. He tiptoed across the room and left, pulling the door shut behind him. The hall light was on and it took a moment for his vision to adjust. He stretched, then cursed as it jolted his shoulder, cradling his elbow to try and alleviate the pressure. The sling was making his neck hurt but he had already tried to take it off once and John had caught him. He hadn't tried again.

Checking the time, Gordon realised he could take something for it. He hated doing it; he'd rather ride it out than give in. But at this time, it was the only way he would get any sleep. He wasn't certain if he took the pills for the pain, or because they made him lethargic and helped him rest.

Virgil's door was closed as he walked past and Gordon smiled. If he thought it was hard getting Alan to sleep, it was nothing compared to getting Virgil to agree to stay in his own room. It had taken both his father and John – and then Scott when he realised what was going on – to persuade Virgil to leave the infirmary. Gordon hadn't considered what the effect would be when he had forced his brothers to talk to one another.

Heading downstairs, he made a detour into the kitchen, scowling when he saw the beer bottle on the side. He had seen John with it earlier and was jealous – he wanted a drink more than he wanted tablets, but the rest of the family had refused. Tossing it in the recycling, he fixed himself a hot chocolate, not in the mood to ask his grandmother to do it for him, and headed towards the infirmary.

Nudging the door open with his hip, he slipped in, placing his drink on the side and moving to the cabinet. It was only after he had swallowed the tablets that he looked at the bed. Scott was awake, his knees drawn up to his chest, watching him.

Gordon smiled, picked up his drink and moved towards the doors. Scott cleared his throat meaningfully and he froze, turning back with a wince.

"Yeah?"

"Sit."

It was all Scott needed to say and Gordon slipped into the vacant chair by the bed.

"What's up?" he said innocently.

Scott raised an eyebrow and he changed tack.

"You're supposed to be asleep," he muttered. "I thought it was getting easier?"

"It is," Scott admitted, unable to hold his gaze. "But not when there is something else going on."

Gordon knew his brother was referring to Virgil and the battle to get him to leave. He grimaced, still feeling the chill of horror when he realised what Blag had put Scott through psychologically by not letting him rest. It was something he had heard in WASP – stories that happened to other people. Not something that happened to his own brother.

"I wanted to talk to you," Scott continued. He nodded towards the sling. "What happened? John won't tell me. Not properly."

Gordon had learnt by now that shrugging was a bad idea. He had mastered a one-shoulder shrug that did the job just as well, though.

"Just returning the favour."

"You could have been killed."

"Don't you start," Gordon complained. He had already spoken about this with John more than once since they arrived back on the island. He had no idea how to stop his brother from feeling guilty – which seemed ironic when he thought of what he had done to get Scott and Virgil to admit what was going through their minds.

He looked at Scott, looked away and when he glanced back, Scott was still watching him with a knowing expression.

"What?"

"You know what."

"It's fine-,"

"Gords."

It was his name, murmured as a soft plea, that made Gordon crack.

"He shouldn't have got past me!" His voice rose to a shout, catching him by surprise even if Scott didn't flinch. He didn't realise the frustration wasn't focused at their entire situation, but at himself.

"I didn't watch my back; didn't watch John's back. I nearly got him killed."

"You didn't: the men shooting at you nearly killed the pair of you."

Gordon shook his head. "I told him I'd take the lead. I was the best in my squad, Scott." He wasn't boasting – it was a fact. He had often led missions because he had a lucky track record that meant he never lost a man. He'd nearly broken that record by getting his own brother killed. "I should have had him covered."

"Why didn't you?" There was nothing accusing in Scott's voice, only curiosity. Gordon shook his head.

"I was out of ammo."

Scott laughed. It made him go pale and put his good hand to his ribs, but he still laughed. Gordon stared at him.

"It's not funny!"

"Gords, you cleared the entire place, with John probably getting a few lucky shots at most. You really don't see how many times you had him covered?"

It made sense. Gordon didn't want it to, but it did. He knew there was nothing they could have done differently but he didn't want to accept that he hadn't screwed up and put John in danger. He sighed, sagging in his seat and running a hand through his hair.

"They were trained, weren't they?" he muttered. He thought the men had been hired thugs, and they probably were. But they were thugs who knew what they were doing.

Scott nodded, momentarily closing his eyes as he did so. Gordon regretted saying it: no doubt his brother had found out just had efficient they were at doing their jobs. The marks across his entire body were testimony to that.

"Scott, I…" Gordon trailed off, chewing his lip. This time, Scott waited him out, knowing he would eventually say what was on his mind.

