The difference between three hundred hours of sim training vs three hundred real, actual flight hours is that Scott's already bringing TB1 back around, back in John's direction, before he even fully comprehends the fact that his brother is falling out of the sky, unconscious at best and dead at worst, and weighed down by about a hundred pounds of deactivated exosuit, trailing smoke from a torn off wing. Scott's reacted faster than he can actually think, and there's a sudden shock of pure terror as his brain catches up to the reality of what's just happened.
John's falling, and therefore the only possible course of action is for Scott to catch him.
There's very little difference between John, falling and Scott, flying, because neither of them are doing it consciously. Scott flies like it's second nature. He flies without thinking, because he and his Thunderbird are one and the same, a union of ship and soul. Scott doesn't need to think about how to fly, he just needs to think about why he's flying, and the purity of purpose is enough that his every need translates perfectly into the way his ship performs.
Right now he needs to save his brother's life, because apparently that's a favour that needs returning.
John's always going on about how the best plans are the simplest, but for Scott, the best plans aren't plans at all. Scot's at his best when he doesn't think about what he's doing, when he takes his actions before he can overthink them. He's honed his reactions to be faster than his brain, and this is the fundamental principle he'd been trying to teach his brother. It seems like ages ago that he was trying to tell John he needed to stop over thinking each maneuver before he executed it, but they're still within the same hour.
So he's not making a plan as he throws his Thunderbird downward, in pursuit of his brother, falling. The remnants of the drone swarm are falling too, crowding the skies as Scott gets closer, such that he needs to twist and roll his ship to negotiate his way past them without any collisions. They're bigger than he'd realized now that he perceives them in comparison to his brother; at least half as big again as John's exosuit, and in all dimensions.
He hears the roar of wind through his opened auxiliary hatch in the same moment that he realizes what his intentions actually are—the simplest possible action, just to get his ship beneath his brother and catch him. There are logistical elements to the lack-of-a-plan that present some problems, and Scott's brain takes back over as he sets the autopilot, climbs out of his seat, and grabs his jetpack.
TB1's autopilot is preprogrammed with a dozen or so specific protocols, all intended to make the ship behave the way he needs it to when he's not actively piloting. He has an entire alphabet of flight patterns that achieve all manner of goals; will have TB1 shadow him at a set distance, or remain stationary where he leaves it, or rendezvous with him at a set location. Alpha through Delta all concern his ability to get back aboard the ship once he exits it. It's Delta he needs, and he engages it as he steps out of the cargo hatch.
He's long since gotten over the shock of that initial drop, the way it feels to just fall, straight down from the safety of his ship into the open air. There's always that same clench of his stomach, the skip of his heartbeat, but Scott's done this so many times that he's used to both, and it's really no more nervewracking than crossing the street. Freefalling is a skill, just the same as flying is, and it's another thing John needs to learn. It's not something his brother would ever admit to, but it's something Scott knows about him regardless—that more than almost anything else, John's afraid of falling.
The column of smoke that trails behind him marks Scott's target, and he's in pursuit almost as soon as he hits the skies. It's probably good that John's not conscious for this part, and as he orients himself in the open air to get a better look at him, Scott can tell with certainty that John's absolutely not conscious. Whether it's the impact with the drone that's done it, or the electric discharge that had followed—it doesn't really matter. Scott adjusts his limbs and straightens his back and tips closer to vertical as he dives after his brother, who's already had nearly twenty seconds of freefall in which to hit terminal velocity. He engages his controls and fires his thrusters to close the distance between them. Another eight seconds and Scott covers two thousand feet, gets near enough to get a faceful of smoke. He puts on a last little bit of speed to get through this, then cuts power to the jetpack. As he matches the speed at which John's falling, he's already stretched out to get a hand on whatever part of his brother he can reach first.
Midair, in freefall, Scott snags John's wrist, and for the first time since things started going wrong, he finally feels like he's got the situation under control.
"Oh boy," he mutters under his breath, though if John's biometrics are out, then his radio's out along with them, and Scott may as well be talking to himself. The sarcasm would probably be lost on him anyway, as Scott echoes his brother's earlier sentiment, "You're just in a hell of a lot of trouble, aren't you? Hang on, Johnny."
The next step is to get a proper hold of the exosuit, though the weight of the thing is only going to be a problem. Scott needs to bring TB1 as close as possible if he's going to get them both back aboard. He wants a better look at his brother, but it's going to have to wait until they're safely aboard. He's still got one hand wrapped around John's wrist, and the other locked firmly around a handhold on the chestpiece, as he snaps the command into his open comm line, clear and crisp and deliberate, "Thunderbird One, initiate Protocol Delta, clearance: five meters."
There's a chime of acknowledgment in his ear, and overhead, his ship begins its descent.
Sometimes Scott thinks that the only thing better than flying his Thunderbird is watching his Thunderbird fly itself.
It's the closest he gets to what other people must feel, seeing International Rescue arrive on the scene. TB1 is beautiful, but never more so than when Scott's got a life in his hands, and his Thunderbird represents salvation. He twists in the air to watch as the ship descends, knows that he's being tracked by some of the most advanced telemetry in the world; that his ship knows where he is and will always, always come when he calls it. It's a loyalty born of silicon and iridium, not heart and soul, but whenever his ship flies to meet him, Scott can't help but feel something that seems a great deal like love.
"Almost there," he murmurs, and releases his grip on John's wrist in favour of retaking control of his jetpack. He adjusts his grip on the exosuit, and starts a gentle burn to counter their fall, his gaze locked on TB1 and the open, waiting cargo hatch overhead, as his ship follows him down. The key to open flight is focusing his attention on exactly where he wants to go, which is another trick he hadn't yet managed to teach his brother. He has to shy away from the thought that he might not get the chance.
It takes all the thrust his jetpack can deliver to handle the extra weight, and he won't be able to sustain upward flight for very long at all. But as Thunderbird One obligingly descends to precisely the specified distance, five meters seems like very little to ask in return. Fifteen feet. He used to jump further than that when he did track in highschool. He can feel the strain on the jet at his back as he opens the throttle, but it's just enough to fight gravity, and the next thing he knows, the roar of wind has diminished and he's tumbling with his brother into the interior of his Thunderbird, even as the hatch closes behind him.
And then suddenly it's quiet. And still. And they're safe.