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Karkta's bathing John in a small, ceramic tub, soaking a sponge and squeezing it over Sheppard's bony shoulders and equally bony back. Sheppard just sits there wearing an expression I can only describe as “completely stoned”: jaw hanging open and eyes as about expressive as a dead fish's.
“The combination of the chemicals in his blood stream and the taming device has rendered Fourteen not only completely compliant but relying on Karkta for his basic needs,” Karkta says, running the sponge down Sheppard's protruding spine. “Although the effect on Fourteen's appetite has Karkta concerned. He is unable to handle solid foods and even liquids prove a challenge for him. Karkta will have to cut back. The hallucinogens alone provide the means to influence Fourteen's behavior, so Karkta may rely on those as they do not have to be administered constantly. The sedatives will be for emergencies only. Fourteen still displays moments of temper.”
Karkta pushes back John's hair then scratches his head – like a dog. “He's a trying creature at times, but Karkta is a patient man.” He starts petting Sheppard and I nearly lose my lunch. Chubby fingers rake through Sheppard's wet hair, then fat knuckles brush lightly across his shoulder blade as Karkta looks toward the camera. “The chemicals...”
Sheppard suddenly lunges forward, clamping his teeth onto Karkta's fat forearm – right above the bracelet controlling the restraining device. Karkta yelps and hammers on John's back with his fist. When that doesn't work, he grabs the back of Sheppard's neck and squeezes until the teeth come off. Now he's shoving Sheppard against the rim of the tub, yanking his skinny arm behind his back. Sheppard's thrashing, snarling, then whimpering in pain.
“Sometimes,” Karkta says, breathless and strained, “he gives Karkta no choice but to react just as aggressively.” Karkta leans his weight into Sheppard until the thinner man starts gasping and choking. The fat little creep doesn't let go until Sheppard is limp as a dish rag. He then adds to the injury by activating the device. Sheppard's lips turn blue.
Elizabeth begs Carson to turn the feed off, and he does.
-----------------------------
The next day is the start (more like resuming) of Sheppard's physical therapy – kind of. I say kind of because it doesn't involve a professional and I'm pretty sure it should involve a professional, not a Satedan. Carson's confident that there's little difference since Ronon had been taking part in most of the PT since Sheppard kept trying to get away from the actual PT coach. Andrew had started teaching Ronon the appropriate steps to be taken in order to get John's muscles back up to par. Everything not taught was filled in by Carson, such as this device like a mini-heart monitor that delivers a mild, buzzing electric current through pads stuck to John's arms or legs to stimulate the muscles. They have Sheppard walk up and down the halls, even take him outside onto the sidewalk just for a change of scenery and as a distraction. He lifts small weights for his arms then, after all the strength-building, has him cook in the hot tub to help soften the muscles for some stretching exercises courtesy of Teyla.
Sheppard puts up with it at the start since he doesn't know better, but with each day that passes he starts getting these looks on his face: some concentrative to the point that you'd think he's in pain, and other times he looks petulant, especially when they have him exercise in the pool. I think it's the whole getting undressed thing that pisses him off. He's always mumbling, growling, and trying to push us away while we're getting him into swim trunks. At one point, he even tries to bite Ronon in a moment of confused agitation. I would have pulled my assistance right then and there but can be sadistically persuasive when he wants to be, what with his direct access to painful inoculations and all.
Sheppard has to be getting better. Just like with everything else, he needs help when it comes to bath-time. I prepare the water and Ronon holds him up while gets him undressed. We're living a visual representation of the definition of friendship here, so Sheppard had better appreciate it. We get him into the tub and simultaneously scrub him down while hold him up. His look the first few days is vacant and sleepy. In fact, he's fallen asleep twice. After a few days of this he adopts a mulish expression, morphing on a daily basis into mutinous.
He's not happy about all the attention, and I hope even harder that he doesn't remember any of this. Hell, I hope I'm struck with sudden amnesia. There are some things in life not meant to get stuck in one's head, such as your best friend, buck-naked and pouting.
We keep the water level at Sheppard's middle, three ribs up, and I find it rather morbid that Sheppard's bones are being used as a means of measurement. Mutinous expressions are soon accompanied by struggling. It takes Ronon to hold him while I wash him, because today Carson and Teyla stepped out to do a little grocery shopping since a human can only survive on pizza and still like it for so long.
Sheppard's strengthening my resolve to never sire any progeny. Crap, he splashes worse than a three year old. Soap-foamy water is slopping all over the tiled floor, my pants, my shirt, and my face. And that's saying something since it's one of those ridiculously over-sized jacuzzi tubs that's supposed to be too deep for the water to be tidal-waving like it is.
But at least I'm not the one trying to keep Sheppard from bolting. That's Ronon's department, and he's making the washing part look like the lesser of two evils.
The combination of soap, water, and the feeling that too tight a grip will snap John's arm in two makes him hard to hold onto. As soon as Ronon has one arm secured, the other slips free. Sheppard's trying to scoot back away from all the physical contact, and as irritated as I am I can't blame him. Frustration is making me consider bringing in a camera, snapping a few pictures to use in blackmail attempts. I'll feel like scum for thinking it later, I always do, but in the here and now it's how I vent.
“Sheppard,” Ronon growls. “Hold still!”
John curls his lip and responds with a guttural growl of his own. Mutinous is mutating into pissed and there's a familiar gleam to Sheppard's eyes that makes Ronon go stiff.
“Don't even think about it Sheppard,” Ronon warns.
Sheppard grunts and throws himself back, sloshing tsunamis over the tub onto the floor. Ronon manages to keep hold of Sheppard's wrist with a little too much force that makes John grunt with pain then lunge forward, biting the bigger man on the knuckles.
“Damn it!” Ronon snarls, snatching his hand back. Sheppard slips his other hand free and lurches back to the farthest end of the tub, and just sits there.
The fury is gone, not even leaving behind a trace of irritation. Sheppard is looking at Ronon, bewildered, gaping, mouth moving as though he wants to say something, maybe apologize. This isn't brainless animal terror or even child-like timidity we're seeing. This is something new and it leaves us both stunned silent. After a moment of imitating a fish, Sheppard drops his gaze to the water and leaves it there, contrite, cheek-bones turning from pasty to slightly pink. He brings his knees up, wraps his arms around his stomach, and looks away: a huddle of absolute humiliation.
I exchange a look with Ronon. This is different and different is good. Except... this particular kind of different isn't the kind we're particularly happy about. Does that even make any sense? We're well aware the humiliation part is unavoidable but that doesn't stop us from hoping to be able to avoid it.
Although it sometimes helps to pretend it's not a big deal. Not really pretend, actually, since it isn't a big deal. Sheppard can't help that he's crazy and he needs to understand that. I hold the washcloth out within his reach. “If you want to wash yourself you need to just say so, because it's not a picnic for us, either.”
John's head moves hesitantly, looking at the cloth, then me, then Ronon, fear and caution flickering in his eyes.
I stretch my arm out further. “It's all right. Go ahead, take it.”
Sheppard does with the same hesitation, fear, and wariness. He starts to wash while Ronon and I turn away to start cleaning up the mess. We'd leave but if Sheppard ends up drowning because he's too tired to sit up, then Carson'll kick our asses all the way back to Atlantis.
John signals he's finished by setting the cloth on the edge of the tub.
I stand with the oversized towel open and ready to receive. “You know the drill.”
Sheppard doesn't move. Ronon and I exchange another glance.
“I'm not mad at you, John,” Ronon says. It's weird hearing him use Sheppard's first name, just like it's weird, period, using the colonel's first name myself. Don't know why. Too intimate, maybe? Too impolite? I've never actually stopped to think about it since it's rather a waste of thought processing, just went along with it since it's so much easier.
Sheppard still doesn't move. He isn't pouting or pissed. He's just staring with a no-one's-at-home vacancy and it's making me both irritated and edgy.
“Do I need to get Carson?” I say. Still nothing.
Ronon reaches out, touching the tips of his fingers to John's bare shoulder. “Hey, you all right?”
Sheppard flinches, cringes a little then moves sluggishly toward us. Ronon keeps one hand on John's arm as he rises and I put the towel around him. He's completely docile and obedient as we dry him off, which is a first. He's usually either cringing or trying to pull away.
After we dress him in sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, we take him into the living room and let him huddle with bowed shoulders and a hunched back in the far corner of the couch. Ronon places a blanket over him, then we all sit together, flipping channels until Carson and Teyla return with a tray of pre-made sandwiches, paper plates, cups, a six-pack of soda, and a container of soup for John.
Sheppard looks like the poster-child for depression while Teyla spoon-feeds him. That is, until I land on a football game during my channel hopping. The depression flees like an escaped convict under a search light and Sheppard perks up, sitting a little straighter and focusing on the game.
“Damn it!” I hiss. I'd been just about to flip again.
“Leave it,” Carson says. “Let the lad have a bit of fun.”
If you can call this modern day gladiator match fun. I don't even know who's playing and I definitely doubt Sheppard knows. But, like he cares. It's sports, it’s football – it's all the sick man can ask for and far be it from me to begrudge him the simple pleasures of life.
On the real plus side, Sheppard's so distracted by the game he's eating without flinching.
Dinner then bed, then resuming John's slowly progressing body-building. He can stand on his own, but his equilibrium is shot to hell whenever he tries to walk. He's getting better, though. Less like a complete inebriate and more like someone who's merely heavily buzzed. My attention is more on the fact that he's paying attention to the exercises: his brow furrows, eyes focus, even his tongue pokes out between his lips in heavy concentration.
He's also speaking in short, abrupt sentences. Mostly “I can do it” or just “I can.” It's almost out of the blue that he's trying to dress himself, feed himself, even bathe by himself. Except he can't be by himself. But, hey, close enough. We hover, he tries, and we step in when he's no longer able to move out of exhaustion. Four days later, we don't even have to step in. Progress is quick, because Sheppard, to put it simply, is “waking up.”
We take a walk by the lake one late Sunday afternoon. Everything's all gold and amber, from the top of the distant mountains to the lake, and there are wild geese skimming across the water working up smooth ripples. The weather is cool, clear, the air scented with real pine, not that cheap freshener crap people get for their cars. Teyla and Ronon are on either side of John as we make our way along the beach, and I grab Carson's arm, forcing him to slow so the rest move on ahead.
“What do we have to look forward to here?” I ask.
Beckett gives me a cock-eyed look. “Look forward to? I think that would be obvious.”
I shake my head. “No, I mean withdrawal. Why hasn't John gone into any kind of withdrawal?”
“The drugs used were non-addictive, Rodney. I already told you this.”
“No, you rambled using hefty medical terms I didn't have a dictionary to translate. Layman's terms, Beckett. Develop the habit of using it. So, then, anything else we need to worry about?”
Carson stuffs his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. “Depends on how much he remembers.”
That isn't encouraging. I watch Sheppard amble over the narrow strip of mud-brown sand. He's dressed in a heavy black sweater, blue jacket, and jeans that all look too big. Except for the way he keeps listing and how damn skinny he is, he almost looks normal with his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his gaze less glassy and more thoughtful. Teyla points to some duck or other animal, asks what it's called, and Sheppard answers.
“G... goose. Squirrel. T-turtle.” He's not stuttering. For him, talking is like eating and it makes him nervous, so he hesitates, testing the sound of his own voice to see if it causes any pain.
When Sheppard starts to stumble we make our way back. When we reach the room, he collapses on his bed and we leave him there until dinner is ready.
That night he dreams again, minus the screaming returns to consciousness. It's been replaced by loud gasping that's enough to snap me back to the land of the living.
