kriadydragon | Leaving No Man Behind

Leaving No Man Behind

Rating: PG-13 for torture (nothing heavily explicit, but read with caution)

A/N: I almost didn't post this until I decided to do a picture for it. One scene in particular was begging for a picture.

Leaving No Man Behind

The bad guy's weren't very creative. Hell, they weren't even supposed to be bad guys, not to Sheppard. Mistaken identity was a bitch that way, unless it really was possible to mix up Lantean with Xenophan. He still didn't know what these bastards were looking for, which made it impossible to come up with a distracting lie. Sheppard didn't even know the name of their planet.

The bad guys were old fashioned in their abuse. Varied, too. They started light with punches and kicks, sometimes with John on the floor, sometimes in a chair, and sometimes strung up like meat. They gave him water while denying him food, let him keep his pants but not his shoes or shirt, and dumped him in a cold cell with stained cement walls and a barred window when they were done.

They were looking for something. If they would just tell Sheppard what it was, he could lie and buy some time as he figured out a way to escape. Without that tid-bit of knowledge, his attempt at lying fell short each time, and each time his weakness increased.

When kicking and punching became useless (or boring), they continued to adhere to old school styles by stringing him up and giving him a couple of lashes, interchanging with an electric cattle prod that skittered pain down his spine. John, of course, screamed the gutteral bellow of the defiant and agonized. He howled like an animal and they laughed, then demanded.

“I don't... know what the hell... you're talking about!” John gasped. Every breath was a knife to his ribs. He smelled his own sweat and blood, chin pressed to his chest to see the sickly light shimmer over his stained body.

Talking earned him a kick to the back and he spun until his stomach lurched. “Save your stories for little children, Xenophan,” said the master bad guy. Then the pain recommenced until John lost consciousness.

He woke up back in his cell with a tin cup of water and brand-spankin' new bruises. He rolled his good eye up to the puny square window too high to reach. Outside, the sky was gray, a winter-over cast pouring in the cold like an invisible waterfall. Sheppard shivered when it slithered across his wet skin.

Was it selfish to wish rescue would stop taking it's damn sweet time? For that matter, was it selfish to want rescue, calling on “we don't leave men behind” like calling for a favor to be returned? If his team ended up wounded in the process, killed, then hell yes it was selfish.

John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth when he rolled onto his back for the cold concrete to numb it. Pain throbbed, stung, burned and he hissed, arching his spine off the floor. He could pin-point the exact placement of each injury.

Burns – chest, stomach, back. Cuts and lacerations – arms, back, feet. Broken/cracked bones (he was past the point of telling which from which) – ribs, arms, fingers, collarbone, feet, leg.

If it was possible for him to be rescued without consequences, he wouldn't mind it. That wasn't so much to ask for, was it?

----------------------------------------

The bad guys must be fed up, or really, really bored. They'd decided to get creative.

Insects, tiny insects like scorpion-sized Iratus bugs with eight legs and a double tail. John's heart-rate rocketed until he was sure it was going to explode in his chest. Head bad-guy, who he called Bill for no other reason than it being the first name to pop into his head, circled him holding the mini-iratus by the tail.

“These little monsters hurt when they get in an eating mood. Carrion-feeders, mostly, but they're not opposed to warm flesh. Blood makes 'em go wild.”

Bill placed the first on John's shoulder. There was a screech, so high-pitched it pierced John's ear, then two sharp pricks in his shoulder. Bill was right, the little bastards did hurt. It was as though the thing were squirting acid into his veins. Sheppard clenched his mouth shut to keep from screaming.

Then a second was placed on the back of his neck, then a third, a fourth, fifth... on his back, shoulders, chest – tiny legs getting tangled in the chest hair. They shrieked before digging in, spitting more acid, and John couldn't help screaming. Throwing his head back, he howled.

-------------------------------------------------

We don't leave our men behind. We don't leave our men behind. We don't leave our men behind.

John stopped caring whether wanting to be rescued was selfish or not. Saved or killed, which ever came first, he'd take them. He'd reached a rut, stuck in monotony, with blood crusted on his skin and pinky-nail holes where his flesh had been devoured. He can still fill the insects' legs pricking like tiny needles looking for a tender spot, the burns stinging and lacerations itching. And yet for all the blood he's probably lost, he lives.

So die already you stubborn SOB. Yeah, like it was ever that easy.

