Fic: Wake, Part 1
Mission Report
Richard Woolsey
Atlantis Base
2 September 2012
In the year preceding the attack, an estimated 92% of the total Wraith population had submitted to taking the retrovirus engineered by doctors Beckett and Keller (section 12.1 for retrovirus compound and effects). The overpopulation of Wraith predators in proportion to viable human prey created a scenario in which the continued survival of the Wraith was in jeopardy. This instigated a civil war which later led to many Wraith seeking an alternative food source (section 11, "Cause and Effect: An Anthropological Study of Wraith Macro Socioeconomic Hierarchy"). While the dissemination of the retrovirus greatly diminished the Wraith as a threat, those who refused (hereon referred to as Type 1 Wraith, with Type 2 Wraith denoting those who submitted to treatment) took up offense with renewed ferocity and a bloodlust heretofore unseen. They were no longer hunting humans strictly as a food sourced, but with the purpose of eliminating all peoples allied with Atlantis...
“Shields at critical levels. One more hit like that and we'll be dead in the water.“
“Can you divert power?“
“Not if you still want weapons.“
...spread the remaining hives across Pegasus. Over the course of a year, Type 1 Wraith had succeeded in destroying hundreds of human populations. With our allies specifically targeted, traditional relocation failed to be a practical solution for the survivors. The city came to house refugees from nearly every world with which trade or other peaceful negotiations had been established. Atlantis had become both the safest place in the galaxy and the biggest target...
“Can we evacuate?“
“No. Even if we had enough time, the ZedPMs are nearly depleted. We wouldn‘t be able to maintain a stable wormhole . Besides, it wouldn‘t help.“
“We‘d be alive. That seems helpful.“
“Listen to me, Sheppard. This isn‘t like the other times the Wraith have come after Atlantis. They‘re not trying to get to Earth or protect their food source. They want to wipe us out. Leaving and destroying the city will only hold them off until they‘re able to track us down again, and then we‘ll be even more helpless than we are now.“
“Then give me another choice, McKay.“
“Working on it!“
...After a series of hit-and-run operations performed by the U.S.A.F. ships the Sigurd and the Valkyrie, in conjunction with the preemptive evacuation of allied home worlds (section 3, "Strategy and Preparation"), Type 1 Wraith found their numbers in a steady decline and their strategy failing. They had meant to cut off supplies and draw the Lanteans into an open confrontation outside of the city, but had instead greatly reduced their own food source and caused all the major powers of the galaxy to fall back into one central stronghold-Atlantis.
Many of the remaining Type 1s surrendered and were administered the retrovirus, bringing the enemy Wraith force to no more than a small handful of hive ships (section 14.3). The rest regrouped and launched a full scale attack on the city directly...
“I might have a solution, but you‘re not going to like it.“
“Let‘s hear it.“
“A couple of months ago, we were investigating the labs in the far west pier. We found what we believed to be an energy weapon-one that would fire with nearly twelve times the force of the Asgard beams on the Daedalus class ships.“
“You got it working again.“
“Possibly.“
“Possibly?“
“Alright, almost definitely, but it‘s never been tested. Based on the calculations, we‘ll be able to get off one, maybe two shots before we drain power completely, and if it doesn‘t work, we‘ll still kill the ZedPM.“
“Are there any other options?“
“None that end with us surviving.“
“Do it.“
...under siege for almost a week. The combined efforts of the Sigurd, Valkyrie, and those ships in the company of the Travelers brought down all but four of the hives before the vessels sustained too much damage and took refuge within the city's shields. The city's drones, complemented by those brought in by the Lord Protector of the Tower, was then fired, taking out two hives, and damaging a third. While their force was critically decreased, the final hives showed no intent to surrender or retreat, and Atlantis had exhausted all of its defensive resources (section 3.3, "Artillery"). Doctor Rodney McKay suggested a piece of experimental Ancient weaponry...
“McKay to Sheppard.“
“Go ahead.“
“We‘ve made it to the lab. It will take a few minutes to integrate the weapon into the city‘s power system. I need you in the chair and ready to fire on my mark.“
“Understood.“
...In what was the final act of the war, McKay and his team made the Ancient energy weapons operational. Though the two shots expended the last of city's power, the hive ships were destroyed, securing a victory not only for Atlantis, but for the entire Pegasus galaxy...
“Why aren‘t you firing?!“
“I tried. Nothing‘s happening... Oh no no no. This is bad.“
“What‘s going on?“
“Just give me a second.“
“McKay...“
“All of you, clear out! Get as far from here as possible, but don‘t use the transporters. They‘re probably going to go offline as soon as we fire.“
“What are you doing?“
“There‘s a problem with the power distribution. I‘m going to have to regulate it manually.“
“Why did you send your team out?“
“Because there‘s a chance it could overload, causing a catastrophic failure that would bring down this whole tower.“
“Get out of there. We‘ll figure out something else.“
“There isn‘t anything else. Besides, the chances of an overload are a lot slimmer than the chances of us getting blasted out of the water by the Wraith if we don‘t do this. Now, are you ready?“
“...“
“Colonel?“
“Ready.“
“Alright, now on my mark.“
...The last battle with the Wraith proved to have fewer casualties than any previous attack on Atlantis. With a full complement of ZPMs, and the backing of every military force in Pegasus, the Wraith threat met a complete and efficient defeat. While we mourn the twenty three lost aboard the ships, both terrestrial and alien, and the five scientists that died in the explosion that devastated the West pier, they will be remembered by Atlantis, Earth, and Pegasus as heroes that ended centuries of fear and oppression, bringing this galaxy its first glimpse of freedom...
“Direct hit. We have a kill on the first hive ship.“
“Oh, shit!“
“That‘s supposed to be good news, McKay.“
“No, that‘s great, but the blast knocked out one of the power conduits. I‘m going to have to have to double the output of the other two for the second shot.“
“Well do it and get out of there.“
“It‘s not that simple. At these levels, someone has to be regulating the device at all times.“
“Get someone else to do it.“
“I‘m the only one that understands the work around.“
“Teach them.“
“There‘s no time. John, I have to do this.“
“Fine. Just make it work.“
“Right. Fire in three. Two. One. Mark.“
“Direct hit. All hives have been eliminated, but we‘ve lost power on all major systems. How‘s it on your end, McKay? ... McKay? ... Rodney!“
***
John stared at Rodney lying in the infirmary bed. Rodney was pale except for a few deep scratches where debris had scraped his left cheek. More than anything else, he looked tired. It was an expression John was familiar with after all the years in Atlantis, everyone counting on Rodney to pull a miracle out of his head at the eleventh hour. Rodney had managed to do it again, but this would be the last time.
For a moment, John almost believed the medics had made a mistake. Rodney wasn't dead, just passed out after a week of sleeplessly saving their asses. Give him a day and a sandwich and he would be back to writing code and terrifying underlings. But then John reached out and traced the line of abrasions and all he felt was cold. Everything went gray after that.
***
John awoke with the familiar hangover unique to tranquilizers. His mind felt fuzzy and he was nauseated in the same way as on the last day of a bad flu-empty, like he'd been throwing up for days, but still queasy enough to be miserable. A minute passed before he was able to open his eyes, and another before he figured out he was in his own quarters. The last bits of sunset painted everything a soft blue.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes again, and rolled onto his side. The combination of Rodney's scent on the pillow and his right arm meeting nothing but empty space beside him catapulted John into awareness and pushed the last week to the forefront of his mind. All the muscles in his body jerked at once as he leapt out of bed. Before his feet even hit the floor, the lights burst on and he was momentarily staggered.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stay where you are."