“Sheppard?” I can't really see him, just his shape that's narrow even with him hunched up. Waiting for an answer, I hear a sound, like breathing only erratic, stuttering. I think he's crying. At least that's how my brain eventually figures it. I freeze up with that realization and hope John hasn't heard me say his name. Calming him out of the remnants of a nightmare I can handle. Crying... Sheppard's never cried before. At least not around me or anyone else I know of. The emotional/psychological implications alone make me nervous but there's more to it than that. It also scares the hell out of me, a little for my own sake and a little for Sheppard's. I could go on and on about the man's need for control: emotional barriers, strong facades, so on and so forth, but those are general psychobabble definitions that I'm not sure actually define him. I myself avoid emotional expression when feasible, but that doesn't make me any kind of a stoic or hard-ass.
Sheppard? I don't know. When he's afraid, you do know it. He doesn't panic or freak, but he still shows fear, usually with wide eyes or quicker than normal breathing. The fact remains that he doesn't try to hide it when he's afraid. What he does is remain in control, moves fast but moves precisely.
Control: he's always in control. So crying in the vicinity of two grown men – even asleep – would be a complete loss of control. At least to me that's what it means, and that's why it scares me.
It's just not Sheppard and I want him to stop. Selfish, yes, but it hurts hearing him weep alone and helpless in the dark. I don't want to think of the possibility that Karkta may have broken him for good.
I start hating myself, but I honestly have no idea what to do, what to say, and suddenly I feel like crying.
Crap, when did we turn into such ten year old girls?
“Colonel?” Carson to the rescue. I listen to the whisper of shifting blankets then the soft padding of Carson's feet as he moves to John's bed. “You all right, lad?”
I hear a kind of hiccuping inhale, then a wet sniff. “He won't stop touching me,” Sheppard says, angry, disgusted, and just a little terrified.
“It's all right, John. It was just a dream.”
“Crap, doc, I tried to fight him; I did. I tried. I tried, I tried, I tried, I tried...”
“Shhh, we know, son, we know. You did try. Sometimes all you can do is try. But it's all right now; you don't have to worry about it anymore.”
I angle my head enough to see Carson's moon-lit outline sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing Sheppard's moon-lit form's back. John keeps up his litany of “I tried” that is a combination of explanation and remorse until his voice thins out, drifting off, and Carson's form gently sets Sheppard's form down, covering him up.
So it’s now apparent that Sheppard remembers a lot, and that scares me just as much as him crying. I mean, there's being tortured for information or some kind of gain (Sheppard's talked to me about it, said that by focusing on the goal you can ignore most of the pain, and the goal is to keep your mouth shut). Then there's... I don't even know what you would call it. It can't be torture since there wasn't a goal, unless the goal was keeping one's sanity, which was a bust. Or, simply put, just not being tamed. That was what Karkta was after – a docile, obedient John Sheppard.
But he failed, miserably. If he hadn't failed, then he wouldn't have resorted to using drugs, fists, and excessive use of the restraining device. Sheppard wouldn't have bitten him the day we dropped by. That's not just trying to fight; that's succeeding. My discomfort turns to irritation, because it's all so damn obvious there's no reason for Sheppard to think he'd failed. The need to jump from the bed, stomp over, grab him by the shirt and shout in Sheppard's face that he isn't a failure is painful. The only thing reining it back is knowing that that kind of confrontation will just scare the hell out of him. He may be growing coherent on a daily basis now that his brain is righting itself, but he's still confused.
With the urge to react in check, I'm given time to think, and I recall that things are always more crystal clear when you're not on the receiving end. Seeing what Sheppard went through isn't living what he went through, which are two totally different things. It's sort of like getting shot. The prospect is scary, but the experience can't be described in words as simple as terrifying and agonizing. It was a week before I was able to so much as stand in Sheppard's presence and not have my heart-rate shoot through the roof. It probably would have taken longer if John hadn't been persistent about making amends. But it was the look in his eyes, the guilty, nervous, hurt look that he did a piss-poor job of concealing that got me to relax around him. Because for him to be that kind of expressive around me meant that what he was feeling was ten-fold to what his facial-features were trying to hide.
Getting back on topic, I'm not going to say anything, not yet, not until he's more up to it. And when that time comes I'll be more ready, having chosen the right words, tone of voice, etc. Then again, it may not happen at all. Sheppard could realize it for himself. Either that or I'll never find the right words. I'm not saying I can't do it, just that I might over do it in a moment of being overzealous.
I've been learning the hard way, lately – well, more than lately – that I'm not always right. More right than wrong, but I have my stumbling moments.
The next morning, John sleeps late and we let him. The rest of the day he's so listless he doesn't last long during the PT. He's taken to the pool that's always kept at room temperature then allowed to soak in the hot-tub a little to help his muscles. Afterwards it's bath time, and he has energy enough to undress himself and get in the tub.
It's just me supervising since Sheppard's pretty much self-sufficient in terms of bathing. He asks me to turn so he can strip in private.
I fold my arms, irritated because he's making a big deal out of nothing. “If you don't recall, Sheppard, I've been helping you bathe since we got here, so there's nothing there I haven't seen.”
Sheppard, thoroughly chastised and contrite, nods his head in understanding then shifts to pleading puppy-dog. “Please?”
I wish he would just yell at me, ask me why I can't just do as he says. Like crying, pleading isn't a John Sheppard thing and it makes my guts twist. I immediately soften, which isn't something all that common for me – at least not that quickly. “Yeah, sure. Just... try not to slip on your way to the tub.”
John gives me a sheepish smile before I turn. I hear clothes rustle, then water rippling. I sit in a plastic chair and work on a few notes on my laptop, the only sounds my tapping and Sheppard's splashing. It takes me a while to realize when it suddenly goes quiet. I look up to see Sheppard with his arms sprawled over the side of the tub and his chin resting on the edge, his eyes as lethargic as his body.
I stiffen and set my laptop aside. “Sheppard?”
John inhales, deep, his ribs spreading in graphic detail. I look forward to the day when he gains more weight and stops coming across as something that will shatter if not handled delicately. Sheppard isn't delicate, damn it.
I stand and reach for the towel. “You tired, ready to get out?”
John shakes his head. “Just thinking.”
I sit back down. “About what?”
He turns his head to look at me, the trepidation as vivid as his bones. “Think... they'll let me back on Atlantis? I mean, I'm needed, right? My gene? That's why they asked me to come.”
“Well, considering you're also the military leader...”
“Even after this?”
I shrug. “Well, yes, why not? You've been through worse. I mean, you've been fed on by a Wraith, for crying out loud. You've... you've... you've had all kinds of crap happen to you and survived it. Why should this be any different?”
The water ripples when John lifts his shoulders. “I don't know yet. But I've always been certain there was going to come a time when something would happen that, if it didn't kill me, would be my one way ticket back to Earth.”
“And you think this is it?”
Sheppard seems to shrink in on himself. “I don't know yet.”
I want to discuss this further, but Sheppard starts shivering. I stand, grab the towel, and move to the tub. “One thing at a time. Let's get you out of there, get you something to eat so you can get your strength and sanity back. Then we'll talk.” I set the towel within his reach. “Want me to turn around?”
Sheppard gives me a tepid, embarrassed grin. “Um... I think I may need...” He reaches out. I grip his forearm and pull just enough to get him back on his feet then keep him steady as he steps out. I help him dry off and dress, which I know has to be the hardest thing in the world for him now that he's more aware. In fact, he doesn't look at me the whole time.
I go for nonchalance since I'm used to all this, anyways. “I think said you're ready for a little something heavier beyond soup, to which I say it's about damn time. Soup doesn't fill. Pizza fills, sandwiches fill. Hell, bread fills. Soup's nothing more than water with flavoring and food chunks.”
John lifts his arms as I pull the sweater over him. “Fills me up good.”
“That's because your stomach's a shriveled-up sack that needs to be stretched. What you need is a bacon cheeseburger.”
What he ends up getting is a sandwich with soup, a big sandwich, lots of meat. Carson says he needs the protein. And John eats every last bite without a lick of unease to show for it. Because he's a hell of a lot more coherent, he ends up as the one flipping through all the pointless channels until landing on a Die Hard marathon. And of course both he and Ronon couldn't be happier, Ronon especially. I swear the plethora of violent, shoot-em-up flicks Earth has to offer was the actual selling point for Ronon when Sheppard first asked him to stick around.
---------------------------
Another week, and John has a little more weight, develops a little more muscle and is a hell of a lot more coherent – like the old John if you ignore the flinches, cringes and starts of alarm when we make a sudden move or loud noise. All in all, though, it's progress, which is why Carson calls in a request for one more week.
The SGC, however – cheap bastards that they are – feel the time sufficient enough. Vacation over, time to get back to work. For Carson and myself, mostly. Sheppard, Ronon and Teyla can stay another week, the SGC feeling generous enough to send someone out to keep an eye on them and all that.
I'm sorry but, seriously, how stupid can these people be? Yes, let’s leave a high-strung Sheppard and two aliens who can kick ass by blinking with a relative stranger, because it worked out so well at the stupid hospital.
Their alternative is worse: leave him – temporarily of course – in a mental hospital, where he can get both the mental and physical care still needed. Yes, I know he still needs care, but... there has to be a better way, one that won't plant the seed of “you're never coming back” in John's mind. We've officially reached the point where Sheppard's sanity is no longer the problem, but that hair-thin thread of hope he's barely clinging onto is.
When makes the announcement about returning to duty, there's been no alarm in Sheppard's eyes, no worry...
There's resignation, very jaded resignation. The look of a man ready to take whatever fate handed to him, and already knowing it wasn't going to be good.
It's as close as I have ever seen to John Sheppard giving up.
I'm in the room and on my cell phone faster than the others could blink, barely letting Landry get a word in edge-wise.
“He's going back to Atlantis. He has to. That's his home, the place he's going to feel the most comfortable in, the place with the people he trusts. Granted, yes, he's still miles away from being fit for duty but he is getting better, and if you stick him with some nobody or try to dump him in some psyche ward it's just going to set him back. And I mean way back. And it's not like he's going to be in the way. Yes, he flinches from time to time but he's also getting stronger and his gene still works, he can still be useful -”
“Dr. McKay -”
“No! Listen. He's better off in Atlantis. We have a psychiatrist he can talk to and Beckett's his doctor, the one who knows him inside out... literally. He's also the only one who understands the crap Sheppard was put through -”
“Dr. McKay -”
“And further more, Sheppard is no longer a threat to anyone, and that includes himself. Hell, he never was a threat; the guy could barely break the skin when he tried to bite people -”
“Dr. McKay!”
I jump, startled silent. Who knew Landry could bark so loud? “What?”
Landry sighs, heavy and tired, and I hope it's because he's conceding to all my points. “Dr. McKay, as much as I agree with you, it isn't up to me. You were given four weeks, which the IOA and board of directors felt sufficient enough time to produce evidence of Sheppard being on the mend. They want to see the results. Whether those results satisfy will determine whether or not Colonel Sheppard can go back to Atlantis and when. I'm sorry but it's out of my hands. However, from what Dr. Beckett told me while giving me his third degree, a lot of progress has been made. So there's hope, and a good amount I'd wager.”
I drop onto the edge of the nearest bed, feeling anything but that hope. It wasn't General Landry Sheppard had to prove himself to; it was a bunch of bureaucrats who'd sent someone else to play military leader of Atlantis, and let Sheppard keep the role because Elizabeth knows how to be wickedly persuasive.
But this time isn't here.
“But... what if... they say no.”
There's silence on the other end that's doing nothing for my current blood pressure. When Landry finally speaks, he sounds just as resigned as Sheppard looks.
“He'll be taken care of, that I can promise.”
And a hollow promise it is, because they'll just stick Sheppard in some home for aging veterans, the youngest member yet, shuffling around in a robe and slippers. (Or so I assume. It's not like I'm a frequent visitor to care homes, military ones especially). Fed mush and medication to keep him alive and quiet...
Completely forgotten, like he'd never existed. I shiver at the thought. There's a reason I want to win the Nobel Prize, the money not excluded. I can't imagine slogging through life and busting your ass to make something of that life without something to show for it, something that ensures your name outlives your body. I can't imagine fading into obscurity until that name is little more than a title on a tombstone.
