Title: Recovery

Author: Macx

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: uh... author exploiting John ouchies? Is that a crime? g>

Author's Voice of Warning (aka Author's Note):
English is not my first language; it's German. This is the best I can do. Any mistakes you find in here, collect them and you might win a prize g> The spell-checker said everything's okay, but you know how trustworthy those thingies are.....

Disclaimer: John's not mine. Crap. Neither are Scott, Virgil, Jeff, Gordon, Alan and the rest of the TB cast. Bummer. They all belong to someone else and I just happily play with them. Don't we all? :)

Archive: sure, archive away

Universe: Movie

Feedback: empty inbox seeks emails g>

This story was born after watching the movie too many times to count. I noticed a few things and it got me thinking.

1. John gets hurled halfway across the control room, ends up battered and bruised and probably in serious pain, but he keeps jogging around at the end of the movie in London, and then looks almost back to normal in the swimming pool scene. My belief is that it takes a while to heal those injuries, so that launched the first spark.

2. Alan's around fourteen/fifteen and still in school. I seriously doubt Jeff just lets him become a full member of the Thunderbirds. No way.

"We still have a dangerous situation here. I need you boys to close down this accident scene."



Two names, same stuff.

A wonderful substance. A way to overcome pain and fatigue, to be momentarily on top of the world, able to do what the body was theoretically too weak or too much in pain to do.


Ignoring pain.

Adrenaline helped. That and stress and worry and fear.

Adrenaline was your friend.

John Tracy drew a shuddering breath and felt the world shudder with him.

Damn. It shouldn't do that. It should be stable and clear, not tilting and weaving, and running out of focus.

Around him, people were moving, shouting orders. He caught a glimpse of rescue personnel helping the shaken and terrified monorail passengers to safety.

He was part of International Rescue. He had to do his job, do what his father had ordered. Close down the accident scene. Taking a deep breath, the blond immediately regretted it as abused lungs made him cough.

John knew the definition of adrenaline only too well. His family lived off it at times, craved the extra kick. It was their constant companion throughout rescues, helped them overcome the odds, stay on top of things, think clearly, and it gave them the necessary boost now and then. Yes, adrenaline was good.
It had been good to him, too. Very good. It had kept him mobile, coherent, able to function like everyone else.

His brothers were here, too, professionally assisting the rescue personnel, keeping onlookers back, talking to police and whatnot.

Spikes of pain radiated from his injured shoulder and arm, and he didn't even want to think about the other parts of his body that felt terribly bruised and battered. Getting smashed into the bulkhead of Thunderbird 5 by a tremendous explosion wasn't really good for the health. Nearly suffocating on noxious gas, then starting to heat up because some raving madman had turned up the temperature aboard the station, and finally almost dying didn't help either.

All in all, John felt chewed up, spit out, trampled on, and then flushed down the drain. In tiny pieces… again and again.

He stumbled against the stone banister, blinking to keep his vision from losing focus.

It did it anyway.

Damn again.

So much for adrenaline.

Bad thing about it was, the moment the molecules that acted as a hormone and neurotransmitter were decreasing, the body caught up with all the ignored or suppressed signals, and right now John's body was doing a whole lot of catching up.

Fingers dug into the stone and he suppressed a groan as the spikes of pain increased. The voices around him were suddenly muted, his ears felt like stuffed with cotton wool, and all he heard were his harsh breaths to control the pain.

His right upper arm, where a sharp piece of metal had left him with a deep, bleeding cut, was on fire. His back throbbed and he knew there was more than just a bruise. He had felt the back of his uniform rip open, could feel the air on his exposed skin. The headache was ever-present, had been there since the explosion.
All his actions had been guided by the overwhelming effect the terror had had on him, his fear for his life, for his father, his brothers, and finally for the only family member not aboard Thunderbird 5. Alan had gone up against that lunatic on his own, assisted by Tin-Tin and Fermat, and there had been nothing he or anyone could have done while they had been up in Thunderbird 5.

John's eyes screwed shut as the pain shot through his head, lodging behind his forehead, hammering away.

Oh gawd...

His knees buckled and he leaned heavily against the only support he had -- the banister. His bad arm was in a sling, but the jarring it had received from the running around, the hectic flight back to Earth, and the subsequent race to get to Alan had done a number on the damaged limb. So his good hand was all there was to keep him upright.


His name.

Well, maybe it was. Someone might be calling a friend or a relative. John wasn't that much of a rare name. Actually, it was one of the most common.


The world did a merry dance as he turned his head and it began to slip-slide from one second to the next.

"Shit!" someone exclaimed next to him and he was caught by a pair of strong arms. "John?"

He groaned softly and tried to remember who the person might be.

"Scott?" he mumbled.

"Yes, it's me. Sit down. It's okay," his brother said firmly, his voice wavering a little.

Scott Tracy, normally so very much in control in any situation involving a rescue, was showing emotions. John almost smiled, but even that hurt.

"'m okay," he managed, voice rough.

High velocity impact with the wall. Right. He was completely and utterly okay. No problem. No sweat. He was...

...rapidly losing control of himself.

"Sure you are," was the worried reply, undermining his silent pep-talk.


Okay, he knew that voice. Virgil. That was Virgil.


"I think things finally caught up with him," Scott addressed his younger brother, one hand still resting on John's good shoulder.

John was glad for it. He firmly believed that should Scott remove his hand, he would just topple all the way to the ground – which wasn't that far away since he was sitting down. Leaning his head against the rough stone, he winced as the injury there made itself known.

"Where's Dad?" he asked softly.

"He and Alan and the others are just wrapping up the arrest of the Hood," Scott replied.

"We should get him back to Thunderbird 2," Virgil murmured.

Or maybe he didn't murmur -- John wasn't so sure as he was slipping again, everything by now shutting down since no more adrenaline was supplied. His body had decided he needed to recover, that the danger was over, that he didn't need to defend himself any more.

Who was his body to just make decisions like that? he mused faintly.

Scott seemed to agree with his younger brother and John suddenly found himself upright on his own two feet. It made the world tap-dance around him, do a little hip-hop, and he clung to Scott for desperate support. Things were quickly spinning out of control.

The trip to Thunderbird 2 was a blur, if not a complete black-out at times, and only when he was inside the machine did he realize that he had actually bodily been moved. Someone poked at his injured shoulder, trying to lift the material of his uniform.

He gave a groan of protest as his skin didn't really want to let go of the clothes stuck to it.

"John? It's all right. We'll get you to a doctor."

His father.

Sounding worried.

He tried to focus on the voice, get a picture to go with it, but the missing adrenaline had by now done its number.

Unconsciousness beckoned.

And he followed the siren call.