Sirens wailed. Blue lights flashed. Somewhere in the distance, a bright green firework exploded, long tendrils stretching out and dissipating in a gentle rain of colour. John leaned heavily on Virgil's arm as the world began to swim.

Everything was so intense, like a whirlwind of light and dark, sound and sensation. It took an inordinate amount of effort just to keep his breathing steady. His legs betrayed him; without warning, the only thing keeping him upright was Virgil's arm.

"Easy, easy," Virgil said.

"I'm okay," John replied. "I just need to sit down."

Gordon scooped up his other elbow and John found himself being ushered to a waiting ambulance. The paramedic motioned for him to sit on the step at the rear of the vehicle.

"Well," the medic said, "that was intense just to watch. I think I need a sit down too!" His attempt at humour fell flat. He jerked a thumb at Gordon and Virgil, who were lingering at John's side. "Good thing these guys were in the neighbourhood. I didn't think stopping high-speed police chases was International Rescue's thing."

Virgil coughed and motioned for Gordon to step away.

"Well," he said, "it's usually not. But sometimes we make exceptions. We always do whatever we can to save lives."

Overwhelmed as he was, John was still able to pick up on the cue.

"I'm sure glad you did," he said. He tried to stand but the paramedic pressed a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Thanks, International Rescue. I owe you one."

He could tell Gordon was using all his strength to stop himself running in to give John another hug. Instead, he nodded.

"Any time," he said. "Any time."

Keeping up the charade, he and Virgil walked away, although they cast concerned glances back at him. John gave the tiniest wave with his left hand.

"Well, now. John, isn't it?" the paramedic asked. "I'm Ahmad. Can you tell me a bit about how you're feeling? Can you tell me what's happened?"

Such simple questions. Such complicated answers.

John watched his brothers reluctantly walk away, pretending that they were strangers. He felt memories of the past ten months overwhelm him like a maelstrom. He thought about Amelia, about the little baby, about Grace. His breath came in rapid gasps as a wave of utter desolation engulfed him and he put his head in his hands.

~oOo~

When he saw his brother put his head in his hands, Gordon turned to run back to him. Virgil grabbed his arm and shot him a warning look.

"We can't," he said, though his tone was sympathetic. "I know it's tempting but we can't reveal that he's associated with International Rescue."

Temper flaring, Gordon snorted.

"It won't take more than a few brain cells to figure it out already," he spat. "We came barrelling in to his rescue, in full view of all of those cops and paramedics!"

"I know, I know," Virgil said. "Even so, we need to get out of here and act as normal as possible. Then we'll regroup."

At that moment, Scott jogged over to them, a plain clothes police officer in a flak jacket on his heels.

"This is DI Campton," he said.

But of course, they all knew that. Each one of them had met him at some point since John's disappearance, taking their turn to be the one in England, awaiting news – good or bad. Grandma's here with Penelope, Gordon thought. We'll need to tell her.

"I've been working your brother's case since the start," Campton said.

It took all of Gordon's restraint not to bite back with a witty retort. Well, you didn't do such a great job, did you? But he managed to hold his tongue.

"I don't officially know why you're all here," he said, then dropped his volume to protect from prying ears, "although I could probably guess."

Gordon shot Virgil a look and folded his arms. Told you so. Scott intervened before either of his younger brothers could speak.

"As this is an...unusual use of International Rescue equipment," he said, "DI Campton has agreed to feed the story to the media that we picked up on police transmissions, happened to be in the area and decided to step in to prevent a deadly crash."

Campton nodded.

"I think they'll buy it. Some of the gossip pages may speculate otherwise but the broadsheets will run the story as-is. I have a good friend who has some influence in the area. She can be very…persuasive," he added with a wistful smile.

Penelope, Gordon thought.

"Otherwise," Campton continued, "the media will be more concerned with the details of the crime - though as yet we don't even know what exactly has happened. The victims will be taken to the hospital and we're bringing the suspect in." He glanced over Gordon's shoulder to catch a glimpse of John. "We'll notify his next of kin," he said, though he knew full well that they were already aware.

"You might want to call your friend, too," Gordon said.

Campton gave a quick nod.

"I think I will."

He reached out to shake each of their hands, continuing the pantomime of ignorance.

"Thank you for all your help, International Rescue," he said loudly. "We really appreciate it."

"Just doing our jobs," Scott said, sounding every inch the detached hero.

Campton smiled before he turned away. Gordon uncrossed his arms and glanced back at John again. He was being checked over by the medic; even from a distance, Gordon could see his body tremble. His heart ached.

"I want to stay here," he said. "I'll change into my civvies and slip off. Penelope and come pick me up."

"Gordon, I -"

"No, Scott," Gordon said.

His older brother's eyes widened at his assertion, though Gordon remained firm.

"No one at the hospital will recognise me, bar Campton, if he's even there. It's dark and we've only been seen from a distance - apart from by the ambulance crew, who aren't going to hang around the hospital. By the time I get there, they'll be off on another call. I'm staying, Scott, and that's the end of it."

Instead of the irritation he expected to receive, Scott gave Gordon a strange look. Was it pride?

"Okay, Gords," he said. "I give in. Virgil and I will go back to the island. You meet up with Grandma and Penelope. Then we'll figure out what to do next. We'll all want to see John but we can't leave IR unmanned."

Gordon turned around to catch John's eye but he had already been loaded into the ambulance. Gordon was just in time to see the door slam shut. Suddenly, a haze of fear came over him again. Seeing his body tense, Virgil placed a hand on Gordon's arm again.

