Fic: Invisible Prisoner 3/4 (SGA, McKay/Sheppard, Sheppard/Other)
Title: Invisible Prisoner
Series: Stargate Atlantis
Part:3/4
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard, Sheppard/Other
Word Count: 29,623
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark Themes
A/N: This was written for the mcshep_match.Written for Team Angst, the prompt: Prisoner of War. It should have been up ages ago but I am both lazy and forgetful. Thank you kitt for reminding me.
Summary: How can you be rescued if no one knows you're gone?
The first time John was with a guy was in college.
It might not have ever happened at all. He hadn't even thought he'd go to college. His plan had originally been to enlist straight out of high school until his dad had talked him out of it.
"Trust me on this one, Johnny. You'll go farther, faster as an officer if you get yourself a degree first," Robert had counseled him. "Especially if you do AFROTC while you're there."
They'd been living in California again at the time, in a house on the beach. John had been learning to surf and thinking about how amazing flying was going to be if riding the tops of waves was this cool.
"I can always go later. I got into a couple UCs."
"You won't go later. You won't go ever if you don't go now. You know I'm right, Johnny."
His dad would finally retire two years later, when the cancer got bad enough to keep him from working. In less than ten, he'd be dead, and John would only just barely make it home in time to say goodbye.
But that day, on the deck of their house, Robert Sheppard had only just been diagnosed. He was still strong and handsome but John had had a very difficult time saying no to him back then.
So he'd gone to UCLA because it was close. And that was key because he'd been half convinced at the time that if he left his dad would just magically drop dead, even though his doctor said his chances were good.
In the end he was glad he did it, because he wasn't really ready for the Air Force at eighteen. His drill sergeant in basic had been of the opinion that he wasn't ready for it at twenty-one. He was, according to Sgt. Zimmern, a smart-mouthed, wiseass cut-up with authority issues, but he was a wiseass who'd been trying his best to tackle school and his father's illness simultaneously and that did a lot for maturity.
Plus, if he hadn't gone to UCLA he wouldn't have met Andy.
He was with Andy between Martha the geology major and some girl with green hair and a deep and abiding obsession with Kurt Cobain before it was cool. It had been a lot like dating a woman without a lot of the rules, which was kind of nice. John had never liked rules but he really liked Andy's hands. And his mouth. And his ass. And yeah, his sense of humor and all that crap.
But mostly what John had liked about Andy was how new absolutely everything had been. All of a sudden he had a whole new world of possibilities to explore and only four years to explore them before he lost the option.
Because there hadn't been DADT when he was growing up. There was just a dishonorable discharge and the possibility of a court martial and time in Leavenworth. His dad had never talked to him about that part of his job, but John had heard him and his mother talking once, when he was about nine.
He'd been the type of child to sit outside his parents' room and listen to their quiet talk at night when he couldn't sleep. Usually they talked about their day, made jokes, or just watched the Tonight Show. Occasionally he heard soft sighs that he didn't understand until years later.
That night, however, his dad had sounded so...sad was the only word John had been able come up with at the time, as he told his mom about his day. The couple had been turned in three separate times in the past. The fourth time Robert hadn't been able to afford to look the other way anymore.
One of them had gone to jail a week earlier. The other had been found that day, a hanging suicide a mere twelve hours before his fate was supposed to come down.
Those images had scared the hell out of John at the time but he hadn't really understood it as an eight-year-old. When he hit fourteen they made a lot more sense. So much so that they had formed a sticky coating over his impulses that had kept him from doing a lot of things over the years.
They'd kept him away from even daring to explore certain temptations until he was out of his old man's house and the fear was farther away. They led him to break up with Andy right around the time things were about to make that vital shift from 'friends who really like to fuck each other' to 'something more.' And most importantly, the memory of his father's soft, sober words to his mother had kept his hands the fuck off of Rodney McKay for the last few years.
There were so many really excellent reasons why sleeping with Rodney was a bad idea. And he'd stayed away from the idea, let his naturally equal desire for women help distract him.
Only now look at where he was-where he'd always wanted to be, in bed with Rodney. Yet at the same time he was so far away he could have been back in the Milky Way.
It made him think that maybe he shouldn't have left Andy back in college. Or let Emily file for divorce. Or flipped that godforsaken coin. Or any of the dozens of things he'd done since the day he decided to join the Air Force.
Because it had been more than a week of the Mavet-Rodney-fuckfest and John was ready to kill something. Preferably Mavet. Slowly. With one of those really dull plastic sporks they have in crappy high school cafeterias.
But the rage was easier than the powerless feeling of being made dirty. Not that he'd lost that. No, that was still as strong as ever, itchy and ugly like clown makeup. But the fury was stronger.
He practically boiled with it all the time now. It was getting hard to focus on what was going on around him beyond the sexcapades he couldn't seem to stop or escape. Even on missions through the gate.
Rodney, apparently, got handsy when he was getting laid regularly. Not so anyone else would suspect of course. The man was neurotic, self-important and a little bit paranoid-not exactly the hugging type-but still, there was a noticeable shift. And Mavet just liked things that felt good. To him, sex felt good. Torturing John felt good too. And doing both at the same time? Too much good to pass up.
Killing felt good too. Killing felt more than good-it was a favorite. Mavet savored the whole thing with Kolya in a way that made John deeply apprehensive, like a man living at the base of an active volcano.
Death was a natural pleasure for Mavet. The speed and ruthlessness with which he had killed Kolya in that square had made a few things evident to John.
The most important being that it wasn't so much a matter of "if" he was going to strike the people of Atlantis. It was a matter of "when".
It was also clear that when it happened, it wasn't going to be graceless or random. Mavet was going to think about it. And he was going to enjoy it. He had floated on Kolya's death for hours like it was a good orgasm.
The only person with even the remotest clue was Teyla. It was there in her expression when she looked at him as they left Lucius Lavin to his own devices, narrowed and concerned, telling him that she'd seen something of Mavet in his eyes in that moment.
She just couldn't place what that something was.
She asked him about it later, when Mavet was only slightly letting her kick his ass at staff training.
"Are you certain you do not wish to talk to me, John?" she asked as she circled him.
"About what?"
She lifted an eyebrow at him asking plainly 'Are you kidding me?' Then she took Mavet's legs out from underneath him.
Staff practice had become one of John's favorite times since his capture. He felt the pain when she "trained" him, but it was worth it to know that Mavet did too.
"What?"
Teyla looked down at him. "You killed a man yesterday, John."
Mavet just tilted his head and held up a hand. She took it with a heavy sigh.
"You cannot tell me that you are not feeling-"
"The guy tortured me, Teyla. He tried to kill me. He's threatened all of you at one time or another. Hell, I lost track of the times he's put one of us in danger."
John hadn't. Each time stood out in sharp relief in his memory every time the Genii were mentioned.
In the face of this argument Teyla's lips thinned into a line. "You showed no mercy."
"Neither did he."
She held onto his hand and stared into his eyes, searching. For the first times in weeks, John gave screaming and flailing a chance. The way she was staring, he could almost believe that she would see, that she could hear.
But instead she just sighed again.
"I am concerned about you, John. Your behavior lately has been a little..." She tilted her head to the side as she searched for the right word. "Strange."
"I'm fine," Mavet assured her, but he gauged her in return, studying her grasp of the situation.
She is clever for a primitive. Dangerously clever. It always surprises me.
John had never been a fan of surprises.
Come on, Teyla, he prayed. Say my head hit the ground just now and demand I see Carson. Make me get a CT scan. Do something. Do anything.
"That was not what I was asking."
"Telya, don't worry about it."
"You are my friend, John. I cannot help but worry."
John missed her intensely in that moment and she was right in front of him.
"Well, I appreciate it but there's nothing to worry about."
Mavet handed her his staff, saying loud and clear that training time was over. She took it from him, still gazing at him with a suspicious expression. Mavet gave her one of John's best smiles.
"If you want to talk-"
"I'm fine, Teyla. If I wanted to talk, I would."
"I find that often you want to talk but cannot."
"Not this time."
She gave him a warm, accommodating smile. "When you are ready, John, promise me you will find me?"
"Sure thing."
She didn't believe him but she let it drop as she walked beside Mavet to the mess hall for a drink. She was so close that John could almost imagine he could feel her arm brushing against his.
He couldn't ever remember feeling so alone.
~*~*~
John nearly died laughing when Rodney got turned into a superhero which was a refreshing change of pace. Rodney wasn't a superhero like Batman or Iron Man, who were just rich guys with neat gadgets that the Atlantis science team could make in their sleep, but a real one, with honest to God superpowers and everything.
Mavet really wanted those superpowers. Listening to him pester Elizabeth about them was just part of the fun for John. It was almost as good as riding a Ferris wheel.
John's personal favorite of SuperRodney's powers was the mind reading. God, he wanted to kiss Rodney's mind reading power. Buy it candies and flowers and take it out for dinner.
If not because of the possibility that Rodney could hear him (he hadn't so far) then because it made Mavet twitchy as fuck.
Maybe if you had less to hide, John mused as they watched Rodney scribbling frantically on a notepad. He wouldn't have anything to find. Just a theory.
He is not a hero. He will not come to your rescue.
Yeah. But I bet you're not going to be fucking him again any time soon.
Mavet didn't have an answer for that. John had learned to take his small victories where he could and the whole situation with SuperRodney was definitely that. He wasn't faster than a speeding bullet but he could move stuff with his mind and that was too damn cool.
At least it was until Rodney started dying.