I don't want to. Not for myself, and currently not for Sheppard, who busts his ass in ways most people can't even begin to imagine.
Sheppard will heal better in Atlantis. He friggin’ belongs in Atlantis.
After Landry says an apologetic sounding goodbye, I start contemplating possible ways of sneaking Sheppard back to Pegasus. Hey, I'm a genius. I can figure something out.
Figuring something out that Sheppard will agree to, however, is the hard part. I doubt he'll be all gung-ho about stowing away in a suitcase, much less a crate.
That night, I lay awake imagining Atlantis without John. I'm surprised by how easy it is. The general gist is that Atlantis will be boring, for me – for everyone, Sheppard's fellow gun-toters especially. There's no doubt that whoever the SGC sends to replace Sheppard will be a tight-ass made of steel, forcing everyone to suffer through physical training regimes at unnatural hours in the morning. And he'll be so damn by-the-book that he won't be in Atlantis two days before he's hinting to Elizabeth to pack up the expedition and blow Atlantis to hell, because it'll be easier than dealing with the Wraith.
Atlantis needs Sheppard.
Speaking of the man, he wakes with a ragged gasp. I angle my head to watch him, sitting there, no hitched breaths or hiccuping sobs – he's perfectly still and quiet.
No. No, he's not. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and there's a lot of moonlight spilling through the window. It's plenty enough for me to see Sheppard trembling. After a moment – two minutes, tops – he lays back down.
I wait, counting to twenty, before slipping out of bed and heading over to his bed. He's asleep on his side, partially curled with the blankets bunched around his waist. I wish I could say it's peaceful looking, but it's not – I don't miss the sporadic tremors that shiver the length of his body, like he's trying to shake something off.
I hope it's just an unconscious reaction, or he's just cold. I cover him up to his shoulders, just in case it's the latter. He twitches then relaxes. Then twitches again.
Sheppard needs Atlantis.
----------------------------
The ride back to the mountain is quiet – the subdued kind of quiet that isn't helping our sickly, pathetic hope. managed to talk the SGC into letting him and me stick around long enough to hear the verdict that would decide Sheppard's fate. It's the best we can do, sort of like living in denial – the longer we stick around, the longer we can go without having to think about how we're leaving Sheppard behind.
Crap, we're going to leave him behind. Because I still haven't thought of a way to get him back to Atlantis that he would agree to. There's no long Daedalus ride, this time; we've been given permission to take a 'jumper through the intergalactic bridge.
A 'jumper that won't be piloted by Sheppard. No 'jumper will ever be piloted by him again.
I try paying attention to the scenery in my peripheral to distract me out of my thoughts, but that's the problem with driving – too hard to ogle at the scenery, too easy to think. And, yes, I know I'm being pessimistic, because I know the IOA, know the military, and know they're going to try to use what happened to Sheppard against him. And Sheppard...
I glance at Sheppard staring out the window, so damn resigned, thoughts barely a mystery because of course he's mentally preparing himself for the worst – he's that kind of guy, except he's usually scrounging for the positive, throwing together plans and strategies of the kind that always save the day.
He's usually not giving up.
The desire to take him by the shoulders and shakes him returns, which is rather difficult, seeing as how my hands are currently busy keeping us on the road. And I also doubt he'd be receptive to it with an audience. Ronon would probably kill me for it, come to think of it. I think he's still pissed over what that Janice woman had done.
When we arrive at the mountain, it's night but not late. We're given separate quarters, which feels just a tad weird after having bunked together for four weeks straight. Not that we end up sleeping in them. We confiscate one of the local rec rooms, as much junk food as we can find, pillows, blankets and have ourselves one hell of a team night.
And it has nothing to do whatsoever with it possibly being our last team night. It's just what we do – eat junk food and watch pieces of crap like Back to the Future and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (Which would you believe is Teyla's favorite? I see her laughing and I still don't believe it.) We end up falling asleep where we sit.
Except Sheppard, but I don't know it until I wake up to go to the bathroom. I see him on the couch, sitting ramrod straight, staring off into the distance, but it's too dark to see his expression.
I swallow. He's so still it's making me nervous. It's not often I see him that still or that stiff, brittle enough to snap in two at the slightest provocation. But I think it's obvious he knows I' m awake, I know he's awake, and that I can't just let him sit there all night. I move from the floor to the couch, arching stubborn kinks from my back with a groan. It's an awkward situation, one that momentarily freezes up my tongue. So I go what would be considered the normative response to such a situation.
“Carson's going to sedate you if he sees you awake. Seriously, we give you the couch to lie on and this is what you use it for? If you're not going to use it you could at least give it to me -”
“I wanna go home.”
I blink. “What.”
“I wanna go home,” he replies, as though having come to a decision and intent on sticking with it. Then he slumps back into the couch, melting loose-limbed and exhausted, complete with a heavy, weary exhale. It makes me suddenly recall my own lethargy just from watching.
“But they won't let me.”
I let myself fall back into the cushions, mirroring him, and whisper with conviction – because someone has to have it - “Yes they will. You're getting better. Four weeks and you're practically your old self. They can't deny it.”
But John shakes his head, slowly, as though it pains him. “They won't care.”
Now's the time when I can probably, finally, take him by the shoulders for a good shake and an even better rant, remind him of who he is – John Sheppard, more stubborn than a mule, too stubborn to give up this easy, who are you and what have you done with Mr. Eternal Optimist, and so on.
Instead, what comes out of my mouth is, “We'll make them care. I'll rally Atlantis, get everyone to go on strike if I have to. Or organize a general rebellion, threaten to cut ourselves off from Earth.”
My eyes have adjusted enough so that I'm able to catch Sheppard's fleeting grin. It's a running joke of ours – and by ours I mean the entire city's – cutting ourselves off from earth, forming our own independent planet, but never doing so because that would mean giving up things like beer, movies, Sports Illustrated and so on. It's nothing personal against Earth, just talk.
Although at the extreme moment, it's becoming personal.
I think if there was such a place as hell, it would be a place of uncertainty – unable to do anything but wait and watch. This has to be hell for Sheppard: his future, his fate, in the hands of bureaucrats who don't really give a damn about him. It makes my jaw clench until it hurts that they're putting him through this. He survives all that crap, that humiliation, only to do it all again in the name of “best interests.”
Whose best interests? Sheppard's? The expedition's? The IOA wouldn't know anyone else's best interest if it came up and sucked the life from their chests.
Sheppard doesn't deserve this. He deserves to be home.
“We won't leave you behind, Sheppard,” I say, like a matter of fact. “They're just going to have to deal with it.”
Again he smiles – twice in one day, that's definitely progress.
We sit in silence. I'm not sure whether to consider it awkward or not though it feels slightly uncomfortable to me. I think it's because there's room to say more. Too bad I'm not a thinks-on-his-feet kind of guy unless it involves something tangible, with certain doom and a certain lieutenant colonel breathing down my neck. The man's relentless when it comes to demanding miracles from me.
See? Just another reason why we need him.
The discomfort of so much silence starts getting to me, so I say the only words I can think of, even if they are just Hallmark-type platitudes.
“You'll be all right. That is, you're going to be all right.”
I look at Sheppard, his outline defined by shadows and made three dimensional by deeper shadows. I see his angular throat bob in a swallow then his head lift like a dog having heard his master whistle.
“I still have dreams...” he begins. He doesn't finish the sentence.
Because I don't know what to say – and not for lack of trying – I get up, pick up his blanket and cover him with it. And I don't care how it looks or how awkward it makes me feel. Even dressed in a sweater, Sheppard is still skinny and looks cold, and I'm not leaving him like that.
It doesn't feel like enough.
But when I return from the bathroom, he's on his side, asleep.
He still twitches.
I hate it that I don't know what to do about it. Hate it more than I've hated anything, and hate that it keeps me up for the rest of the night, waiting for when I may have to wake Sheppard.
----------------------------
I'm exhausted. Between the long drive home, a bad night's sleep and waiting for Sheppard to return from the lion's den, my patience is nonexistent. I'm snappy and don't give a damn.
Until I snap at Teyla, who is no one's verbal punching bag. Ronon can sneer and growl and flex his muscles all he wants; it's nothing compared to Teyla's arched-eyebrow that has a lot more bite than any reprimand. I think it's because she's capable of kicking all of our asses with only a set of sticks. Either that or because women in general are evil geniuses when it comes to retribution – Jeannie taught me that the hard way.
It's an hour before Sheppard finally emerges, silent, stiff and a little extra pale. Carson, mother hen that he is, hustles him off to the infirmary and we tag behind, little chicks worrying over their nest mate... and I'm going to stop using that analogy now because it sounds an awful lot like one of those story books I was forced to read to my niece last time I visited.
Carson gives him a quick once-over then the order to sleep that Sheppard disobeys, and you can't blame him. He just sits there on the edge of the bed, Teyla next to him, Ronon leaning against the wall with his arms folded and me on the only comfortable chair I could find.
Teyla is rubbing John's back, which is something. I once saw Teyla give Sheppard a hug and was certain he was going to snap his own spine if she kept it up – he'd been that damn rigid. And I thought I had contact issues. I wonder if Sheppard's dad wasn't big into hugging like my own.
It's twenty minutes of waiting, twenty minutes of seething over the little committee organized to decide if John stays or goes not letting the people who know him best have their two cents. It's not a hearing, they said, it's simply a progress report.
After that twenty minutes, Woolsey walks in, stiff as a board and just as expressive as always, which doesn't help matters. He folds his hands in front, looks at each of us, then settles his sights on Sheppard and clears his throat.
“The committee is in agreement that much progress has been made concerning Sheppard's recovery. However, due to the nature of the situation that as led us here, there is still much uncertainty, and we are hesitant.”
“What!” I snap, sitting so straight I thought my spine would snap. Both Teyla and Carson stiffen; Ronon pushes away from the wall with the intent to loom and Sheppard's face goes blank, like it does when he’s faced with insurmountable odds.
Woolsey holds up both hands, patting the air. “It's simply a matter of garnering more information. Before meeting with you, Colonel, we talked with Dr. Heightmeyer whom has been in contact with Carson during your recovery.”
Which wasn't news. Of course would be in contact with a psychologist while aiding a mentally unstable patient.
“She's in agreement that you would benefit from familiar surroundings, and that more progress would be made if you were allowed to return to those surroundings – with certain conditions, of course, but we can discuss that later -”
I stiffen again, which is going to be hell on my back but at the moment I don't care because, “So Sheppard can go back?”
“Under certain conditions. But, yes, he can go back.”
Ronon claps his hands with a loud pop and a barked “Yes!” that makes us all jump. Teyla, misty-eyed and beaming, slides her arm around John's shoulders and squeezes. Carson is exhaling one hell of a long breath, shaking his head in relief.
I look at Sheppard; he looks at me. I grin; he smiles – a genuine Sheppard smile, bright with optimism... finally
--------------------------
The conditions were these – Sheppard was to speak with Heightmeyer for an hour a day. He was not to operate heavy machinery (aka, 'jumpers), not to resume any part of his duties until given permission by the SGC, and if the city fell under attack and was forced to evacuate some of its personnel, he was to join the evacuation (I rolled my eyes at that one). If he expressed any violent behavior toward himself or others that was not a matter of honest to goodness self-defense but delirium, then he was to be shipped back to Earth immediately.
Other than that, he was allowed to move around the city freely and light stuff up for me – and only me to ensure he didn't get worn out. Sheppard's mending; he's not yet mended. He's stronger, but still thin, still flinches, and I've seen the bottle of sleeping pills on his night stand.
But he's Sheppard. Day by day, a little more of him comes back. We're playing video games again, and he's back to hitting golf balls off the pier, even if his drive isn't what it used to be. He's not sparring what with his coordination still skewed but Ronon and Teyla are helping him with that. Thank goodness, he's no longer so damn emaciated.
And he smiles more, jokes more, which we're all in agreement is the real progress. As much as I hate to admit it, Sheppard isn't Sheppard without that obnoxious surfer-bum humor of his.