"He's still there," Virgil said.

Gordon nodded, though in truth, he had had enough of his brother being out of his sight. He certainly hadn't been out of his mind.

~oOo~

By the time the ambulance reached the hospital, camera crews were already swarming around the Princess Alexandra Hospital's Accident and Emergency entrance. John silently thanked the police escort as they tried to drive the reporters back as he tried to hide inside the rescue blanket he had been wrapped in. I don't want to see my face all over the news, he thought. Haven't I been through enough?

As he was guided through to a cubicle, a clinical tang hanging heavy in the air, he looked out for Amelia or the baby - but could see neither.

"Where are the others?" he asked. "Where's the teenager and the baby that were with me?"

"They're being taken care of," Ahmad said, giving him a reassuring smile. "You just need to worry about yourself, for now."

John was ushered up onto a bed. Everything was suddenly swathed in blue as Ahmad drew the curtains around him. It did nothing to dull the wails of distressed patients and crying children. He lay back; the paper covering on the mattress crumpled beneath his weary body.

The metal curtain hooks scraped on the bar as a doctor entered, carrying a data tablet. Ahmad gave John a little salute and left, drawing the curtain closed again.

"Okay, John, I'm Doctor Bateman," the new figure said. "I'm just going to give you an initial check over."

There was something about her that made John's blood run cold. Mid-forties. Brown hair that reached her shoulders. She looked at him with kindness in her eyes but nevertheless, John's breath began to quicken. Her expression folded with concern and she approached. John scrambled back on the bed, pressing himself into a corner as his chest heaved. She reached out to him –

"Don't touch me," he said. "Stay away!"

Doctor Bateman didn't step forward again. Just then, the curtain flew back and a diminutive figure barrelled in.

"What are you doing to my grandson?"

John didn't think his eyes could widen any more. What's happening here?

Grandma Tracy held her purse up as though it were a weapon. Doctor Bateman stepped back, now frowning.

"Excuse me, who are you?"

"I'm his grandmother," Grandma Tracy said. "I answered your question, so you answer mine. What are you doing to my grandson?"

"I haven't done anything," Doctor Bateman said, holding up her hands in yield, tablet and all.

John tried to uncoil his muscles and pulled away from the wall to perch on the edge of the bed.

"It's okay, Grandma," he said. "I just… She looked like someone else."

Grandma threw her bag on the floor and pulled her grandson into a full-bodied hug. John immediately stiffened – don't touch me! - but he willed himself to return the embrace. It's your grandmother, he thought. She's not going to hurt you. Gradually, he thawed and melted into the hug.

"Oh, John," she said, her voice thick with tears, "I thought we had lost you."

She was everything that he had missed. She smelled like home, like family.

Like love.

Try as he might, John could not stop the grief from building in his eyes.

"I started to think I would never come home again," he said.

For a woman in her eighties, Grandma Tracy had a fierce strength as she embraced him.

"We were all so worried," she said.

Eventually she released him, fished a handkerchief out of her discarded bag and dabbed at her eyes.

"What happened? Where have you been all this time? What happened to your hair?"

Doctor Bateman was starting at them, looking like she wasn't sure whether to remain or escape. John opened his mouth but closed it again without speaking. Reality struck like a brick; he ran his hand over his stubbly head, trying to feel a ghost echo of the long locks that used to grace his head. How can I tell her what happened to me? How can I tell any of them? What will they think of me? What…what if they think I'm weak?

Fury bubbled up and displaced the sorrow. Grandma Tracy saw his expression darken and a flash of fear crossed her face.

"We can talk about it later," she said, her tone gentle. "Maybe now isn't the right time." She turned to look at the doctor and then returned her gaze to him. "Will you let this young lady take a look at you?"

Doctor Bateman gave a mild smile.

"It's been a long time since anyone called me young," she said.

Grandma Tracy waved a hand.

"When you get to my age, everyone else in the world is young in comparison," she said.

John breathed in slowly, allowing the air to fill his lungs and escape again, taking some of his anxiety with it. It's not her, he thought. It's just a doctor. It's not Grace.

"Okay," he said at length. "You can examine me. There's not much to look for, anyway. I'm fine."

Physically. He batted that thought away.

"Well, you don't look 'fine'," Grandma said, wagging a finger at him. "Not the normal definition of fine, anyway. You're about as 'fine' as your brother was after his hydrofoil accident."

John shook his head, unable to prevent a slight grin from gracing his face. He looked down at himself, taking in his bloodied hands and arms, the way his clothes hung from his emaciated frame, the fact that his feet were bare and calloused – he hadn't worn shoes since January.

"Okay, Grandma," he conceded. "Maybe I'm not fine."

His breath caught in his throat and he brought a hand up to stifle the sounds of 'weakness' that threatened to escape. You're free now, he thought. You should be celebrating.

But the shadow of Grace hung over him, dark and cold, consuming his very thoughts. His entire life, for nearly a year, had revolved around her. He had pandered to her every whim, allowed her to abuse his body. She had even stolen his very genes by allowing herself to fall pregnant. He felt pang of terror. Where's the baby? Where's my baby?

He slumped back against the wall and his grandmother's hands were on him. He could see her lips moving but he couldn't hear any sound. Everything was blurry, as though he was phasing out of reality, disappearing like sand whipped away on the wind.

Maybe I'm not fine at all.