Scott shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun. The inhabitants of Tracy Island had gathered on the deck of the Cliff House to await the arrival of the jet. Tin-Tin was putting yet more sun screen on Adam's face; Alan rolled his eyes. Brains and Virgil were leaning on the deck wall, looking out at the glimmering sea. Kyrano had gone to prepare some cold drinks. Elijah lingered on the periphery, not quite knowing what to do.

Scott strolled to his side, his hands in the pockets of his loose linen trousers.

"Hey," he said.

Elijah gave him a slight smile and straightened up.

"Hey," he replied. "Big day."

"Amazing day," Scott said. "It'll be great to have John home and safe again."

The sunlight painted Elijah's red hair gold. The nurse licked his lips and nodded.

"It's going to be very difficult for him," he said quietly. "Ceasing long-term benzodiazepine use can have significant side-effects. Not to mention the psychological trauma he will need to deal with."

Scott kicked at the ground with one foot, scuffing the toe of his loafer.

"He'll see it through," he said. "John's a fighter."

"He certainly seems to be," Elijah replied. "I have the tapering program the doctors sent through and some medication that will help reduce the side-effects, so everything is in place."

Before Scott could reply, Virgil called out.

"Here they come!"

Sure enough, the little black dot on the horizon grew and the plane took shape. Eventually, Scott saw the landing gear descend. Then the jet was on the tarmac, its engines roaring as the reverse thrust kicked in. The Tracy Industries logo emblazoned on the tail fin glinted in the sunlight as it turned on the runway.

Alan, holding Adam in his arms, joined Scott at the deck wall.

"Look, Adam. Grandpa's back. And Great-Gramma and Uncle Gordon."

The child burbled and grinned and the cabin door opened and the steps unfolded. Alan clasped his son's wrist and started waving his little hand.

"Wave at everyone, Adam. Say, 'Welcome home!'"

Scott folded his arms as the family began to emerge. As soon as John set foot on the steps, a huge cheer erupted from the deck, accompanied by deafening applause.

"Welcome home, bro!" Virgil called.

Tin-Tin let out a whoop of joy and Scott joined in. Why not?

"Look, Adam. It's Uncle John. You haven't met him yet," Alan said. "And who's that? It's your new cousin!"

John looked up and waved at them with his free hand. His other arm was occupied as he carried his daughter. Even from a distance, Scott could see the exhaustion hanging over him. John's face was washed out against his dark shirt and his movements were slow.

"Wow, John sure looks strange with no hair," Alan said, still waving Adam's hand.

"Alan!" Tin-Tin admonished.

"What?" he asked. "I'm just commenting."

"Well, don't," Tin-Tin said. "And certainly don't say that to him."

"As if I would," Alan said.

Virgil glanced at Scott and rolled his eyes.

"Come on, guys," Scott said, hoping to prevent World War Three from breaking out. "Let's go. I want to see my new niece!"

~oOo~

Everyone was being great. Truly great. But, John thought as he made his way to the sick room, it's all a little…overwhelming. No one had asked any awkward questions. No one had even mentioned his ordeal. It was simply the act of existing in the same space with so many other people that exhausted him the most. I'm not used to it any more, he thought. That's a strange sensation. Family gatherings never bothered me before.

It wasn't just the presence of other people that was difficult, of course. John felt as though he was coming down with the flu; he was all aches and pains and tiredness. It wasn't the flu, though. If only it were that simple. It had been too long since he'd had his last dose of flunitrazepam and the side-effects were kicking in. His fingers clicked incessantly, no matter how he tried to stop them. His left eyelid twitched again and again. As he rounded the final corner on the way to the sick room, desperation had started to coil in his chest. I hate this…

When he entered, Elijah was sitting at the comm station. He stood as soon as he saw John.

He said nothing but ushered John onto one of the beds. John's hands were shaking as he sat down; he clamped them onto his knees. Elijah closed the sick room door and returned to his side.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

There were many ways in which John could have responded to that question. He could have given the generic lie: "I'm fine." He could have given the other man a wry smile and shrugged his shoulders: "I've seen better days." He could have responded in the same way he had to his brothers: "I'm just glad to be home."

But John decided that none of those were necessary. Why lie? Why shrug it off? Why avoid answering? The door was closed and there was probably some sort of nurse-patient confidentiality agreement – (Is that even a thing? he thought) – so, John opted to tell the truth.

"I feel like shit," he said.

And, to his extreme surprise, Elijah simply nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "You would do. Can you be specific about the nature of the shitness?" he asked. "Are we talking headache-shit or nausea-shit or what?"

It took John a moment to respond. This had not been his experience of medical staff over the past week. He had been used to distant looks and stock questions and laboured medical explanations. This… I like this a lot better.

"I feel like I'm coming down with the flu and at the same time like I've overdosed on caffeine." He lifted his hands to show the other man their tremoring. "I can't stop shaking."

Elijah clicked his tongue.

"Benzo withdrawal," he said. "Did the doctors talk you through it?"

John nodded and grabbed the edge of the bed with both hands to quell his shakes again.

"Yeah. It sounded like a positively stunning experience."

"It is," Elijah said, crossing to one of the cupboards. He unhooked a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the cabinet. "But we have a plan in place."

He plucked a small bottle and a box of pills from inside, grabbed a syringe kit, then went to wash his hands.

"A plan that involves stabbing me," John said, his voice flat. He didn't mind needles, though he didn't relish them either.