Sheppard is coming back to us.
Then I walk in on him, sitting on his bed, laptop in his lap watching the screen with such intensity that it's a moment before he realizes I've walked in – and that says too much.
He looks up, snapping the laptop lid shut.
Too little too late. I don't need to see what he was watching, I heard enough to know. I stand there, gaping at him, my gaze darting between him and the laptop. Shock stalls both my brain and my mouth but its half-life is mere seconds. Anger swamps me and I lurch forward, fast. His poor motor skills work to my advantage and I grab the laptop before he pulls it away. I flip it open.
And watch once again as Karkta presses Sheppard into the rim of the tub until he can't breathe.
I can't describe the emotions that smother me – too many to tell apart, too many for one to push through and dominate just yet. I look up at him, and know my expression has to be as blank as I feel. “Where'd you get this?”
Sheppard isn't looking at me. He's looking past me, at the wall, his desk, nothing. His face is a vacuous mask when he says, “Heightmeyer.”
I slam the lid back shut. “She gave them to you?”
“Found them in her desk.”
Anger finally manages to push through and take back control. “She told you about them?”
Sheppard shakes his head, slowly, back and forth. I watch as the mask crumbles under twitching muscles, see his composure like metal scaffolding being held together by Elmer's glue. He's shattering; falling apart right before my eyes after the hell and high water endured to put him back together again.
“I already knew,” he says. He glances at me. “I didn't think he was just talking to himself.”
Anger is swept away, and I kind of miss it. I like anger; it's an easy emotion to work with, provides something to focus on. What I'm left with is a mix of things I can't tell apart that make my throat ache and chest constrict.
All I can say is, “Oh.” And that's it. I'm completely devoid of words. All the same, I find myself moving forward, setting the laptop aside then sitting next to John. And we just sit, silent, staring, suffocating beneath an insane amount of discomfort and uncertainty.
“You saw it,” John says, and if he was trying not to make it sound like an accusation, he failed miserably. I feel myself bristle, the anger back, this time out of self-defense. I get off the bed, grab his desk chair and swing it around so that when I sit, I'm facing him. It's not cornering him – I hope. I'd rather not have to resort to that. It's making sure he's listening when I talk, as well as keeping him where I can see every expression on his face.
It's making sure he hears every word I have to say.
“Yes. We saw it. All of it. And I'm sorry but we had to do it so that we could figure out how to help you. So, therefore, actually, I'm not sorry – we're not sorry. At all. Because we had to.”
Which might just have been the wrong thing to say. His face tightens, drawing the skin over the bones like a severe mask of wax. But I have to admit to being proud of myself when he pins me with a cold gaze and I manage to keep all flinches internal. He may not be all that physically imposing but the man does know how to deliver one hell of a glare, and we still don't know if his need to retaliate against what he feels is abuse is still lurking in the darker shadows of his mind.
But... I know Sheppard, know that when he's in his right mind he would never attack us. The days of thrashing around and biting people are over, I know it, although I still need to remind myself of it from time to time.
I relax, ignoring the look he's giving me, and press on. Softer, this time. Kinder, if a little hesitant, because I can finally say what I've been wanting to say for some time now.
Just not in the way I'd plan to say it; I'd completely forgotten to prepare. Not that that stops me, it seems.
I swallow. “It wasn't you on that feed. Well, yes, it was. But... it wasn't.”
John's features loosen in confusion.
“Karkta cheated,” I say. “You know, because he used drugs and stuff. And did you know, when we found you and he was trying to show you off, you bit him?”
That gets Sheppard's eyebrows to arch up toward his hairline.
I nod. “Yeah, bit him good. Probably broke the skin. Then you bit Ronon but it's completely understandable so no hard feelings or anything. I doubt he'll hold it against you. I probably would have but then he's not me. Beside the point, though, of course. The point being that... um...” I gesture helplessly, my hands fluttering useless as they always do when I feel caught between a rock and a hard place. This isn't my thing – reassuring, confirming. This is Teyla's thing – Heightmeyer's actually - and I am so tempted to go fetch one of them that I can't figure out why I'm still sitting here, stammering, digging for the right words but only coming up with clichés.
“You – you have nothing to feel ashamed of or anything. It's not like we think any less of you and... stuff. Broken people don't bite the people who broke them.” I end with a nervous chuckle, short lived when my throat goes dry. I'm making things worse, I know it, and for that reason remain rooted to the spot by the need to keep fixing things and knock more of my teeth out with my own foot.
I suck at this. I suck at this so bad that if there was an award for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I'd win it.
“We had to watch them to help you. And I take it back, we are sorry. I know you didn't want us to see you like that.”
And now that he knows that we had, what does it mean? For us, our team, our friendship? Nothing good, I'm sure.
John is looking down at his lap and his hands rubbing back and forth over his thighs as though he's drying sweaty palms. There's no blatant anger on his face, his features still drawn but not so severely, and he's gnawing his lip.
He's thinking, obviously. Duh. I wish I knew what he was thinking about, because the suspense is killing me and I don't no whether to kick myself out or wait until he does it for himself.
“I don't remember most of it,” he says.
“And that's why you're watching the feed?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don't know why I wanted to watch it. To see how I'd react, I guess.”
“How'd you react?”
“Like I thought I would. It pissed me off, made me want to kill Karkta.” He looks up at me. “What happened to him, anyway?”
Now it's my turn to shrug, nonchalant like it's no big deal, because it isn't. The fat bastard got what he deserved. “We handed him over to his people. A people who obviously didn't like him. And I mean really, really didn't like him. I'm thinking you weren't his first attempt at a human pet. I doubt we'll be seeing him again... ever.”
“Good,” John says, bobbing his head.
I swallow again, even more tense. “So... what do you remember? Of all of it, I mean?” Does he remember us stripping him, bathing him, feeding him like a child?
“Bits and pieces of stuff, kind of like a bad dream, so it's not really clear.”
“Anything... anything that stands out the most?”
He goes back to gnawing his lip for a moment.
Then he smiles. It's not much, just a few twitches that eventually curl one side of his mouth – barely. But it's still a smile, and he looks up at me and says, “You guys.”
Which must be a good, thing, a very good thing, or he wouldn't be smiling.
And I relax, practically melt into the chair as though I'd just dodged a Wraith. “Oh.” And I suppose that's as fixed as the situation is going to get. I ask him, suddenly remembering why I came. “Hey, you hungry? It's pizza night, and they have all Earth-made ingredients this time. Real Earth sausage and everything. There's also cake.”
“Sure,” he says, already getting up.
I stand then remember the laptop so wave a hand toward it. “You might want to return that to Heightmeyer.”
Placing his hands on his hips, Sheppard dips his head. “I know.”
“And probably tell her about it, because if you lie and she finds out, I doubt it's going to help your cause any.”
“I was going to tell her,” he says. “I just... I wanted to watch them alone, first. I didn't think she'd let me.”
I almost ask why, then decide it's his business, not mine, and I refuse to open another can of worms leading to further awkward conversations. So long as he tells Kate about it, then I don't have anything to worry about. And I know he's going to tell her. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Sheppard's a lot of things; a liar isn't one of them.
It's not often Sheppard eats in the mess – the crowds still make him a little nervous. Mostly, he eats in his room or on a balcony and we join him because no one should have to eat alone. But on occasion he braves it, stubborn man that he is. When we arrive, his body goes tense while his face breaks out in a relaxed grin – he's not as good at the subterfuge as he likes to think, but he's not half bad at it, either. It's when he gets his food and we're sitting at our usual table with Teyla and Ronon that his body reflects his features, making the grin more sincere.
He knows we saw his pain, now, and yet doesn't act any differently around us. I don't get it, not at the immediate moment. I do, eventually, late in the night between working on some programs to increase the efficiency of the city and getting coffee. I'm good at multitasking, at thinking two things at once, and figure out during that small break in between that it doesn't matter what we saw and what had to be done to help Sheppard. Sheppard's smart; he understands why.
And there's no doubt in my mind that he's thinking he'd do the exact same for any one of us.
What happened didn't matter because it happened – past tense. What matters is now, being home, being safe, being with friends. We never bring up what happened to him and neither does he. A good thing, I swear, because we never think about it. Well, we do, just not in the way that forces us to push the thoughts out of our minds and wallow in denial, tip-toe, observe Sheppard askance for any signs that the ordeal has affected him beyond repair.
We're not worried anymore. We know Sheppard; we know he's doing what needs to be done to help himself, that he's moving on, that he's refusing to let what happen to him define him. He's good at that; he really is.
And we're right here if he needs us, just like we were the day we found him docile one moment then fighting back the next. We're right here.
Karkta was an idiot. You can't break John Sheppard. All you can do is hide him.
And bet damn good money that we'll always find him.
The End
“The combination of the chemicals in his blood stream and the taming device has rendered Fourteen not only completely compliant but relying on Karkta for his basic needs,” Karkta says, running the sponge down Sheppard's protruding spine. “Although the effect on Fourteen's appetite has Karkta concerned. He is unable to handle solid foods and even liquids prove a challenge for him. Karkta will have to cut back. The hallucinogens alone provide the means to influence Fourteen's behavior, so Karkta may rely on those as they do not have to be administered constantly. The sedatives will be for emergencies only. Fourteen still displays moments of temper.”
Karkta pushes back John's hair then scratches his head – like a dog. “He's a trying creature at times, but Karkta is a patient man.” He starts petting Sheppard and I nearly lose my lunch. Chubby fingers rake through Sheppard's wet hair, then fat knuckles brush lightly across his shoulder blade as Karkta looks toward the camera. “The chemicals...”
Sheppard suddenly lunges forward, clamping his teeth onto Karkta's fat forearm – right above the bracelet controlling the restraining device. Karkta yelps and hammers on John's back with his fist. When that doesn't work, he grabs the back of Sheppard's neck and squeezes until the teeth come off. Now he's shoving Sheppard against the rim of the tub, yanking his skinny arm behind his back. Sheppard's thrashing, snarling, then whimpering in pain.
“Sometimes,” Karkta says, breathless and strained, “he gives Karkta no choice but to react just as aggressively.” Karkta leans his weight into Sheppard until the thinner man starts gasping and choking. The fat little creep doesn't let go until Sheppard is limp as a dish rag. He then adds to the injury by activating the device. Sheppard's lips turn blue.
Elizabeth begs Carson to turn the feed off, and he does.
-----------------------------
The next day is the start (more like resuming) of Sheppard's physical therapy – kind of. I say kind of because it doesn't involve a professional and I'm pretty sure it should involve a professional, not a Satedan. Carson's confident that there's little difference since Ronon had been taking part in most of the PT since Sheppard kept trying to get away from the actual PT coach. Andrew had started teaching Ronon the appropriate steps to be taken in order to get John's muscles back up to par. Everything not taught was filled in by Carson, such as this device like a mini-heart monitor that delivers a mild, buzzing electric current through pads stuck to John's arms or legs to stimulate the muscles. They have Sheppard walk up and down the halls, even take him outside onto the sidewalk just for a change of scenery and as a distraction. He lifts small weights for his arms then, after all the strength-building, has him cook in the hot tub to help soften the muscles for some stretching exercises courtesy of Teyla.
Sheppard puts up with it at the start since he doesn't know better, but with each day that passes he starts getting these looks on his face: some concentrative to the point that you'd think he's in pain, and other times he looks petulant, especially when they have him exercise in the pool. I think it's the whole getting undressed thing that pisses him off. He's always mumbling, growling, and trying to push us away while we're getting him into swim trunks. At one point, he even tries to bite Ronon in a moment of confused agitation. I would have pulled my assistance right then and there but can be sadistically persuasive when he wants to be, what with his direct access to painful inoculations and all.