"I saw them take you," he blurted out. "I saw them through the smoke but there was nothing I could do. There was this beam…I was trapped…but I should have done something. Called out, anything."

"They would have killed you, Gords," Scott said softly. "It didn't matter if you and John survived the hangar. If they knew you were alive, especially conscious, they would have killed you."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It led you guys to Virg. How did you get there in time? I didn't see you."

Realising the easiest way to get Scott to stop dragging unwelcome truths to the surface, Gordon started filling his brother in on some of the blanks: their mad dash across the state, stealing the plane, reaching the house and hearing the water…

"John said you saved him."

Gordon smiled tightly. "Only because he was stubborn enough not to give up. We saw the helicopter. John told me you'd be kicking their asses for trying to shoot us."

Scott looked away but Gordon didn't say anything else. He already realised that Scott wouldn't have been conscious – Blag wouldn't have got him away from Virgil otherwise.

Silence fell again and Gordon – for the first time he could remember – didn't know what to say. He was used to breaking the tension, easing the mood, but events were playing too heavily on his mind and he couldn't make light of any of it. He stared glumly at Scott's bed, not able to even look at his brother.

Scott stretched out with a groan, wincing as he did so. He tried to hide it when Gordon looked up, but Gordon had spent so long dealing with his own body rebelling against him that nothing fooled him. He still didn't know what to say and instead put a hand on Scott's leg, not knowing where else wouldn't hurt his brother.

"I know you've spoken to Virgil and John," he said, "but promise me something?"

"What?"

"Talk to Dad."

"About what?"

Gordon lifted an eyebrow. There was a reason why John had looked as if a weight had been lifted from him when he finally spoke to Scott, why Virgil didn't want to leave their brother's side and why Alan had gone to sleep, knowing Gordon was there. They all looked to an older member of the family to let down their defences and truly say what was on their mind.

Scott wouldn't admit what had happened to him in that place; the evidence was all over his body, but he wouldn't say it, not to a younger sibling. But Gordon had memories – however faint – of before. He knew the devastating effects of keeping things bottled up and knew Scott was the worst of them all for doing it.

"I thought John was supposed to be the smart one," Scott muttered, avoiding his gaze. Gordon knew he didn't mean anything offensive by it. He grinned.

"I have my moments," he said, standing up. He stretched, regretted it and let his hand hover over the wound, not touching but wanting to do something. Scott was watching him knowingly.

"Guess we're both banned from the pool?" he said. Gordon rolled his eyes.

"Don't remind me." He drained the rest of his drink and pulled a face. "I'm going to find Grandma."

Scott nodded. Gordon felt bad about leaving him, but he couldn't stay in the infirmary all night. As he left, however, his father passed him and Gordon knew Scott wouldn't be alone for long.

He made it back to the kitchen, but didn't go any further. He looked at his cup, his thoughts completely blank. He didn't know what he was thinking; didn't know what he was feeling.

He put the mug down, opening the fridge and pulling out the milk. Putting it on the top, he tried to get the lid off. But he couldn't get a grip, couldn't do it this time with just one hand. Wedging it under his arm, Gordon twisted the lid again but the whole thing spun out of his grip, flying off the top and hitting the floor. The lid burst off, sending milk gushing over the floor.

"Damnit!"

He turned, his elbow catching the mug as he did so. Without a free hand, he couldn't grab it in time and instead watched, frustrated and annoyed, as it too hit the floor, shattering.

"For god's sake!"

"Gordon?"

The soft voice stopped his tirade before he could even start and he turned, faking a smile as his grandmother walked in.

"Could do with a hand," he said, aiming for light-hearted even as he nodded towards his shoulder. She came closer, taking him by the good hand and drawing him away from the mess. He went without protest as she sat him down at the table and bustled around. Resting his elbow on the table, he dropped his head into his hand, closing his eyes. He was tired, sore and the only thing he truly wanted was a long swim to burn away the frustration.

"Here." She was back before he knew it and he looked up as a fresh drink was placed before him. She took his hand, holding it between her own and giving him no hiding place.

"You were never one to cry over spilt milk," she murmured gently. "So how about you tell me what's going on in that head of yours?"

There was such empathy and compassion in her voice that Gordon's defences fell away. He couldn't speak in sentences. Couldn't coherently form words that did justice to how he was feeling. But, slowly, surely, he stumbled through his emotions, finally accepting that - as much as he wanted to deny it - he had spent the last few weeks terrified.

By finally voicing what he hadn't even realised he was feeling, Gordon felt his own weight lift from him. When the words eventually came to a halt, his grandmother reached up, cupping his face and smiling gently at him.

"Better?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice. But she was right. He felt better than he had done for nearly a month.