John blinked against the lights and looked across the room to see a young Marine pointing a stunner at him. John sat down hard on the bed and buried his face in his hands. "Stand down, sergeant."
"I'm sorry, sir. Woolsey's orders," the other man replied, then tapped his headset. "Thompson to Keller. The colonel's awake."
John didn't look up as he waited for the doctor to arrive. The motion of jumping up had kept him from doing much more than focusing on fighting back nausea, and even if that were not the case, any attempt to resist would just get him stunned. He concentrated on breathing until he heard the door swish open.
"It's okay, son. I can take it from here." John looked up, surprised to hear Carson's thick, Scottish accent. Thompson shifted uncomfortably and said, "I was told to stand guard, sir."
"You're welcome to guard from outside the door, then," was Carson's reply. "I promise, if there's any trouble, you'll be the first to know." Thompson glanced warily between Carson and John, but dutifully took up post outside John's quarters.
"Thought you were on leave, doc." John said. Carson had left for Earth a few weeks prior to care for his mother who had suffered a broken hip.
"They called me back as soon as the attack was over. They're a bit short staffed in the infirmary at the moment, and also, well..." Carson aborted the statement as soon as it began.
"And Rodney," John finished, tension shooting through his body like an electric shock.
"Aye," Carson said, sighing. "How are you doing?"
"I'm..." John tried to answer, but no words came. He let out a heavy breath and scrubbed his hands across his face, then through his hair, grabbing two fists of it and pulling. That felt good, so he pulled harder.
"None of that now," Carson said, placing a hand on John's wrist. "Keep it up and I'll have to put you out again." John slowly released his grip and lowered his hands. While Carson took his pulse and blood pressure, John was able to really take stock of his surroundings for the first time since he regained consciousness.
The room looked like it had been ransacked. The desk was overturned, and the shelves that were mounted on the wall had been wiped clean, their cargo strewn across the floor. The sheets had been ripped off the bed and heaped beside a pile of shattered pieces that John recognized as his bedside lamp.
"What happened?" John asked.
"You threw a right fit in the infirmary," Carson said. "You were escorted here, but in the end we had to sedate you."
"I guess that explains the armed guard."
"Aye, and he'll be there for the next twenty four hours, so mind your manners."
"Woolsey sent me to my room? Am I supposed to sit here and think about what I've done?" John tried to grin, but it felt too slow and tight across his face.
"You're lucky you're not in the brig after the fuss you made," Carson said, but the reprimand wasn't genuine. "I'll be off now. Will you be alright? Do you need something to help you sleep?" John shook his head, suddenly so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Carson nodded knowingly, then left. John sprawled across the bed, but it felt like a betrayal, sleeping in it alone.
Officially speaking, John and Rodney had separate quarters. Atlantis, being so far away from Earth, and a civilian mission at that, was fairly lax in its adherence to military standards. Elizabeth had left their general enforcement to John, and, by the time her successors arrived, making sure the military contingent was all following strict protocol was fairly low on the list of priorities. Sharp salutes may have been a rare sight in the city, but as far as paperwork between Atlantis and Earth went, everything had to appear to be in order.
It wasn't a hardship. Atlantis was anything but short on space, and sometimes it was nice for John and Rodney to each have a place for themselves. Most nights, though-if they weren't working into the small hours of the morning, harboring a second consciousness, or slowly morphing into a giant bug-they slept together. John couldn't stomach lying there by himself, so he dropped onto the floor with a pillow and blanket and passed out.
He woke in the same position, his shoulder aching sharply at being forced into the floor for so long. John noticed the sun filtering through the window at an odd angle and checked his watch. He was surprised to see he had slept for nearly twenty one hours. He still felt exhausted.
John sat up and tried to stretch the knots out of his neck and shoulder. On the edge of the bed, someone had laid out a sandwich and bottled water for him. He couldn't remember his last meal, but still couldn't even think about eating. He felt like everything inside of him had been replaced with styrofoam.
He lay back down on the floor but couldn't shake a sudden sense of unease. It took a moment for him to realize it was the food that was bothering him. For some inexplicable reason, he couldn't stand the thought of it sitting on the bed. He got up and removed the offending items, but when he turned to throw them away he saw that the trash can was pinned beneath the desk. John turned and went for the door, intending to use one of the bins in the hall, but was stopped by a new Marine standing outside his door.
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you leave," he said.
"I'm just going down the hall, then I'll come right back." John tried to use his best 'talk down the natives with bows and arrows' tone, but it came out more condescending than anything else.
"I have orders, sir," the Marine replied stoically.
"Right," John said, running a hand through his hair. "Any idea when I'm up for parole on the house arrest?"
"Dr. Beckett is coming to do an assessment at 1800, sir," he replied.
Three hours. John could manage that. He turned back into the room, but as soon as the door slid shut it felt too small and he was full of nervous energy. He couldn't tell if it was that there wasn't enough space, or not enough air, but the only thing he wanted to do was run out. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Rodney felt like when he got claustrophobic. That thought pushed him over the edge and he immediately had to do something.
Leaving wasn't an option, so John set to work restoring his room. He hauled the furniture back in place, then turned his attention to the things that had been broken. Those that were beyond hope he threw out, and meticulously pieced back together those that weren't. As a distraction, it was effective. As long as he kept everything focused on this shelf, or that stack of books, he could forestall the urge to break it all again.
It wasn't until he was tweaking the sleeves on Rodney's jacket that was hung over the desk chair that he realized he hadn't been cleaning at all. He had been returning the room to the state it was in before the attack. By the time John noticed, it was almost exactly the way Rodney had left it.
The door swished open and John looked up, expecting to see Carson. Woolsey was hovering in the doorway instead. He hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat and strode purposefully into the room.
"Colonel," he said, "It's good to see you up and about." John didn't respond, just stared Woolsey down. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Yes, well, I came to inform you that I'm taking you off active duty for the time being." John averted his eyes, not trusting anything that might cross them. On instinct, he wanted to protest. He had a responsibility to the people of Atlantis, and, strictly speaking, Woolsey didn't have the authority to do more than ground him from off-world missions. Still, some loud, selfish part was relieved. He was exhausted in a way that went well beyond the physical, and the thought of going back to the daily grind, as much as there was one here, was intolerable. "Major Lorne will temporarily assume your duties."
Woolsey hesitated, seeming unsure whether or not to continue. After an awkward silence, he went on. "I understand that Dr. McKay meant a great deal to you. Might I suggest you take this time for yourself? Spend time with those closest to you; perhaps take leave back to Earth. Whatever you decide, I would encourage you to allow yourself to grieve." John nodded stiffly. "I'll send the doctor in now," Woolsey said, and then slipped out of the room. Carson entered a moment later, and didn't bother with small talk.
"I expect you're fine, physically," he said, "but I have to take a quick look at you anyway." Carson took his vitals with practiced speed. "BP is slightly elevated, but that's to be expected. If you can promise me you won't destroy any more furniture, I'll clear you of room restriction." John gave Carson the same stiff nod Woolsey had received a moment earlier. That was the only response he could muster at the moment. "I'll take my leave then. Don't hesitate to tell me if you need anything."