That was when it stopped being funny and became yet another exercise in despairing futility. John was getting really good at "functioning" through palpable desolation.
Function of course was a relative term, as he had nothing to do anyway, but he could still listen, still be aware, whereas a few weeks ago he might have shut down. Progress, not perfection, as the twelve-steppers said.
Mavet viewed Rodney's desperate attempts to produce as much as possible before he finally died as an amusement, like watching a dancing bear or a dog on a bicycle at the circus. For the most part, he was content to keep his distance and watch the spectacle unfold.
John suspected that was mostly because Mavet really didn't care. He had a tiny bit of affection for him, almost like a person would love a pet goldfish or maybe a lizard. Mostly he liked having sex with Rodney. And that small sliver of enjoyment competed with the Goa'uld's deep annoyance with him.
The bottom line was that Mavet didn't give a damn one way or the other about anyone on Atlantis. They could all die tomorrow and Mavet wouldn't bat one of John's eyelashes. In fact, he'd prefer it, so long as the loss of life didn't affect his greater goal.
None of this was news to John. It was just more relevant as Rodney's time got shorter and shorter and Elizabeth came to him for help.
She shouldn't have had to seek him out. He should have sought out Rodney, done everything he could to help like he'd done for every other member of his team when they had needed him.
Instead Mavet just flipped through one of John's old surfing magazines while Rodney quietly panicked on the floor of his quarters. After all, he didn't really care and Rodney's tendency to over-think gave him a fairly valid excuse for why the Ascension practice wasn't working.
The fourth time Rodney popped up Mavet was good and annoyed.
"What's wrong now?" he demanded, his tone that of an angry dean dealing with a problem student. Rodney missed it completely.
"Rodney, if you don't put some effort into this-"
"I know," he said, climbing to his feet and pulling that ridiculous brain wave thing off his head. "I don't have much time."
"So focus," Mavet said blandly.
"I think it's pretty clear that I can't focus on blue skies and Ferris wheels, John. My brain's going too fast for this mumbo-jumbo spiritual voodoo. At least what it's producing at this rate is useful."
"Well, then stop thinking."
"Oh, yeah, you're an expert at that."
Mavet sighed heavily and shook his head at Rodney.
I cannot say I will miss the constant assault on my patience when his body fails.
Shut your slimy mouth, John snarled as he stared at Rodney through Mavet's gaze. Rodney's fear was so blatant it was a wonder he couldn't taste it.
"You're not helping yourself here, McKay."
"You're supposed to be helping me." His hands fisted in the shirt Mavet wore. "So help me. "
Pathetic, Mavet bemoaned even has his hands slid up the back of Rodney's shirt. Rodney let out a small whimper as his mouth descended on John's. Like a dying pet that no one has the decency to put out of its misery with something as simple as a mercy killing. You know about mercy killings, don't you, my lovely host?
Like you know shit about mercy, John snapped furiously.
Oh yeah, he loved to think about his first trip inside a hive ship. That was such an awesome memory. He could barely resist replaying the mixture of resignation, exhaustion, and pain in Sumner's eyes over and over again.
Mavet chuckled inwardly as he pulled Rodney forward, onto his lap. He held John's body still as Rodney buried his face in the side of his neck.
Is this not mercy? he asked as he threaded a hand into Rodney's short hair.
This is self-serving bullshit. This is manipulative and-Never mind. I don't know why the hell I bother. Really. It's not like you give a damn.
He did it out of habit most likely.
My goodness, you are finally catching on. I knew you would.
Hook, line, and sinker, John though blandly as Mavet's eyes slid shut and those strange echoes of feeling began to migrate to him. The sensations were twisted and dirty but he had no idea how long Rodney was going to live, no concept of how much longer he'd be allowed even this. So despite himself, he savored them.
~*~*~
In the weeks after Rodney didn't die or Ascend, life sort of fell into a routine. There were no Atlantis-threatening emergencies Mavet had to fake his way through, no pressing arrangements on backwater planets, nothing beyond your standard gate trips.
So Mavet sparred with Ronon and Teyla. He hung out in Elizabeth's office on occasion (though less often than John might have). He played that Sims-like game with Rodney until the whole thing blew up in their faces, and slept with him when the mood struck him. He avoided the infirmary and Caldwell like the plague if at all possible. When the mood struck him, he continued his exploration of the darkened portions of the city.
It was the same boring pattern for weeks on end. It was enough to drive John half crazy. Especially the sex thing. He'd never thought that he could dread sex as much as he'd come to since being captured and yet, if he never had sex again...well, he probably wouldn't be having sex ever again so that point was probably moot.
But he had a lot of time to think about it. He had a lot of time in general in those painfully slow days. Too much time, he'd say.
Change came eventually and it arrived in the form of a card. Nothing special, just a scan of a very late or very early birthday card delivered in a databurst a few days after they got back from the near-catastrophe that was the moon ark. To be accurate, Mavet got a message, but it was addressed to Col. J. Sheppard so John counted it.
It would have been nothing remarkable if he ever got mail from back in the Milky Way. It wouldn't have been all that strange if he actually had an uncle named Alba.
Only he didn't and didn't.
Mavet's reaction had been one of quiet glee when he saw the simple message. Elizabeth had made a comment about how his birthday wasn't for another few months and Mavet had given her a small smile, what would have translated as a huge grin in normal beings, and said that his Uncle Alba had more important things to worry about than getting the dates right.
Which made John beg the question: how freaking stupid were the guys at Cheyenne Mountain that they couldn't tell that Alba was an anagram of Ba'al? Really. The best and the brightest his shiny white ass.
The whole thing kind of reminded him of that old black and white movie, Stalag 17. He'd always loved that movie. William Holden was nearly as cool as Steve McQueen in that one and when he was younger he'd always been of the opinion that there weren't enough POW movies. That was before he became one, of course.
Still, it worked a lot like in the movie. The hallmark card was the knot in the light cord; the anagram was the message in the hollow chess pieces.
And Mavet got the message loud and clear. He was smug as a cat that ate the canary as he headed into the bowels of the city and began turning things on.
Unlike the aimless rambling explorations the Goa'uld had been making since he arrived in Atlantis, these little trips had purpose. No matter how hard John pestered Mavet, he didn't get any information as to what that purpose was.
By the end of the week, just in time for Heightmeyer's mandatory day off, an entire science lab was operational and buzzing with energy with the exception of one lone machine, situated right in the middle of the room.
What? You don't like that one?
Quite the opposite, my lovely host, Mavet replied as he very carefully touched the last machine. It made a soft sound but didn't turn on. This one is my favorite.
What's it do? John asked tiredly. He didn't know why he bothered. To pass the time, maybe. There was nothing better to do.
Wait and see, John Sheppard. I think you will be...impressed.
Yeah, impressed was one word for it. It wasn't the right one, though. Devastated was better. Revolted was nice for it as well. Horrified was probably the most accurate description.
The damned thing made tumors that blew the hell up! They blew up, inside the human chest cavity just like a freaking grenade. What in the universe made the Ancients think building a device like that was a good idea he'd never know, even with Rodney's oh-so-logical explanation.
People were hurt. People were scared. People were just barely keeping it together before they found out what was going on.
Mavet was reveling in it. The chaos, the distress, the bloody death-these things were his element. And he was of the opinion that he'd been away from it for far too long. When the last casualty of the day was claimed, with an irony that Mavet found deeply poetic, something in John, his heart maybe, well and truly broke.
There weren't even enough pieces left for a proper burial when all was said and done. What remained were charred bits of a man who cared for every single person on Atlantis and hundreds of people across the galaxy, a man who John had called his friend.
John felt like he was bleeding inside as Mavet kept his eyes glued to the ceiling of John's room. A small smile curled John's lips and Mavet sighed with satisfaction.
You are so fucking twisted, John thought for the hundredth time since the first of those explosive tumors had gone off.
A necessary loss, Mavet replied. If it helps you, John Sheppard, the doctor was not my primary target.
It didn't help. Not even a little because Carson was still dead, murdered, as surely as if John had held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Teyla was still injured and he was still trapped while his world fell to sharp, irreparable pieces.
Who was then?
As many people as possible, Mavet replied mildly. The young woman was the most effective in that aim. The time fast approaches, my clever host.
Great. Awesome. Just wonderful. I hate you so much that it makes sick.
The funeral was nothing short of torture. He sat trapped in the dark, listening to Elizabeth speak from that far distance. No way to say goodbye, no way to apologize. Just a silent witness to an end, as Mavet had ended so many things for John.
It was three weeks later that they returned to Atlantis. A somber, more subdued cluster of people were beamed down from the Daedalus, looking worse for the wear after a week on Earth and two in transit.
Mavet had returned to Helena's still empty apartment and picked up her mail. The smell of blood had hit John like a fist in the face, which was strange because there was no blood inside. There was nothing there, not even furniture anymore. It was like Dr. Helena Myers had never existed here at all. And maybe she never really had.
The only piece of mail was pushed into the back of the mailbox. Another birthday card, nothing too sinister there. But Mavet smiled at the felt bear holding balloons, grinning innocently up from the cover of the card as if he'd just won the lottery.
Your boss is a class act. Bears and balloons. Scary scary.
Mavet had just grinned wider and slid the card into a back pocket. No one at the mountain had looked twice at the unassuming little piece of paper when the group headed back to Atlantis.
~*~*~
Little things started breaking over the next week. Lights. Hot water systems. Doorways. Simple glitches that on their own meant nothing. Except that Mavet was making them happen.
Why, John wasn't exactly sure until the day the deep space scanners went out and every technology-related scientist in the city was gathered together for the task of repairing the short. Even then he didn't know beyond the simple concept of 'create a diversion.'
It didn't all click into place until the door opened and Mavet walked, head high, into the chair room.
You're out of your freaking mind.
Calm yourself, John Sheppard. Now is not the time for more than a simple test run. No harm shall befall your friends. The word 'yet' hung heavy between them.
This is your great plan? Take over Atlantis with the control chair and hope for the best?
The best will be conquest. The best will be the domination of humans and Wraith alike as hosts for my kind. The best will come to fruition, my host. And it is all thanks to you.
You don't know what you're doing, John warned as Mavet moved to sit in the chair. You could blow yourself up by accident. Wouldn't that be a dreadful shame?
I have your knowledge and your aptitude. I will not err, Mavet declared as he placed his hands on the arms and leaned back in the chair.
It was instantaneous, the hum of the city through his brain. It was like coming home, no matter how many times he did this. He could feel her, Atlantis, clear and loud. She was so beautiful and oh, god, he'd missed her so much he hadn't even realized.
This is good, John thought idly as the city caressed him. He could stay like this forever. If he had the power he would just keep Mavet here, where they were still and he wasn't alone anymore, where he could actually feel something real.
Abruptly, so abruptly that it pulled John out of that blessed peace and into sharp, ugly awareness, Atlantis began...screaming was the only way John could explain it. It was like a woman's voice, loud and outraged, in his mind and a distant but shrill siren to his ears.
And then the pain, deep, burning, agonizing blinding pain. His body bucked in the chair and he was on fire. He was being torn open and the shriek Mavet gave from his throat wasn't even remotely human.
And there other noises now, far away and unimportant when compared to the holocaust that consumed John's mind and body. There was nothing outside of this.
Tears leaked from eyes he didn't realize were glowing and it felt like something was trying to claw its way out the back of his neck and the roof of his mouth. Running from the pain. The pain that was everywhere, in everything, for what felt like forever.
As suddenly as it had begun, John's body canted forward, his hands still pressed hard against the arms of the control chair. His mouth hung open and he choked as the roof of his mouth was cut open, blood coated his tongue. There was a high pitched screech and the sound of weapons fire and -
John blinked.
He blinked again.
He blinked one more time and then, very slowly, unsure if it was really happening, he lifted his right hand off the chair.
John stared at it, transfixed, then brought it carefully to his mouth. Bright red shocked his senses as his fingers came away bloody.
"John?" a woman asked.
Teyla. He was fairly sure that was Teyla. She sounded different than she used to. Closer.
He tilted his head for a different angle on his red-tinged digits, blinked again and then started to laugh softly.
The woman, yeah, definitely Teyla, crossed to him and knelt in front of him, placing her hand on his knee. He could feel the warmth of her hand, the shape, the pressure. It was so...there.
"John? Can you hear me? John, answer me. What happened?"
"Can you hear me?" John returned. His eyes went wide as the sound of his own voice, though shaky, hit his ears unfiltered for the first time in months. "God, you can hear me?"
He sounded borderline hysterical and tinny to his ears but it was what he'd wanted to say. He was speaking aloud of his own will and that made it the best sound he'd ever heard.
Teyla petted his knee carefully, as if he were a wounded animal. Which in a sense, maybe he was.
"Yes, we can all hear you."
John's eyes darted wildly around the control room. Ronon was standing like a statue, his face a blank mask but his eyes bright and angry. Radek stood behind Lorne and shared his expression of slack shock. Elizabeth's eyes were wide and wet, her hand pressed to her mouth.
And Rodney-Rodney was-Rodney was there, wide-eyed and horrorstruck beyond speech for all of a second before darting out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him.
And so was Mavet. A bit of serpentine tail still twitched on a burnt spot on the floor of the room near John's feet.
"I..." Talking wasn't easy anymore. He had to remember that he could first. It was conscious work to recall that his mouth would work if his brain told it to. His hands could move, his feet could flex, and his lungs could breathe. He'd forgotten so much in such a short time. "He's dead?"
"Very," came the response from over Teyla's shoulders. It was Ronon, the anger in his eyes fixed on the scorch mark in the floor.
Teyla reached up with a gentle hand and touched his face. He leaned into the contact, reveling in just feeling. Her skin was soft, if a little calloused in places, warm and tender.
"John, are you all right?"
John didn't answer. There really weren't sufficient negative words in any spoken language to answer that.
So he slid out of the chair, limp and empty, and into Teyla's embrace. His arms felt almost heavy as he wrapped them around her back. But they were his to move again. His, goddamn it. And when he started to cry, silent and hidden in Teyla's shoulder but shaking so hard it almost hurt-like he hadn't since he was ten years old-well that was his, too.
~*~*~
"Funny meeting you here. Miss me?" John quipped as Caldwell came to sit across from him in a back corner of the mess.
"How's the not-meatloaf?" Caldwell asked without preamble, glancing at the now cold tray before him. John had picked it up when he first walked in two hours ago to give him an excuse to be there and hadn't touched it since.
The fact that Caldwell's response had absolutely nothing to do with what John had said clued him in that he hadn't actually spoken, yet again. He rubbed the side of his face, his fingers scraping over coarse stubble he felt almost too acutely, and shrugged.
John wasn't so great at the whole talking thing anymore. He wasn't catatonic or anything. He responded with witty retorts to pretty much everything anyone said to him. It was just...he kept forgetting that his voice would work if he wanted it to.
"It's okay." John replied, a little slowly.
It wasn't as involuntary as it used to be, talking. Nothing was the way it used to be.
"Doesn't look it."
John shrugged and Caldwell shook his head.
"Do you know what I'm doing here, Colonel?"
He didn't know but he had a few ideas.
The rumor mill had been running at maximum capacity and it had a lot to work with. Crazy Col. Sheppard who skulked around the common areas at all hours, who used to be the enemy, who people would find sitting still as a statue for hours, unblinking and silent.
He's going to get sent back to Earth, they said. He doesn't interact with his team anymore. He's gone off the deep end.
Truth be told, the rumors weren't too far off the mark. But John would rather listen to the whispers of the masses than be left in silence with his thoughts. When he was alone in that kind of quiet, he thought he heard-
It didn't really matter what he thought he heard.
So yes, he was pretty sure he knew why Caldwell was sitting in his personal space. Elizabeth had no doubt made a few calls, pulled in a favor or six. She was no doubt of the impression that nothing else was working.
"Intervention?"
"Dr. Weir had a conference call with several members of the IOA via the gate. She asked me to sit in on the meeting."
"That's nice."
"My presence wasn't necessary, and everyone knew it," Caldwell said evenly. "Colonel, how long until you return to active duty?"
Technically, Caldwell was the ranking military officer on Atlantis, and he would be until John was working again. The guy should have been having a damn fiesta, shouldn't he? That was what he'd wanted to begin with.
"Why? Looking to set up shop?"
Caldwell rolled his eyes and let out a short breath. "No."
"Why not?"
"Honestly? Because I don't want the post. I've already got one on a good ship, with a good crew, that spares me from having to answer to civilians, no matter how well intentioned and intelligent they may be."
Silence hung between them for a long time.
John sighed as he reminded himself of the whole words to mouth thing. He really used to be good at this, the back and forth. It had been his specialty, pissing people off around the galaxy as surely as any of Rodney's tirades.
That was something else he wasn't going to think about. Rodney.
"Colonel, you should know by now that your...capture...it's being discussed heavily by the SGC and the Pentagon."
That was hardly surprising. A Goa'uld infiltration that high up in the infrastructure of the Stargate Program? Knowledge of a breach of that kind was necessary for the program's very survival.
"They say when I get my discharge papers?"
"You're not," Caldwell snapped, sounding the most frustrated John had ever heard him, and that included when he'd first arrived in Atlantis, angry and indignant. "For Christ's sake, Colonel, try to get a grip on what's really going on. I know that it's not easy after living in the dark, but I've been given the impression that you're not even making an effort."
John blinked and sat up a little straighter in his chair. It was an uncommon way for someone to put it, living in the dark.
No one else, not Heightmeyer or Elizabeth or Dr. Cole or Teyla had phrased it that way. They used words like trapped, captive, and restrained but said nothing about the dark, and John had never been inclined to tell them.
"Sir?"
Caldwell shook his head. His lips held just the barest hint of a smile.
It clicked in to place in John's head like a well-oiled machine. Frissons of remembered tension sizzled through his mind and he shook his head in dismay.
"You had a Goa'uld."
Caldwell actually did smile at him this time. It was a thin smile but it was genuine nonetheless. "And here I thought you'd forgotten."
"I...I've had a lot on my mind lately," John said lamely. That was a bit of an understatement. "Sir, if you don't mind my asking-"
Caldwell raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.
"When's it stop?"
"What?"
"All of it," John said softly.
There were things he wasn't going to bring up in the middle of the mess with a senior officer. Not outright. So much of it was too personal, too deep. It wasn't just the touch, and the speech, and the heavy feeling in his limbs that still hadn't really gone away.
It was the feeling of filth, deep inside, that he couldn't really define or expunge. It was the fact that he was haunted, by Carson's face and Rodney's skin and Helena's blood and that whispering voice. There was so much and John felt so damn tired but he couldn't really sleep.
"I was a host for a far shorter period of time than you were, Colonel," Caldwell replied slowly, carefully. "I'm not sure entirely what you're referring to but I can tell you that a lot of the physical things should fix themselves. Give it some time."
"Right."
"For everything else?" Caldwell shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. There was something in his eyes, something that John recognized. They spoke of a quiet sort of wound that wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it. "You might want to talk to that woman, Heightmeyer."
"I've seen her." An hour a day, every day since he was released from the infirmary on Elizabeth's orders. She was not happy with his attitude or his progress.
"Let her do her job, Colonel. They don't give out doctorates to just anyone and she's in Atlantis because she's the best there is at what she does."
John lips quirked. "Is that an order?"
"You're not technically working for the Air Force right now so I can't order you to do anything. Even if I could, I wouldn't. But if you don't take my suggestion, it's possible you'll never get back to active duty."
John said nothing. He just stared at Caldwell, at the way the light reflected off the top of his bald head, and the determined set to his jaw.
"You need to decide what you want, Sheppard," Caldwell said finally. "If it's to be part of this expedition, to be part of the universe in general, then I suggest you help yourself. You have the ability to again. You should take advantage of it."
John sat in the mess for a long time after Caldwell left, staring at a fixed point on the opposite side of the room and letting the noise of the mess fade into the background. He sat there thinking for over an hour but it only took about five minutes to realize that the older officer was right. The rest of the time was spent trying to figure what the hell he was going to do now.
~*~*~
Heightmeyer sighed and rubbed her forehead as he sat down. But she gave him a pleasant smile before cutting to the point.
"So, are you going to talk to me today or will we be pulling proverbial teeth?"
Okay. He deserved that. He'd spent a dozen sessions on her couch, monosyllabic and bitter. Only some of it was fallout from his time as a host. A lot of it was just anger - with her, with Elizabeth, and with the universe and life in general.
"I always talk to you, doc. You're the highlight of my day," John said lightly.
A grin, genuine and brilliant, split her face. "Oh my, two whole sentences back to back? Someone's in a good mood today."
"Not really. Just...sorry."
That got her attention. "For what, John?"
God, there were so many things. Carson. He was so fucking sorry for Carson and that woman, Dr. Hudson. He was so sorry about them that sometimes he couldn't stand to look at himself in the mirror. He was sorry about Kolya, in a weird, abstract way, much like the way he was sorry about Sumner even though he knew down to the depths of his soul that he'd done the right thing at the time.
John was sorry about Rodney, what his insolence and his want had inspired Mavet to do. He was sorry about the damage it had obviously done to Rodney. And Helena. God, he'd never stop being sorry about what happened to her even though he knew-in the rational, reasonable part of his brain-that the woman he'd cared for hadn't been real, that he'd never met the real Helena. But he'd still held her as she died and he was so sorry he hadn't been able to save her from their shared tormentor.
But in particular? At the moment?
"I've been rude to you for just trying to do your job. And I'm sorry."
"You went through an incredibly traumatic event, John. You can't be expected to bounce right back."
Only John did expect just that. He wanted to be back, to be normal and himself again. The fact that he wasn't frustrated him as much as it bothered anyone else. Probably more.
It didn't go unnoticed that his behavior had been seemingly more in character when the Goa'uld had been in control than it was now that he was free. And that wasn't fair, damn it.
"Your brain's had to change," Heightmeyer said gently, picking up on his line of thought. "You've had to change, to adapt, so that you could survive." She sighed. "Elizabeth sent me some case files from the SGC, from the former hosts they have records of."
John ran his hand over the fabric of her couch. He could feel the grooves in the material against his skin. The sensation was anchoring in its intensity.
"It varies from case to case and I won't give you details. But the sensory deprivation, the violation, the lost sense of self-you're not alone in these experiences, John."
"We should form a support group," he replied wryly, but she didn't react. She didn't even blink.
Again? Again with the forgetting. That was getting real old real fast.
"John? Is there anything you'd like to ask me about? Tell me?" Heightmeyer asked finally. She glanced down at her lap, at the notepad that sat there, then back up at him. "I ask because I don't think you started talking to me today because you're in a good mood. I think you've got something on your mind."
What didn't he have on his mind? That might be a less expansive answer.
"Is anything in particular troubling you?"
She was a shrink. It was her job to push. And she was good at her job. She'd helped Teyla. It was just...he didn't want people to know some of the things that were going on. Like why he stuck to crowded places.
"Anything?" she pressed.
Heightmeyer would think he'd lost his mind if he told her. Everyone would, except maybe Teyla.
Hell, John was starting to think he was going crazy so he wouldn't blame them.
He laughed bitterly. "You'll think I've lost it."
"I doubt that. Try me," she challenged.
"I can hear him."
Heightmeyer leaned forward. "Who?"
"Mavet."
Her eyebrows shot up. "The Goa'uld?"
"Sometimes." John gave her a devil-may-care grin. "Told you. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs."
"I didn't say I thought you were crazy," she replied sharply. "The Goa'uld's name was Mavet?"
"Yeah."
"And at times you think you can still hear him? He spoke to you when you were his host?"
John rolled his eyes, doing his best to make light of memories that kept him up at night. "He talked more than a seventh-grade girl."
"And that bothered you?"
"I'm hearing voices in my head, doc. Would that bother you?"
"You're hearing other voices? Or just him?"
John gave her a sidelong look. "Does it make a difference?"
She was scribbling on her notepad now. She didn't look up as she spoke.
"A big one, yes."
"Just him."
"Does he say anything specific? Anything that bothers you, agitates you more than usual?"
Mavet had lots to say. It was like the commentary on John's thoughts and feelings that had existed when he was subjugated had never ended. The snake still had something snide and vicious to add to his thought process, even after Ronon had blown him away.
It was like having a radio in his head that he couldn't always turn off. But being with people helped. The chatter of other people's conversations was the most effective thing to shut the bastard up.
"His voice just... it makes things worse. It makes me forget, I guess. I forget where I am, that I'm in control. It's like I'm back in my head and I can't get out. It just happens and I can't stop it," John finished, feeling drained.
He wasn't big with talking about his feelings under the very best of circumstances, but like this? He'd rather get a root canal without Novocain.
"All right. Good."
Okay. So maybe she was the crazy one here.
"How is this good?"
"It means that I was right, that you have PTSD, which is to be expected after an ordeal of that magnitude. It means that we can finally start making some sort of progress towards beginning the healing process." Her pen scratched across the paper as she spoke. A small smile curled her lips. "Don't worry. You're not suddenly schizophrenic."
"Right. And that's good?"
She glanced up and gave him what he guessed was meant to be a comforting smile. "Well, one can get better and the other can't really."
"And the one that can't is schizophrenia."
"Yes."
John rolled his eyes. "Well that's a relief."
"Every cloud has a silver lining," Heightmeyer replied dryly.
"You're a regular Pollyanna, doc."
She chuckled softly as she finished her scrawls on the page. Glancing over the edge he could see line after line of black ink on yellow paper, at least before she flipped to the next page.
"John, you've been in combat situations before. What do you know about post traumatic stress disorder?"
John shrugged.
He hadn't seen that much of it. Couple guys in his unit in Afghanistan hadn't been able to handle things, life in general, when they got back to the states. They'd just sort of snapped.
One of them had ended up leaving the Air Force. The other guy, John hadn't been friends with. Last he heard the guy was still in the military but he was flying a desk instead of a helo. Although having met the guy's wife on base a few times, he had a feeling that might have been because of marital stress, not post traumatic stress.
"It happens when the human psyche is subjected to extreme stress and trauma. It can cause flashbacks, hallucinations, panic attacks, depression, and a whole host of nasty symptoms. It happens because the human brain isn't meant to be under duress of certain degrees or durations. It can happen to people in the wake of wars, disasters, violent attacks, rape, and other traumatic events."
Heightmeyer took a deep breath and met his eyes. It was obvious she'd had that little speech, or a variation of it, planned for a while now. John wondered how long she'd had this built up. Since the moment she heard about what happened would be his guess.
"John, you spent six months as a prisoner in your own body. A foreign entity violated you by force and took control of every aspect of your life. In every way that matters, you spent the last six months in a sustained rape. And if that's not a traumatic event, then I don't know what is. "
John swallowed, trying desperately to halt the rapid drying of his throat. Her eyes were boring into him and he really wanted to be anywhere but here right now. It didn't really feel like this was helping, not when his mouth was like cotton and he could feel himself starting to sweat.
And she could see it. He hated it that she could see it.
"Take a deep breath, John," she instructed gently. "I know that things have snowballed rather quickly but I'm convinced you can handle what I have to say. By telling you this, now that you seem more willing to interact and accept, I'm trying to give you back some of your power over yourself and your situation.
"I don't expect you to deal with any of this today. The psychological wounds inflicted on you by the Goa'uld-even if they're only a fraction of what I suspect-are tremendous. It's going to take time and effort for you to heal, and a lot of it. But I've found that many people find things less scary when you take away some of the mystery. That's why I'm doing my very best to be upfront with you about my observations and assessments."
John licked his lips. "I'm okay with mystery. I love a good mystery."
"Really?"
"Yeah, are we done yet?" John asked. He was done with this. He'd go nurse his psychosis somewhere else for the next twenty-four hours, thanks.
Heightmeyer glanced over his head at the clock on the wall and nodded.
"Are you going to be here tomorrow?"
He'd already made it to the door when she asked. "I wasn't under the impression I had a choice."
"I meant mentally," she clarified. "It won't be like it was today, John. I feel like this was more of a diagnosis than a session. We'll have to make up for it another day."
"Sure. Whatever," John replied distractedly, ducking out as fast as possible.
John thought people were supposed to feel better or something after that sort of thing. That was the point of seeing a therapist as far as he was concerned. So why were the only things he felt exhaustion and an empty ache?
~*~*~
Part four...
Series: Stargate Atlantis
Part:3/4
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard, Sheppard/Other
Word Count: 29,623
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark Themes
A/N: This was written for the mcshep_match.Written for Team Angst, the prompt: Prisoner of War. It should have been up ages ago but I am both lazy and forgetful. Thank you kitt for reminding me.
Summary: How can you be rescued if no one knows you're gone?
The first time John was with a guy was in college.
It might not have ever happened at all. He hadn't even thought he'd go to college. His plan had originally been to enlist straight out of high school until his dad had talked him out of it.
"Trust me on this one, Johnny. You'll go farther, faster as an officer if you get yourself a degree first," Robert had counseled him. "Especially if you do AFROTC while you're there."
They'd been living in California again at the time, in a house on the beach. John had been learning to surf and thinking about how amazing flying was going to be if riding the tops of waves was this cool.
"I can always go later. I got into a couple UCs."
"You won't go later. You won't go ever if you don't go now. You know I'm right, Johnny."
His dad would finally retire two years later, when the cancer got bad enough to keep him from working. In less than ten, he'd be dead, and John would only just barely make it home in time to say goodbye.
But that day, on the deck of their house, Robert Sheppard had only just been diagnosed. He was still strong and handsome but John had had a very difficult time saying no to him back then.
So he'd gone to UCLA because it was close. And that was key because he'd been half convinced at the time that if he left his dad would just magically drop dead, even though his doctor said his chances were good.
In the end he was glad he did it, because he wasn't really ready for the Air Force at eighteen. His drill sergeant in basic had been of the opinion that he wasn't ready for it at twenty-one. He was, according to Sgt. Zimmern, a smart-mouthed, wiseass cut-up with authority issues, but he was a wiseass who'd been trying his best to tackle school and his father's illness simultaneously and that did a lot for maturity.
Plus, if he hadn't gone to UCLA he wouldn't have met Andy.
He was with Andy between Martha the geology major and some girl with green hair and a deep and abiding obsession with Kurt Cobain before it was cool. It had been a lot like dating a woman without a lot of the rules, which was kind of nice. John had never liked rules but he really liked Andy's hands. And his mouth. And his ass. And yeah, his sense of humor and all that crap.
But mostly what John had liked about Andy was how new absolutely everything had been. All of a sudden he had a whole new world of possibilities to explore and only four years to explore them before he lost the option.
Because there hadn't been DADT when he was growing up. There was just a dishonorable discharge and the possibility of a court martial and time in Leavenworth. His dad had never talked to him about that part of his job, but John had heard him and his mother talking once, when he was about nine.
He'd been the type of child to sit outside his parents' room and listen to their quiet talk at night when he couldn't sleep. Usually they talked about their day, made jokes, or just watched the Tonight Show. Occasionally he heard soft sighs that he didn't understand until years later.
That night, however, his dad had sounded so...sad was the only word John had been able come up with at the time, as he told his mom about his day. The couple had been turned in three separate times in the past. The fourth time Robert hadn't been able to afford to look the other way anymore.
One of them had gone to jail a week earlier. The other had been found that day, a hanging suicide a mere twelve hours before his fate was supposed to come down.
Those images had scared the hell out of John at the time but he hadn't really understood it as an eight-year-old. When he hit fourteen they made a lot more sense. So much so that they had formed a sticky coating over his impulses that had kept him from doing a lot of things over the years.
They'd kept him away from even daring to explore certain temptations until he was out of his old man's house and the fear was farther away. They led him to break up with Andy right around the time things were about to make that vital shift from 'friends who really like to fuck each other' to 'something more.' And most importantly, the memory of his father's soft, sober words to his mother had kept his hands the fuck off of Rodney McKay for the last few years.
There were so many really excellent reasons why sleeping with Rodney was a bad idea. And he'd stayed away from the idea, let his naturally equal desire for women help distract him.
Only now look at where he was-where he'd always wanted to be, in bed with Rodney. Yet at the same time he was so far away he could have been back in the Milky Way.
It made him think that maybe he shouldn't have left Andy back in college. Or let Emily file for divorce. Or flipped that godforsaken coin. Or any of the dozens of things he'd done since the day he decided to join the Air Force.
Because it had been more than a week of the Mavet-Rodney-fuckfest and John was ready to kill something. Preferably Mavet. Slowly. With one of those really dull plastic sporks they have in crappy high school cafeterias.
But the rage was easier than the powerless feeling of being made dirty. Not that he'd lost that. No, that was still as strong as ever, itchy and ugly like clown makeup. But the fury was stronger.
He practically boiled with it all the time now. It was getting hard to focus on what was going on around him beyond the sexcapades he couldn't seem to stop or escape. Even on missions through the gate.
Rodney, apparently, got handsy when he was getting laid regularly. Not so anyone else would suspect of course. The man was neurotic, self-important and a little bit paranoid-not exactly the hugging type-but still, there was a noticeable shift. And Mavet just liked things that felt good. To him, sex felt good. Torturing John felt good too. And doing both at the same time? Too much good to pass up.
Killing felt good too. Killing felt more than good-it was a favorite. Mavet savored the whole thing with Kolya in a way that made John deeply apprehensive, like a man living at the base of an active volcano.
Death was a natural pleasure for Mavet. The speed and ruthlessness with which he had killed Kolya in that square had made a few things evident to John.
The most important being that it wasn't so much a matter of "if" he was going to strike the people of Atlantis. It was a matter of "when".
It was also clear that when it happened, it wasn't going to be graceless or random. Mavet was going to think about it. And he was going to enjoy it. He had floated on Kolya's death for hours like it was a good orgasm.
The only person with even the remotest clue was Teyla. It was there in her expression when she looked at him as they left Lucius Lavin to his own devices, narrowed and concerned, telling him that she'd seen something of Mavet in his eyes in that moment.
She just couldn't place what that something was.
She asked him about it later, when Mavet was only slightly letting her kick his ass at staff training.
"Are you certain you do not wish to talk to me, John?" she asked as she circled him.
"About what?"
She lifted an eyebrow at him asking plainly 'Are you kidding me?' Then she took Mavet's legs out from underneath him.
Staff practice had become one of John's favorite times since his capture. He felt the pain when she "trained" him, but it was worth it to know that Mavet did too.
"What?"
Teyla looked down at him. "You killed a man yesterday, John."
Mavet just tilted his head and held up a hand. She took it with a heavy sigh.
"You cannot tell me that you are not feeling-"
"The guy tortured me, Teyla. He tried to kill me. He's threatened all of you at one time or another. Hell, I lost track of the times he's put one of us in danger."
John hadn't. Each time stood out in sharp relief in his memory every time the Genii were mentioned.
In the face of this argument Teyla's lips thinned into a line. "You showed no mercy."
"Neither did he."
She held onto his hand and stared into his eyes, searching. For the first times in weeks, John gave screaming and flailing a chance. The way she was staring, he could almost believe that she would see, that she could hear.
But instead she just sighed again.
"I am concerned about you, John. Your behavior lately has been a little..." She tilted her head to the side as she searched for the right word. "Strange."
"I'm fine," Mavet assured her, but he gauged her in return, studying her grasp of the situation.
She is clever for a primitive. Dangerously clever. It always surprises me.
John had never been a fan of surprises.
Come on, Teyla, he prayed. Say my head hit the ground just now and demand I see Carson. Make me get a CT scan. Do something. Do anything.
"That was not what I was asking."
"Telya, don't worry about it."
"You are my friend, John. I cannot help but worry."
John missed her intensely in that moment and she was right in front of him.
"Well, I appreciate it but there's nothing to worry about."
Mavet handed her his staff, saying loud and clear that training time was over. She took it from him, still gazing at him with a suspicious expression. Mavet gave her one of John's best smiles.
"If you want to talk-"
"I'm fine, Teyla. If I wanted to talk, I would."
"I find that often you want to talk but cannot."
"Not this time."
She gave him a warm, accommodating smile. "When you are ready, John, promise me you will find me?"
"Sure thing."
She didn't believe him but she let it drop as she walked beside Mavet to the mess hall for a drink. She was so close that John could almost imagine he could feel her arm brushing against his.
He couldn't ever remember feeling so alone.
~*~*~
John nearly died laughing when Rodney got turned into a superhero which was a refreshing change of pace. Rodney wasn't a superhero like Batman or Iron Man, who were just rich guys with neat gadgets that the Atlantis science team could make in their sleep, but a real one, with honest to God superpowers and everything.
Mavet really wanted those superpowers. Listening to him pester Elizabeth about them was just part of the fun for John. It was almost as good as riding a Ferris wheel.
John's personal favorite of SuperRodney's powers was the mind reading. God, he wanted to kiss Rodney's mind reading power. Buy it candies and flowers and take it out for dinner.
If not because of the possibility that Rodney could hear him (he hadn't so far) then because it made Mavet twitchy as fuck.
Maybe if you had less to hide, John mused as they watched Rodney scribbling frantically on a notepad. He wouldn't have anything to find. Just a theory.
He is not a hero. He will not come to your rescue.
Yeah. But I bet you're not going to be fucking him again any time soon.
Mavet didn't have an answer for that. John had learned to take his small victories where he could and the whole situation with SuperRodney was definitely that. He wasn't faster than a speeding bullet but he could move stuff with his mind and that was too damn cool.
At least it was until Rodney started dying.
That was when it stopped being funny and became yet another exercise in despairing futility. John was getting really good at "functioning" through palpable desolation.
Function of course was a relative term, as he had nothing to do anyway, but he could still listen, still be aware, whereas a few weeks ago he might have shut down. Progress, not perfection, as the twelve-steppers said.
Mavet viewed Rodney's desperate attempts to produce as much as possible before he finally died as an amusement, like watching a dancing bear or a dog on a bicycle at the circus. For the most part, he was content to keep his distance and watch the spectacle unfold.
John suspected that was mostly because Mavet really didn't care. He had a tiny bit of affection for him, almost like a person would love a pet goldfish or maybe a lizard. Mostly he liked having sex with Rodney. And that small sliver of enjoyment competed with the Goa'uld's deep annoyance with him.
The bottom line was that Mavet didn't give a damn one way or the other about anyone on Atlantis. They could all die tomorrow and Mavet wouldn't bat one of John's eyelashes. In fact, he'd prefer it, so long as the loss of life didn't affect his greater goal.
None of this was news to John. It was just more relevant as Rodney's time got shorter and shorter and Elizabeth came to him for help.
She shouldn't have had to seek him out. He should have sought out Rodney, done everything he could to help like he'd done for every other member of his team when they had needed him.
Instead Mavet just flipped through one of John's old surfing magazines while Rodney quietly panicked on the floor of his quarters. After all, he didn't really care and Rodney's tendency to over-think gave him a fairly valid excuse for why the Ascension practice wasn't working.
The fourth time Rodney popped up Mavet was good and annoyed.
"What's wrong now?" he demanded, his tone that of an angry dean dealing with a problem student. Rodney missed it completely.
"Rodney, if you don't put some effort into this-"
"I know," he said, climbing to his feet and pulling that ridiculous brain wave thing off his head. "I don't have much time."
"So focus," Mavet said blandly.
"I think it's pretty clear that I can't focus on blue skies and Ferris wheels, John. My brain's going too fast for this mumbo-jumbo spiritual voodoo. At least what it's producing at this rate is useful."
"Well, then stop thinking."
"Oh, yeah, you're an expert at that."
Mavet sighed heavily and shook his head at Rodney.
I cannot say I will miss the constant assault on my patience when his body fails.
Shut your slimy mouth, John snarled as he stared at Rodney through Mavet's gaze. Rodney's fear was so blatant it was a wonder he couldn't taste it.
"You're not helping yourself here, McKay."
"You're supposed to be helping me." His hands fisted in the shirt Mavet wore. "So help me. "
Pathetic, Mavet bemoaned even has his hands slid up the back of Rodney's shirt. Rodney let out a small whimper as his mouth descended on John's. Like a dying pet that no one has the decency to put out of its misery with something as simple as a mercy killing. You know about mercy killings, don't you, my lovely host?
Like you know shit about mercy, John snapped furiously.
Oh yeah, he loved to think about his first trip inside a hive ship. That was such an awesome memory. He could barely resist replaying the mixture of resignation, exhaustion, and pain in Sumner's eyes over and over again.
Mavet chuckled inwardly as he pulled Rodney forward, onto his lap. He held John's body still as Rodney buried his face in the side of his neck.
Is this not mercy? he asked as he threaded a hand into Rodney's short hair.
This is self-serving bullshit. This is manipulative and-Never mind. I don't know why the hell I bother. Really. It's not like you give a damn.
He did it out of habit most likely.
My goodness, you are finally catching on. I knew you would.
Hook, line, and sinker, John though blandly as Mavet's eyes slid shut and those strange echoes of feeling began to migrate to him. The sensations were twisted and dirty but he had no idea how long Rodney was going to live, no concept of how much longer he'd be allowed even this. So despite himself, he savored them.
~*~*~
In the weeks after Rodney didn't die or Ascend, life sort of fell into a routine. There were no Atlantis-threatening emergencies Mavet had to fake his way through, no pressing arrangements on backwater planets, nothing beyond your standard gate trips.
So Mavet sparred with Ronon and Teyla. He hung out in Elizabeth's office on occasion (though less often than John might have). He played that Sims-like game with Rodney until the whole thing blew up in their faces, and slept with him when the mood struck him. He avoided the infirmary and Caldwell like the plague if at all possible. When the mood struck him, he continued his exploration of the darkened portions of the city.
It was the same boring pattern for weeks on end. It was enough to drive John half crazy. Especially the sex thing. He'd never thought that he could dread sex as much as he'd come to since being captured and yet, if he never had sex again...well, he probably wouldn't be having sex ever again so that point was probably moot.
But he had a lot of time to think about it. He had a lot of time in general in those painfully slow days. Too much time, he'd say.
Change came eventually and it arrived in the form of a card. Nothing special, just a scan of a very late or very early birthday card delivered in a databurst a few days after they got back from the near-catastrophe that was the moon ark. To be accurate, Mavet got a message, but it was addressed to Col. J. Sheppard so John counted it.
It would have been nothing remarkable if he ever got mail from back in the Milky Way. It wouldn't have been all that strange if he actually had an uncle named Alba.
Only he didn't and didn't.
Mavet's reaction had been one of quiet glee when he saw the simple message. Elizabeth had made a comment about how his birthday wasn't for another few months and Mavet had given her a small smile, what would have translated as a huge grin in normal beings, and said that his Uncle Alba had more important things to worry about than getting the dates right.
Which made John beg the question: how freaking stupid were the guys at Cheyenne Mountain that they couldn't tell that Alba was an anagram of Ba'al? Really. The best and the brightest his shiny white ass.
The whole thing kind of reminded him of that old black and white movie, Stalag 17. He'd always loved that movie. William Holden was nearly as cool as Steve McQueen in that one and when he was younger he'd always been of the opinion that there weren't enough POW movies. That was before he became one, of course.
Still, it worked a lot like in the movie. The hallmark card was the knot in the light cord; the anagram was the message in the hollow chess pieces.
And Mavet got the message loud and clear. He was smug as a cat that ate the canary as he headed into the bowels of the city and began turning things on.
Unlike the aimless rambling explorations the Goa'uld had been making since he arrived in Atlantis, these little trips had purpose. No matter how hard John pestered Mavet, he didn't get any information as to what that purpose was.
By the end of the week, just in time for Heightmeyer's mandatory day off, an entire science lab was operational and buzzing with energy with the exception of one lone machine, situated right in the middle of the room.
What? You don't like that one?
Quite the opposite, my lovely host, Mavet replied as he very carefully touched the last machine. It made a soft sound but didn't turn on. This one is my favorite.
What's it do? John asked tiredly. He didn't know why he bothered. To pass the time, maybe. There was nothing better to do.
Wait and see, John Sheppard. I think you will be...impressed.
Yeah, impressed was one word for it. It wasn't the right one, though. Devastated was better. Revolted was nice for it as well. Horrified was probably the most accurate description.
The damned thing made tumors that blew the hell up! They blew up, inside the human chest cavity just like a freaking grenade. What in the universe made the Ancients think building a device like that was a good idea he'd never know, even with Rodney's oh-so-logical explanation.
People were hurt. People were scared. People were just barely keeping it together before they found out what was going on.
Mavet was reveling in it. The chaos, the distress, the bloody death-these things were his element. And he was of the opinion that he'd been away from it for far too long. When the last casualty of the day was claimed, with an irony that Mavet found deeply poetic, something in John, his heart maybe, well and truly broke.
There weren't even enough pieces left for a proper burial when all was said and done. What remained were charred bits of a man who cared for every single person on Atlantis and hundreds of people across the galaxy, a man who John had called his friend.
John felt like he was bleeding inside as Mavet kept his eyes glued to the ceiling of John's room. A small smile curled John's lips and Mavet sighed with satisfaction.
You are so fucking twisted, John thought for the hundredth time since the first of those explosive tumors had gone off.
A necessary loss, Mavet replied. If it helps you, John Sheppard, the doctor was not my primary target.
It didn't help. Not even a little because Carson was still dead, murdered, as surely as if John had held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Teyla was still injured and he was still trapped while his world fell to sharp, irreparable pieces.
Who was then?
As many people as possible, Mavet replied mildly. The young woman was the most effective in that aim. The time fast approaches, my clever host.
Great. Awesome. Just wonderful. I hate you so much that it makes sick.
The funeral was nothing short of torture. He sat trapped in the dark, listening to Elizabeth speak from that far distance. No way to say goodbye, no way to apologize. Just a silent witness to an end, as Mavet had ended so many things for John.
It was three weeks later that they returned to Atlantis. A somber, more subdued cluster of people were beamed down from the Daedalus, looking worse for the wear after a week on Earth and two in transit.
Mavet had returned to Helena's still empty apartment and picked up her mail. The smell of blood had hit John like a fist in the face, which was strange because there was no blood inside. There was nothing there, not even furniture anymore. It was like Dr. Helena Myers had never existed here at all. And maybe she never really had.
The only piece of mail was pushed into the back of the mailbox. Another birthday card, nothing too sinister there. But Mavet smiled at the felt bear holding balloons, grinning innocently up from the cover of the card as if he'd just won the lottery.
Your boss is a class act. Bears and balloons. Scary scary.
Mavet had just grinned wider and slid the card into a back pocket. No one at the mountain had looked twice at the unassuming little piece of paper when the group headed back to Atlantis.
~*~*~
Little things started breaking over the next week. Lights. Hot water systems. Doorways. Simple glitches that on their own meant nothing. Except that Mavet was making them happen.
Why, John wasn't exactly sure until the day the deep space scanners went out and every technology-related scientist in the city was gathered together for the task of repairing the short. Even then he didn't know beyond the simple concept of 'create a diversion.'