Sheppard has to be getting better. Just like with everything else, he needs help when it comes to bath-time. I prepare the water and Ronon holds him up while gets him undressed. We're living a visual representation of the definition of friendship here, so Sheppard had better appreciate it. We get him into the tub and simultaneously scrub him down while hold him up. His look the first few days is vacant and sleepy. In fact, he's fallen asleep twice. After a few days of this he adopts a mulish expression, morphing on a daily basis into mutinous.
He's not happy about all the attention, and I hope even harder that he doesn't remember any of this. Hell, I hope I'm struck with sudden amnesia. There are some things in life not meant to get stuck in one's head, such as your best friend, buck-naked and pouting.
We keep the water level at Sheppard's middle, three ribs up, and I find it rather morbid that Sheppard's bones are being used as a means of measurement. Mutinous expressions are soon accompanied by struggling. It takes Ronon to hold him while I wash him, because today Carson and Teyla stepped out to do a little grocery shopping since a human can only survive on pizza and still like it for so long.
Sheppard's strengthening my resolve to never sire any progeny. Crap, he splashes worse than a three year old. Soap-foamy water is slopping all over the tiled floor, my pants, my shirt, and my face. And that's saying something since it's one of those ridiculously over-sized jacuzzi tubs that's supposed to be too deep for the water to be tidal-waving like it is.
But at least I'm not the one trying to keep Sheppard from bolting. That's Ronon's department, and he's making the washing part look like the lesser of two evils.
The combination of soap, water, and the feeling that too tight a grip will snap John's arm in two makes him hard to hold onto. As soon as Ronon has one arm secured, the other slips free. Sheppard's trying to scoot back away from all the physical contact, and as irritated as I am I can't blame him. Frustration is making me consider bringing in a camera, snapping a few pictures to use in blackmail attempts. I'll feel like scum for thinking it later, I always do, but in the here and now it's how I vent.
“Sheppard,” Ronon growls. “Hold still!”
John curls his lip and responds with a guttural growl of his own. Mutinous is mutating into pissed and there's a familiar gleam to Sheppard's eyes that makes Ronon go stiff.
“Don't even think about it Sheppard,” Ronon warns.
Sheppard grunts and throws himself back, sloshing tsunamis over the tub onto the floor. Ronon manages to keep hold of Sheppard's wrist with a little too much force that makes John grunt with pain then lunge forward, biting the bigger man on the knuckles.
“Damn it!” Ronon snarls, snatching his hand back. Sheppard slips his other hand free and lurches back to the farthest end of the tub, and just sits there.
The fury is gone, not even leaving behind a trace of irritation. Sheppard is looking at Ronon, bewildered, gaping, mouth moving as though he wants to say something, maybe apologize. This isn't brainless animal terror or even child-like timidity we're seeing. This is something new and it leaves us both stunned silent. After a moment of imitating a fish, Sheppard drops his gaze to the water and leaves it there, contrite, cheek-bones turning from pasty to slightly pink. He brings his knees up, wraps his arms around his stomach, and looks away: a huddle of absolute humiliation.
I exchange a look with Ronon. This is different and different is good. Except... this particular kind of different isn't the kind we're particularly happy about. Does that even make any sense? We're well aware the humiliation part is unavoidable but that doesn't stop us from hoping to be able to avoid it.
Although it sometimes helps to pretend it's not a big deal. Not really pretend, actually, since it isn't a big deal. Sheppard can't help that he's crazy and he needs to understand that. I hold the washcloth out within his reach. “If you want to wash yourself you need to just say so, because it's not a picnic for us, either.”
John's head moves hesitantly, looking at the cloth, then me, then Ronon, fear and caution flickering in his eyes.
I stretch my arm out further. “It's all right. Go ahead, take it.”
Sheppard does with the same hesitation, fear, and wariness. He starts to wash while Ronon and I turn away to start cleaning up the mess. We'd leave but if Sheppard ends up drowning because he's too tired to sit up, then Carson'll kick our asses all the way back to Atlantis.
John signals he's finished by setting the cloth on the edge of the tub.
I stand with the oversized towel open and ready to receive. “You know the drill.”
Sheppard doesn't move. Ronon and I exchange another glance.
“I'm not mad at you, John,” Ronon says. It's weird hearing him use Sheppard's first name, just like it's weird, period, using the colonel's first name myself. Don't know why. Too intimate, maybe? Too impolite? I've never actually stopped to think about it since it's rather a waste of thought processing, just went along with it since it's so much easier.
Sheppard still doesn't move. He isn't pouting or pissed. He's just staring with a no-one's-at-home vacancy and it's making me both irritated and edgy.
“Do I need to get Carson?” I say. Still nothing.
Ronon reaches out, touching the tips of his fingers to John's bare shoulder. “Hey, you all right?”
Sheppard flinches, cringes a little then moves sluggishly toward us. Ronon keeps one hand on John's arm as he rises and I put the towel around him. He's completely docile and obedient as we dry him off, which is a first. He's usually either cringing or trying to pull away.
After we dress him in sweats and a long-sleeved shirt, we take him into the living room and let him huddle with bowed shoulders and a hunched back in the far corner of the couch. Ronon places a blanket over him, then we all sit together, flipping channels until Carson and Teyla return with a tray of pre-made sandwiches, paper plates, cups, a six-pack of soda, and a container of soup for John.
Sheppard looks like the poster-child for depression while Teyla spoon-feeds him. That is, until I land on a football game during my channel hopping. The depression flees like an escaped convict under a search light and Sheppard perks up, sitting a little straighter and focusing on the game.
“Damn it!” I hiss. I'd been just about to flip again.
“Leave it,” Carson says. “Let the lad have a bit of fun.”
If you can call this modern day gladiator match fun. I don't even know who's playing and I definitely doubt Sheppard knows. But, like he cares. It's sports, it’s football – it's all the sick man can ask for and far be it from me to begrudge him the simple pleasures of life.
On the real plus side, Sheppard's so distracted by the game he's eating without flinching.
Dinner then bed, then resuming John's slowly progressing body-building. He can stand on his own, but his equilibrium is shot to hell whenever he tries to walk. He's getting better, though. Less like a complete inebriate and more like someone who's merely heavily buzzed. My attention is more on the fact that he's paying attention to the exercises: his brow furrows, eyes focus, even his tongue pokes out between his lips in heavy concentration.
He's also speaking in short, abrupt sentences. Mostly “I can do it” or just “I can.” It's almost out of the blue that he's trying to dress himself, feed himself, even bathe by himself. Except he can't be by himself. But, hey, close enough. We hover, he tries, and we step in when he's no longer able to move out of exhaustion. Four days later, we don't even have to step in. Progress is quick, because Sheppard, to put it simply, is “waking up.”
We take a walk by the lake one late Sunday afternoon. Everything's all gold and amber, from the top of the distant mountains to the lake, and there are wild geese skimming across the water working up smooth ripples. The weather is cool, clear, the air scented with real pine, not that cheap freshener crap people get for their cars. Teyla and Ronon are on either side of John as we make our way along the beach, and I grab Carson's arm, forcing him to slow so the rest move on ahead.
“What do we have to look forward to here?” I ask.
Beckett gives me a cock-eyed look. “Look forward to? I think that would be obvious.”
I shake my head. “No, I mean withdrawal. Why hasn't John gone into any kind of withdrawal?”
“The drugs used were non-addictive, Rodney. I already told you this.”
“No, you rambled using hefty medical terms I didn't have a dictionary to translate. Layman's terms, Beckett. Develop the habit of using it. So, then, anything else we need to worry about?”
Carson stuffs his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. “Depends on how much he remembers.”
That isn't encouraging. I watch Sheppard amble over the narrow strip of mud-brown sand. He's dressed in a heavy black sweater, blue jacket, and jeans that all look too big. Except for the way he keeps listing and how damn skinny he is, he almost looks normal with his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his gaze less glassy and more thoughtful. Teyla points to some duck or other animal, asks what it's called, and Sheppard answers.
“G... goose. Squirrel. T-turtle.” He's not stuttering. For him, talking is like eating and it makes him nervous, so he hesitates, testing the sound of his own voice to see if it causes any pain.
When Sheppard starts to stumble we make our way back. When we reach the room, he collapses on his bed and we leave him there until dinner is ready.
That night he dreams again, minus the screaming returns to consciousness. It's been replaced by loud gasping that's enough to snap me back to the land of the living.
“Sheppard?” I can't really see him, just his shape that's narrow even with him hunched up. Waiting for an answer, I hear a sound, like breathing only erratic, stuttering. I think he's crying. At least that's how my brain eventually figures it. I freeze up with that realization and hope John hasn't heard me say his name. Calming him out of the remnants of a nightmare I can handle. Crying... Sheppard's never cried before. At least not around me or anyone else I know of. The emotional/psychological implications alone make me nervous but there's more to it than that. It also scares the hell out of me, a little for my own sake and a little for Sheppard's. I could go on and on about the man's need for control: emotional barriers, strong facades, so on and so forth, but those are general psychobabble definitions that I'm not sure actually define him. I myself avoid emotional expression when feasible, but that doesn't make me any kind of a stoic or hard-ass.
Sheppard? I don't know. When he's afraid, you do know it. He doesn't panic or freak, but he still shows fear, usually with wide eyes or quicker than normal breathing. The fact remains that he doesn't try to hide it when he's afraid. What he does is remain in control, moves fast but moves precisely.
Control: he's always in control. So crying in the vicinity of two grown men – even asleep – would be a complete loss of control. At least to me that's what it means, and that's why it scares me.
It's just not Sheppard and I want him to stop. Selfish, yes, but it hurts hearing him weep alone and helpless in the dark. I don't want to think of the possibility that Karkta may have broken him for good.
I start hating myself, but I honestly have no idea what to do, what to say, and suddenly I feel like crying.
Crap, when did we turn into such ten year old girls?
“Colonel?” Carson to the rescue. I listen to the whisper of shifting blankets then the soft padding of Carson's feet as he moves to John's bed. “You all right, lad?”
I hear a kind of hiccuping inhale, then a wet sniff. “He won't stop touching me,” Sheppard says, angry, disgusted, and just a little terrified.
“It's all right, John. It was just a dream.”
“Crap, doc, I tried to fight him; I did. I tried. I tried, I tried, I tried, I tried...”
“Shhh, we know, son, we know. You did try. Sometimes all you can do is try. But it's all right now; you don't have to worry about it anymore.”
I angle my head enough to see Carson's moon-lit outline sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing Sheppard's moon-lit form's back. John keeps up his litany of “I tried” that is a combination of explanation and remorse until his voice thins out, drifting off, and Carson's form gently sets Sheppard's form down, covering him up.
So it’s now apparent that Sheppard remembers a lot, and that scares me just as much as him crying. I mean, there's being tortured for information or some kind of gain (Sheppard's talked to me about it, said that by focusing on the goal you can ignore most of the pain, and the goal is to keep your mouth shut). Then there's... I don't even know what you would call it. It can't be torture since there wasn't a goal, unless the goal was keeping one's sanity, which was a bust. Or, simply put, just not being tamed. That was what Karkta was after – a docile, obedient John Sheppard.
But he failed, miserably. If he hadn't failed, then he wouldn't have resorted to using drugs, fists, and excessive use of the restraining device. Sheppard wouldn't have bitten him the day we dropped by. That's not just trying to fight; that's succeeding. My discomfort turns to irritation, because it's all so damn obvious there's no reason for Sheppard to think he'd failed. The need to jump from the bed, stomp over, grab him by the shirt and shout in Sheppard's face that he isn't a failure is painful. The only thing reining it back is knowing that that kind of confrontation will just scare the hell out of him. He may be growing coherent on a daily basis now that his brain is righting itself, but he's still confused.
With the urge to react in check, I'm given time to think, and I recall that things are always more crystal clear when you're not on the receiving end. Seeing what Sheppard went through isn't living what he went through, which are two totally different things. It's sort of like getting shot. The prospect is scary, but the experience can't be described in words as simple as terrifying and agonizing. It was a week before I was able to so much as stand in Sheppard's presence and not have my heart-rate shoot through the roof. It probably would have taken longer if John hadn't been persistent about making amends. But it was the look in his eyes, the guilty, nervous, hurt look that he did a piss-poor job of concealing that got me to relax around him. Because for him to be that kind of expressive around me meant that what he was feeling was ten-fold to what his facial-features were trying to hide.