John hadn't moved his gaze from the floor since Woolsey left, but when he stole a glance at Carson then, the look of sadness and pity he saw there forced him to immediately look away again. It occurred to John that other people had lost Rodney too. Carson had been Rodney's friend, maybe even his best friend. John remembered how much guilt Rodney carried with him after the doctor had died. How strange and unfair was it now that Carson should bear that same grief? But that's the way it went in Pegasus: every blessing a curse in its own way. A perfect demonstration of Newton's third law, 'To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.' It should be their motto by now.
Carson laid a palm on John's forearm in a brief moment of sympathy, then turned and left. The second Carson was gone John couldn't stand being there anymore. He slipped on his radio and left without any particular destination in mind. He had reached the science wing when he realized he was subconsciously heading for Rodney's lab. He made a dash for the nearest transporter and set a course for the mess hall instead.
The halls were surprisingly vacant. John's morning runs were typically the only time he experienced the city without all the usual sounds of alarms, gun fire, ancient devices whirring to life, and scientists shouting to each other in every language. Over the years, the cacophony had become a melody that meant home to John, like the smell of saddle oil or his mother's perfume. As he neared the mess, however, voices and music began to filter down the hall.
John rounded the final corner and found the room filled with people. Many of the expedition members were present, and the refugees the Lanteans had taken in filled in every available space. John stood frozen in the doorway, trying to process the scene.
Children darted around tables and crowds of celebrating adults. John spotted the Athosians huddled on the floor beside one of the large picture windows. He might have noticed their attempts to wave him over had his eyes not been captured by the rows of faces staring out at him from the walls. Across the mess, pictures had been hung of every expedition member who had been lost in the war against the Wraith. Many of the photos had been taken right here in Atlantis. Others were teams in field gear, surrounded by smiling Pegasus natives from off world missions. A few were no more than the headshot from their personnel files, and those struck John the most.
He made a point to not look for anyone in particular, but some immediately jumped out. Ford: a 4x6 of him in his college graduation robes, smiling with an arm slung around each of his grandparents. A rosary was hung on the same pin with a prayer candle lit below. Peter Grodin: grinning from beneath a dismantled command station in the control room. Sumner: grainy, standing on a dock next to Colonel Everett, holding a massive catfish between them in a picture that was printed on the back of a page from a mission report. John closed his eyes to keep out any faces he was not yet ready to see.
"John." He recognized her voice immediately, but still jumped when Teyla's hand landed on his shoulder.
"I was- I have to... I'm sorry." John pivoted without meeting her eyes, then ran out of the mess. Before he knew it, John was sprinting down the hall, nearly colliding with a pair of blue-shirted scientists exiting a transporter. If they called out to him, he didn't hear as he turned into a seldom-used stairway. He took six flights of stairs without breaking pace, then tore off down a corridor and slid into his office. For a hysterical moment, he considered shoving the desk against the door as a blockade, but by then his brain had finally caught up with him.
“Colonel Sheppard, please respond. John!“ The tone of Teyla's voice over the radio suggested she had been at it for some time. He tapped his headset and replied, "Sheppard."
“John, are you alright?“ John grimaced, realizing how ridiculous he had just been, but unable to bring himself to regret it.
"Everything's fine," he said, which felt like a lie, but was the right answer. Teyla sighed audibly.
“Very well, but should you need-“
"I'll keep in touch. Sheppard out." John pulled the headset from his ear before she had the chance to respond and tossed it on the desk. He rubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes. He felt sore and groggy, as if he'd spent the day dodging bullets. He fell heavily into the chair and laid his head down on the desk. He just needed a minute to regroup enough to make the trek back to his quarters.
“Of course, the one place no one would think to look for you is the place you're actually supposed to be. Your hideout technique is genius in its simplicity,“ Rodney said, sounding exasperated.
“I'm not hiding,“ John said, attempting to conjure an air of indignation. “Mission reports don't write themselves.“ He gestured at the laptop in front of him as evidence. Rodney's mouth tensed into a thin line. He crossed the office in a few long strides, closing John's laptop as he leaned over the desk.
“We're going to have words, Sheppard,“ Rodney said, glaring. “Lots of them. But don't worry; I'll keep them small enough for you to keep up.“
“Something on your mind, McKay?“ John asked, leaning back in his chair.
“I'm just wondering what the logic was behind strapping yourself to a nuclear bomb and throwing yourself into the belly of a hive ship.“ Rodney's voice was low and venomous.
“I wasn't strapped to a bomb. I was flying a Puddle Jumper,“ John said, and if Rodney was angry before, John had just pushed him over the edge into full blown fury. Rodney shoved away from the desk and turned away. John had just sagged in his chair when Rodney turned back on him and delivered a well aimed punch to the right side of John's face.
“I'm not laughing, Sheppard!“ Rodney began shouting and gesticulating before John had the chance to recover from the blow. “You know, I was about two minutes away from having those jumpers hooked up remotely. They could have been in the air in about as much time as it took you to run your fool ass to the hangar, but instead Major Too-lucky-for-his-own-damn-good decides to ride it home in a blaze of self sacrificing glory! Two minutes, Sheppard. Two fucking minutes.“
“Rodney, we didn't have-“
“Yes we did.“
“There was no way to know that! There was no way to know if you could even get the jumpers going on their own! I did what I had to do, and if you think I'm going to apologize for that, you're wrong.“ John stood and approached Rodney as he spoke. He was getting angry now too.
“So what happens next time? Am I supposed to just watch the blip on the radar again as you run off to meet your own untimely end?“
John exhaled in frustration then looked Rodney in the eyes. “Yes,“ he answered, because, honestly, what else could he say? Rodney seemed to crumble a bit at that. He turned away from John and leaned against the desk.
“I don't know how to take that,“ Rodney said. The helpless tone that crept its way into the admission was such a stark contrast to the enraged shouting that came before; John wished he could have given a different answer.
“I'm sorry,“ John said.
“Fuck you,“ Rodney shot back, but allowed John to pull him into an embrace. “And for the record, 'So long' is a grossly inappropriate way to say goodbye in a situation like that.“
“I'm sorry,“ John said and kissed Rodney's forehead. Then again, “I'm sorry.“ Rodney finally relented and wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, allowing John to kiss him properly.
“Me too. For punching you in the face, I mean. Maybe you should have Carson look at that.“
“I'm fine.“ John said.
“I guess I'm just now realizing I'm probably not going to see you as an old man,“ Rodney said, pulling John a bit closer. “It's... uncomfortable.“
They stood in silence for a moment before John spoke up, “Look, buddy, I need you to promise me something.“
“What's that?“ Rodney prompted without moving.
“If something happens to me, here or off world, and I don't make it, I need you to promise that you won't do anything stupid. The city needs you a lot more than it needs me, and I need to know that I can count on you to take care of it.“ John didn't say it, but he hoped Rodney understood that he wanted to make sure Rodney would be okay without him.
Rodney pulled back and looked at John incredulously. “I'm sorry, but did I just hear you tell me not to 'do anything stupid'? Did you forget who you're talking to?“ John shrugged. “Don't worry; I'll leave the stupid heroics to you. Personally, I like surviving, and I'm not about to wilt in an Ophelian heap because you nobly-or ignobly, as the case may be-decide to sacrifice yourself for the cause.“
“Good,“ John said.
