Snakeheads: A Love Story (Part Two of Three)

[taste_is_sweet]

"I'm very sorry about the handcuffs, John, but I'm sure you understand why we might need to be cautious," the psychiatrist said. He'd introduced himself, but John hadn't been paying attention. The shrink had big, serious glasses like Daniel Jackson, and grizzled hair that he probably thought made him look grandfatherly and approachable. He had a pad of paper and a pen, and was making notes even while he was talking, even though John hadn't said anything.

"I tried to kill Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell," John said. It still felt strange to be using that title, since the guy had still been a Major when John went missing. John had his cuffed hands resting on his lap, the chains dangling down between his knees and pooling on the floor. There were chains around his ankles as well. It was kind of flattering, especially given how his abdomen was still painful where the staff weapon had nearly cut him in two. Mer'deth hadn't had a chance to finish healing him before they'd torn him out of John's head.

Shrink guy blinked, as if he hadn't expected John to tell the truth. "Yes, well, you did." His sympathetic smile crawled back onto his face. "So I'm afraid you'll need to wear those until we can be certain of your--"

"Compliance?" John broke in.

"Mental state," Shrink said, his mouth curved down in an ever-so-slightly disapproving frown. He drew a breath, settled back in his chair a bit, obviously about to say something important. "John--"

"My title is Lieutenant Colonel," John said. They weren't buddies, much as the shrink was trying to pretend like they were. "Please use it."

Shrink paused for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Very well. Lieutenant Colonel--I presume you've heard of Stockholm syndrome."

John stared at him. He purposely kept his fingers relaxed, his face showing nothing of the seething rage inside. He imagined Mer'deth's indignant, sputtering reaction to what the guy said and he smiled inwardly. It helped a little.

The Shrink waited a moment, like he was expecting John to say something. He cleared his throat. "Stockholm Syndrome occurs occasionally during kidnapping or hostage situations," he said. "When someone is abused for long enough, they may come to sympathize with, or even like or admire the people who put them into that situation. It's considered a form of cognitive dissonance, where a victim might engender warm feelings towards his captors in order to reconcile his need for safety and comfort with the constant stress, helplessness and fear of his surroundings."

"I wasn't helpless," John said. "I wasn't afraid, either. Mer'deth's like a Tok'ra. I volunteered."

Shrink put his fingers on his lips, looking thoughtful. "I can understand that right now it must feel very much like that, that what happened to you was your choice." He looked straight at John, eyes earnest and kind. "But you need to accept that this was inflicted on you, that you were forced into being a prisoner in your own body, that Mer'deth was nothing more than a parasite, and that there's no shame in what happened to you, or how you reacted to it in order to survive."

John was very careful to keep his expression neutral, though he couldn't help how his fingers twitched. "Where is he?" John asked.

Shrink's eyes widened, then he actually looked disappointed. "I'm sorry, Jo--Colonel. It's really not in your best interests for me to tell you that, given your current state of mind."

John felt the thick leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles, his naked feet, and kept from baring his teeth. "Is he alive?"

More disappointment. "I'm sure you understand why I can't tell you that, either."

John was very careful not to clench his jaw. He rubbed his stomach with one hand, feeling the rough scar under the thin material of his hospital scrubs. The clink of the chain moving was shockingly loud in the suddenly silent room.

The scar might be the last thing he ever had of Mer'deth; he would have lost him and Rodney both. Because of people like the sanctimonious psychiatrist, sitting there so fucking certain that he had John all figured out. Because of SG-1, who were so certain that they'd saved John from a fate worse than death, that someday he'd realize it and thank them. It didn't matter what John said; no one believed him. He was all alone, here, among people who used to be his colleagues and friends. He'd won a medal for heroism in Afghanistan, helped save his team, the Earth, the entire fucking Milky Way more times than he could even remember, and all of that meant nothing. No one was going to believe him.

