"Okay, John. Let's have it."

The crew had mustered in the lounge as soon as the emergency signal sounded. John's voice rang out into the waiting silence.

"There's been an incident at an arctic research centre in Greenland," he said. "Three men are trapped in underground and there's no equipment for within one hundred miles to help get them out."

Jeff nodded. He turned to his eldest.

"Scott, away you go. John will give you the co-ordinates."

"Yes, sir," Scott said, crossing to the lamps that marked his entrance to Thunderbird One.

As he disappeared, Jeff turned his attention to the others.

"Virgil, take the Mole."

"FAB," he said, and rose immediately to make his way to the chute to Thunderbird Two.

"He might need a double crew, Father," Alan said, rising hastily from his chair.

"Right," Jeff replied, "but you're due to relieve your brother in a few hours. Gordon will go."

Alan's face crumpled and he sat back down. Gordon slapped his shoulder on the way past.

"Next time, fella," he said.

Alan responded with a grunt and folded his arms as he watched the last of his brothers disappear. The twins watched the scene with wide-eyed fascination. Matthew shook his head when he saw the long rocket painting spirit Virgil away.

"Now that's a commute to work," he said.

Jeff nodded.

"There are plenty of surprises around here," he said. He returned his attention to John's portrait. "Keep me informed, son."

"FAB, Father. See you soon."

"Right."

The live feed clicked back to the portrait of his elder blond and Jeff, as always, sent out a silent prayer. Keep them all safe. Then he turned to Alan, who was trying to keep his face carefully schooled to avoid betraying his annoyance. He was failing miserably.

"Alan, perhaps you can take these boys through a short history of International Rescue before you have to go," Jeff said. "I'm sure there are a few stories you could tell them."

The youngest Tracy's eyes lit up and Jeff hid his grin behind his hand.

~oOo~

When Thunderbird Three came to rest in its hangar, John let out a long breath.

"And relax," he said.

He did not bother to change out of his uniform; it needed to be laundered anyway. Instead, he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed down to the couch that would return him to the villa.

By the time he reached the lounge, he estimated that he had yawned eighteen times.

"Tired, son?" Jeff asked as the couch clicked back into position.

"Absolutely," John said.

He rose and crossed the room to give his father a brief hug.

"Welcome home," Jeff said as he returned the embrace. "I'm sorry you missed out on all the festivities, but I do think there's a significant pile of presents for you in your room."

"Excellent," John said. "No doubt a collection of sci-fi socks and math puzzles."

"Most likely," Jeff said. "How's the lecture coming?"

John shrugged and tossed his bag onto the floor.

"I have the main body of it done. I just need to keep tweaking it until I'm satisfied."

Before Jeff could respond, another voice rang out.

"John! Welcome home!"

Tin-Tin rushed across and pulled the tall blond into a tight hug. John laughed and returned her squeeze.

"Thanks, Tin-Tin," he said. He held her at arm's length. "Can I see the scan in person now?"

In a split second the holocard was out of her pocket and in John's hand. He brought it close to his face and whistled.

"Good God," he said. "That's just beautiful. And you don't know the gender?"

Tin-Tin shook her head.

"We don't want to," she said. "I'd rather not know."

John shook his head and handed the card back to her.

"I still can't believe it." He gave his father a sidelong look. "Can you, Grandpa?"

Jeff groaned again, though it was good-natured.

"Not you as well," he said. "You're all out to make me feel old."

Without warning, John found himself yawning again. He covered his mouth.

"Wow, excuse me," he said. "I think I'd better hit the hay."

"I would wait for a while if I were you," Jeff said. "Scott and the others will be back within the hour and no doubt Gordon will want you to open your presents with him there. Sleep and you'll end up being bounced out of bed."

John rolled his eyes and bent to pick up his bag.

"Good advice," he said. "Maybe I'll just change and grab a snack instead."

"I'll walk with you," Tin-Tin said. "I'm going that way anyway."

The two companions headed out of the lounge and towards the villa bedrooms. Tin-Tin, as always, filled John in on the island scuttlebutt. The main topic, of course, was the arrival of the new recruits.

"They seem very nice," Tin-Tin said. "Though in some ways they're a strange pair. They look the same but have very different personalities. One is talkative and bubbly. The other is quiet and reserved. It's like looking at the same person on two different days."

John stopped at the door to his room and leaned against it.

"Well, as long as they're competent and can take the pressure, I guess it doesn't matter if they're friendly or unfriendly." He looked at the floor for a moment before returning his gaze to Tin-Tin. "I just hope Dad's done the right thing in bringing them here."

"I'm sure he has," Tin-Tin said.

They parted and John resisted the urge to flop down onto the bed and sleep. There was no doubt that Gordon would seize the opportunity to jump on him, possibly bringing Virgil in to conspire against him as well. And I am not up for that kind of squashing! he thought.

After he changed into his favourite t-shirt – Old Faithful, a black cotton one that had seen him through many years – and pulled on a pair of faded jeans, John wandered down to the kitchen, whistling tunelessly as he went.

