Well, guys, this is it. The end. The final chapter. The last bit of a trilogy that has been in the making for nine years. Gotta admit, I'm feeling a little bit emotional right now...

Bee, there are no words. Thank you so much for the amazing hard work you've put into making me actually make sense rather than people randomly being able to teleport and cross distances in no time at all.

I guess...enjoy? And hopefully I'll be back soon!

Scott woke suddenly, a phantom thirst burning his throat. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, willing the burn to ease. He had been dreaming but the sensation wasn't fading now he was awake. It might be his mind playing tricks on him, but his body wasn't yet ready to accept the torments were over. He was going to have to physically do something about it.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Despite the dreams, he was healing. Brains had removed the drip the day before, satisfied his levels had returned near enough to normal that regular sustenance would be more beneficial – he needed something solid if he was going to properly regain his strength.

It was still awkward getting up, with one arm in a cast and his entire body protesting the movement. He had done it once already though: as soon as the line was out of his arm, he had been up. At least, he had attempted to rise, nearly passed out - and flatly refused to get back into bed until Virgil helped him pace the length of the infirmary.

There had been a strange expression on Virgil's face as they had shuffled along and Scott was reminded it was only a week ago that his brother was the one stuck in bed. He wondered who had been Virgil's crutch when he had refused to sit still for any longer.

The movement had exhausted him and Scott had fallen asleep as soon as he'd got back onto the bed. Sleep was getting easier, but he had still been awake for a few hours in the middle of the night. Having freedom of movement meant the rest of his family had finally sought their own beds, satisfied if he needed a drink or the bathroom, he would manage.

It had been strange: lying in the dark and quiet, knowing he was safe and home, letting his thoughts roam where they wanted without having to put on a façade in front of his brothers.

He had obviously dozed off, as bright sunlight now flooded the infirmary. To his surprise, he was still alone, but the chair beside his bed had definitely moved and the newspaper folded neatly on the table revealed his father had been in.

His thoughts hadn't distracted him from the thirst though and Scott shifted his weight, taking a deep breath and rising to his feet. It was a slow walk across the infirmary, but every step felt like a victory and he felt better by the time he was only halfway there.

He reached the sink, placing his good hand on the worktop to steady himself. Taking it slow and rebuilding his strength was great in theory. But every time his brothers were forced to come to the infirmary, every time they had to help him, was another occasion they couldn't move on. For their sake, he had to sort himself out.

As he moved, the sun glinted off the stainless-steel taps. Scott blinked, shook his head and moved. The sun glinted again.

It had to be metal for the sun to catch it in such a way.

It was a lens.

Gordon swearing, panic in his voice…

John yelling, fear in his expression…

An almighty explosion ripping the air.

Not knowing if they were alive…

Scott gasped, ragged breaths erratically forcing their way through his chest, his throat… His hand gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, spots in his vision…

He snarled, wrenching his thoughts away from the explosion and back to reality. They had survived! They were alive; they were home; they were safe. He refused to let Blag into his mind, refused to dwell on how close he had been to losing them.

Grabbing a glass, he turned on the tap.

His vision tunnelled.

All he could see was the water, gushing out, splashing across the sink, gradually filling his glass despite the strange angle. The water levels rising…

He couldn't look away.

Had Virgil watched the water in the same way? Had he been transfixed by the sight of his death rushing towards him, or had he fought, struggled to get free despite his efforts being futile?

He hadn't been close to losing Virgil. He had lost him: Virgil had died. He had drowned…

Scott yelled, a hoarse shout ripping free as he snatched his hand back from under the tap and flung the glass as hard as he could. It wasn't anywhere near his full strength, but it was enough to send it halfway across the infirmary, smashing on the floor and sending a wave of water washing over the tiles.

He backed up until he hit the wall, sliding down it, his legs bent at right angles, cast resting on his knees as he stared across the infirmary, his gaze unfocused.

He didn't – couldn't – move even when the door opened.

"Scott?" Gordon sounded shocked and confused. Scott realised he wasn't visible where he was and he didn't speak. He couldn't let his brother see him like this.