The chains on his wrists were heavy, designed to slow him down. The ones on his ankles kept his stride short so he couldn't run, but there was less than a body-length between him and the shrink. And John was used to moving very, very fast. The guy was still holding his pad and pen when John had his wrist chain looped around his throat.

"If you scream I'll snap your neck," John said. He kept his voice quiet so he wouldn't alert the two Marines standing guard outside. He glanced at the camera high in the far corner of the room, knowing he didn't have much time before the cavalry arrived. He lowered his head so that his mouth was right next to the shrink's ear. He could hear the rapid puffs of Shrink's breathing. "Where is he? I know you know."

The shrink stared up at him. He looked more composed than John had expected. "I'm trying to help you, John," he said, though his voice was panting a little too much for true calm. "I know this is what you think you want, but--"

John tightened the chain, just a little. He wasn't actually going to kill him, but he doubted the shrink knew that. "I'm not going to ask you again."

He felt Shrink's throat move as he swallowed. "I don't know," he said, his voice tense over his rapid breathing. "I'm telling you the truth--there's no reason for me to know."

John gritted his teeth. "Is he on the base?" He moved his hands again, just making the loop of chain slide on the guy's skin, but he sucked in a breath anyway.

"I don't know," the shrink said. He sounded almost angry. It reminded John of Rodney, which was the last thing he needed to be thinking about.

The door burst open and the two Marine guards spilled in, Zats drawn and pointed.

"Hey, guys," John said pleasantly.

"Let Dr. MacKenzie go, sir. Please don't make me shoot you," the younger one said. He looked really upset at the idea of having to Zat a superior officer. The other one--older, craggier, likely had done this a thousand times for one reason or another--just stood there grim-faced and silent, Zat sparking.

There was no way John could take them both, not with the chains. He doubted he'd make it to the door before they stunned him. So he heaved up on his chains instead, forcing MacKenzie to stand. The pad and pen dropped to the floor. John caught the word delusional before the pad slid under the chair and out of sight. MacKenzie put his hands up to his neck, scrabbling at the chain, trying to loosen it.

"How about you let me go, instead?" John grinned, keeping MacKenzie mostly in front of him. He could tell by the agonized expression on the young Marine's face that there was no way he'd shoot him and risk hitting the shrink. John figured that the older one probably would, but it was worth the gamble. It wasn't like he was getting out of this either way. "Or we all take a nice walk to where--"

The older Marine shot John and MacKenzie both, which was exactly what John would have done.

The crack of thunder woke him gasping.

He was lying on his side in a cave, floor sandy and sun-warm but muddy near his head like maybe he'd thrown up at some point, but he didn't remember that. The world outside was greenish and thick with ozone. Between one blink and the next there was a flash of lightning, and then the storm started pounding down.

John stared out at the hissing curtain of rain and tried to remember how he got there or where he was. The last thing he was sure of was snow: white everywhere, cold so deep he'd barely had time to feel it before it'd sunk into his bones. But he was hot now, despite the rain outside and the cool air streaming into the shallow cave. He could feel the sting of sweat in his eyes, smell it on his skin. The minute weight of his clothing hurt. His lungs were on fire and his belly was full of stones.

Mer'deth. The name came into his head without context or reference, and for a long moment John didn't know what it meant, and then it was like a switch was thrown in his brain, and he remembered the dark in the cave, trying to get to Rodney, and then the pain of something burrowing into him and the cold, terrible knowledge that Rodney was dead physically now, but had really died long before John had ever known him.

That's not true, John.

John sucked in a breath that rasped like sandpaper. He tried to cough but couldn't expand his lungs that much. "Thought you were dead," he whispered.

Not yet, despite all your efforts to the contrary, which really sucks, by the way. And is completely unfair, considering all I've done is help you, Mer'deth said. He sounded bizarrely petulant, considering John could feel how weak he was, somehow, how badly he was straining even to communicate.

"Want to help, get out of my head," John murmured. He tried to push himself upright, only to end up panting on the ground, hands digging like claws into the sand.

I can't, John, even if I wanted to, Mer'deth said. I'm so weak now that if I left, I'd release my toxin--I wouldn't be able to stop it. You'd die too.

"Don't care," John said. It was difficult keeping his eyes open, but he fought against slipping unconscious again, letting the Goa'uld take over.

I care! Mer'deth blasted him weakly. I don't want you to die--why do you think I dragged your sorry ass out of the snow?

"Save yourself," John said. His eyes slid shut and he blinked them open again. They were gritty and felt as hot as the rest of him. If he could just get up, pull himself out into the rain…

You've got a fever, John, Mer'deth said. It's taking all my strength right now to keep it from frying your brain. You need to stay here and rest. If you keep trying to move you're going to tear something else, or put your rib deeper through your lung. And--I won't be able to fix that. You'll die.

"Good," John said.

Not good! Mer'deth shot back fiercely. Completely not good! Don't you understand? It--this isn't about me. I mean, I want it to be about me. I'd really, really like it if you could get your probably-concussed head out of your ass and listen to me for once, not that you ever did, mind you, but this isn't about me saving my own life, precious and unique though it is. I want you to live. Don't you get it? I love you. Just…just as much as Rodney did. You--you need to stay alive, okay? Please.

"Fuck you," John muttered. He gave up trying to keep his eyes open. "Liar."

It was weird--John could feel how hurt Mer'deth was. That's what you really think?

"Yeah," John breathed. You're all fucking sociopaths, he thought, because he knew he couldn't manage to say all those words.

More hurt, and John got an image, completely unwanted, of Rodney: all shocked expression with big, wounded eyes. John shoved it away.

What about the Tok'ra?

John made a sound that didn't have enough air to be a laugh. "Not Tok'ra."

Mer'deth went thankfully silent after that. John smiled to himself and dozed a bit, listening to the endless rushing of the rain. He was thirsty, and he thought about pulling himself to the cave entrance and maybe catching some drops of rain in his mouth, but every time he tried to get up he just fell back in the sand again.

I'll show you, Mer'deth said all of a sudden, and then John's mind was being flooded with images, sounds and emotions that weren't his own, that he knew weren't his own, and John let out a roar of fury and horror and tried to shove them away, tried to physically push himself up, out into the rain, anything, anything to make it stop, to keep his mind his own where his body no longer was. But he couldn't.

"You bastard," he hissed, as he was plunged into Mer'deth's memories. And then he was seeing his reflection somewhere but it was Rodney's face, and he was looking in a pool of water deep in a cave.

John had never been to that planet, but now he knew that PK4-M3 was where a society of renegade Jaffa had been hiding from their System Lord, with a High Priestess who was about a million years old and knew so much about physics and astronomy that Rodney treated her like a venerated grandmother when he pretty much sneered at everybody. But the Priestess was dead, now. Her body was lying peacefully, hands soft at her sides, a small smile on her face like life had been well-accomplished. And John knew her pouch was empty because Rodney did, because the Priestess had been so old she was dying despite her young Goa'uld--almost a Prim-tah, a little baby--doing his best to sustain her, and that she had begged Rodney to take her larvae to save him.

Rodney had been horrified at the idea, understandably, but then the Priestess had told him about how she had communicated with her Goa'uld during Kelno'reem, and how this one was special, how this one had wanted to learn everything she knew about the universe and more, how all this one wanted to do was keep learning, to make discoveries, to build wondrous things. He didn't want to be a System Lord. He didn't want slaves; he wanted knowledge, and he had so much to give in return. He knew so many things that Rodney would never know, otherwise.

And Rodney, because the word knowledge was magic to him, magic enough to override his fear, and because he trusted the Priestess (Eyn'mon, her name was Eyn'mon, and Rodney kind of loved her because she was everything he wished his real mother had been) and because if she cared for the little worm-thing so much then maybe, maybe he was different enough to be good after all…Because of all that, Rodney said yes, and he reached into Eyn'mon's (squishy, disgusting) pouch, and he put the trembling child Goa'uld to his chest with a hand that was shaking just as badly. And now he was looking at his reflection in the pool of the cave, but those weren't his eyes.

I am Mer'deth! the little Goa'uld crowed in Rodney's head. Bow to me! I am your GOD.

In his memory, Rodney scoffed. "Nice try, squirt. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't bow to any God, least of all one that looks like a legless naked mole-rat."

Oh, Mer'deth said, sounding embarrassed. But that's what we're supposed to say! It's in my genetic memory.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, Eyn'mon said you didn't want to be a System Lord, so you might want to rethink the proclaiming yourself a God all over the place. Especially as that's a great way to get you a one-way ticket to the Tok'ra and a personal fishtank."

This is true, Mer'deth said.

"No kidding," Rodney groused, and he sounded so much, so exactly like the Rodney John had known, the same Rodney John had always known, that he gasped, heart pounding again in something like hope.

In the memory, Rodney climbed to his feet, then leaned backwards with his hands on the small of his back. "I need to get back to the others, or they're going to come looking for me, and I don't want them to find…" He swallowed, blinking, and John could feel how deep his sorrow was. "I don't want them to find her gone and check for the larvae," he said, more quietly.

I miss her a lot, the Goa'uld said, and John could feel his sorrow, too.

"Yeah," Rodney said roughly. "Me too." He took a deep breath. "But it's you and me now, okay? And if you can manage to stay quiet and cut out the 'I am your God' crap, I think we might--I think we might have a pretty good relationship. Can you manage that?"

Of course I can, Human, Mer'deth said, as snotty as a teenager, but John, because of Rodney, could also feel the Goa'uld's fear--fear that he couldn't do this, fear that he would be caught, fear that he might accidentally hurt Rodney and be found out and put in a tank and then he'd never be able to learn anything at all. And he would be all alone.

"It's okay, Mer'deth," Rodney said softly. "I know Eny'mon's gone, but you have me. You won't be alone." And John knew how much Rodney understood what being alone meant--how often Rodney had been alone, and so, so lonely--and John shut his eyes tighter, because he knew how that felt, too. God, did he know how that felt.

That memory faded as Rodney rejoined his team, and then suddenly John was looking at himself (younger, thinner, shorter hair, looking stiff and ridiculous in the dress blues) and his own eyes were so dark and haunted that John knew immediately when this was, how recently he'd come back from Afghanistan.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard," Colonel Carter was saying. Her hand on John's shoulder looked like she was trying to keep him from bolting. Two minutes ago John had just seen a Stargate for the first time. "He's going to be leading your team, now that Colonel Dixon's been reassigned." She smiled, patting John's shoulder. "Remember to be nice, Rodney, or I'll tell General O'Neill on you."

Rodney had smirked at her, besotted as always, but it was Mer'deth who practically did cartwheels around Rodney's brainstem when Carter had leaned over and given him a kiss on his cheek.

"Take care of him, okay?" she whispered. "He's never done this before."

It was Mer'deth that made Rodney's head turn to watch Carter walking away, but he relinquished control immediately afterwards.

"So, um, you're meant to be some big hero, right?" Rodney said to John just as John was extending his hand, mouth open to say something pleasant. "Well, I hope that means you'll be willing to throw yourself between me and the ever-present possibility of death whenever necessary, because, as I'm sure you know, I'm the preeminent expert on Ancient, Asgard and Goa'uld technology, and therefore far too important to risk getting hurt." The shared moment of smugness between Rodney and Mer'deth--because Rodney's knowledge of Goa'uld technology came mostly from the Goa'uld in his head--wasn't something John expected, either.

They were friends. He could feel it, like a layer of warmth over the memory. Rodney and Mer'deth liked each other. They were friends.