Getting back on topic, I'm not going to say anything, not yet, not until he's more up to it. And when that time comes I'll be more ready, having chosen the right words, tone of voice, etc. Then again, it may not happen at all. Sheppard could realize it for himself. Either that or I'll never find the right words. I'm not saying I can't do it, just that I might over do it in a moment of being overzealous.
I've been learning the hard way, lately – well, more than lately – that I'm not always right. More right than wrong, but I have my stumbling moments.
The next morning, John sleeps late and we let him. The rest of the day he's so listless he doesn't last long during the PT. He's taken to the pool that's always kept at room temperature then allowed to soak in the hot-tub a little to help his muscles. Afterwards it's bath time, and he has energy enough to undress himself and get in the tub.
It's just me supervising since Sheppard's pretty much self-sufficient in terms of bathing. He asks me to turn so he can strip in private.
I fold my arms, irritated because he's making a big deal out of nothing. “If you don't recall, Sheppard, I've been helping you bathe since we got here, so there's nothing there I haven't seen.”
Sheppard, thoroughly chastised and contrite, nods his head in understanding then shifts to pleading puppy-dog. “Please?”
I wish he would just yell at me, ask me why I can't just do as he says. Like crying, pleading isn't a John Sheppard thing and it makes my guts twist. I immediately soften, which isn't something all that common for me – at least not that quickly. “Yeah, sure. Just... try not to slip on your way to the tub.”
John gives me a sheepish smile before I turn. I hear clothes rustle, then water rippling. I sit in a plastic chair and work on a few notes on my laptop, the only sounds my tapping and Sheppard's splashing. It takes me a while to realize when it suddenly goes quiet. I look up to see Sheppard with his arms sprawled over the side of the tub and his chin resting on the edge, his eyes as lethargic as his body.
I stiffen and set my laptop aside. “Sheppard?”
John inhales, deep, his ribs spreading in graphic detail. I look forward to the day when he gains more weight and stops coming across as something that will shatter if not handled delicately. Sheppard isn't delicate, damn it.
I stand and reach for the towel. “You tired, ready to get out?”
John shakes his head. “Just thinking.”
I sit back down. “About what?”
He turns his head to look at me, the trepidation as vivid as his bones. “Think... they'll let me back on Atlantis? I mean, I'm needed, right? My gene? That's why they asked me to come.”
“Well, considering you're also the military leader...”
“Even after this?”
I shrug. “Well, yes, why not? You've been through worse. I mean, you've been fed on by a Wraith, for crying out loud. You've... you've... you've had all kinds of crap happen to you and survived it. Why should this be any different?”
The water ripples when John lifts his shoulders. “I don't know yet. But I've always been certain there was going to come a time when something would happen that, if it didn't kill me, would be my one way ticket back to Earth.”
“And you think this is it?”
Sheppard seems to shrink in on himself. “I don't know yet.”
I want to discuss this further, but Sheppard starts shivering. I stand, grab the towel, and move to the tub. “One thing at a time. Let's get you out of there, get you something to eat so you can get your strength and sanity back. Then we'll talk.” I set the towel within his reach. “Want me to turn around?”
Sheppard gives me a tepid, embarrassed grin. “Um... I think I may need...” He reaches out. I grip his forearm and pull just enough to get him back on his feet then keep him steady as he steps out. I help him dry off and dress, which I know has to be the hardest thing in the world for him now that he's more aware. In fact, he doesn't look at me the whole time.
I go for nonchalance since I'm used to all this, anyways. “I think said you're ready for a little something heavier beyond soup, to which I say it's about damn time. Soup doesn't fill. Pizza fills, sandwiches fill. Hell, bread fills. Soup's nothing more than water with flavoring and food chunks.”
John lifts his arms as I pull the sweater over him. “Fills me up good.”
“That's because your stomach's a shriveled-up sack that needs to be stretched. What you need is a bacon cheeseburger.”
What he ends up getting is a sandwich with soup, a big sandwich, lots of meat. Carson says he needs the protein. And John eats every last bite without a lick of unease to show for it. Because he's a hell of a lot more coherent, he ends up as the one flipping through all the pointless channels until landing on a Die Hard marathon. And of course both he and Ronon couldn't be happier, Ronon especially. I swear the plethora of violent, shoot-em-up flicks Earth has to offer was the actual selling point for Ronon when Sheppard first asked him to stick around.
---------------------------
Another week, and John has a little more weight, develops a little more muscle and is a hell of a lot more coherent – like the old John if you ignore the flinches, cringes and starts of alarm when we make a sudden move or loud noise. All in all, though, it's progress, which is why Carson calls in a request for one more week.
The SGC, however – cheap bastards that they are – feel the time sufficient enough. Vacation over, time to get back to work. For Carson and myself, mostly. Sheppard, Ronon and Teyla can stay another week, the SGC feeling generous enough to send someone out to keep an eye on them and all that.
I'm sorry but, seriously, how stupid can these people be? Yes, let’s leave a high-strung Sheppard and two aliens who can kick ass by blinking with a relative stranger, because it worked out so well at the stupid hospital.
Their alternative is worse: leave him – temporarily of course – in a mental hospital, where he can get both the mental and physical care still needed. Yes, I know he still needs care, but... there has to be a better way, one that won't plant the seed of “you're never coming back” in John's mind. We've officially reached the point where Sheppard's sanity is no longer the problem, but that hair-thin thread of hope he's barely clinging onto is.
When makes the announcement about returning to duty, there's been no alarm in Sheppard's eyes, no worry...
There's resignation, very jaded resignation. The look of a man ready to take whatever fate handed to him, and already knowing it wasn't going to be good.
It's as close as I have ever seen to John Sheppard giving up.
I'm in the room and on my cell phone faster than the others could blink, barely letting Landry get a word in edge-wise.
“He's going back to Atlantis. He has to. That's his home, the place he's going to feel the most comfortable in, the place with the people he trusts. Granted, yes, he's still miles away from being fit for duty but he is getting better, and if you stick him with some nobody or try to dump him in some psyche ward it's just going to set him back. And I mean way back. And it's not like he's going to be in the way. Yes, he flinches from time to time but he's also getting stronger and his gene still works, he can still be useful -”
“Dr. McKay -”
“No! Listen. He's better off in Atlantis. We have a psychiatrist he can talk to and Beckett's his doctor, the one who knows him inside out... literally. He's also the only one who understands the crap Sheppard was put through -”
“Dr. McKay -”
“And further more, Sheppard is no longer a threat to anyone, and that includes himself. Hell, he never was a threat; the guy could barely break the skin when he tried to bite people -”
“Dr. McKay!”
I jump, startled silent. Who knew Landry could bark so loud? “What?”
Landry sighs, heavy and tired, and I hope it's because he's conceding to all my points. “Dr. McKay, as much as I agree with you, it isn't up to me. You were given four weeks, which the IOA and board of directors felt sufficient enough time to produce evidence of Sheppard being on the mend. They want to see the results. Whether those results satisfy will determine whether or not Colonel Sheppard can go back to Atlantis and when. I'm sorry but it's out of my hands. However, from what Dr. Beckett told me while giving me his third degree, a lot of progress has been made. So there's hope, and a good amount I'd wager.”
I drop onto the edge of the nearest bed, feeling anything but that hope. It wasn't General Landry Sheppard had to prove himself to; it was a bunch of bureaucrats who'd sent someone else to play military leader of Atlantis, and let Sheppard keep the role because Elizabeth knows how to be wickedly persuasive.
But this time isn't here.
“But... what if... they say no.”
There's silence on the other end that's doing nothing for my current blood pressure. When Landry finally speaks, he sounds just as resigned as Sheppard looks.
“He'll be taken care of, that I can promise.”
And a hollow promise it is, because they'll just stick Sheppard in some home for aging veterans, the youngest member yet, shuffling around in a robe and slippers. (Or so I assume. It's not like I'm a frequent visitor to care homes, military ones especially). Fed mush and medication to keep him alive and quiet...
Completely forgotten, like he'd never existed. I shiver at the thought. There's a reason I want to win the Nobel Prize, the money not excluded. I can't imagine slogging through life and busting your ass to make something of that life without something to show for it, something that ensures your name outlives your body. I can't imagine fading into obscurity until that name is little more than a title on a tombstone.
I don't want to. Not for myself, and currently not for Sheppard, who busts his ass in ways most people can't even begin to imagine.
Sheppard will heal better in Atlantis. He friggin’ belongs in Atlantis.
After Landry says an apologetic sounding goodbye, I start contemplating possible ways of sneaking Sheppard back to Pegasus. Hey, I'm a genius. I can figure something out.
Figuring something out that Sheppard will agree to, however, is the hard part. I doubt he'll be all gung-ho about stowing away in a suitcase, much less a crate.
That night, I lay awake imagining Atlantis without John. I'm surprised by how easy it is. The general gist is that Atlantis will be boring, for me – for everyone, Sheppard's fellow gun-toters especially. There's no doubt that whoever the SGC sends to replace Sheppard will be a tight-ass made of steel, forcing everyone to suffer through physical training regimes at unnatural hours in the morning. And he'll be so damn by-the-book that he won't be in Atlantis two days before he's hinting to Elizabeth to pack up the expedition and blow Atlantis to hell, because it'll be easier than dealing with the Wraith.
Atlantis needs Sheppard.
Speaking of the man, he wakes with a ragged gasp. I angle my head to watch him, sitting there, no hitched breaths or hiccuping sobs – he's perfectly still and quiet.
No. No, he's not. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and there's a lot of moonlight spilling through the window. It's plenty enough for me to see Sheppard trembling. After a moment – two minutes, tops – he lays back down.
I wait, counting to twenty, before slipping out of bed and heading over to his bed. He's asleep on his side, partially curled with the blankets bunched around his waist. I wish I could say it's peaceful looking, but it's not – I don't miss the sporadic tremors that shiver the length of his body, like he's trying to shake something off.
I hope it's just an unconscious reaction, or he's just cold. I cover him up to his shoulders, just in case it's the latter. He twitches then relaxes. Then twitches again.
Sheppard needs Atlantis.
----------------------------
The ride back to the mountain is quiet – the subdued kind of quiet that isn't helping our sickly, pathetic hope. managed to talk the SGC into letting him and me stick around long enough to hear the verdict that would decide Sheppard's fate. It's the best we can do, sort of like living in denial – the longer we stick around, the longer we can go without having to think about how we're leaving Sheppard behind.
Crap, we're going to leave him behind. Because I still haven't thought of a way to get him back to Atlantis that he would agree to. There's no long Daedalus ride, this time; we've been given permission to take a 'jumper through the intergalactic bridge.
A 'jumper that won't be piloted by Sheppard. No 'jumper will ever be piloted by him again.
I try paying attention to the scenery in my peripheral to distract me out of my thoughts, but that's the problem with driving – too hard to ogle at the scenery, too easy to think. And, yes, I know I'm being pessimistic, because I know the IOA, know the military, and know they're going to try to use what happened to Sheppard against him. And Sheppard...
I glance at Sheppard staring out the window, so damn resigned, thoughts barely a mystery because of course he's mentally preparing himself for the worst – he's that kind of guy, except he's usually scrounging for the positive, throwing together plans and strategies of the kind that always save the day.
He's usually not giving up.
The desire to take him by the shoulders and shakes him returns, which is rather difficult, seeing as how my hands are currently busy keeping us on the road. And I also doubt he'd be receptive to it with an audience. Ronon would probably kill me for it, come to think of it. I think he's still pissed over what that Janice woman had done.