He couldn't be sure, but it seemed like the color began to shift in the room. Everything looked washed out, like overexposed film. Rodney looked at him then, strangely expressionless, and said, “Wake up.“
“What?“ John said, because this wasn't right. This isn't how it happened. The room around him started to fall away, morphing into something cold and too bright.
"Come on, Sheppard. Move." John jerked upright, nearly toppling the desk chair. Ronon grabbed John's shoulder to keep him from slipping onto the floor. "You alright?" John blinked at him stupidly, trying to separate the dream from reality. "Sheppard."
"Yeah. Fine," John finally managed to reply. "Why are you here?"
"You've been off radio all morning. I was sent to find you." Ronon said.
"Teyla?" John asked. Ronon shrugged noncommittally. "Right." Then, a minute late, "Wait, morning?"
"Almost lunch," Ronon said. John checked his watch in disbelief, but Ronon was right. John felt a brief flash of panic; he had lost so many hours recently he didn't even know what day it was. "Hey," Ronon nudged John's shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Up for a run?"
Despite feeling sore and tired, John agreed without hesitation. "I just need to go by my quarters first."
Ronon kept a few paces ahead of John as they walked down the corridor and John struggled to keep up. All his limbs felt heavy, and even though they were just walking at a normal pace, it was like running in sand. John told himself it was from spending the night hunched over a desk. He just needed some blood in his muscles to feel like himself again. Still, it was beginning to feel more and more like one of those nightmares where you were running for your life but couldn't get yourself to move any faster.
Ronon held the transporter open while John caught up. Inside, John was suddenly light headed and slumped against the wall.
"Alright, Sheppard?" Ronon asked.
"Fine. Just, not really awake yet," John said. Ronon gave him a sideways glance, but said nothing more.
Once at his quarters, John dashed inside and changed quickly into track pants and running shoes. He focused intently on the task at hand-the feel of the soft fabric, the tight weave of his shoelaces-and gave as little notice to the room around him as was possible. He was in and out in less than a minute.
"Let's go," John said, clapping Ronon on the shoulder. The two found their usual course and took off. Even on his best days, John couldn't keep pace with Ronon in an all-out run, but today he barely managed a quick jog. Every step jostled his bones, and made his joints ache with the memory of injuries long past. As he fell further and further behind, he forced all the energy he could find into pushing ahead. Dark spots danced across his vision, but he stubbornly shook his head and continued. Lungs burning painfully, he pushed hard against the ground. Without warning, his knees gave out beneath him and he couldn't tell up from down.
He didn't remember hitting the floor, but when his senses slowly began to return, Ronon was already standing over him, speaking into his headset. John blinked hard, but his sight refused to solidify. His limbs were trembling, and every breath seemed to choke him a little more. Finally, John closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take over.
***
"Hey, doc, he's awake," Ronon said from somewhere nearby.
"And about time too," was Carson's reply. From the smell of antiseptic and the IV in his arm, John registered that he was in the infirmary, but couldn't piece together exactly how he had gotten there.
"What happened?" John asked. His mouth was dry and sticky and the words barely came out.
"Passed out while we were running," Ronon said.
"It's no less than you deserve, bloody great fool," Carson said. "Severe dehydration, low blood sugar, and, of all things, you go running! When was the last time you ate something?"
"I, uh..." John honestly didn't know the answer to that, and his brain had yet to reach the point where lying was a possibility.
"That's what I thought," Carson said. "You're lucky it didn't happen sooner. We've had enough to deal with in the last few days without senseless Air Force colonels running themselves into the ground for no reason."
"You can just let me out of here, doc. I'm fine," John said, but the look on Carson's face told him it was a mistake before the words finished leaving his mouth.
"If there's one things you're not, Colonel Sheppard, it's fine. You'll be in here for the rest of the afternoon rehydrating, then you ought to just hope I don't send you back with another armed guard."
John grimaced at the thought.
"But he'll be good?" Ronon asked.
"Aye, he'll be right as rain if he doesn't continue trying to do himself in." Carson said. It was meant to be off the cuff, but John didn't miss the touch of worry in his voice or the loaded glances the doctor kept sending in his direction.
"Go ahead, Ronon. I'll let you know when they spring me," John said.
"Then it'll be up to you to make sure he doesn't kill himself with his own bad judgment," Carson added.
"Whatever you say, doc," Ronon said and left the infirmary.
There was a moment of tense silence while Carson checked John's IV line and vitals. Finally, Carson spoke. "I know it's a difficult time, lad, but if you need anything at all, even just to talk, don't think there's no one you can call."
"I know," John said. "Thanks."
"No thanks necessary as long as you start taking care of yourself. Get some rest now."
John nodded, leaned back, and once again let sleep take him.
A few hours later, Carson released John into Ronon's custody, without an armed guard, but with strict orders to take it easy and check in at regular intervals. John was used to silence around Ronon, but the walk back to John's room seemed awkward more than companionable.
"You don't have to stay," John said as they reached his door.
"Doctor's orders," Ronon replied with a smirk and walked into John's quarters.
"Right," John said, grimacing as he followed. "Look, I'm good. I know you probably want to be... celebrating or something." Ronon had dedicated his whole life to fighting the Wraith, after all. With them finally out of the picture, this should be the greatest time of his life. Instead he had gotten roped into babysitting.
Ronon leveled John with a stare and said, "Sheppard, I've been where you are." John only nodded, because, really, that said everything. Ronon had lost the woman who was as good as his wife when Sateda was destroyed. "That part that you lose when someone gets taken like that, you don't ever get back."
"So what do you do?"
"You keep fighting. You make it worth something. McKay was a hero. He died with honor."
John huffed a mirthless laugh. "That doesn't really help."
"It will," Ronon said seriously. John took a few steps away and ran his hands through his hair. An awful pressure rose up in his chest that threatened to crack right through his ribcage. He shut his eyes tight and tried to force the feeling back down.
"Hey, buddy, not that I don't appreciate what you're doing here, but why don't you take off? I think I'm just going to sleep. I'll let you know if anything happens." John didn't look up and Ronon didn't answer, just pulled John into one of his startling, bone crushing hugs and was gone.
John stood rooted to the spot for an immeasurable moment while he battled back something that wanted to be a sob. Finally, the feeling began to subside and John released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Whether from whatever Carson had pumped into his bloodstream or the countless hours over the last few days he had spent asleep or sedated John wasn't sure, but his body thrummed with nervous energy.
John paced the room, feeling like a caged animal. He couldn't stand being there, but facing anyone else in the city was even more intolerable. He knew some part of him should feel good; after eight years of constant war, the Wraith were defeated. He should be able to appreciate the victory, or at least stomach the idea of other people doing so.
Instead, he was consumed with the wrongness of the situation. This was Rodney's victory more than anyone else's. Rodney, who had saved everyone on this base too many times over to count. Rodney, who had stayed in the game through every long shot and Hail Mary pass. Rodney, who, even as the very last casualty of the war, had done it all again. Now, when it all finally, finally paid off, Rodney wasn't here to see it.
Since John had sat in the command chair in the Ancient outpost in Antarctica, Rodney had been the center of everything. The Atlantis expedition had become more home and family than John had ever known before, and Rodney had been there every step of the way. Atlantis without Rodney was empty, and John needed out.