It didn't all click into place until the door opened and Mavet walked, head high, into the chair room.
You're out of your freaking mind.
Calm yourself, John Sheppard. Now is not the time for more than a simple test run. No harm shall befall your friends. The word 'yet' hung heavy between them.
This is your great plan? Take over Atlantis with the control chair and hope for the best?
The best will be conquest. The best will be the domination of humans and Wraith alike as hosts for my kind. The best will come to fruition, my host. And it is all thanks to you.
You don't know what you're doing, John warned as Mavet moved to sit in the chair. You could blow yourself up by accident. Wouldn't that be a dreadful shame?
I have your knowledge and your aptitude. I will not err, Mavet declared as he placed his hands on the arms and leaned back in the chair.
It was instantaneous, the hum of the city through his brain. It was like coming home, no matter how many times he did this. He could feel her, Atlantis, clear and loud. She was so beautiful and oh, god, he'd missed her so much he hadn't even realized.
This is good, John thought idly as the city caressed him. He could stay like this forever. If he had the power he would just keep Mavet here, where they were still and he wasn't alone anymore, where he could actually feel something real.
Abruptly, so abruptly that it pulled John out of that blessed peace and into sharp, ugly awareness, Atlantis began...screaming was the only way John could explain it. It was like a woman's voice, loud and outraged, in his mind and a distant but shrill siren to his ears.
And then the pain, deep, burning, agonizing blinding pain. His body bucked in the chair and he was on fire. He was being torn open and the shriek Mavet gave from his throat wasn't even remotely human.
And there other noises now, far away and unimportant when compared to the holocaust that consumed John's mind and body. There was nothing outside of this.
Tears leaked from eyes he didn't realize were glowing and it felt like something was trying to claw its way out the back of his neck and the roof of his mouth. Running from the pain. The pain that was everywhere, in everything, for what felt like forever.
As suddenly as it had begun, John's body canted forward, his hands still pressed hard against the arms of the control chair. His mouth hung open and he choked as the roof of his mouth was cut open, blood coated his tongue. There was a high pitched screech and the sound of weapons fire and -
John blinked.
He blinked again.
He blinked one more time and then, very slowly, unsure if it was really happening, he lifted his right hand off the chair.
John stared at it, transfixed, then brought it carefully to his mouth. Bright red shocked his senses as his fingers came away bloody.
"John?" a woman asked.
Teyla. He was fairly sure that was Teyla. She sounded different than she used to. Closer.
He tilted his head for a different angle on his red-tinged digits, blinked again and then started to laugh softly.
The woman, yeah, definitely Teyla, crossed to him and knelt in front of him, placing her hand on his knee. He could feel the warmth of her hand, the shape, the pressure. It was so...there.
"John? Can you hear me? John, answer me. What happened?"
"Can you hear me?" John returned. His eyes went wide as the sound of his own voice, though shaky, hit his ears unfiltered for the first time in months. "God, you can hear me?"
He sounded borderline hysterical and tinny to his ears but it was what he'd wanted to say. He was speaking aloud of his own will and that made it the best sound he'd ever heard.
Teyla petted his knee carefully, as if he were a wounded animal. Which in a sense, maybe he was.
"Yes, we can all hear you."
John's eyes darted wildly around the control room. Ronon was standing like a statue, his face a blank mask but his eyes bright and angry. Radek stood behind Lorne and shared his expression of slack shock. Elizabeth's eyes were wide and wet, her hand pressed to her mouth.
And Rodney-Rodney was-Rodney was there, wide-eyed and horrorstruck beyond speech for all of a second before darting out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him.
And so was Mavet. A bit of serpentine tail still twitched on a burnt spot on the floor of the room near John's feet.
"I..." Talking wasn't easy anymore. He had to remember that he could first. It was conscious work to recall that his mouth would work if his brain told it to. His hands could move, his feet could flex, and his lungs could breathe. He'd forgotten so much in such a short time. "He's dead?"
"Very," came the response from over Teyla's shoulders. It was Ronon, the anger in his eyes fixed on the scorch mark in the floor.
Teyla reached up with a gentle hand and touched his face. He leaned into the contact, reveling in just feeling. Her skin was soft, if a little calloused in places, warm and tender.
"John, are you all right?"
John didn't answer. There really weren't sufficient negative words in any spoken language to answer that.
So he slid out of the chair, limp and empty, and into Teyla's embrace. His arms felt almost heavy as he wrapped them around her back. But they were his to move again. His, goddamn it. And when he started to cry, silent and hidden in Teyla's shoulder but shaking so hard it almost hurt-like he hadn't since he was ten years old-well that was his, too.
~*~*~
"Funny meeting you here. Miss me?" John quipped as Caldwell came to sit across from him in a back corner of the mess.
"How's the not-meatloaf?" Caldwell asked without preamble, glancing at the now cold tray before him. John had picked it up when he first walked in two hours ago to give him an excuse to be there and hadn't touched it since.
The fact that Caldwell's response had absolutely nothing to do with what John had said clued him in that he hadn't actually spoken, yet again. He rubbed the side of his face, his fingers scraping over coarse stubble he felt almost too acutely, and shrugged.
John wasn't so great at the whole talking thing anymore. He wasn't catatonic or anything. He responded with witty retorts to pretty much everything anyone said to him. It was just...he kept forgetting that his voice would work if he wanted it to.
"It's okay." John replied, a little slowly.
It wasn't as involuntary as it used to be, talking. Nothing was the way it used to be.
"Doesn't look it."
John shrugged and Caldwell shook his head.
"Do you know what I'm doing here, Colonel?"
He didn't know but he had a few ideas.
The rumor mill had been running at maximum capacity and it had a lot to work with. Crazy Col. Sheppard who skulked around the common areas at all hours, who used to be the enemy, who people would find sitting still as a statue for hours, unblinking and silent.
He's going to get sent back to Earth, they said. He doesn't interact with his team anymore. He's gone off the deep end.
Truth be told, the rumors weren't too far off the mark. But John would rather listen to the whispers of the masses than be left in silence with his thoughts. When he was alone in that kind of quiet, he thought he heard-
It didn't really matter what he thought he heard.
So yes, he was pretty sure he knew why Caldwell was sitting in his personal space. Elizabeth had no doubt made a few calls, pulled in a favor or six. She was no doubt of the impression that nothing else was working.
"Intervention?"
"Dr. Weir had a conference call with several members of the IOA via the gate. She asked me to sit in on the meeting."
"That's nice."
"My presence wasn't necessary, and everyone knew it," Caldwell said evenly. "Colonel, how long until you return to active duty?"
Technically, Caldwell was the ranking military officer on Atlantis, and he would be until John was working again. The guy should have been having a damn fiesta, shouldn't he? That was what he'd wanted to begin with.
"Why? Looking to set up shop?"
Caldwell rolled his eyes and let out a short breath. "No."
"Why not?"
"Honestly? Because I don't want the post. I've already got one on a good ship, with a good crew, that spares me from having to answer to civilians, no matter how well intentioned and intelligent they may be."
Silence hung between them for a long time.
John sighed as he reminded himself of the whole words to mouth thing. He really used to be good at this, the back and forth. It had been his specialty, pissing people off around the galaxy as surely as any of Rodney's tirades.
That was something else he wasn't going to think about. Rodney.
"Colonel, you should know by now that your...capture...it's being discussed heavily by the SGC and the Pentagon."
That was hardly surprising. A Goa'uld infiltration that high up in the infrastructure of the Stargate Program? Knowledge of a breach of that kind was necessary for the program's very survival.
"They say when I get my discharge papers?"
"You're not," Caldwell snapped, sounding the most frustrated John had ever heard him, and that included when he'd first arrived in Atlantis, angry and indignant. "For Christ's sake, Colonel, try to get a grip on what's really going on. I know that it's not easy after living in the dark, but I've been given the impression that you're not even making an effort."
John blinked and sat up a little straighter in his chair. It was an uncommon way for someone to put it, living in the dark.
No one else, not Heightmeyer or Elizabeth or Dr. Cole or Teyla had phrased it that way. They used words like trapped, captive, and restrained but said nothing about the dark, and John had never been inclined to tell them.
"Sir?"
Caldwell shook his head. His lips held just the barest hint of a smile.
It clicked in to place in John's head like a well-oiled machine. Frissons of remembered tension sizzled through his mind and he shook his head in dismay.
"You had a Goa'uld."
Caldwell actually did smile at him this time. It was a thin smile but it was genuine nonetheless. "And here I thought you'd forgotten."
"I...I've had a lot on my mind lately," John said lamely. That was a bit of an understatement. "Sir, if you don't mind my asking-"
Caldwell raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.
"When's it stop?"
"What?"
"All of it," John said softly.
There were things he wasn't going to bring up in the middle of the mess with a senior officer. Not outright. So much of it was too personal, too deep. It wasn't just the touch, and the speech, and the heavy feeling in his limbs that still hadn't really gone away.
It was the feeling of filth, deep inside, that he couldn't really define or expunge. It was the fact that he was haunted, by Carson's face and Rodney's skin and Helena's blood and that whispering voice. There was so much and John felt so damn tired but he couldn't really sleep.
"I was a host for a far shorter period of time than you were, Colonel," Caldwell replied slowly, carefully. "I'm not sure entirely what you're referring to but I can tell you that a lot of the physical things should fix themselves. Give it some time."
"Right."
"For everything else?" Caldwell shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. There was something in his eyes, something that John recognized. They spoke of a quiet sort of wound that wasn't noticeable if you weren't looking for it. "You might want to talk to that woman, Heightmeyer."
"I've seen her." An hour a day, every day since he was released from the infirmary on Elizabeth's orders. She was not happy with his attitude or his progress.
"Let her do her job, Colonel. They don't give out doctorates to just anyone and she's in Atlantis because she's the best there is at what she does."
John lips quirked. "Is that an order?"
"You're not technically working for the Air Force right now so I can't order you to do anything. Even if I could, I wouldn't. But if you don't take my suggestion, it's possible you'll never get back to active duty."
John said nothing. He just stared at Caldwell, at the way the light reflected off the top of his bald head, and the determined set to his jaw.
"You need to decide what you want, Sheppard," Caldwell said finally. "If it's to be part of this expedition, to be part of the universe in general, then I suggest you help yourself. You have the ability to again. You should take advantage of it."
John sat in the mess for a long time after Caldwell left, staring at a fixed point on the opposite side of the room and letting the noise of the mess fade into the background. He sat there thinking for over an hour but it only took about five minutes to realize that the older officer was right. The rest of the time was spent trying to figure what the hell he was going to do now.
~*~*~
Heightmeyer sighed and rubbed her forehead as he sat down. But she gave him a pleasant smile before cutting to the point.
"So, are you going to talk to me today or will we be pulling proverbial teeth?"
Okay. He deserved that. He'd spent a dozen sessions on her couch, monosyllabic and bitter. Only some of it was fallout from his time as a host. A lot of it was just anger - with her, with Elizabeth, and with the universe and life in general.
"I always talk to you, doc. You're the highlight of my day," John said lightly.
A grin, genuine and brilliant, split her face. "Oh my, two whole sentences back to back? Someone's in a good mood today."
"Not really. Just...sorry."
That got her attention. "For what, John?"
God, there were so many things. Carson. He was so fucking sorry for Carson and that woman, Dr. Hudson. He was so sorry about them that sometimes he couldn't stand to look at himself in the mirror. He was sorry about Kolya, in a weird, abstract way, much like the way he was sorry about Sumner even though he knew down to the depths of his soul that he'd done the right thing at the time.
John was sorry about Rodney, what his insolence and his want had inspired Mavet to do. He was sorry about the damage it had obviously done to Rodney. And Helena. God, he'd never stop being sorry about what happened to her even though he knew-in the rational, reasonable part of his brain-that the woman he'd cared for hadn't been real, that he'd never met the real Helena. But he'd still held her as she died and he was so sorry he hadn't been able to save her from their shared tormentor.
But in particular? At the moment?
"I've been rude to you for just trying to do your job. And I'm sorry."
"You went through an incredibly traumatic event, John. You can't be expected to bounce right back."
Only John did expect just that. He wanted to be back, to be normal and himself again. The fact that he wasn't frustrated him as much as it bothered anyone else. Probably more.
It didn't go unnoticed that his behavior had been seemingly more in character when the Goa'uld had been in control than it was now that he was free. And that wasn't fair, damn it.
"Your brain's had to change," Heightmeyer said gently, picking up on his line of thought. "You've had to change, to adapt, so that you could survive." She sighed. "Elizabeth sent me some case files from the SGC, from the former hosts they have records of."
John ran his hand over the fabric of her couch. He could feel the grooves in the material against his skin. The sensation was anchoring in its intensity.
"It varies from case to case and I won't give you details. But the sensory deprivation, the violation, the lost sense of self-you're not alone in these experiences, John."
"We should form a support group," he replied wryly, but she didn't react. She didn't even blink.
Again? Again with the forgetting. That was getting real old real fast.
"John? Is there anything you'd like to ask me about? Tell me?" Heightmeyer asked finally. She glanced down at her lap, at the notepad that sat there, then back up at him. "I ask because I don't think you started talking to me today because you're in a good mood. I think you've got something on your mind."
What didn't he have on his mind? That might be a less expansive answer.
"Is anything in particular troubling you?"
She was a shrink. It was her job to push. And she was good at her job. She'd helped Teyla. It was just...he didn't want people to know some of the things that were going on. Like why he stuck to crowded places.
"Anything?" she pressed.
Heightmeyer would think he'd lost his mind if he told her. Everyone would, except maybe Teyla.
Hell, John was starting to think he was going crazy so he wouldn't blame them.
He laughed bitterly. "You'll think I've lost it."
"I doubt that. Try me," she challenged.
"I can hear him."
Heightmeyer leaned forward. "Who?"
"Mavet."
Her eyebrows shot up. "The Goa'uld?"
"Sometimes." John gave her a devil-may-care grin. "Told you. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs."
"I didn't say I thought you were crazy," she replied sharply. "The Goa'uld's name was Mavet?"
"Yeah."
"And at times you think you can still hear him? He spoke to you when you were his host?"
John rolled his eyes, doing his best to make light of memories that kept him up at night. "He talked more than a seventh-grade girl."
"And that bothered you?"
"I'm hearing voices in my head, doc. Would that bother you?"
"You're hearing other voices? Or just him?"
John gave her a sidelong look. "Does it make a difference?"
She was scribbling on her notepad now. She didn't look up as she spoke.
"A big one, yes."
"Just him."
"Does he say anything specific? Anything that bothers you, agitates you more than usual?"
Mavet had lots to say. It was like the commentary on John's thoughts and feelings that had existed when he was subjugated had never ended. The snake still had something snide and vicious to add to his thought process, even after Ronon had blown him away.
It was like having a radio in his head that he couldn't always turn off. But being with people helped. The chatter of other people's conversations was the most effective thing to shut the bastard up.
"His voice just... it makes things worse. It makes me forget, I guess. I forget where I am, that I'm in control. It's like I'm back in my head and I can't get out. It just happens and I can't stop it," John finished, feeling drained.
He wasn't big with talking about his feelings under the very best of circumstances, but like this? He'd rather get a root canal without Novocain.
"All right. Good."
Okay. So maybe she was the crazy one here.
"How is this good?"
"It means that I was right, that you have PTSD, which is to be expected after an ordeal of that magnitude. It means that we can finally start making some sort of progress towards beginning the healing process." Her pen scratched across the paper as she spoke. A small smile curled her lips. "Don't worry. You're not suddenly schizophrenic."
"Right. And that's good?"
She glanced up and gave him what he guessed was meant to be a comforting smile. "Well, one can get better and the other can't really."
"And the one that can't is schizophrenia."
"Yes."
John rolled his eyes. "Well that's a relief."
"Every cloud has a silver lining," Heightmeyer replied dryly.
"You're a regular Pollyanna, doc."
She chuckled softly as she finished her scrawls on the page. Glancing over the edge he could see line after line of black ink on yellow paper, at least before she flipped to the next page.
"John, you've been in combat situations before. What do you know about post traumatic stress disorder?"
John shrugged.
He hadn't seen that much of it. Couple guys in his unit in Afghanistan hadn't been able to handle things, life in general, when they got back to the states. They'd just sort of snapped.
One of them had ended up leaving the Air Force. The other guy, John hadn't been friends with. Last he heard the guy was still in the military but he was flying a desk instead of a helo. Although having met the guy's wife on base a few times, he had a feeling that might have been because of marital stress, not post traumatic stress.
"It happens when the human psyche is subjected to extreme stress and trauma. It can cause flashbacks, hallucinations, panic attacks, depression, and a whole host of nasty symptoms. It happens because the human brain isn't meant to be under duress of certain degrees or durations. It can happen to people in the wake of wars, disasters, violent attacks, rape, and other traumatic events."
Heightmeyer took a deep breath and met his eyes. It was obvious she'd had that little speech, or a variation of it, planned for a while now. John wondered how long she'd had this built up. Since the moment she heard about what happened would be his guess.
"John, you spent six months as a prisoner in your own body. A foreign entity violated you by force and took control of every aspect of your life. In every way that matters, you spent the last six months in a sustained rape. And if that's not a traumatic event, then I don't know what is. "
John swallowed, trying desperately to halt the rapid drying of his throat. Her eyes were boring into him and he really wanted to be anywhere but here right now. It didn't really feel like this was helping, not when his mouth was like cotton and he could feel himself starting to sweat.
And she could see it. He hated it that she could see it.
"Take a deep breath, John," she instructed gently. "I know that things have snowballed rather quickly but I'm convinced you can handle what I have to say. By telling you this, now that you seem more willing to interact and accept, I'm trying to give you back some of your power over yourself and your situation.
"I don't expect you to deal with any of this today. The psychological wounds inflicted on you by the Goa'uld-even if they're only a fraction of what I suspect-are tremendous. It's going to take time and effort for you to heal, and a lot of it. But I've found that many people find things less scary when you take away some of the mystery. That's why I'm doing my very best to be upfront with you about my observations and assessments."
John licked his lips. "I'm okay with mystery. I love a good mystery."
"Really?"
"Yeah, are we done yet?" John asked. He was done with this. He'd go nurse his psychosis somewhere else for the next twenty-four hours, thanks.
Heightmeyer glanced over his head at the clock on the wall and nodded.
"Are you going to be here tomorrow?"
He'd already made it to the door when she asked. "I wasn't under the impression I had a choice."
"I meant mentally," she clarified. "It won't be like it was today, John. I feel like this was more of a diagnosis than a session. We'll have to make up for it another day."
"Sure. Whatever," John replied distractedly, ducking out as fast as possible.
John thought people were supposed to feel better or something after that sort of thing. That was the point of seeing a therapist as far as he was concerned. So why were the only things he felt exhaustion and an empty ache?
~*~*~
Part four...