The rescue had gone well, with no major issues cropping up, so he felt no guilt in turning his attention to his stomach and his lecture. He pottered about the kitchen, gathering the ingredients for a club sandwich as his mind turned his research over and over. In fact, his mind was so concerned with dark matter theory that he neglected to pay proper attention to his actions.

That led to a significant problem; he managed to put a kitchen knife straight through his finger.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched the blood bubble up from the wound and start pouring from his finger. It took a few moments for sense to kick in – and for the pain to materialise. He spluttered out a few words that would have earned him a smack from his grandmother and held the hand up, watching in disbelief.

"I can't believe I did that! Argh!"

Sandwich abandoned, he reached for the nearest dish towel and wrapped it around his hand. His finger throbbed and he could not help but bark out a laugh at his stupidity.

"That looked pretty deep," he said. "I don't think a band-aid will cut it."

He winced, this time not from pain, but from his poor choice of words.

"Good one, Tracy," he said.

Keeping his hand held aloft, he hurried to the sick room, as it seemed to be the only logical place to go. I don't quite know what I'll do when I get there, but still, he thought.

It turned out that he didn't need to do anything. When he got there, he came face to face with someone who knew exactly what to do.

One of the twins turned from the open supplies cupboard he had been looking in and blinked a few times.

"What happened?" he asked.

The man's voice was soft and yet firm, poised and confident. His green eyes were fixed on the growing bloodstain on the towel. John shook his head and sighed.

"I tried to cook. It didn't work out so well."

Instead of chuckling, the man's face remained serious and he motioned for John to sit on one of the beds.

"Let me have a look," he said.

Gingerly, John unwrapped the makeshift bandage and winced. Blood was still pouring from the gash. The other man hopped up and grabbed a package of gauze, pulling out a few squares. He removed the towel completely and wrapped some of the sterile material over the wound.

"Hold that on there for me, please," he said.

John nodded and did as he was told.

"How does it look?"

The red-head went back to the supplies cupboard and brought over what John recognised as a minor wounds kit.

"It's not as bad as it looks," the man said. "Finger wounds tend bleed a lot since the skin is so vascular. It doesn't need stitches."

He unwrapped the kit and opened the little tube of saline, then unwrapped the bloodied gauze and started cleaning the wound. He did so quickly and quietly, with a firm grip on his patient's hand. John watched as he worked.

"I'm John, by the way," he said.

"Elijah."

"I'm guessing you're the nurse," John said.

"Yup," Elijah said, pulling a few skin closures from their package and applying them to the wound. "Good thing you didn't arrive here in flames. Then you would have been all out of luck."

John chuckled.

"I'm sure you would have figured it out."

Elijah started to dress the wound. John guessed that they were around the same age – now closer the thirty than twenty. His hair was bright, a more vibrant shade of red than Gordon's more muted auburn. His green eyes were flecked with brown, the irises ringed with black.

"Judging by the accent, I guess you're Irish?" John asked.

"Aye. From Donegal."

"An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?"

Elijah's head snapped up and he cocked it to one side.

"Tá, beagán,"he replied. "I'm surprised you can, though."

John shrugged.

"I only know a few bits and pieces. Like, 'Is mise John.'"

"'Is mise Sean,' more like," Elijah said. He shook his head. "The last thing I expected when I moved to the South Pacific was to find someone who spoke Irish."

"Languages are one of my things," John said.

"I was never good at them," Elijah said. "In one of my French exams I said I had 'red horse' rather than 'red hair' and I gave up at that point."

John chuckled. He flexed his newly dressed finger as best he could.

"Go raibh maith agat," he said.

Elijah nodded.

"You're welcome. Keep it on for a few days and then we'll see how you're healing."

"Will do. So, am I your first patient?" John asked.

"Apart from supplying my brother with blister plasters, yeah," Elijah said with a wince.

"Has Scott been pushing you hard from the start?"

"Yes."

So much emotion was conveyed in that one word. John reached out with his good hand to pat the man on the shoulder. When he did, Elijah's green eyes flickered with something – it was quick, gone in a heartbeat. There was a flutter in John's chest that he pushed away without thinking.

"I've been there, done that, got the scars to prove it," John said. "Scott can be a hard task-master."

Elijah nodded and absently rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well, we didn't come here for a holiday," he said.

Again, without thinking, John spoke.

"Why did you come here?"

There was no harshness in his tone. Elijah did not answer at once.

"To make a difference, I guess," he said. Then he gave a self-derisive snort. "That sounds terrible."

John shook his head.

"No, it doesn't. I guess that's why we're all here."

Elijah motioned at John's finger. He looked down and saw a small bloodstain creeping through.

"Don't worry about that," the Irishman said. "It'll stop in a short while."

John nodded and rose from the bed. He thanked the nurse again and said his goodbyes. Slowly, he made his way back to his discarded sandwich.

"Here's hoping I can finish making it without severing anything else!" he thought.

This time, his thoughts were not distracted by work. However, at the back of his mind, something else, something imperceptible, began to grow.

~oOo~

An bhfuil Gaeilge agat? – Do you speak Irish?

Tá, beagán – Yes, a little.

Is mise… – My name is.

Sean – Irish form of John.

Go raibh maith agat – Thank you.