When we arrive at the mountain, it's night but not late. We're given separate quarters, which feels just a tad weird after having bunked together for four weeks straight. Not that we end up sleeping in them. We confiscate one of the local rec rooms, as much junk food as we can find, pillows, blankets and have ourselves one hell of a team night.
And it has nothing to do whatsoever with it possibly being our last team night. It's just what we do – eat junk food and watch pieces of crap like Back to the Future and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (Which would you believe is Teyla's favorite? I see her laughing and I still don't believe it.) We end up falling asleep where we sit.
Except Sheppard, but I don't know it until I wake up to go to the bathroom. I see him on the couch, sitting ramrod straight, staring off into the distance, but it's too dark to see his expression.
I swallow. He's so still it's making me nervous. It's not often I see him that still or that stiff, brittle enough to snap in two at the slightest provocation. But I think it's obvious he knows I' m awake, I know he's awake, and that I can't just let him sit there all night. I move from the floor to the couch, arching stubborn kinks from my back with a groan. It's an awkward situation, one that momentarily freezes up my tongue. So I go what would be considered the normative response to such a situation.
“Carson's going to sedate you if he sees you awake. Seriously, we give you the couch to lie on and this is what you use it for? If you're not going to use it you could at least give it to me -”
“I wanna go home.”
I blink. “What.”
“I wanna go home,” he replies, as though having come to a decision and intent on sticking with it. Then he slumps back into the couch, melting loose-limbed and exhausted, complete with a heavy, weary exhale. It makes me suddenly recall my own lethargy just from watching.
“But they won't let me.”
I let myself fall back into the cushions, mirroring him, and whisper with conviction – because someone has to have it - “Yes they will. You're getting better. Four weeks and you're practically your old self. They can't deny it.”
But John shakes his head, slowly, as though it pains him. “They won't care.”
Now's the time when I can probably, finally, take him by the shoulders for a good shake and an even better rant, remind him of who he is – John Sheppard, more stubborn than a mule, too stubborn to give up this easy, who are you and what have you done with Mr. Eternal Optimist, and so on.
Instead, what comes out of my mouth is, “We'll make them care. I'll rally Atlantis, get everyone to go on strike if I have to. Or organize a general rebellion, threaten to cut ourselves off from Earth.”
My eyes have adjusted enough so that I'm able to catch Sheppard's fleeting grin. It's a running joke of ours – and by ours I mean the entire city's – cutting ourselves off from earth, forming our own independent planet, but never doing so because that would mean giving up things like beer, movies, Sports Illustrated and so on. It's nothing personal against Earth, just talk.
Although at the extreme moment, it's becoming personal.
I think if there was such a place as hell, it would be a place of uncertainty – unable to do anything but wait and watch. This has to be hell for Sheppard: his future, his fate, in the hands of bureaucrats who don't really give a damn about him. It makes my jaw clench until it hurts that they're putting him through this. He survives all that crap, that humiliation, only to do it all again in the name of “best interests.”
Whose best interests? Sheppard's? The expedition's? The IOA wouldn't know anyone else's best interest if it came up and sucked the life from their chests.
Sheppard doesn't deserve this. He deserves to be home.
“We won't leave you behind, Sheppard,” I say, like a matter of fact. “They're just going to have to deal with it.”
Again he smiles – twice in one day, that's definitely progress.
We sit in silence. I'm not sure whether to consider it awkward or not though it feels slightly uncomfortable to me. I think it's because there's room to say more. Too bad I'm not a thinks-on-his-feet kind of guy unless it involves something tangible, with certain doom and a certain lieutenant colonel breathing down my neck. The man's relentless when it comes to demanding miracles from me.
See? Just another reason why we need him.
The discomfort of so much silence starts getting to me, so I say the only words I can think of, even if they are just Hallmark-type platitudes.
“You'll be all right. That is, you're going to be all right.”
I look at Sheppard, his outline defined by shadows and made three dimensional by deeper shadows. I see his angular throat bob in a swallow then his head lift like a dog having heard his master whistle.
“I still have dreams...” he begins. He doesn't finish the sentence.
Because I don't know what to say – and not for lack of trying – I get up, pick up his blanket and cover him with it. And I don't care how it looks or how awkward it makes me feel. Even dressed in a sweater, Sheppard is still skinny and looks cold, and I'm not leaving him like that.
It doesn't feel like enough.
But when I return from the bathroom, he's on his side, asleep.
He still twitches.
I hate it that I don't know what to do about it. Hate it more than I've hated anything, and hate that it keeps me up for the rest of the night, waiting for when I may have to wake Sheppard.
----------------------------
I'm exhausted. Between the long drive home, a bad night's sleep and waiting for Sheppard to return from the lion's den, my patience is nonexistent. I'm snappy and don't give a damn.
Until I snap at Teyla, who is no one's verbal punching bag. Ronon can sneer and growl and flex his muscles all he wants; it's nothing compared to Teyla's arched-eyebrow that has a lot more bite than any reprimand. I think it's because she's capable of kicking all of our asses with only a set of sticks. Either that or because women in general are evil geniuses when it comes to retribution – Jeannie taught me that the hard way.
It's an hour before Sheppard finally emerges, silent, stiff and a little extra pale. Carson, mother hen that he is, hustles him off to the infirmary and we tag behind, little chicks worrying over their nest mate... and I'm going to stop using that analogy now because it sounds an awful lot like one of those story books I was forced to read to my niece last time I visited.
Carson gives him a quick once-over then the order to sleep that Sheppard disobeys, and you can't blame him. He just sits there on the edge of the bed, Teyla next to him, Ronon leaning against the wall with his arms folded and me on the only comfortable chair I could find.
Teyla is rubbing John's back, which is something. I once saw Teyla give Sheppard a hug and was certain he was going to snap his own spine if she kept it up – he'd been that damn rigid. And I thought I had contact issues. I wonder if Sheppard's dad wasn't big into hugging like my own.
It's twenty minutes of waiting, twenty minutes of seething over the little committee organized to decide if John stays or goes not letting the people who know him best have their two cents. It's not a hearing, they said, it's simply a progress report.
After that twenty minutes, Woolsey walks in, stiff as a board and just as expressive as always, which doesn't help matters. He folds his hands in front, looks at each of us, then settles his sights on Sheppard and clears his throat.
“The committee is in agreement that much progress has been made concerning Sheppard's recovery. However, due to the nature of the situation that as led us here, there is still much uncertainty, and we are hesitant.”
“What!” I snap, sitting so straight I thought my spine would snap. Both Teyla and Carson stiffen; Ronon pushes away from the wall with the intent to loom and Sheppard's face goes blank, like it does when he’s faced with insurmountable odds.
Woolsey holds up both hands, patting the air. “It's simply a matter of garnering more information. Before meeting with you, Colonel, we talked with Dr. Heightmeyer whom has been in contact with Carson during your recovery.”
Which wasn't news. Of course would be in contact with a psychologist while aiding a mentally unstable patient.
“She's in agreement that you would benefit from familiar surroundings, and that more progress would be made if you were allowed to return to those surroundings – with certain conditions, of course, but we can discuss that later -”
I stiffen again, which is going to be hell on my back but at the moment I don't care because, “So Sheppard can go back?”
“Under certain conditions. But, yes, he can go back.”
Ronon claps his hands with a loud pop and a barked “Yes!” that makes us all jump. Teyla, misty-eyed and beaming, slides her arm around John's shoulders and squeezes. Carson is exhaling one hell of a long breath, shaking his head in relief.
I look at Sheppard; he looks at me. I grin; he smiles – a genuine Sheppard smile, bright with optimism... finally
--------------------------
The conditions were these – Sheppard was to speak with Heightmeyer for an hour a day. He was not to operate heavy machinery (aka, 'jumpers), not to resume any part of his duties until given permission by the SGC, and if the city fell under attack and was forced to evacuate some of its personnel, he was to join the evacuation (I rolled my eyes at that one). If he expressed any violent behavior toward himself or others that was not a matter of honest to goodness self-defense but delirium, then he was to be shipped back to Earth immediately.
Other than that, he was allowed to move around the city freely and light stuff up for me – and only me to ensure he didn't get worn out. Sheppard's mending; he's not yet mended. He's stronger, but still thin, still flinches, and I've seen the bottle of sleeping pills on his night stand.
But he's Sheppard. Day by day, a little more of him comes back. We're playing video games again, and he's back to hitting golf balls off the pier, even if his drive isn't what it used to be. He's not sparring what with his coordination still skewed but Ronon and Teyla are helping him with that. Thank goodness, he's no longer so damn emaciated.
And he smiles more, jokes more, which we're all in agreement is the real progress. As much as I hate to admit it, Sheppard isn't Sheppard without that obnoxious surfer-bum humor of his.
Sheppard is coming back to us.
Then I walk in on him, sitting on his bed, laptop in his lap watching the screen with such intensity that it's a moment before he realizes I've walked in – and that says too much.
He looks up, snapping the laptop lid shut.
Too little too late. I don't need to see what he was watching, I heard enough to know. I stand there, gaping at him, my gaze darting between him and the laptop. Shock stalls both my brain and my mouth but its half-life is mere seconds. Anger swamps me and I lurch forward, fast. His poor motor skills work to my advantage and I grab the laptop before he pulls it away. I flip it open.
And watch once again as Karkta presses Sheppard into the rim of the tub until he can't breathe.
I can't describe the emotions that smother me – too many to tell apart, too many for one to push through and dominate just yet. I look up at him, and know my expression has to be as blank as I feel. “Where'd you get this?”
Sheppard isn't looking at me. He's looking past me, at the wall, his desk, nothing. His face is a vacuous mask when he says, “Heightmeyer.”
I slam the lid back shut. “She gave them to you?”
“Found them in her desk.”
Anger finally manages to push through and take back control. “She told you about them?”
Sheppard shakes his head, slowly, back and forth. I watch as the mask crumbles under twitching muscles, see his composure like metal scaffolding being held together by Elmer's glue. He's shattering; falling apart right before my eyes after the hell and high water endured to put him back together again.
“I already knew,” he says. He glances at me. “I didn't think he was just talking to himself.”
Anger is swept away, and I kind of miss it. I like anger; it's an easy emotion to work with, provides something to focus on. What I'm left with is a mix of things I can't tell apart that make my throat ache and chest constrict.
All I can say is, “Oh.” And that's it. I'm completely devoid of words. All the same, I find myself moving forward, setting the laptop aside then sitting next to John. And we just sit, silent, staring, suffocating beneath an insane amount of discomfort and uncertainty.
“You saw it,” John says, and if he was trying not to make it sound like an accusation, he failed miserably. I feel myself bristle, the anger back, this time out of self-defense. I get off the bed, grab his desk chair and swing it around so that when I sit, I'm facing him. It's not cornering him – I hope. I'd rather not have to resort to that. It's making sure he's listening when I talk, as well as keeping him where I can see every expression on his face.
It's making sure he hears every word I have to say.
“Yes. We saw it. All of it. And I'm sorry but we had to do it so that we could figure out how to help you. So, therefore, actually, I'm not sorry – we're not sorry. At all. Because we had to.”
Which might just have been the wrong thing to say. His face tightens, drawing the skin over the bones like a severe mask of wax. But I have to admit to being proud of myself when he pins me with a cold gaze and I manage to keep all flinches internal. He may not be all that physically imposing but the man does know how to deliver one hell of a glare, and we still don't know if his need to retaliate against what he feels is abuse is still lurking in the darker shadows of his mind.
But... I know Sheppard, know that when he's in his right mind he would never attack us. The days of thrashing around and biting people are over, I know it, although I still need to remind myself of it from time to time.
I relax, ignoring the look he's giving me, and press on. Softer, this time. Kinder, if a little hesitant, because I can finally say what I've been wanting to say for some time now.
Just not in the way I'd plan to say it; I'd completely forgotten to prepare. Not that that stops me, it seems.
I swallow. “It wasn't you on that feed. Well, yes, it was. But... it wasn't.”
John's features loosen in confusion.
