John wrapped his hands around the plastic cup to try and quell his shaking. The water inside rippled as he stared into it. Even in the tremulous surface, he could clearly see despair and exhaustion etched into his face. I look ten years older, he thought. He ran a hand over his shaved head again. Worse, I look like a criminal. He choked out a laugh. Pretty apt, considering I'm in a cop shop.

From his side, Gordon leaned in and gave him a confused look, one eyebrow raised.

"You okay there, Johnny?" he asked.

John waved off the concern.

"Yeah, I just think I look like a felon," he said.

Gordon did not laugh. He did not crack even the faintest of smiles. John shook his head but before he could speak again, the door of the interview room opened. The sharp crack of the handle made him jump up from the couch. The cup of water jerked out of his hands; the contents spilled over the grey coffee table.

"God, sorry," John spluttered, making a desperate attempt to mop it up. With what, your hands? he thought. Get a hold of yourself!

Such a small event caused a volcano of emotion within him and it took a moment to regain his composure. Gordon and the officer who had entered quickly mopped up the water with tissues while John sat with the empty cup still in his hands.

"Would you like another?" the officer asked. John shook his head. The officer slid the sodden tissues off the table and into the bin. He smiled. "Never worry. I'm D.I. Campton. I believe we have a mutual friend - Lady Penelope."

John managed a dry smile and a slight nod.

"Yeah, she's a close family friend of ours," he said, motioning to his sibling. "This is one of my brothers. Gordon."

A strange look passed across Campton's face and he paused for a microsecond before reaching over to shake Gordon's hand.

"Yes, so I was told. Just flew in, I expect?" he asked.

Gordon nodded.

"Yeah. I came as soon as we heard the news."

John looked between the two men for a moment, feeling a strange tension in the air. Then it hit him. They've already met. Campton must have seen Gordon in his IR uniform. Well, the cat is well and truly out of the bag. I just hope this Campton is trustworthy...

"So," the inspector said, sitting on one of the armchairs and tapping his tablet, "what we need at the moment is a preliminary statement. I need you to recount for me what went on in that house, what you know about Grace Thomas."

John gulped and from the look Campton gave him, it must have been obvious.

"I know that it will be difficult but I do need you to be as clear, honest and detailed as possible."

John's face crumpled and he looked at Gordon, wishing that his younger sibling could do something, anything, to help him in that moment.

"It's okay, Johnny," he said. "I'll be here."

John tilted his head down and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

"All right," he said quietly. "I guess I should start at the very beginning."

~oOo~

Big brothers are not supposed to look helpless. Big brothers are not supposed to look at you with doleful eyes, begging you to take the pain away.

If he hadn't been raised as a moral man, Gordon Tracy would have marched through the police station, found the cell where the bitch was being kept - or if she was held elsewhere, the hospital or another station - and wrung her neck. That look in John's eyes that said everything without a word - please, Gords, just take me away from all this - broke his heart clean in two. What do I say? What do I do?

Hesitantly, Gordon answered the only way he could.

"It's okay, Johnny. I'll be here."

At that, his brother ducked his head and closed his eyes and looked as if all the sorrow in the world had landed on his shoulders. Gordon gulped against his frustration. I wish I could kill her. I wish I could.

John closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his courage, and Gordon willed whatever entity that existed in the afterlife, or netherworld, or whatever it was, to grant his brother strength. You too, Mom.

"All right," John said. It seemed to take a monumental effort to form each syllable. "I guess I should start at the beginning."

And thus began the heart-breaking account of his brother's ten months in captivity. Gordon did his best to stay as calm as possible. It took a Herculean effort not to explode. At first, it was the world-weary tone that John spoke with that upset him the most. He sounds...broken. Where has my brother gone?

When he heard about John being handcuffed to a bed, a lump formed in Gordon's throat. Then John shuddered, his words stuttering on the way out.

"Then... Then..."

Suddenly his head was in his hands and the silence in the room felt down like a ton weight on Gordon's shoulders.

"We can take a break any time," Campton said, his voice soft.

After a moment, John raised his head and breathed in deeply.

"No," he said, exhaling slowly. "I'm okay. It's just… It's all a bit of a blur, really, because... She said it was flunitrazepam."

"What?" Gordon could not stop himself from interjecting. "Why was she giving you roofies?"

And then it all came together. John couldn't look at him any longer, couldn't raise his head. Gordon felt like his heart had been broken before; this time it truly shattered. No... Please, God, no.

"I don't remember a lot of what happened in between being drugged and waking up a few hours later," John said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But there are images, vague memories and feelings at the back of my mind. I-I know what she did to me – kept doing to me."

His voice wavered then. Gordon reached out to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. John still wouldn't look up.

"I know this is difficult," Campton said, "but I do need you to be specific."

For the first time since he started his recount, John managed to raise his eyes. He looked at Gordon, cowed and beaten, and mouthed something that looked disturbingly like I'm sorry.

Eventually, he could speak again.

"I was unconscious most of the time because that's how she liked it," he said. "She liked to be in complete control, to treat me like… like a giant rag doll. It was a power thing. She liked to be able to do whatever she wanted, take whatever she wanted... So she would drug me and then..." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "She would sexually assault me."