***
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Part Two
Part Three
Richard Woolsey
Atlantis Base
2 September 2012
In the year preceding the attack, an estimated 92% of the total Wraith population had submitted to taking the retrovirus engineered by doctors Beckett and Keller (section 12.1 for retrovirus compound and effects). The overpopulation of Wraith predators in proportion to viable human prey created a scenario in which the continued survival of the Wraith was in jeopardy. This instigated a civil war which later led to many Wraith seeking an alternative food source (section 11, "Cause and Effect: An Anthropological Study of Wraith Macro Socioeconomic Hierarchy"). While the dissemination of the retrovirus greatly diminished the Wraith as a threat, those who refused (hereon referred to as Type 1 Wraith, with Type 2 Wraith denoting those who submitted to treatment) took up offense with renewed ferocity and a bloodlust heretofore unseen. They were no longer hunting humans strictly as a food sourced, but with the purpose of eliminating all peoples allied with Atlantis...
“Shields at critical levels. One more hit like that and we'll be dead in the water.“
“Can you divert power?“
“Not if you still want weapons.“
...spread the remaining hives across Pegasus. Over the course of a year, Type 1 Wraith had succeeded in destroying hundreds of human populations. With our allies specifically targeted, traditional relocation failed to be a practical solution for the survivors. The city came to house refugees from nearly every world with which trade or other peaceful negotiations had been established. Atlantis had become both the safest place in the galaxy and the biggest target...
“Can we evacuate?“
“No. Even if we had enough time, the ZedPMs are nearly depleted. We wouldn‘t be able to maintain a stable wormhole . Besides, it wouldn‘t help.“
“We‘d be alive. That seems helpful.“
“Listen to me, Sheppard. This isn‘t like the other times the Wraith have come after Atlantis. They‘re not trying to get to Earth or protect their food source. They want to wipe us out. Leaving and destroying the city will only hold them off until they‘re able to track us down again, and then we‘ll be even more helpless than we are now.“
“Then give me another choice, McKay.“
“Working on it!“
...After a series of hit-and-run operations performed by the U.S.A.F. ships the Sigurd and the Valkyrie, in conjunction with the preemptive evacuation of allied home worlds (section 3, "Strategy and Preparation"), Type 1 Wraith found their numbers in a steady decline and their strategy failing. They had meant to cut off supplies and draw the Lanteans into an open confrontation outside of the city, but had instead greatly reduced their own food source and caused all the major powers of the galaxy to fall back into one central stronghold-Atlantis.
Many of the remaining Type 1s surrendered and were administered the retrovirus, bringing the enemy Wraith force to no more than a small handful of hive ships (section 14.3). The rest regrouped and launched a full scale attack on the city directly...
“I might have a solution, but you‘re not going to like it.“
“Let‘s hear it.“
“A couple of months ago, we were investigating the labs in the far west pier. We found what we believed to be an energy weapon-one that would fire with nearly twelve times the force of the Asgard beams on the Daedalus class ships.“
“You got it working again.“
“Possibly.“
“Possibly?“
“Alright, almost definitely, but it‘s never been tested. Based on the calculations, we‘ll be able to get off one, maybe two shots before we drain power completely, and if it doesn‘t work, we‘ll still kill the ZedPM.“
“Are there any other options?“
“None that end with us surviving.“
“Do it.“
...under siege for almost a week. The combined efforts of the Sigurd, Valkyrie, and those ships in the company of the Travelers brought down all but four of the hives before the vessels sustained too much damage and took refuge within the city's shields. The city's drones, complemented by those brought in by the Lord Protector of the Tower, was then fired, taking out two hives, and damaging a third. While their force was critically decreased, the final hives showed no intent to surrender or retreat, and Atlantis had exhausted all of its defensive resources (section 3.3, "Artillery"). Doctor Rodney McKay suggested a piece of experimental Ancient weaponry...
“McKay to Sheppard.“
“Go ahead.“
“We‘ve made it to the lab. It will take a few minutes to integrate the weapon into the city‘s power system. I need you in the chair and ready to fire on my mark.“
“Understood.“
...In what was the final act of the war, McKay and his team made the Ancient energy weapons operational. Though the two shots expended the last of city's power, the hive ships were destroyed, securing a victory not only for Atlantis, but for the entire Pegasus galaxy...
“Why aren‘t you firing?!“
“I tried. Nothing‘s happening... Oh no no no. This is bad.“
“What‘s going on?“
“Just give me a second.“
“McKay...“
“All of you, clear out! Get as far from here as possible, but don‘t use the transporters. They‘re probably going to go offline as soon as we fire.“
“What are you doing?“
“There‘s a problem with the power distribution. I‘m going to have to regulate it manually.“
“Why did you send your team out?“
“Because there‘s a chance it could overload, causing a catastrophic failure that would bring down this whole tower.“
“Get out of there. We‘ll figure out something else.“
“There isn‘t anything else. Besides, the chances of an overload are a lot slimmer than the chances of us getting blasted out of the water by the Wraith if we don‘t do this. Now, are you ready?“
“...“
“Colonel?“
“Ready.“
“Alright, now on my mark.“
...The last battle with the Wraith proved to have fewer casualties than any previous attack on Atlantis. With a full complement of ZPMs, and the backing of every military force in Pegasus, the Wraith threat met a complete and efficient defeat. While we mourn the twenty three lost aboard the ships, both terrestrial and alien, and the five scientists that died in the explosion that devastated the West pier, they will be remembered by Atlantis, Earth, and Pegasus as heroes that ended centuries of fear and oppression, bringing this galaxy its first glimpse of freedom...
“Direct hit. We have a kill on the first hive ship.“
“Oh, shit!“
“That‘s supposed to be good news, McKay.“
“No, that‘s great, but the blast knocked out one of the power conduits. I‘m going to have to have to double the output of the other two for the second shot.“
“Well do it and get out of there.“
“It‘s not that simple. At these levels, someone has to be regulating the device at all times.“
“Get someone else to do it.“
“I‘m the only one that understands the work around.“
“Teach them.“
“There‘s no time. John, I have to do this.“
“Fine. Just make it work.“
“Right. Fire in three. Two. One. Mark.“
“Direct hit. All hives have been eliminated, but we‘ve lost power on all major systems. How‘s it on your end, McKay? ... McKay? ... Rodney!“
***
John stared at Rodney lying in the infirmary bed. Rodney was pale except for a few deep scratches where debris had scraped his left cheek. More than anything else, he looked tired. It was an expression John was familiar with after all the years in Atlantis, everyone counting on Rodney to pull a miracle out of his head at the eleventh hour. Rodney had managed to do it again, but this would be the last time.
For a moment, John almost believed the medics had made a mistake. Rodney wasn't dead, just passed out after a week of sleeplessly saving their asses. Give him a day and a sandwich and he would be back to writing code and terrifying underlings. But then John reached out and traced the line of abrasions and all he felt was cold. Everything went gray after that.
***
John awoke with the familiar hangover unique to tranquilizers. His mind felt fuzzy and he was nauseated in the same way as on the last day of a bad flu-empty, like he'd been throwing up for days, but still queasy enough to be miserable. A minute passed before he was able to open his eyes, and another before he figured out he was in his own quarters. The last bits of sunset painted everything a soft blue.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes again, and rolled onto his side. The combination of Rodney's scent on the pillow and his right arm meeting nothing but empty space beside him catapulted John into awareness and pushed the last week to the forefront of his mind. All the muscles in his body jerked at once as he leapt out of bed. Before his feet even hit the floor, the lights burst on and he was momentarily staggered.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stay where you are."