“Karkta cheated,” I say. “You know, because he used drugs and stuff. And did you know, when we found you and he was trying to show you off, you bit him?”
That gets Sheppard's eyebrows to arch up toward his hairline.
I nod. “Yeah, bit him good. Probably broke the skin. Then you bit Ronon but it's completely understandable so no hard feelings or anything. I doubt he'll hold it against you. I probably would have but then he's not me. Beside the point, though, of course. The point being that... um...” I gesture helplessly, my hands fluttering useless as they always do when I feel caught between a rock and a hard place. This isn't my thing – reassuring, confirming. This is Teyla's thing – Heightmeyer's actually - and I am so tempted to go fetch one of them that I can't figure out why I'm still sitting here, stammering, digging for the right words but only coming up with clichés.
“You – you have nothing to feel ashamed of or anything. It's not like we think any less of you and... stuff. Broken people don't bite the people who broke them.” I end with a nervous chuckle, short lived when my throat goes dry. I'm making things worse, I know it, and for that reason remain rooted to the spot by the need to keep fixing things and knock more of my teeth out with my own foot.
I suck at this. I suck at this so bad that if there was an award for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I'd win it.
“We had to watch them to help you. And I take it back, we are sorry. I know you didn't want us to see you like that.”
And now that he knows that we had, what does it mean? For us, our team, our friendship? Nothing good, I'm sure.
John is looking down at his lap and his hands rubbing back and forth over his thighs as though he's drying sweaty palms. There's no blatant anger on his face, his features still drawn but not so severely, and he's gnawing his lip.
He's thinking, obviously. Duh. I wish I knew what he was thinking about, because the suspense is killing me and I don't no whether to kick myself out or wait until he does it for himself.
“I don't remember most of it,” he says.
“And that's why you're watching the feed?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don't know why I wanted to watch it. To see how I'd react, I guess.”
“How'd you react?”
“Like I thought I would. It pissed me off, made me want to kill Karkta.” He looks up at me. “What happened to him, anyway?”
Now it's my turn to shrug, nonchalant like it's no big deal, because it isn't. The fat bastard got what he deserved. “We handed him over to his people. A people who obviously didn't like him. And I mean really, really didn't like him. I'm thinking you weren't his first attempt at a human pet. I doubt we'll be seeing him again... ever.”
“Good,” John says, bobbing his head.
I swallow again, even more tense. “So... what do you remember? Of all of it, I mean?” Does he remember us stripping him, bathing him, feeding him like a child?
“Bits and pieces of stuff, kind of like a bad dream, so it's not really clear.”
“Anything... anything that stands out the most?”
He goes back to gnawing his lip for a moment.
Then he smiles. It's not much, just a few twitches that eventually curl one side of his mouth – barely. But it's still a smile, and he looks up at me and says, “You guys.”
Which must be a good, thing, a very good thing, or he wouldn't be smiling.
And I relax, practically melt into the chair as though I'd just dodged a Wraith. “Oh.” And I suppose that's as fixed as the situation is going to get. I ask him, suddenly remembering why I came. “Hey, you hungry? It's pizza night, and they have all Earth-made ingredients this time. Real Earth sausage and everything. There's also cake.”
“Sure,” he says, already getting up.
I stand then remember the laptop so wave a hand toward it. “You might want to return that to Heightmeyer.”
Placing his hands on his hips, Sheppard dips his head. “I know.”
“And probably tell her about it, because if you lie and she finds out, I doubt it's going to help your cause any.”
“I was going to tell her,” he says. “I just... I wanted to watch them alone, first. I didn't think she'd let me.”
I almost ask why, then decide it's his business, not mine, and I refuse to open another can of worms leading to further awkward conversations. So long as he tells Kate about it, then I don't have anything to worry about. And I know he's going to tell her. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Sheppard's a lot of things; a liar isn't one of them.
It's not often Sheppard eats in the mess – the crowds still make him a little nervous. Mostly, he eats in his room or on a balcony and we join him because no one should have to eat alone. But on occasion he braves it, stubborn man that he is. When we arrive, his body goes tense while his face breaks out in a relaxed grin – he's not as good at the subterfuge as he likes to think, but he's not half bad at it, either. It's when he gets his food and we're sitting at our usual table with Teyla and Ronon that his body reflects his features, making the grin more sincere.
He knows we saw his pain, now, and yet doesn't act any differently around us. I don't get it, not at the immediate moment. I do, eventually, late in the night between working on some programs to increase the efficiency of the city and getting coffee. I'm good at multitasking, at thinking two things at once, and figure out during that small break in between that it doesn't matter what we saw and what had to be done to help Sheppard. Sheppard's smart; he understands why.
And there's no doubt in my mind that he's thinking he'd do the exact same for any one of us.
What happened didn't matter because it happened – past tense. What matters is now, being home, being safe, being with friends. We never bring up what happened to him and neither does he. A good thing, I swear, because we never think about it. Well, we do, just not in the way that forces us to push the thoughts out of our minds and wallow in denial, tip-toe, observe Sheppard askance for any signs that the ordeal has affected him beyond repair.
We're not worried anymore. We know Sheppard; we know he's doing what needs to be done to help himself, that he's moving on, that he's refusing to let what happen to him define him. He's good at that; he really is.
And we're right here if he needs us, just like we were the day we found him docile one moment then fighting back the next. We're right here.
Karkta was an idiot. You can't break John Sheppard. All you can do is hide him.
And bet damn good money that we'll always find him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 01:20 am (UTC)From:Super excellent! I love your h/c teamy fics. Great writing, fabulous job showing Sheppard's transition, lovely team moments. Really good read.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 02:57 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 01:52 am (UTC)From:BTW, it looks like that weird stuff is still going on where the name "Carson" is missing in the text. I just saw your note when I was checking with a different browser. It looked to happen more in part I. I hope you're able to get it fixed - computers can be so frustrating at times. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 02:58 am (UTC)From:I don't know why my computer keeps kicking Carson's name off. I'm wondering if it's because I transfer documents from my laptop (which refuses to let me use the Internet) to our main computer. But it's wierd that it's only Carson's name it does that to.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 02:05 am (UTC)From:And bet damn good money that we'll always find him."
I LOVE that! What a wonderful team story. You always do team unity/protectiveness so well.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 02:59 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 02:06 am (UTC)From:This, however, is awesomely done. I really, REALLY like this fic. I think the main reason I like it is that even though it's told 1st person it's still, at heart, a team-fic piece. It's Rodney saying what he sees going on, not *about* Rodney.
While of course the fic is primarly about John, and from Rodney's PoV, the little touches about the others also make it complete. [And The Holy Grail is Teyla's favorite Earth movie? That's pretty weird. Maybe she likes the rabbits :-P.]
As for missing "Carson"s -- I spotted these on this page. Your computer really does have issues with that name!
We'd leave but if Sheppard ends up drowning because he's too tired to sit up, then 'll kick our asses all the way back to Atlantis.
“Do I need to get ?” I say. Still nothing.
Teyla and Ronon are on either side of John as we make our way along the beach, and I grab 's arms, forcing him to slow so the rest move on ahead.
The next morning, John sleeps late and lets him
What he ends up getting is a sandwich with soup, a big sandwich, lots of meat. says he needs the protein.
All in all, though, it's progress, which is why calls in a request for one more week.
Before meeting with you, Colonel, we talked with Dr. Heightmeyer whom has been in contact with during your recovery.”
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 03:03 am (UTC)From:"And The Holy Grail is Teyla's favorite Earth movie? That's pretty weird. Maybe she likes the rabbits :-P"
I just like giving Teyla unusual quirks ;D
And thanks so much for taking the time to point out where Carson's name is missing. This will make things much easier to fix.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 02:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 03:04 am (UTC)From:Sheppard is coming back to us.
Date: 2009-03-18 02:31 am (UTC)From:Re: Sheppard is coming back to us.
Date: 2009-03-18 03:19 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 04:01 am (UTC)From:There are a few missing Carsons, and I think maybe two Weirs, a Sheppard, and that receptionist lady at the hotel. Computers are so bizarre sometimes...It was fairly clear which name was missing where though, and didn't really detract from the story.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 05:37 am (UTC)From:"It was fairly clear which name was missing where though, and didn't really detract from the story."
That's good to know. I do plan on fixing it eventually.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 04:11 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 05:39 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 05:34 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 05:40 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 06:16 am (UTC)From:Wow. You really do have a way of writing. The suspense builds and builds. The H/C is lovely and a wonderful topper is his recovery with the aid of his friends.
Well written. The dialogue is crisp, real and flows.
Well done.
Bravo!
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 08:04 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 01:30 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 08:06 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 03:08 pm (UTC)From:(I nearly always copy and paste in Word when I read fanfic and I, erm, filled in all the missing Carsons, Elizabeths and Alices. You want me to send the Word file to you?)
no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 08:09 pm (UTC)From:Thanks, but I'm not sure if it'll work. The root of the problem seems to be document transfer, then me replacing the old document with the new. So chances are good that the names would just vanish again.
I did finally manage to clean things up, though :).
Waiting for John
Date: 2009-03-18 09:27 pm (UTC)From:I do apologise because I don't leave feedback anywhere near as often as I should, but I want you to know that I check your page every day in the hope that you have written something and when you do im like a kid with a new toy, I can't wait to read it.
So thankyou, thankyou for taking the time to keep us entertained. I really hope you post another SGA fic soon. I really miss your big chappie fic's full of emotional whump. I still read all you have written over and over again, they are all just magnificant. Fanfic just wouldn't be the same without you and I for one am so grateful that you continue to write it means a lot to me. Your a star girl and you brighten up my day over here in rainy cold Britian.
Take care and once again, thanks.
Francene x x x
Re: Waiting for John
Date: 2009-03-19 05:15 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 09:31 pm (UTC)From:Of course, how could one not love Rodney's POV of a hurting John.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-19 05:17 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-18 09:42 pm (UTC)From:As other's have said, the convincing Rodney voice is spot on. Totally enjoyed this story.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-19 05:18 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-19 01:33 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-19 05:22 am (UTC)From:Simple but effective.
What I like about writing Rodney is his imperfections, overcoming them some of the time, but not all of the time, and the things he realizes along the way.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-19 06:53 am (UTC)From:And it took me by surprise.
I knew you were good at story writing...no, great,
But I didn't realize;
That your imagination could be insured,
Your whumpings immortalized;
If Lords of London would just take note
Of the way your fic defies
The natural definition of what fiction is
And what the word implies.
They would see how you portray the hero, bold.
Especially the Sheppard with the hazel eyes;
How he and his team fight injustice and evil;
And how they do it right, side by side.
When you tell the story that your mind has woven.
I see it as reality's dream, with my own heart's eyes.
*****
\0/ for team love. I really like Rodney giving his POV. He and the others are a mess as they bounce from wanting to fix John, to caring, to not wanting to care too much, to anger and retaliation, to embarrassment and disgust, and back to wanting to fix the entire situation. All his talk of emotions is at war with his and the team's own emotional upheaval. Wow!
Words are inadequate to express what this gift means to me. I love it more each time I read it. Thank YOU, well done!
no subject
Date: 2009-03-19 08:06 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-20 01:08 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-20 06:37 am (UTC)From:Yes, give poor John lots of hugs.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-20 04:19 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-21 03:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-20 04:22 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-21 03:35 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-22 10:03 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-23 08:08 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-03-27 07:17 pm (UTC)From:Also, I think I found a Carson-less sentence:
I go for nonchalance since I'm used to all this, anyways. “I think _____ said you're ready for a little something heavier beyond soup, to which I say it's about damn time. Soup doesn't fill. Pizza fills, sandwiches fill. Hell, bread fills. Soup's nothing more than water with flavoring and food chunks.”
no subject
Date: 2009-04-22 12:56 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-04-04 07:32 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-04-22 12:55 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-04-22 12:34 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-04-22 12:54 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-05-09 05:24 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-06-16 06:16 am (UTC)From: