Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this.

Warning: the punchline is finally given to a very lame joke. Read at your peril.

Epilogue - three weeks later

"...and finally in today's news, the World President, Madame Sureyev, has confirmed that there has been no further contact from International Rescue since their press statement detailing a temporary shutdown of operations..."

"...this organisation has been functioning for just under two years, and yet it is now deemed as vital as the regular emergency services. Even the military have come to depend upon aid from these mysterious men in blue..."

"...appeared out of nowhere and have now disappeared back into the ether. The question is, can the world go back to handling tragedy without the presence of our rescue angels?..."

"...clearly a direct result of the World Navy's attempts last year to discover the International Rescue base. Since then, a growing number of civilian and military groups have been following up on the information the World Navy collected. Naturally, some of these must be getting close the truth. But the question has to be asked: is knowing their true identities and location worth losing the most effective and apolitical rescue service ever invented? I think not. This is Ned Cooke, signing off."

John smiled, leaning back in his chair in the quiet of the Round House that had been turned into a make-shift replica of Five's communication hub.

"Thanks Ned." he murmured, muting the speakers.

On the whole, the world was taking the sudden shutdown reasonably well. Moreover, no-one seemed to have connected the loss of service with the final rescue carried out - that of the two Tracy boys testing out a new design for Tracy Enterprises and caught in Cyclone Mathilde.

It had been something they always had ready in reserve - a pre-written transmission, installed in a totally unrelated satellite and routed through a hundred others, ready to be activated with the flip of a switch. Before they had even started up, they had known that something might go wrong - one of them might be killed, or a machine damaged too badly to continue - and they would need an untraceable way of letting the world know that they were off the air. They were not, in fact. John was still monitoring the calls and occasionally anonymously passing them on to the appropriate authorities, but he let the transmissions themselves be answered by the automated system. It was not an easy thing to do, but a necessary one until enough of his brothers recovered so they could go back to work even as a skeleton crew.

Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly time for dinner - time to close up for the day. Things around here were coming right again slowly. Virgil had had his arm set on Moyla by Jeremiah Callenson; Scott and Alan had been stabilised then sent on to San Francisco so they were closer to home. Alan's wound was painful, but there had been no infection and by some miracle he had not actually punctured any internal organs. Scott had turned out to have a mild concussion, a partially collapsed lung and four cracked ribs to go along with the more minor injuries Virgil had identified, and would take longer to fully heal but he too would be fine.

Equipment-wise, they had eventually gotten everything back to base. Gordon had flown Virgil out to the abandoned Pod 4 and Virgil had managed the pickup professionally even with his arm in plaster. The following day they had gone back podless for Thunderbird One, where Tintin and Brains had been camping out to work on the repairs, and they had carried her home too. Now she was back in her hangar and nearly fully repaired.

Gordon was spending hours in Thunderbird Two's cockpit with Virgil, drilling on the controls without leaving the ground. Alan, meanwhile, was playing up his invalid status and had enjoyed a full week of the women fussing over him alone before Scott arrived home yesterday and took some of the attention off him. That, of course, caused arguments, which was the real reason he was spending most of the day shut in over here: the squabbling between the injured brothers was getting more than just tiresome and he found he really missed the peace and quiet of Five.

Stretching, John rose and wandered over to the window to stare out towards the house. This had been a close one. Too close for comfort. And the weird part was that it had not happened on an actual rescue. But they had made it, and the business would go on even more smoothly now that they had Callenson in with them. Funny how things worked out sometimes.

Jeff smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair and surveying his surroundings. The day was balmy and the sound of the sea soothing, but most importantly he had his family back safe and sound. John would be back from his self-assigned Round House duties very shortly; Scott was dozing on the couch; Virgil had his cast off and was playing softly on the piano, trying to build up strength and dexterity in his hand once again; Alan and Gordon were staring intently at the chess board, Alan having lost five games in a row so far yet unwilling to admit defeat. Which reminded Jeff of an earlier competition.

"Whatever happened to your 'worst joke' competition?" he asked. "Did you ever find a winner?"

Virgil groaned, dropping his forehead onto the keyboard in dismay as Gordon looked up from the game.

"We called it a draw. Although... We did have a late entry from Scott but never heard the punchline."

"Is this another of your bad jokes?" Tintin asked, coming in with Grandma.

"Yeah, but Scott was cheating." Alan frowned at his older brother. "They weren't meant to be dirty jokes."

"Oh now Alan." Grandma scolded him. "I'm sure your brother would not even know any such jokes, let alone pass them around. Would he, Jeff?"

Jeff cleared his throat, by no means as convinced, but Scott sat up a little on the couch.

"It wasn't a dirty joke at all." he pointed out hoarsely. "Just very lame."

"Well then tell us." Tintin said primly.

"Yeah." Gordon grinned. "Tell them."

Scott started to, then began coughing and had to give up. Under other circumstances Jeff might have thought he was trying to get out of answering, but given the surgery he had undergone three weeks earlier it seemed more likely to be genuine.

"I'll do it." Virgil put in as Alan and Gordon began crowing and Grandma went to help Scott sit up. "The joke goes: What's brown and sticky?"

There was a shocked silence from the two women, but Jeff began to laugh.

"Jefferson!" his mother scolded indignantly.

"Oh don't worry, mother." he reassured her. "The boys are right - it's not a dirty joke. It is, however, one of the worst I've ever heard. Go ahead, Virgil, what is brown and sticky?"

Virgil grinned back at him and gave a shrug.

"A stick."

"A stick?" Alan echoed dubiously.

"Yeah. You know - brown. And stick-y. A stick."

"Is that even a joke?" Gordon wondered.

"A stick." Alan repeated numbly. "A stick? You mean we waited nearly a month for that?"

"I would say that that's definitely the worst joke I've ever heard." Jeff nodded. "We have a winner. Congratulations, son. So what did you win?"

Gordon and Alan grinned at each other.

"The right to judge the winning entry for the next competition." Gordon smirked. "Bad limericks, didn't we decide, Al?"

"Yup. Bad limericks. Wanna start now, Scott?"

Scott looked up at him in horror, then imploringly over at Virgil who shook his head solemnly.

"Sorry, Scotty, I'm all done rescuing you for this month - for this one you're on your own."

The end.