John blinked against the lights and looked across the room to see a young Marine pointing a stunner at him. John sat down hard on the bed and buried his face in his hands. "Stand down, sergeant."
"I'm sorry, sir. Woolsey's orders," the other man replied, then tapped his headset. "Thompson to Keller. The colonel's awake."
John didn't look up as he waited for the doctor to arrive. The motion of jumping up had kept him from doing much more than focusing on fighting back nausea, and even if that were not the case, any attempt to resist would just get him stunned. He concentrated on breathing until he heard the door swish open.
"It's okay, son. I can take it from here." John looked up, surprised to hear Carson's thick, Scottish accent. Thompson shifted uncomfortably and said, "I was told to stand guard, sir."
"You're welcome to guard from outside the door, then," was Carson's reply. "I promise, if there's any trouble, you'll be the first to know." Thompson glanced warily between Carson and John, but dutifully took up post outside John's quarters.
"Thought you were on leave, doc." John said. Carson had left for Earth a few weeks prior to care for his mother who had suffered a broken hip.
"They called me back as soon as the attack was over. They're a bit short staffed in the infirmary at the moment, and also, well..." Carson aborted the statement as soon as it began.
"And Rodney," John finished, tension shooting through his body like an electric shock.
"Aye," Carson said, sighing. "How are you doing?"
"I'm..." John tried to answer, but no words came. He let out a heavy breath and scrubbed his hands across his face, then through his hair, grabbing two fists of it and pulling. That felt good, so he pulled harder.
"None of that now," Carson said, placing a hand on John's wrist. "Keep it up and I'll have to put you out again." John slowly released his grip and lowered his hands. While Carson took his pulse and blood pressure, John was able to really take stock of his surroundings for the first time since he regained consciousness.
The room looked like it had been ransacked. The desk was overturned, and the shelves that were mounted on the wall had been wiped clean, their cargo strewn across the floor. The sheets had been ripped off the bed and heaped beside a pile of shattered pieces that John recognized as his bedside lamp.
"What happened?" John asked.
"You threw a right fit in the infirmary," Carson said. "You were escorted here, but in the end we had to sedate you."
"I guess that explains the armed guard."
"Aye, and he'll be there for the next twenty four hours, so mind your manners."
"Woolsey sent me to my room? Am I supposed to sit here and think about what I've done?" John tried to grin, but it felt too slow and tight across his face.
"You're lucky you're not in the brig after the fuss you made," Carson said, but the reprimand wasn't genuine. "I'll be off now. Will you be alright? Do you need something to help you sleep?" John shook his head, suddenly so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Carson nodded knowingly, then left. John sprawled across the bed, but it felt like a betrayal, sleeping in it alone.
Officially speaking, John and Rodney had separate quarters. Atlantis, being so far away from Earth, and a civilian mission at that, was fairly lax in its adherence to military standards. Elizabeth had left their general enforcement to John, and, by the time her successors arrived, making sure the military contingent was all following strict protocol was fairly low on the list of priorities. Sharp salutes may have been a rare sight in the city, but as far as paperwork between Atlantis and Earth went, everything had to appear to be in order.
It wasn't a hardship. Atlantis was anything but short on space, and sometimes it was nice for John and Rodney to each have a place for themselves. Most nights, though-if they weren't working into the small hours of the morning, harboring a second consciousness, or slowly morphing into a giant bug-they slept together. John couldn't stomach lying there by himself, so he dropped onto the floor with a pillow and blanket and passed out.
He woke in the same position, his shoulder aching sharply at being forced into the floor for so long. John noticed the sun filtering through the window at an odd angle and checked his watch. He was surprised to see he had slept for nearly twenty one hours. He still felt exhausted.
John sat up and tried to stretch the knots out of his neck and shoulder. On the edge of the bed, someone had laid out a sandwich and bottled water for him. He couldn't remember his last meal, but still couldn't even think about eating. He felt like everything inside of him had been replaced with styrofoam.
He lay back down on the floor but couldn't shake a sudden sense of unease. It took a moment for him to realize it was the food that was bothering him. For some inexplicable reason, he couldn't stand the thought of it sitting on the bed. He got up and removed the offending items, but when he turned to throw them away he saw that the trash can was pinned beneath the desk. John turned and went for the door, intending to use one of the bins in the hall, but was stopped by a new Marine standing outside his door.
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you leave," he said.
"I'm just going down the hall, then I'll come right back." John tried to use his best 'talk down the natives with bows and arrows' tone, but it came out more condescending than anything else.
"I have orders, sir," the Marine replied stoically.
"Right," John said, running a hand through his hair. "Any idea when I'm up for parole on the house arrest?"
"Dr. Beckett is coming to do an assessment at 1800, sir," he replied.
Three hours. John could manage that. He turned back into the room, but as soon as the door slid shut it felt too small and he was full of nervous energy. He couldn't tell if it was that there wasn't enough space, or not enough air, but the only thing he wanted to do was run out. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Rodney felt like when he got claustrophobic. That thought pushed him over the edge and he immediately had to do something.
Leaving wasn't an option, so John set to work restoring his room. He hauled the furniture back in place, then turned his attention to the things that had been broken. Those that were beyond hope he threw out, and meticulously pieced back together those that weren't. As a distraction, it was effective. As long as he kept everything focused on this shelf, or that stack of books, he could forestall the urge to break it all again.
It wasn't until he was tweaking the sleeves on Rodney's jacket that was hung over the desk chair that he realized he hadn't been cleaning at all. He had been returning the room to the state it was in before the attack. By the time John noticed, it was almost exactly the way Rodney had left it.
The door swished open and John looked up, expecting to see Carson. Woolsey was hovering in the doorway instead. He hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat and strode purposefully into the room.
"Colonel," he said, "It's good to see you up and about." John didn't respond, just stared Woolsey down. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Yes, well, I came to inform you that I'm taking you off active duty for the time being." John averted his eyes, not trusting anything that might cross them. On instinct, he wanted to protest. He had a responsibility to the people of Atlantis, and, strictly speaking, Woolsey didn't have the authority to do more than ground him from off-world missions. Still, some loud, selfish part was relieved. He was exhausted in a way that went well beyond the physical, and the thought of going back to the daily grind, as much as there was one here, was intolerable. "Major Lorne will temporarily assume your duties."
Woolsey hesitated, seeming unsure whether or not to continue. After an awkward silence, he went on. "I understand that Dr. McKay meant a great deal to you. Might I suggest you take this time for yourself? Spend time with those closest to you; perhaps take leave back to Earth. Whatever you decide, I would encourage you to allow yourself to grieve." John nodded stiffly. "I'll send the doctor in now," Woolsey said, and then slipped out of the room. Carson entered a moment later, and didn't bother with small talk.
"I expect you're fine, physically," he said, "but I have to take a quick look at you anyway." Carson took his vitals with practiced speed. "BP is slightly elevated, but that's to be expected. If you can promise me you won't destroy any more furniture, I'll clear you of room restriction." John gave Carson the same stiff nod Woolsey had received a moment earlier. That was the only response he could muster at the moment. "I'll take my leave then. Don't hesitate to tell me if you need anything."