John rolled onto his front to numb the wounds there, despising his own tenacity. But, to be brutally honest, he doesn't want to die. Being taken on a good-will mission during the dinner hours in a friendly village, snatched due to mistaken identity, was no way to go. Except that was cruel irony talking, not ego. There had been no reason to fear danger except from the wraith. They'd been friends with the villagers since first arriving to Pegasus. Except John still could never pronounce their name.

Cruel irony actually didn't have that much to do with why John wanted to live. He just does, like any sane, breathing, human being. It's instinct, it's nature, it's not giving up because there are people out there who don't want him to die, who would care a whole hell of a lot if he did die. And, if possible, he'd rather not put them through it. He doesn't have to say that he knows what it's like. He had already said it, mostly without realizing it, because “soldier” and “tour in Afghanistan” had said it all the first time.

He'd really rather not put his people through that. And if they don't want to put themselves through it, then they needed to hurry up and save his sorry ass already.

John returned to his back when it started throbbing.

They'd never left him behind, his team. Gotten pretty damn close to being unable to save him, but save him they did, or tried to. It had taken him long enough to realize that they always try. Leave no man behind applied just as much to him as anyone else. He remembered like yesterday, after Kolya's creative method of persuasion, the way his team so surreptitiously kept him in their sights. Rodney had let him take the last blue Jello. Ronon had given him a set of small knives and showed him how to hide them. Teyla had rescheduled sparring with Ronon to spar with him.

They'd never left him behind, even when he was right there.

-------------------------------------

John figured silence was golden and stopped talking. He didn't even attempt to lie. More beatings, whippings, burnings, bugs, and now shoving bitter liquids down his throat rounded out his day. The blue-ish one made him see all kinds of pretty colors, but all the giggling made it hard to answer questions. The red one hurt like something eating its way out of his stomach, and he vowed never to watch Aliens again. The piss-colored one made him puke, and the brown one made him inexplicably terrified.

They liked using the brown one. It was very Temple of Doom with them forcing it into his mouth by holding his nose, then watching and laughing as he squirmed on the floor whimpering and shaking. He probably would have given them his social security number if they'd asked for it. Not the address to Atlantis, though. Never that. He was a good soldier, and good soldiers never prattled away the information that really mattered.

When tired of the pathetic display of frailty, they tossed him back into his cell to ride it out with shadows that kept trying to turn into monsters. Pale, vampire-like monsters that took life through the chest rather than the neck. Giant bugs, men in rags with AK-47s, and people who were supposed to be dead. They never said anything, just stared, and as much as he feared them speaking, he sometimes wished they would.

----------------------------------------

John didn't know what he was supposed to say, or do, or maybe think anymore. The bad guys hurt him in both clever and not so clever ways. Just not as long as they used to. They must be getting bored. Some days, John just sat stuffed into his usual corner, knees pulled up in his usual huddle, with no more pain being added on to the pain soothed by his gentle rocking. Some days they forgot to give him water, some days forgot to poor the broth into his mouth that kept him alive. Those were the good days.

We don't leave our men behind, we don't leave our men behind, we don't leave our men behind...

John rocked harder. They were coming, he knew they were. They didn't leave men behind. His team would never leave him behind. They wouldn't unless they had to.

John stopped rocking. Maybe they had to.

-----------------------------------

No more real torture, just kicking, lots of kicking. And hitting. The bad guys weren't so much bored as fed up, hating his mistaken guts enough to keep him alive, because they wanted a confession and no longer cared when they got it. They were just happy to see him suffer.

John would have been more defiant if he knew how. He was so damn tired all the time, uncoordinated, his mind floating in an airy fog that smeared shapes. He was tired of pain making it impossible to fight the flinches every time the human smears came too close. All he had was silence since he knew talking was what they wanted. So talking he didn't give them.

Sheppard stared at the wall, trying to think. There was something he liked to think, something he needed to remember.

We don't leave our men behind.

Unless they had to, which was okay. John would never ask them to do something they couldn't do. He just wished he would die already. An end was an end, and he would take what he could get. He wasn't afraid of dying, never had been. He'd prefer to live, but, sometimes... sometimes it just wasn't possible.

John pressed his forehead against the stained cement wall that smelled of mold and rust.

We don't leave our men behind.

He wished he would stop thinking that.

------------------------------------

John kept his face to the wall when the cell door clanged. Still not dead yet, but he was pretty sure the next kick would be the climax, like the last kick should have been, and the kick before that. The bad guy said something that his brain refused to translate into real English. His brain wasn't up to much of anything except keeping his heart beating and lungs breathing. Stupid, stubborn brain.

A touch on his shoulder sparked a flinch that seized his whole body, slamming his tender back against the wall that forced a yelp from his throat.

“Sheppard, easy! Easy. It's okay, it's just me, just Ronon.”

Ronon. Who was Ronon? Who was...?

John whipped his head around in mindless alarm. “What?” First word spoken in, how long? And it came so easy, wanting confirmation and not giving a damn about anything else. He stared, wide-eyed, chest heaving, heart hammering, at Ronon's steady brown eyes staring back.

“Ronon?”

Dex placed a hand on both his bony shoulders. “Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry we took so long.”

John couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond one little mantra. We don't leave our men behind. He reached out with a trembling, crooked, skinny finger, pressing it to Ronon's cheek and ignoring the pain. He'd never been able to trust his eyes alone for some time. The feel of warm skin and hard bone underneath made his breath catch.

“I thought...” he rasped, and swallowed. “I thought you couldn't come. I thought...”

“What the hell is going on in there? We need to leave!”

John rolled his eyes up to see McKay barge in, followed by Teyla trying to stop him. Their images blurred behind a wall of moisture that burned in Sheppard's eyes. He swallowed and it hurt, tried to breath but couldn't fill his lungs.

“Um...” he began. He couldn't quite get a handle on his voice, not that he had anything to say. His mind still refused to work the way it was supposed to. He couldn't even lift his hand to wipe away the damn moisture.

All this loss of control was scaring the hell out of him. He wanted to run, or shrink away into the dark where no one could see him, just for a moment until he could remember how to think, breathe, and talk without shattering. One word, one breath, and something bad would happen, he knew it. He just needed a moment to keep it from happening.

The large hand on his shoulder slid to the back of his neck. Light pressure against his weak neck forced his head to drop against a broad chest.

“Sheppard's a little out of it,” Ronon said. “He needs a minute. Just give him a minute.”

John closed his eyes and breathed. They'd come for him, just like he knew they would.

We don't leave our men behind.

The moisture squeezed through his eyelids and fell.

They'd come for him. They'd come. They were here.

The hand on his neck was gone so a strong arm could wrap around his body. “Time to go home, Sheppard.” He was lifted, gently, feather-light but a being of pure pain too weak to make it known except to whimper. More gentle hands touched him, keeping him up as they carried him away.

Just like he knew they would. Just like he'd selfishly hoped.

--------------------------------------------------

John awoke to warmth, numb, and his team formerly clustered around his bed being herded off by Carson. Terror pressed down on John until he could barely suck in a breath. He lifted his head, reaching out with a weak arm that looked as though the I.V. and splint should be weighing it down.

“Wait!”

All four stopped and turned, Beckett moving fast to check the rapidly beeping heart monitor. His team slowly regathered around his bed with Teyla taking his trembling, bound hand into her steady ones.

A few controlled breaths getting his heart to slow down, and John forgot why he'd been so frightened. He twitched a small, weak smile.

“Hey guys. Took you long enough to find me.”

Rodney dropped his guilty gaze to the floor. “Yes, well... we would have found you sooner, but the Daedalus took it's sweet time about arriving and all the witnesses kept getting the address wrong and those bastards had put up one hell of a fight...”

“But you found me,” John interjected.

Rodney looked up, blinked, then nodded. “Uh, yeah, we did.”

“Would have gone from planet to planet if we had to,” Ronon said.

“We do not leave our people behind,” said Teyla with a squeeze to his hand.

Of course we don't. John tried to squeeze back and winced. “Thank you.”

It was then that Carson chased them off, promising they could return later after they grabbed some lunch. Sheppard's own meal was to come, soon, now that he was awake to eat it. Beckett checked him over as they waited.

“I knew they'd come,” John said. Knew they'd come or at least try. Knew they would always try. He knitted his brow in consternation. “Do you think it's selfish, wanting to be rescued?”

Carson snorted as he lowered his stethoscope. “No. Just means you've got a bloody lot to live for.”

Made sense. He'd do anything for that bunch that had refused to leave him behind. He'd die for them, but would much rather live for them.

The End

Done in Charcoal. I don't often draw people (especially in charcoal) but am trying to amend that. People are way easier to draw in pencil, but I love charcoal so! Much better looking enlarged, I promise.

Current Mood: annoyed
Current Location: About to hit my computer

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Awesome, as I knew it would be. I love the way it seemed to shift from the physical agony being more evident to the mental torture of wanting to be rescued and then even being willing to die if that would end the torment. But the thread of wanting to live ran throughout, tying it all together. Scary physical whump, angst, and team strength all wrapped up in one!!! Very cool!!