Rodney grabbed John's hand before he could pull it away, shaking it vigorously, and John remembered how he'd decided to feel more bemused than irritated, how desperate he was for a distraction from his grief, how very little like a hero he felt, with Captain Holland less than a month dead.

"I kind of skipped the taking bullets for the scientist course at the academy," John said, putting on his best fake smile.

Rodney scowled. "Yes, well, you can't be entirely stupid or you probably wouldn't be here, so I guess you'll learn. Come on." He turned and started stalking down the corridor, expecting John to follow. "Apparently you've got the ATA gene, and it's still an hour before they start serving dinner, so you might as well make yourself useful. Well?" he asked, half-turning when he realized John wasn't right behind him. He snapped his fingers. "I haven't got all day, here."

"I can see this is the start of a beautiful friendship," John drawled, then grinned as Rodney rolled his eyes.

He is unbelievably hot, Mer'deth said.

Yes, Rodney thought back to him, using more decorum than John had ever figured he possessed. Yes, he is. And he's also in the American Air Force, so you're going to keep my hands to yourself, got it?

Yes, Mer'deth said glumly, but John couldn't miss the wistful longing there, from both of them.

The next memory was Rodney looking at John's face again, but this time John was in a hospital bed in the Infirmary in the Mountain. Everything about the scene was so generic that John didn't even know which injury this had been, except that he was unconscious and intubated and probably just post-op, so it must've been pretty bad.

I wish you could heal him, Mer'deth said to Rodney. His mind-voice sounded hushed, and John could feel how deeply upset he was, because Rodney could. They have a Healing Device right here in the Infirmary! You could just grab it! Please?

"Shut up!" Rodney kept his voice down, but there was still snap in it, though the anger was because Rodney was afraid; John almost hadn't survived this one. "Don't you think I want to? Hell, I know you know how much I want to! But I can't! We'd get discovered, and--and you…they'd take you away from me." He shook his head, looking down, and John realized Rodney was holding his hand. "I don't want them to take you away from me."

I know, Mer'deth said. I'm sorry. I just hate it when he gets hurt.

"Me too," Rodney said, voice rough.

God, how they loved him.

It nearly stole what little breath John had. He didn't know if this memory was before or after Rodney had told him: that crazy, fantastic moment when Rodney had burst wild-eyed into John's anonymous little apartment and said, 'I'm sorry, I can't not do this anymore', and kissed John like his life had depended on it. And John didn't know if he was in love with Rodney by then either, by the time Rodney was holding his lax hand in the Infirmary. Or if it had still just been infatuation, John's heart thumping like a kid's whenever Rodney was in the same room.

It didn't matter. What mattered was what Mer'deth was trying to tell him, as it spooled out behind his aching eyes: John had always known Rodney, and Rodney and Mer'deth loved him.

But John's body was his, and Mer'deth was still a violation that filled John with revulsion to the very core of his being. He couldn't do this. He couldn't live like this. He wouldn't.

I know, John, Mer'deth said, sounding resigned and fond and sad. It's all right. I know.

They started giving him pills, pink and blue ones, like babies. John didn't know what they were.

He knew what they did, though. They made everything inside him hazy and distant, like he was looking at his emotions through a window but couldn't touch them. Like when Mer'deth would share with him without John feeling what he felt. But now John was doing it by himself, and he was too foggy most of the time to know if that was ironic or not, but he knew it wasn't what he wanted. It was just really hard to care.

SG-1 visited him a lot. Mitchell would tell him funny stories that John smirked at and forgot the next second. Carter brought him magazines and journal articles that might've interested him if he'd been capable of paying attention. Teal'c just sat quietly, meditating, as if he knew about the silence where Mer'deth had been and understood what that meant. John thought he would probably have appreciated that, if his head was clear enough to appreciate anything.