Even though he had already guessed it, the bottom dropped out of Gordon's world when he heard those words coming from his brother's lips. Within a few seconds, his brain ran through a gamut of emotion. Sorrow. Hate. Fear. Sympathy. Unadulterated rage. John dropped his head again and Gordon moved his hand to the back of his brother's neck, willing some kind of comfort to transfer through his fingers.

"How often did this happen?" Campton asked. His tone was neutral but his eyes were hard.

John swallowed audibly again and shrugged. Gordon kept his hand in place, rubbing lightly.

"Nearly every day," John said. Then his head snapped up and Gordon withdrew his hand. John was staring at him, eyes wide and glistening. "I couldn't stop it. I couldn't get away. You have to understand. I tried once. She said she would kill Amelia if I tried again. She nearly drowned her in front of me. Once I snapped and tried to get away again and she beat that poor child half to death." John sucked in a whooping breath. "I couldn't leave. I couldn't get out. I had to... I had to let her do whatever she wanted because I couldn't let her harm that kid again. She's been through hell for her entire life and, damn it, I wasn't about to let her suffer more because of my actions. Then when Grace got pregnant, she threatened to harm the baby. She made me promise I would never leave her. I did try to get away. I really did. But... She had my hands tied, literally and figuratively. I couldn't..."

There it was. Gordon didn't think his heart could shatter into any more pieces, but it did. The way John was looking at him, his expression pleading… He's asking for forgiveness!

Interview be damned, Gordon swept his brother into a hug and squeezed like he would never let go. Frail as he looked, John's arms tightened like a vice.

"I'm sorry," he said into Gordon's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I should have done more. I should have found a way. I'm sorry!"

"Shh, Johnny, shh," Gordon crooned. "None of this is your fault. None of it."

What more could he say? What magic words did he have that would make everything better?

None. That was the stark reality. Nothing could make this better.

Campton tapped his tablet's screen and rose.

"I'll give you two a minute," he said, before rising and walking to the door.

Gordon mouthed a silent, Thank you. The inspector nodded before slipping out of the room.

John pulled away slowly. His face was blotchy and he looked as though he was about to spew his guts.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

Before he could continue, Gordon raised a hand.

"You don't need to apologise to me or anyone else," he said. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"I should have escaped sooner," John said, his eyes widening with each syllable. "I should have just left. I shouldn't have let her do that to me."

His gaze began to dart into every corner of the room, at the cracks in the ceiling, the waxy-leafed potted plant in the corner, anywhere but at Gordon's face. His breathing was erratic, hitching and strangled. Gordon planted his hands on John's shoulders to try to bring him back to Earth.

"John, look at me." No response. He snapped his fingers. "Look at me!"

This time, John did as he was told, though the terror in his eyes made Gordon feel like a monster.

"You. Did. Nothing. Wrong," he ground out. "If that bitch threatened to harm a child if you left, how could you escape? How could you leave, knowing what would happen? None of us could have done that. You put the life of someone else above your own in order to keep her safe. Just like Dad taught us."

He could see the words sinking into his brother's brain and gradually John started to calm again.

"I just wanted to keep her safe," he repeated. "And then the baby, too. I complied because... What else could I do?"

He stood abruptly, shins bumping against the coffee table.

"I didn't want any of it," he said. "I didn't ask for it. But now... Christ, Gordon, I have a child. I have a child that I had no conscious part in making." John turned away, his shoulders stiff as steel. "What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to be a father to a child I didn't want? A child born from violence?"

Gordon stood and turned John around to face him again.

"I don't know," he said. "I wish I had all the answers. I wish I knew the right things to say. But what I do know is that no matter what, everyone will support you."

"I-I know..."

John lowered himself onto the couch again and ran his fingers over his head. It was still a surreal sight for Gordon to see his brother, normally so proud of his carefully manicured hair, bereft of anything but a fuzz of near-transparent blond on his head. Gordon sat down again.

"The moment I saw that little girl's face," John said, "all crinkled and bloody and tiny, I knew I had to get out." He placed his hands on his knees. "I knew there was a chance. Just after giving birth, Grace was in no position to stop me. For the first time, I was able to walk away. But now I'm out. And I'm so very glad to be. But there are some things I need to sort out in my head, things I never thought I'd have to think about. And... I don't really know where to start."

"Getting through today is a good start," Gordon said. "Once you tell the cops everything, they can start collecting evidence to help charge her. Grandma's got the baby, so she couldn't be in better hands."

Just then, the door opened and Campton entered. He was carrying a fresh cup of water. John accepted it with a grateful nod.

"Are you okay to continue?" Campton asked before he sat down.

John took a sip of the water and nodded.

"I think so," he said.

Gordon gave him a reassuring smile. And so John continued his tale.

By the end of it, Gordon's heart had been smashed into a million pieces, fragments scattered into the wind. Oh, God, Johnny. How did you survive? he thought.

And then he looked at his brother, taking in every tiny detail in the man's face. Every line, every furrow in his skin, the glassiness of his brother's stare, the pallor of his face. It all came together to give the one, silent answer.

Barely, Gordon. Barely.