Thank you. That's what I like about John is that we do see moments of self-preservation in him. It makes him less of a cliche hero and more a human being, therefore easier to relate to.

Brilliant! No other words for it, just perfect!

Thanks!

Just lovely. Love the last line. And the picture is awesome. Good one.

Thank you.

Fantastic! Both the art and the story. I can really see John worry about that. He has such a strong survival instinct and desire to live, but at the same time, is so protective of everyone...

Thank you. I like that about John - he'll easily sacrifice himself for others but isn't the stoic hero who takes no consideration for his own well-being. He does what needs to be done, while allowing himself to feel a little scared about it.

You always make me cry! :) Thanks.

*Hands you a tissue* Thank you!

Gripping and heartwrenching. I really felt Sheppard's isolation and losing hope. Thank goodness he's stubborn. Glad the team found him, finally. Hope they educated... beat some sense into...you know, annihilated (works for me) the kidnappers.

Thank you. And you can be sure that Ronon did something unpleasent to the bad guys.

*sniffle* The team-i-ness at the end was so nice. :) And I loved how Ronon just *knew* John just needed that moment before taking him out of the cell. :) *claps*

Thank you. I've been really into team caring as of late.

Very intense piece. The despair and gradual loss of hope are very tangible and heartbreaking. Well done.

Thank you. This may sound a little wrong, but I like the concept of John reaching a breaking point, and lately have been exploring possible ways of bringing it about. Nothing permanent, mind you, but to points where he might shed a tear or two.

In other words *winces* I like making him cry (bad me, bad!)

Oh, wow! Your stories are often so emotionally powerful, even the short ones. Thank you for another great whump!

I can relate to your love of charcoal drawings. I just recently started using it myself and think it's great.
-GW (One of these days, I might get an account. Today is not that day. *grin*)

Thanks!

I used to hate charcoal until I did a still-life for an art class. There's a hazy, dreamy softness to it that makes a charcoal picture very relaxing to look at, in my opinion. It's also good for bringing out a darker mood in the picture.

My, but you do lurk in those dark corners. I'll never get anything done! And just when John is looking for surcease from the pain and weakness, they come. I always think of John and Ronon as brothers in arms, so you've painted (or drawn) a solid picture of their relationship as kindred spirits.

To say it's well done would be an understatement!

Thank you! I've been really into John/Ronon friendships lately. I've always liked Ronon but season three really has me digging him. And I just love his loyalty to Sheppard.

And I promise not to post any more fics until you're finished with your own fics.

Liar. LOL

I'm so close to finishing the TC fic! I have to before I go to the Stargate con next week. I'm trying not to die before I get my picture taken with Joe and Michael. Then I'll explode into glittery dust...

I like you. And when you write, and draw. I like those too.

Just letting you know, b/c I haven't said so in a while. :)

*hugs* Thank you.

You break him so well. Lovely imagery, both literally and figuratively.

Thank you! Sheppard is disturbingly fun to break, and even more fun to put back together (I would never leave the poor boy broken for good.)

Great story. So sad and moving, that it made me all teary. I loved that Shep didn't give up, but his desperation, understanably so, made me feel so heartbroken! LOL! I Like the end, and the drawing is wonderful. Thanks for sharing. :)

Thank you for reading.

Beautifully written.

I particularly loved this bit - All this loss of control was scaring the hell out of him. He wanted to run, or shrink away into the dark where no one could see him, just for a moment until he could remember how to think, breathe, and talk without shattering.

Thank you so much for sharing!

Heee! That was my favorite part, too. Poor Shep. He tries so hard not to break, but can't help being human. Thanks for reading.

This was wonderful, the pain in the beginning was brutal only to bring us to such a wonderful, comforting release of hope and relief.

There were several lovely turns of phrase including:

Made sense. He'd do anything for that bunch that had refused to leave him behind. He'd die for them, but would much rather live for them.

Its so John to think it was selfish to want to be rescued knowing that something bad could happen, but in the end he does have alot to live for and it was heartwarming to see his Team there.

Thought Ronon's way of handling John's panic was so very real ....allowing Sheppard a moment to gain himself.

Also adored your capture of that moment, just a wonderful piece of artwork to go with this. Both pieces are beautiful.