Jackson would sit next to his bed and talk about Sha're, about the Goa'uld that had stolen her body, about how brave she was, and how Teal'c had killed her to save him and how Jackson was glad about that, now, that she hadn't continued to suffer. He kept looking at John like John was meant to get it, like John should realize what a gift he'd gotten, his freedom.

John was alert enough to know he wanted the chains off, to know he didn't want to walk around feeling like his head was full of sand. He knew that fighting hadn't gotten him anywhere.

So he nodded solemnly to Jackson, and he probably would have felt badly about it when Jackson started blinking back tears, except that John couldn't feel much of anything at all.

It worked pretty well for him, though.

He started saying stuff at his daily counseling sessions, instead of having bets with himself like how long he could stare at the new shrink before she blushed or coughed or laughed or got that wary look on her face; or how many times he could make the chains on his wrists and ankles clink before she started making these long exhales to conceal her irritation. Figuring out what she wanted to hear became John's new game: seeing how her eyes lit up or her head tilted or she started nodding, depending on whether or not he said the right thing.

He pretended to have his requisite epiphany right on cue, and she actually leaned across the space between their chairs and held his manacled hands as John blinked a lot and told her how awful it'd been, how helpless he'd felt, how he knew now that he'd made up a scenario where he and Mer'deth were friends to keep himself from going insane.

The Shrink was hugging him by the end of it, with her slender arms wrapped around his shoulders and John's head resting on her breasts like a child. John couldn't hug her back because of the chains, and part of him actually wanted to, because he'd had another person sharing his body for two years, and now it was just him and no one had touched him for months--nothing more than a hand on his shoulder, or to hold him down while they injected him with something else, until the pills started kicking in and he didn't care enough to fight back anymore.

The meds blunted everything, but John knew intellectually that he was lonely.

There was light all around him.

"He's awake," a man's voice said, and John tried to turn his head, to see where the voice was coming from, but he could barely move, and the light was everywhere, blinding.

"Don't move," someone else said. "We are almost finished with your healing, but you were gravely injured and ill, and you could still do yourself harm."

John blinked, too tired to really understand. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Shh." That was the second voice again, female, standing somewhere outside the light. "Don't distract them. What they're doing takes a great deal of concentration."

"You are safe and you are being healed," the man who had first spoken to him said. "That is all you need to know for now."

"Rest, John," the woman said. "We will speak later."

John fell asleep wondering how she knew his name.

A couple days after John sold Mer'deth out they took the chains off. John figured that was mostly a win.

It took a little longer for the meds to change, but one evening he had only the pink pill in the tiny paper cup the psychiatric nurse brought him. John thanked the guy and pretended he didn't notice and wished he could feel something about the victory other than being distantly pleased, but this was the start, at least--he was going to get clear, now. All he needed was time.

(Too much time had passed already. John knew that, though he didn't know how many months he'd been there, trapped under a mountain like a bug in the dirt, filling the hole in his head with drugs he didn't want, waiting until they trusted him enough to take off the God-damned chains.)

He started caring about things again, which meant that finding Mer'deth became a necessity and not just something to keep him focused. It made it harder to pretend, harder to smile and say, you're right, it was terrible, how could I have thought I wanted that? and, No, I understand. I don't feel ashamed, and ignore the betrayal spitting off his tongue like poison. It made it harder to worry about Mer'deth every damn day and not be able to do anything. Patience had never been a strength, and now that he was aware of the days and weeks and months as they passed it became a torture, so bad that John wasn't sure how much longer he could pretend that he was recovering and not just snap and go for someone's throat again.

And there was no one, no one at all who knew how he felt. Everyone in the Mountain was a stranger to him now. His time apart from them and their lack of trust had taken care of that.

A week after he stopped getting the pink pill either, John started crying in the psychiatrist's office and couldn't seem to stop. He was curled up on the chair, sobbing so hard he couldn't speak, too blindsided to even feel humiliated. The Shrink handed him tissues and rubbed his back and told him calmly how this was natural, it was just to be expected, that this was an excellent thing he was doing, letting it all out. This was how he would be able to heal.