John hadn't moved his gaze from the floor since Woolsey left, but when he stole a glance at Carson then, the look of sadness and pity he saw there forced him to immediately look away again. It occurred to John that other people had lost Rodney too. Carson had been Rodney's friend, maybe even his best friend. John remembered how much guilt Rodney carried with him after the doctor had died. How strange and unfair was it now that Carson should bear that same grief? But that's the way it went in Pegasus: every blessing a curse in its own way. A perfect demonstration of Newton's third law, 'To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.' It should be their motto by now.
Carson laid a palm on John's forearm in a brief moment of sympathy, then turned and left. The second Carson was gone John couldn't stand being there anymore. He slipped on his radio and left without any particular destination in mind. He had reached the science wing when he realized he was subconsciously heading for Rodney's lab. He made a dash for the nearest transporter and set a course for the mess hall instead.
The halls were surprisingly vacant. John's morning runs were typically the only time he experienced the city without all the usual sounds of alarms, gun fire, ancient devices whirring to life, and scientists shouting to each other in every language. Over the years, the cacophony had become a melody that meant home to John, like the smell of saddle oil or his mother's perfume. As he neared the mess, however, voices and music began to filter down the hall.
John rounded the final corner and found the room filled with people. Many of the expedition members were present, and the refugees the Lanteans had taken in filled in every available space. John stood frozen in the doorway, trying to process the scene.
Children darted around tables and crowds of celebrating adults. John spotted the Athosians huddled on the floor beside one of the large picture windows. He might have noticed their attempts to wave him over had his eyes not been captured by the rows of faces staring out at him from the walls. Across the mess, pictures had been hung of every expedition member who had been lost in the war against the Wraith. Many of the photos had been taken right here in Atlantis. Others were teams in field gear, surrounded by smiling Pegasus natives from off world missions. A few were no more than the headshot from their personnel files, and those struck John the most.
He made a point to not look for anyone in particular, but some immediately jumped out. Ford: a 4x6 of him in his college graduation robes, smiling with an arm slung around each of his grandparents. A rosary was hung on the same pin with a prayer candle lit below. Peter Grodin: grinning from beneath a dismantled command station in the control room. Sumner: grainy, standing on a dock next to Colonel Everett, holding a massive catfish between them in a picture that was printed on the back of a page from a mission report. John closed his eyes to keep out any faces he was not yet ready to see.
"John." He recognized her voice immediately, but still jumped when Teyla's hand landed on his shoulder.
"I was- I have to... I'm sorry." John pivoted without meeting her eyes, then ran out of the mess. Before he knew it, John was sprinting down the hall, nearly colliding with a pair of blue-shirted scientists exiting a transporter. If they called out to him, he didn't hear as he turned into a seldom-used stairway. He took six flights of stairs without breaking pace, then tore off down a corridor and slid into his office. For a hysterical moment, he considered shoving the desk against the door as a blockade, but by then his brain had finally caught up with him.
“Colonel Sheppard, please respond. John!“ The tone of Teyla's voice over the radio suggested she had been at it for some time. He tapped his headset and replied, "Sheppard."
“John, are you alright?“ John grimaced, realizing how ridiculous he had just been, but unable to bring himself to regret it.
"Everything's fine," he said, which felt like a lie, but was the right answer. Teyla sighed audibly.
“Very well, but should you need-“
"I'll keep in touch. Sheppard out." John pulled the headset from his ear before she had the chance to respond and tossed it on the desk. He rubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes. He felt sore and groggy, as if he'd spent the day dodging bullets. He fell heavily into the chair and laid his head down on the desk. He just needed a minute to regroup enough to make the trek back to his quarters.
“Of course, the one place no one would think to look for you is the place you're actually supposed to be. Your hideout technique is genius in its simplicity,“ Rodney said, sounding exasperated.
“I'm not hiding,“ John said, attempting to conjure an air of indignation. “Mission reports don't write themselves.“ He gestured at the laptop in front of him as evidence. Rodney's mouth tensed into a thin line. He crossed the office in a few long strides, closing John's laptop as he leaned over the desk.
“We're going to have words, Sheppard,“ Rodney said, glaring. “Lots of them. But don't worry; I'll keep them small enough for you to keep up.“
“Something on your mind, McKay?“ John asked, leaning back in his chair.
“I'm just wondering what the logic was behind strapping yourself to a nuclear bomb and throwing yourself into the belly of a hive ship.“ Rodney's voice was low and venomous.
“I wasn't strapped to a bomb. I was flying a Puddle Jumper,“ John said, and if Rodney was angry before, John had just pushed him over the edge into full blown fury. Rodney shoved away from the desk and turned away. John had just sagged in his chair when Rodney turned back on him and delivered a well aimed punch to the right side of John's face.
“I'm not laughing, Sheppard!“ Rodney began shouting and gesticulating before John had the chance to recover from the blow. “You know, I was about two minutes away from having those jumpers hooked up remotely. They could have been in the air in about as much time as it took you to run your fool ass to the hangar, but instead Major Too-lucky-for-his-own-damn-good decides to ride it home in a blaze of self sacrificing glory! Two minutes, Sheppard. Two fucking minutes.“
“Rodney, we didn't have-“
“Yes we did.“
“There was no way to know that! There was no way to know if you could even get the jumpers going on their own! I did what I had to do, and if you think I'm going to apologize for that, you're wrong.“ John stood and approached Rodney as he spoke. He was getting angry now too.
“So what happens next time? Am I supposed to just watch the blip on the radar again as you run off to meet your own untimely end?“
John exhaled in frustration then looked Rodney in the eyes. “Yes,“ he answered, because, honestly, what else could he say? Rodney seemed to crumble a bit at that. He turned away from John and leaned against the desk.
“I don't know how to take that,“ Rodney said. The helpless tone that crept its way into the admission was such a stark contrast to the enraged shouting that came before; John wished he could have given a different answer.
“I'm sorry,“ John said.
“Fuck you,“ Rodney shot back, but allowed John to pull him into an embrace. “And for the record, 'So long' is a grossly inappropriate way to say goodbye in a situation like that.“
“I'm sorry,“ John said and kissed Rodney's forehead. Then again, “I'm sorry.“ Rodney finally relented and wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, allowing John to kiss him properly.
“Me too. For punching you in the face, I mean. Maybe you should have Carson look at that.“
“I'm fine.“ John said.
“I guess I'm just now realizing I'm probably not going to see you as an old man,“ Rodney said, pulling John a bit closer. “It's... uncomfortable.“
They stood in silence for a moment before John spoke up, “Look, buddy, I need you to promise me something.“
“What's that?“ Rodney prompted without moving.
“If something happens to me, here or off world, and I don't make it, I need you to promise that you won't do anything stupid. The city needs you a lot more than it needs me, and I need to know that I can count on you to take care of it.“ John didn't say it, but he hoped Rodney understood that he wanted to make sure Rodney would be okay without him.
Rodney pulled back and looked at John incredulously. “I'm sorry, but did I just hear you tell me not to 'do anything stupid'? Did you forget who you're talking to?“ John shrugged. “Don't worry; I'll leave the stupid heroics to you. Personally, I like surviving, and I'm not about to wilt in an Ophelian heap because you nobly-or ignobly, as the case may be-decide to sacrifice yourself for the cause.“
“Good,“ John said.