Thank you. I had planned on doing more than one picture, but ended up hating them. The picture I have up now is a redo (still not entirely happy with it but I am okay with it). I could not leave that scene un-drawn (is that even a word?)

You write such great, innovative whump, and touching comfort scenes. Where do you buy your creative juice? I feel like I get mine out of a vending machine compared to this. XD

Really touching (and the creepiness factor of the bugs just adds a little something). There should be more bug!torture fic. You made it awesome with just this.

Thank you. I'm addicted to daydreaming, so am always coming up with something (video games and Manga comics are also, oddly, good sources for ideas, as well as my own original fics). The bug-torture idea, however, isn't original as I've seen it donw in other fics. I just wanted to do my own bug-torture scene.

OH. MY. *shivers* It's been a while since a H/C fic got me, but this one GOT ME. I feel horrid for John, and.. .and.. the little bug-things? *shivers* eeeesh.. those things, I swear I squirmed all over my chair. How horrid, and.. the descriptions were amazing and.. gross *G*.

Then, when Ronon arrived first, and shielding him during his weakness and need for strength. That was just *sigh* just.. fantastic. Two worrior-men knowing the trials of maintaining their own inner strength in the face of insurmountable circumstances, but surviving.

I swear, this bit here...

We don't leave our men behind

Unless they had to,

WOW! Just .. powerful. And John's acceptance if they had had no other choice but to leave him behind. Equally as powerful and a testement of his inner strength. I nearly choked on my own emotions.

But there was so very VERY much more to love and enjoy about this. It was all so powerfully done, so perfectly balanced and so amazingly portrayed in reaching into what makes John Sheppard tick, what makes him feel, and what keeps him going. Amazing. Pure and simple.

*Blushes* Thank you so much. The idea for this, initially, began as a whump for the sake of whump. There was a Shep-whump story I was reading, and the way the author was handling the whump was annoying me (kept forgetting certain wounds, didn't make mentions of wounds Sheppard should have had, giving my favorite kind of whump to McKay, and so on) so it kind of spurned me into doing my own whump fic.

Basically, I wrote this for me, and for that reason almost didn't post it feeling it the same old, same old. Deciding to do a picture for it was what changed my mind. I'm so happy both were well recieved as I was so unsure about them.

I think I might know which fic you're talking about, but then, maybe not. If it is, I get what you're saying in your comments, still, it's not a bad story, again, that's assuming it's the story/WIP I'm thinking of.

Am I being vague enough? I'm trying to be because while I like her story, yours is indeed more detailed and has more layers and is better. But I always want to encourage new authors so unless I just dislike a story, my feedback will always be positive, though tempered according to what I find.

Uuum... what I'm trying to say, and not very successfully, is that I might know the story you're talking about, and I am enjoying yours and hers, but get what you're seeing as lacking.

Okay. Shutting up now.

I wasn't saying "boycott her story, it's terrible!" It's not a terrible story, it just whumps in a way that I don't like (which is very rare for me as I have few squicks). I also like supposrting new writers, no matter their skill levels (unless it's so bad I can't even read past the first paragraph.) This writer isn't a bad writer, they just used a least favorite kind of whump for me. And, depending on what kind of day I'm having and the mood I'm in, it can sometimes frustrate me (obviously, I wasn't in a chipper mood while reading.)

LOL.. OOoh no no no no.. I knew you weren't bashing her story or anything like that. I've read enough of your fics and seen enough comment from you over the months to know you'd never do that.

Her story isn't bad, it's just different, as is yours. I like them equally, so no worries.

Really, what I was lamely attempting to do was ascertain if we were talking about the same story. That's all. And I did it so ungracefully that yea, it came out wrong.

Like you, if the writing is just plain bad, I just stop reading.

Oh, and you mentioned that it was your 'least favorite kind of whump'? Just curious, but what kinds of whump are there, specifically regarding Sheppard.

Oh.

Well, I don't want to name the fic as I don't want anyone avoiding it or the author thinking they're being attacked. Like I said, it's not that it was a bad fic, I just didn't like the whump.

Gut wounds are usually at the very bottom of my whumping list, depending on how it's handled. For the most part it isn't a big deal and doesn't get me to stop reading the fic. But, some days - again, depending on how the whump is handled - I just can't stand it.

We don't leave our men behind.

Something to hold onto no matter how
harrowing it all was...........

and

He'd die for them, but would much rather live for them

defines Sheppard......

Very true. Sheppard is willing to do whatever it takes, but does value living :D

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kriadydragon

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Where the Wild Things Are

Leaving No Man Behind

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