He wanted to say, this isn't healing. This is me cracking apart.

"I don't get it," John said. "You mean, the planet with the Noah's Ark rainstorm--that's where you found me?"

"Yes." The Tok'ra nodded. John knew he was speaking to Ceridwen because her voice sounded normal human. The Tok'ra were polite like that, not pulling out the snake without ample warning. She'd introduced both herself and Oreh, her symbiot and told him she was one of the Tok'ra he'd spoken to while they were healing him, but only Ceridwen was talking to him now. "We are on the same planet. This is one of our bases." She didn't smile--Tok'ra didn't smile much, apparently--but her eyes sort of looked like she was. "I'm afraid I can't let you know the name."

"Sure," John said distantly, nodding. He was still caught in what Ceridwen had just told him. "That doesn't make any sense," He shifted in the chair, feeling the leather like material of his apparently standard-issue Tok'ra pants slide unpleasantly as he moved. He had no idea how the Tok'ra could stand wearing this crap all the time and still carry out guerrilla warfare. "I mean, that's got to be a coincidence, right? There's no way Mer'deth would have willingly taken me to you."

Ceridwen looked a little impatient with him. "I believe you misunderstand. Mer'deth did not come here accidentally. He knew we frequented this planet. He wanted you to be found."

"What? No." John shook his head. "No way--he had to have known what you were going to do. There's no way in hell he would've just waltzed through the Gate and let you capture him!" He shook his head. "That's nuts."

"I cannot speculate on the wisdom of his decision," Ceridwen said, "but he made it obvious from the start that he was fully aware of where he was and the consequences of it. As soon as our scouts came upon you, Mer'deth begged…" Ceridwen's mouth twitched. "Well, to be accurate he demanded that we heal you, because he himself was too weak to do so. And then he promised to tell us all he knew of the System Lords if we removed him from your body."

There was a small section of corridor, about twelve feet away from John's quarters, that John was mostly sure was in the camera's blind spot. That was the place he chose to take his two guard-dogs out.

It was pretty simple--John figured that after all his smiling and nodding and sob sessions they could probably hear through the door of the shrink's office that the Marines had stopped worrying about him. The young guy, Corporal Morris, chatted at John all the time now, telling him about his mom and his girlfriend and the latest gossip in the mess hall and how eager he was to get off-world again (no offence). The older guy, Sergeant Grossman, should have known better, but John guessed that after seeing the same guy day after day for months he might start getting a little friendly, too. Lima syndrome.

So Morris was in the middle of some stupid story about this pole dancer John was sure he had no chance with, and Grossman was shaking his head and chuckling, and John was smiling and shuffling along amicably between them until he hit that spot about twelve feet from his door, and then he shoved Grossman into the wall, yanked the Zat out of the Sergeant's holster while he was still stumbling, and stunned them both.

Then he grabbed Grossman's ID and ran like hell.

He'd been re-kitted with a set of generic green jumpsuits with empty Velcro shapes on the arms and a pair of boots so new they were still squeaking, but at least the standard uniform meant that almost no one gave him a second glance as John went by them. And John forced himself to walk whenever he went through the more public areas, Zat held down and on safety by his side and trying not to act as winded as he felt. He'd been in great shape before he and Mer'deth got captured, but he'd been cooped up for months. His body remembered how to run, but his lungs and heart weren't used to it anymore.

He made it to the main elevators without any alarm sounding, which was more than John had expected and also pointed to the SGC having some serious complacency problems. He swiped Grossman's card with a hand that shook just a little bit, slid gratefully into the elevator and hit the button for the second-lowest level. That was where most of the labs were, and where they'd most likely keep a Goa'uld. Unless he was in the Infirmary, but John knew that if he went in there he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting out again. So he bet on Mer'deth being kept in one of the labs. It made more sense, anyway.

John refused to think that Mer'deth was dead. He was definitely in one of the labs. The only question was whether John would get recaptured before he found him, and John would make damn sure he wasn't.