But Gordon wasn't alone.

"Gordon, I need you to leave."

As always, his father's voice was a pillar of strength and the harsh knot in Scott's chest eased a fraction at hearing him.

"But-,"

"There's glass and water on the floor. You've got nothing on your feet."

"Neither's Scott."

"Now."

Even Gordon knew there was no arguing with that tone of voice. Scott heard him leave, muttering something about checking on the others. He knew Gordon would go straight to John and he was pleased: John would calm him.

He shut his eyes when he heard his father's footsteps. Just like when he had been a child, he wondered if he would vanish from view if he couldn't see the rest of the room. But, just like then, it didn't work. A warm hand covered his knee and Scott opened his eyes to see his father crouching in front of him.

"Scotty?"

He couldn't hold the man's gaze, couldn't face the understanding and empathy. How could anyone know how he was feeling when he himself didn't know?

He shook his head, staring over his dad's shoulder. His father didn't move though, just waited where he was until, involuntarily, Scott's gaze slid back to him.

"Do you know what I regret, more than anything, after your mother died?"

The words were so unexpected that Scott stared. He arched an eyebrow though: their current situation was a testimony to all the things that had gone wrong that year.

"Okay, one of the things," his dad amended, grimacing at his own choice of words. "Holding it in. Not letting myself grieve the way I wanted to."

"No one died." Scott's voice was hollow.

"They did."

"Yeah but Virg-,"

"Not Virgil. All of them."

Scott frowned, staring at the man. He didn't get what his father was trying to say. His dad sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking back.

"You lost them, Scott," he said gently. "It doesn't matter that they survived. You thought – you truly believed – they were dead. That kind of grief leaves a hole in you, a gap that grows and grows unless you control it. You filled it with anger and revenge, and maybe that's why you're alive. But now… you've let go of the anger and the hole is still there."

Scott stared. He didn't know how his dad had figured it out, but he was right.

His brothers had survived, despite Blag's efforts. Scott knew that; knew they were alive and healing.

"But..." His voice was barely a whisper. "They're okay."

It didn't make sense he could still be grieving for a loss that never happened. But he was. His father was right: he had let go of the anger and fear. But the relief felt muted, distant, as if it wasn't him feeling it. He was numb – the type of numbness he had experienced only once before.

"Yes," his dad said, a small smile on his face. "They're going to be just fine. So are you. But only if you let yourself."

Scott nodded, but his father wasn't done yet. Before he could look away, before he could pretend the conversation was over and he was fine, his dad reached forward, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look up.

"That hole hasn't closed yet, Scott," he murmured, "and trust me, you don't want to bury the negative emotions in it and hope you can just pile everything else on top."

"I don't-,"

"Let it out."

Scott's breath caught. He stared at his dad, feeling as if either the room was growing or he was shrinking. Everything was too big right now and the only way he could explain it was that he was falling into that very hole his father was describing - and right now, it didn't feel like there was a bottom.

"I'm here, son," his dad said, "I'm right here."

His father shuffled around until he was kneeling next to him. Before Scott could protest, his dad's arms were around him and he had been pulled against the man's chest. Instinctively, Scott pressed his face into the crook of his dad's neck: his hiding place from the world when he had been five-years-old and afraid of the monsters under his brothers' beds.

For a long moment, they stayed the way they were. Then Scott exhaled sharply, his entire body trembling as he truly thought about what his father was saying.

There had been another day, many years ago, when he had clutched the man like a lifeline, sobbing his pain and fear out in a sterile hospital room. As his eyes shut and hot tears seeped from behind closed lids, Scott wondered if anything had actually changed.

He didn't sob - not out loud - not this time. But his shoulders shook and he let himself, just this once, cry. Not for the pain and fear Blag had put him through but for his brothers. How it had felt losing them, truly believing he had failed them, failed his mother, and the only escape left to him was avenging them before he too was killed. He hadn't protected them…

Time lost meaning. The tears stopped after a few moments, leaving his eyes gritty and heavy. But Scott didn't pull away and his father didn't let him go. A hand cradled the back of his head and, slowly, he started to feel warm for the first time since waking up in a concrete cell.

He finally sniffed and pulled back. Again, he was unable to look his father in the eye, especially when his dad wiped his own eyes. They didn't show their emotions; it wasn't who they were.

His father stood, carefully drawing Scott to his feet. He rested both hands on Scott's shoulders, a warm smile on his face despite the lingering tears.

"She would be so proud of you," he murmured. "Just the way I am."

If it wasn't for his father's support, Scott would have fallen. The tormenting words echoing through his mind since waking up suddenly fell silent. Exhaustion crashed through him in their place and he swayed.

"Dad-," He didn't know what he was trying to say; he didn't know what was left to say. He was ashamed of his breakdown but already knew he was feeling better for it.

"Easy, Scott." His father's grip moved to his good elbow, supporting him as he steered him back to bed. "You should get some rest now. We'll talk more when you wake up."

Scott nodded mutely, letting his father push him back onto the bed and start pulling the blanket back over him. He relaxed into the softness and a hand brushed through his hair.

"That's my boy," his dad said softly and Scott smiled.

Blag might have had an impact on his life. But he was wrong: Scott wasn't the man he was today because of a madman.

He was who he was because of his family. His father. His mother.

No one could take that away from him.

"Scott!"

He whipped around, drawn by his brother's terrified shout. A raging river separated them; he had no idea how he had heard Virgil. He stepped towards the rushing water, the men he had been fighting against seconds before disappearing.

Another figure appeared behind Virgil. A mocking smirk curled his lips as he looped an arm around Virgil's neck, holding him fast, choking him…

Scott stepped forward again but was brought up short as a manacle snapped around his arm, holding him still. He was trapped, watching Virgil fighting for his life and unable to do anything about it.

But that wasn't good enough. Not this time; not now; not ever. He wrenched forward, and the chain holding him snapped, the links clinking as they hit the ground. He looked down, expecting to see grass and realised he was looking at a concrete floor.

The river vanished: Scott could hear Virgil choking and that was it. He didn't panic though; he was somehow in control, and as his arm lifted, he realised why. There was a gun in his hand and despite Blag holding Virgil as a shield, Scott aimed steadily.

"I'll kill him…" Blag began but Scott shook his head.

"No." His voice was strong and in control. "You won't."

He pulled the trigger. His aim was true and the bullet didn't even graze Virgil. Blag toppled back out of view…

…and Scott took a deep breath, opening his eyes. His heart-rate was only fractionally raised and his breathing was even. He stared at the infirmary ceiling, feeling… He didn't know what he was feeling. He wasn't unaffected by the dream: anyone watching their sibling threatened, even in a dream, felt a sense of unease on wakening. But he wasn't afraid: he was calm.

It was over. Only this time, he believed it. He might dream – he couldn't stop that. But he wouldn't be their victim any longer. Blag was dead and could never threaten him, or his family, again.

"Scott?"

He shifted his gaze. Virgil was sitting in a chair next to the bed, his feet propped up. Their father was the other side, leaning forward.

"Who?" Virgil asked softly; the same question he had asked in Thunderbird Two. It felt so long ago now. Scott sighed.

"You."

"Right here…" Virgil began. Scott smiled.

"…and not going anywhere," he finished. Virgil's eyebrows raised and he grinned, a genuine smile that lit up his face.

Scott didn't know how many times his brother had uttered that phrase over the years. Scott had hidden the dreams the best he could. But his brother knew him well enough to know how to soothe him, without letting on he was aware of the problem.

"You okay?" Despite the words, there was nothing casual about Virgil's question. He was staring at Scott, reading him, and Scott couldn't lie to his brother.

"Yeah," he said softly, "I think so."

He didn't mean physically: he still hurt all over. But about the dream… that he was certain about. Nightmares wouldn't be a problem any longer.

Virgil's grin widened. Scott realised he looked better: there was more colour in his cheeks and he didn't look as haunted. Scott glanced at their father, who was also watching Virgil.

"You can leave now," the man said pointedly. Virgil scowled – although the smile still lingered.

"I'm fine here," he said.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am!" Virgil protested. He nodded at his legs. "Feet up and everything."

Scott looked down to hide his small smile. He knew that tone of voice. Their dad had no chance of getting Virgil to move: Scott was the only one he would listen to when he was in this sort of mood. He wondered how much trouble Virgil had been causing while he hadn't been there.

"Get out of here," Scott muttered, nudging his brother's feet with his own legs. Virgil shook his head.

"I'm staying."

"On your own, then."

"What?"

Scott shrugged. "No line," he said, lifting his good arm. "I'm not staying."

"Can he?" Virgil looked doubtful as he glanced at their dad. Scott followed his gaze – it wasn't just a ploy on Virgil's behalf, after all.

"I'm not-,"

"Grandma always said fresh air was the best cure," Scott said, giving an innocent smile. Virgil snorted and his dad rolled his eyes.

"Very well," he said. "For a few hours only. Virgil, go and get dressed."

As his brother slipped his feet off the bed, Scott realised he had on a pair of shorts and an oversized sweater. The temperature in the infirmary was always carefully regulated to the point of being cool, but Scott wondered if Virgil wanted the long-sleeves for another reason: they hid the marks on his wrists.

"Kitchen in ten?"

"Make it twenty," Scott muttered. He didn't want Virgil rushing, but he also wasn't certain if he was up to this, regardless of what he was telling his brother. Virgil stood, gave him a long, measured look and seemed happy with whatever he saw as he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

No one spoke until the door closed again. Scott shut his eyes, leaning further back on the pillows.

"Nicely played," his father said quietly.

Scott gave a soft huff. "It wasn't all for him," he murmured. He looked at his father. "I feel…"

He didn't know how he felt.

His dad smiled, reaching out and brushing his hand through his hair.

"Light?"

Scott nodded: that was exactly it. There had been a heavy weight pressing on him, isolating him from everything he had been expecting to feel. He had thought it was fear, pain, rage…anything but the grief that his father had noticed and drawn out of him.

"I was dreaming," he began slowly, "just like before. I couldn't reach Virg. He was there; he was hurting him. And then… I won."

The words sounded flat. But they were the only ones he had. His father smiled, his hand moving until it was cupping Scott's cheek.

"You did win," he said. "You ended it. It's over. He's gone, and can't hurt you, or your brothers, or anyone else, ever again."

"I think…" Scott's voice was nothing more than a whisper. "I think I know that now."

As soon as he spoke, a wave of dizziness rushed through him as he acknowledged the truth of that. While Blag had been in prison, Scott had always known it wasn't truly over. This time…no one could come back from the dead.

His father stood, pouring him out some water.

"Dad?"

Scott's gaze fixed on the bed linen. He couldn't witness the hurt his words would cause.

"Yes?"

"Am I…" he swallowed thickly. "Am I still me, without him?"

He was ashamed to admit it. But Blag's words had struck a chord. While he didn't hold the man responsible for who he had become, he did wonder that without that fear, without that paranoia, whether he had just lost part of himself as well, a part he could never get back.

His dad's hand covered his own.

"Yes," he said empathetically. "It was never him, Scotty. It's your experiences that define you. Much as I wish none of it had ever happened, it did. Nothing takes that away. No one can change you – apart from you."

Scott nodded, not knowing what to say. His dad gave him a moment before clearing his throat.

"Come on," he said, his tone warm, "before your brother comes back looking for you."

"I can really leave?"

"Your grandmother gave up hoping I would listen to her about fresh air years ago. She'll be thrilled one of you boys paid attention."

Scott smiled. He needed his dad's support as he got up and flushed his way through being helped to get washed and into some fresh clothes. But with a broken arm and his legs threatening to give way every two minutes, he didn't complain.

Just as he was ready to leave, his father held something up and Scott nodded, taking the tablets and swallowing them. He needed to do this – for his brothers' sakes. If admitting to needing pain relief when it was just him and his dad was the price he had to pay, then so be it.