Hands now clean, Elijah picked up the bottle of medicine and rolled it in between his palms. Then he deftly went through the motions of filling the syringe, deposited one of the pills in a little paper cup and grabbed a small bottle of water from the cooler. Then he placed everything onto a rolling tray and brought it over to the bed. Once everything was in place, he sat down opposite John and looked him in the eye.

"You were honest with me," Elijah said, "so I'll be honest with you. Benzo withdrawal is absolutely shite. But the doctors have drawn up a tapering plan to reduce the dose you're on and I have a supply of flumazenil. It's very useful in reducing side-effects but it does need to be injected. I promise, it will make things easier."

"Can't I just go cold-turkey?" John asked.

Elijah shook his head.

"Not a good plan. Not unless you want to go into a coma or start having convulsions."

"Neither of those are particularly high on my list of priorities right now," John said. He shivered as a wave of coldness washed over him. Another side-effect, he thought.

Elijah handed the pill cup to John along with the bottle of water.

"That's your reduced dose," he said. "The doctors switched you onto diazepam as well, correct?"

"Yeah, they did," he said. John looked at the little pill for a moment before huffing out a breath and tossing the medication back with a swig of water. "I wish I didn't have to take it at all."

"Well, the battle is half-won already, then," Elijah said. "Your body may be addicted but your mind isn't. Or at least, it doesn't want to be. Roll up your sleeve, please."

John did as he was told. Elijah prepared the needle.

"I need to go for a big vein, here," he said. He turned John's arm over and prodded at one of his protruding veins. "I don't think it'll be too hard to find one."

John let out a self-depreciating laugh.

"My veins didn't always stick out that much," he said. "Neither did my collar bones or my hips. But…" He sighed. He had been avoiding thinking about his ordeal all day. There was something about the way Elijah looked at him that made him feel like he could spill his guts. "I didn't come out of that house in good shape."

Elijah rubbed the intended injection site with alcohol and gauze.

"Understandable," he said. Then he picked up the needle. "Ready?"

"I guess so," John said.

He winced as the sharp tip went in. Elijah pushed the plunger in slowly. It seemed like an ice age had passed by the time he withdrew the needle. The nurse grabbed a piece of cotton wool and placed it onto the little prick in John's skin.

"Hold, please," he said.

John pressed down on the wound and watched as Elijah disposed of the needle in the sharps bin and pushed the tray aside.

"You'll probably experience some fatigue," he said. "The diazepam will stop the withdrawal symptoms and the flumazenil will take the edge off the sedation of the diazepam. Still, I would advise that you lie down for a while."

He withdrew the gauze and tossed it in the trash. John didn't feel any different. His hands were still shaking. He still felt ill. However, he did as he was told and lay back on the bed.

He stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiles from one end of the room to the other. As the medication started to take hold, he felt himself relax. The symptoms began to abate, and while he still felt drowsy, it was nowhere near as extreme as the loss of consciousness he had suffered at the hands of Grace.

I wonder what she's thinking right now…

John squeezed his eyes shut and willed her image to leave his mind's eye. I don't want to think about you, he thought. I don't want you to poison my home.

"Are you okay?" Elijah asked.

Again, John could have lied. But he didn't.

"Not really," he said. "Just… Bad memories."

He listened as Elijah walked to his side. The bed springs winced as he sat on the other bed.

"It takes a long time for the memories to fade."

John cracked one eye open at that. Elijah was staring at the ground, his hands hanging loosely over his knees. His tone had been so quiet, so dull. John tried to sit up but found his limbs were unresponsive. Instead, he forced his other eye open.

"How would you know?" he asked.

Elijah took in a long breath and controlled his exhalation. He tried to speak a few times but it seemed to take a while for him to find the right words.

"I know because I know," he said. "I don't normally talk about this and none of the rest of your family know, but…" He sighed. "When I was nine, a man lured me into his car. He drove me off to some empty house and…"

This time John managed to struggle up onto one elbow. He waited. Elijah would not look at him.

"He…did some very bad things to me," Elijah said at last. "That was, what, nineteen years ago? And yet those bad memories still come back to haunt me sometimes." He cleared his throat. "Anyway. They don't come back as often as they did before and I guess… I guess the reason I mention this is because I'd like to say the one thing I wish someone had said to me nineteen years ago." He finally looked up, his eyes bright. "It's not the end of the world. I know it feels like it but it's not. You can recover from this."

That tore it. John felt tears brim in his eyes and he flopped back down onto the pillow. He wiped at his face as weariness threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn't just the meds. It was the memories, the knowledge. And…the relief?

He felt a hand gently settle on his shoulder. Elijah gave him a light squeeze.

"I'm not a particularly touchy-feely person," the Irishman said. "I'm also not exactly the world's number one conversationalist. But, if you ever need an understanding ear, I'll be here. I suppressed all my feelings for years until they nearly destroyed me, and Matthew too. It's better to deal with them now than to deal with them later."

John swallowed against the lump of emotion in his throat.

"Th-thanks," he said. "That's good to know."

Elijah patted his shoulder before withdrawing his hand.

"Good," he said. "Now, I recommend some rest. Just lie here for a while until you're feeling a bit stronger. I'll be pottering about if you need anything."

"Thanks," John said, feeling his eyelids slip closed again.

That phrase in Elijah's lilting voice played over and over in his mind.

You can recover from this.

He thought of Lyra, being taken care of by her large extended family upstairs, and of Amelia, the bravest child John had ever met.

I will recover from this, he thought. I have to.