The laboratories were mostly empty this time of day, with everyone going for dinner or going home. That was one of the reasons John had chosen to do this now. The other reason was that any later at night and he'd be locked in his room.

He galloped around a corner and skid to a stop in front of the first lab, already bolted tight. John gritted his teeth and swiped Grossman's card through the scanner, and it blatted a noise at him and the red light went on and the door didn't open.

"Shit!" John didn't waste time trying it again. He looked around--there had to be an open lab, someone with no life but a higher security ID card, hopefully too absorbed in his or her work to notice John sneaking up on them.

The fourth lab was like that.

John spent a couple seconds pressed flat against the wall next to the open door, just controlling his breathing, going over the next steps in his mind: run in there, Zat everyone while they were still blinking behind their glasses, get the cards and go.

He lifted his arm, made sure the Zat was ready to fire, then took a breath and ran through the door and nearly shot Rodney McKay.

"So, what happens now?" John asked.

"You are free to go," Thoran said, or rather, his symbiot did. Thoran was the first Tok'ra John had heard when he woke briefly during the healing. His symbiot was named Mehshu and was a female and wouldn't shut up. And she seemed to like how creeped out John was with the deep, synthesizer voice, which only proved John's private theory that the Tok'ra were just as big assholes as the Goa'uld, except that they directed it at different targets.

"Yeah, I got that," John said, trying not to narrow his eyes. They'd saved his life after all, and pulled Mer'deth out of his head. He figured he could be polite in spite of the bitchiness. "What I meant, though, was what's going to happen to Mer'deth?"

"He will be executed," Mehshu said, like this was the most obvious thing ever and John was a moron for not knowing it. "That is what we do with Goa'uld."

"You're going to kill him?" John exclaimed. He kept himself still only with effort; the surge of protectiveness he felt for the snake had completely poleaxed him. "But he didn't do anything!"

Thoran blinked. "He is a Goa'uld," Mehshu said, like that fact alone was reason enough. She didn't seem too happy with John's protest. "He also stole your body from you, did he not? I am honestly surprised why his execution should not be a relief to you."

"He--he didn't really steal my body," John said, though his stomach still twisted at the memory: something squirming into him in the dark, the peace afterwards that he knew now was all Mer'deth's doing, flooding his brain with endorphins, melatonin and serotonin; anything to keep John out of it. He hadn't asked to host the Goa'uld. He would have rather died than turn his body over to him.

But Mer'deth had only done it to save him, even though Mer'deth had to have known how badly John was going to react. That wasn't theft; that was self-sacrifice.

"He didn't steal my body," John repeated. "He…used it, to save my life."

"And his," Mehshu said, like that was the only relevant part. John had been sure of that himself at the time, but he didn't really think so anymore. Mehshu made Thoran's body lean closer to him. "And yet you are here because, as you yourself said, you fought his control so fiercely that it would have meant both your deaths, had he remained."

John swallowed. "He let me go," he said. "He knew you were going to execute him, but he came here anyway."

"Yes." Mehshu nodded. Thoran's head bobbed on his neck like she hadn't practiced the move often enough. "And I have to admit we were wondering why that would be so, since he gained nothing from it."

"He didn't want me to die," John said, remembering the planet where Rodney died, Mer'deth begging John to let him save his life. "He's sacrificing his life for me."

"Ah," Mehshu said thoughtfully. She stroked Thoran's chin, which somehow looked ridiculous. "That's difficult to accept."

"I know," John said quickly. "But it's true--it's got to be true. I mean, why the hell else would I be here, right? You can't just kill him for that!"

"I'm afraid his motivation for delivering you to us is irrelevant," Mehshu said. "He is Goa'uld, and if we are to rid the galaxy of their evil, we cannot allow any of them to live."

"What you're doing is evil," John spat at her. He meant it.

Back to Part One
On to Part Three