They made their way to the kitchen. Progress was slow. Scott ran his fingers along the wall, needing to touch, to feel, and confirm he was truly home. Every bump and dip were familiar to him and each step made him stand up straighter. This was his home, and no one was going to take him from it again.

Entering the kitchen, he stopped. Virgil was there, as was John, the latter leaning against a counter with a coffee in his hand. Virgil's back was to Scott and for a moment, he stared. His brother still had shorts on, but a short-sleeved shirt now. Virgil still bore the marks of his own imprisonment, but seeing him standing there, his posture relaxed, his feet bare and hair still wet from the shower, formed a lump in Scott's throat.

He crossed the room without saying anything, putting a hand on Virgil's shoulder.

"Hey-," Virgil turned. But before he could say anything else, Scott pulled his brother into a tight hug. He had to angle himself so that he didn't put pressure on his arm, but he didn't care. He gripped the back of Virgil's shirt and held onto him.

"Do we hug now?" Virgil said, his own arms rising even as he spoke. "Apparently we hug now."

John chuckled and Scott smiled. He made to draw back, suddenly embarrassed, but Virgil didn't let him. His own hands gripped Scott's top and he held on for a fraction longer, letting Scott know he wasn't the only one feeling an overwhelming rush of emotions. As they drew apart, Virgil looked at him.

"What was that for?"

Scott shrugged. "For not dying?"

"Finally!" Virgil's exclamation made Scott jump. His brother whirled around, facing John. "Finally someone who focuses on that part, rather than, you know-,"

"That you did?" John muttered and Scott knew it would be a while before the emotional wounds started to heal.

"I'm not dead though," Virgil said, sounding smug, "there's a big difference between dying and being dead."

John lifted an eyebrow. Scott groaned. He wondered how long this particular argument was going to last.

"I thought I told you to get dressed?" Their father's amused voice stopped his brothers from taking it any further. Scott nodded his gratitude as John nudged a chair over with his foot. He held up his mug in a silent question but Scott shook his head. He knew he had a long way to go when he couldn't face the thought of coffee yet.

Then he realised what his dad was referring to. Virgil had a shirt on, but only the middle button was done up, stopping it from hanging off him. His brother shrugged.

"It's more than Gordon," he protested, "and Grandma's letting him get away with it."

He sounded put-out and John rolled his eyes fondly.

"He's got an excuse."

"Scott managed it."

"Scott had help," their father murmured, making Scott flush.

"Where are the kids?" John said. Virgil grinned.

"Outside. Gordon's training Alan."

"Come again?"

"He seems to think if he can't swim, then Al can do it for the both of them."

Scott smiled, pleased that Gordon was acting more like himself.

"I better stop him from exhausting your brother," their dad muttered, bustling out of the kitchen and leaving the three of them alone. The last time they had been together, Scott had been trying to think of excuses not to leave the island...

Silence fell between them. They all had so much to say, and had no idea how to say it. Scott cleared his throat, self-conscious, but Virgil suddenly spoke.

"There's a game on," he said, not looking at either of them. "We can watch it in Scott's room."

"Can we?" Scott asked. He was home and safe: the thought of his own room – a warm and inviting room, not a cold cell – shouldn't have been strange. But it was: he felt like a different man to the one who had last been in it.

"We can," John confirmed, putting his mug down.

Scott looked at them both, and realised they had identical expressions on their faces. They knew how strange this felt and were giving him the chance to face it, with the pair of them by his side.

He couldn't ask for anything more.

None of them noticed their father hesitating in the doorway, watching the three of them. He was smiling but a shadow of unspeakable pain and fear lingered in his eyes. It eased a little as his three boys disappeared, Virgil and John bickering over who had the better team.

As he turned to move outside, his gaze lifted skywards.

"Keep watching over them," he murmured. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and Jeff was certain he heard a fond, familiar laugh that didn't come from any of his children.

Scott wasn't the only one who never broke his promises when it came to looking out for his family.

The End.