He couldn't be sure, but it seemed like the color began to shift in the room. Everything looked washed out, like overexposed film. Rodney looked at him then, strangely expressionless, and said, “Wake up.“
“What?“ John said, because this wasn't right. This isn't how it happened. The room around him started to fall away, morphing into something cold and too bright.
"Come on, Sheppard. Move." John jerked upright, nearly toppling the desk chair. Ronon grabbed John's shoulder to keep him from slipping onto the floor. "You alright?" John blinked at him stupidly, trying to separate the dream from reality. "Sheppard."
"Yeah. Fine," John finally managed to reply. "Why are you here?"
"You've been off radio all morning. I was sent to find you." Ronon said.
"Teyla?" John asked. Ronon shrugged noncommittally. "Right." Then, a minute late, "Wait, morning?"
"Almost lunch," Ronon said. John checked his watch in disbelief, but Ronon was right. John felt a brief flash of panic; he had lost so many hours recently he didn't even know what day it was. "Hey," Ronon nudged John's shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Up for a run?"
Despite feeling sore and tired, John agreed without hesitation. "I just need to go by my quarters first."
Ronon kept a few paces ahead of John as they walked down the corridor and John struggled to keep up. All his limbs felt heavy, and even though they were just walking at a normal pace, it was like running in sand. John told himself it was from spending the night hunched over a desk. He just needed some blood in his muscles to feel like himself again. Still, it was beginning to feel more and more like one of those nightmares where you were running for your life but couldn't get yourself to move any faster.
Ronon held the transporter open while John caught up. Inside, John was suddenly light headed and slumped against the wall.
"Alright, Sheppard?" Ronon asked.
"Fine. Just, not really awake yet," John said. Ronon gave him a sideways glance, but said nothing more.
Once at his quarters, John dashed inside and changed quickly into track pants and running shoes. He focused intently on the task at hand-the feel of the soft fabric, the tight weave of his shoelaces-and gave as little notice to the room around him as was possible. He was in and out in less than a minute.
"Let's go," John said, clapping Ronon on the shoulder. The two found their usual course and took off. Even on his best days, John couldn't keep pace with Ronon in an all-out run, but today he barely managed a quick jog. Every step jostled his bones, and made his joints ache with the memory of injuries long past. As he fell further and further behind, he forced all the energy he could find into pushing ahead. Dark spots danced across his vision, but he stubbornly shook his head and continued. Lungs burning painfully, he pushed hard against the ground. Without warning, his knees gave out beneath him and he couldn't tell up from down.
He didn't remember hitting the floor, but when his senses slowly began to return, Ronon was already standing over him, speaking into his headset. John blinked hard, but his sight refused to solidify. His limbs were trembling, and every breath seemed to choke him a little more. Finally, John closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take over.
***
"Hey, doc, he's awake," Ronon said from somewhere nearby.
"And about time too," was Carson's reply. From the smell of antiseptic and the IV in his arm, John registered that he was in the infirmary, but couldn't piece together exactly how he had gotten there.
"What happened?" John asked. His mouth was dry and sticky and the words barely came out.
"Passed out while we were running," Ronon said.
"It's no less than you deserve, bloody great fool," Carson said. "Severe dehydration, low blood sugar, and, of all things, you go running! When was the last time you ate something?"
"I, uh..." John honestly didn't know the answer to that, and his brain had yet to reach the point where lying was a possibility.
"That's what I thought," Carson said. "You're lucky it didn't happen sooner. We've had enough to deal with in the last few days without senseless Air Force colonels running themselves into the ground for no reason."
"You can just let me out of here, doc. I'm fine," John said, but the look on Carson's face told him it was a mistake before the words finished leaving his mouth.
"If there's one things you're not, Colonel Sheppard, it's fine. You'll be in here for the rest of the afternoon rehydrating, then you ought to just hope I don't send you back with another armed guard."
John grimaced at the thought.
"But he'll be good?" Ronon asked.
"Aye, he'll be right as rain if he doesn't continue trying to do himself in." Carson said. It was meant to be off the cuff, but John didn't miss the touch of worry in his voice or the loaded glances the doctor kept sending in his direction.
"Go ahead, Ronon. I'll let you know when they spring me," John said.
"Then it'll be up to you to make sure he doesn't kill himself with his own bad judgment," Carson added.
"Whatever you say, doc," Ronon said and left the infirmary.
There was a moment of tense silence while Carson checked John's IV line and vitals. Finally, Carson spoke. "I know it's a difficult time, lad, but if you need anything at all, even just to talk, don't think there's no one you can call."
"I know," John said. "Thanks."
"No thanks necessary as long as you start taking care of yourself. Get some rest now."
John nodded, leaned back, and once again let sleep take him.
A few hours later, Carson released John into Ronon's custody, without an armed guard, but with strict orders to take it easy and check in at regular intervals. John was used to silence around Ronon, but the walk back to John's room seemed awkward more than companionable.
"You don't have to stay," John said as they reached his door.
"Doctor's orders," Ronon replied with a smirk and walked into John's quarters.
"Right," John said, grimacing as he followed. "Look, I'm good. I know you probably want to be... celebrating or something." Ronon had dedicated his whole life to fighting the Wraith, after all. With them finally out of the picture, this should be the greatest time of his life. Instead he had gotten roped into babysitting.
Ronon leveled John with a stare and said, "Sheppard, I've been where you are." John only nodded, because, really, that said everything. Ronon had lost the woman who was as good as his wife when Sateda was destroyed. "That part that you lose when someone gets taken like that, you don't ever get back."
"So what do you do?"
"You keep fighting. You make it worth something. McKay was a hero. He died with honor."
John huffed a mirthless laugh. "That doesn't really help."
"It will," Ronon said seriously. John took a few steps away and ran his hands through his hair. An awful pressure rose up in his chest that threatened to crack right through his ribcage. He shut his eyes tight and tried to force the feeling back down.
"Hey, buddy, not that I don't appreciate what you're doing here, but why don't you take off? I think I'm just going to sleep. I'll let you know if anything happens." John didn't look up and Ronon didn't answer, just pulled John into one of his startling, bone crushing hugs and was gone.
John stood rooted to the spot for an immeasurable moment while he battled back something that wanted to be a sob. Finally, the feeling began to subside and John released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Whether from whatever Carson had pumped into his bloodstream or the countless hours over the last few days he had spent asleep or sedated John wasn't sure, but his body thrummed with nervous energy.
John paced the room, feeling like a caged animal. He couldn't stand being there, but facing anyone else in the city was even more intolerable. He knew some part of him should feel good; after eight years of constant war, the Wraith were defeated. He should be able to appreciate the victory, or at least stomach the idea of other people doing so.
Instead, he was consumed with the wrongness of the situation. This was Rodney's victory more than anyone else's. Rodney, who had saved everyone on this base too many times over to count. Rodney, who had stayed in the game through every long shot and Hail Mary pass. Rodney, who, even as the very last casualty of the war, had done it all again. Now, when it all finally, finally paid off, Rodney wasn't here to see it.
Since John had sat in the command chair in the Ancient outpost in Antarctica, Rodney had been the center of everything. The Atlantis expedition had become more home and family than John had ever known before, and Rodney had been there every step of the way. Atlantis without Rodney was empty, and John needed out.
***
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Part Two
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