AN: this is a tag to my previous fic, Recovery and doesn't fit outside that setting. It also, again, features Titan5's Sheppard clan, with her gracious permission. Woman, you rock.
Running.
Running.
Running.
Running and fearing the worst.
Most people seemed to describe their nightmares as terrible things happening to them, the dreamer. They're in a car accident, they're being chased by a monster, they're personally threatened by some entity or an event. God, if only that were it.
Sheppard could pilot some of the most dangerous crafts ever devised by mankind. He could run far enough and fast enough to, almost, keep up with Ronon. He could fly, he could fight, he knew how to survive. And yet, at some point, he had discovered that while he could, and would, fight to survive, his own wellbeing had become... not irrelevant, but a secondary concern.
Run, and hope to God you make it in time.
Because he can, and has, survived a litany of terrors normally reserved for the goriest and grisliest of Hollywood horror movies. Pain, it seemed, had become a near-constant in his life. He wasn't immune to it, though he was somewhat numbed to it, his body having experienced a wider spectrum of agony than most people ever will, and with it built a different set of scales to measure that pain with. But more than that, he didn't necessarily fear pain anymore. He was no masochist, he'd never seek it out, and he'd never not try to avoid it either, but if there was suffering to be dished out...
Do anything you want to me, but I won't let you touch them.
If there was one thing he had learned in his years in the Air Force, both in the Pegasus Galaxy and back on Earth, it was that nothing, nothing, could stop him from trying to save his people, his team, his family.
He could live with pain. Pure, uncomplicated physical pain.
But the pain of emotional loss, that thorny, snarling monster? No. He had never learned how to fight that monster, and he doubted he ever would. Grief was messy. Grief was constant questions of what he could have done different. Grief spoke of how if he had just tried that little bit harder, given that little bit more of himself, they'd still be here with him. Grief was constant, unchanging. Time didn't heal it, despite what people told you as a child when your favourite pet died. They meant well, tried to convince you that it won't always hurt. But grief was like your shadow; it's always there, you just learn to accept it.
After all, you can't fight your shadow.
Tossing and turning in the plush bed, John gave it his best shot, twisting the Egyptian cotton sheets, limbs tangling, pushing the fancy feather down pillows away, caught in the throes of fear. Trying to fight the monster.
As the whine of Wraith Darts pass overhead, he sprints towards the sound of screams, of pleas for help. He hears his name being called in desperation, and he knows it is his team that needs him. He draws upon the last reserves of his dwindling strength, his left thigh screaming, his hands burning, his lungs heaving for air. He stumbles. Trips. But the ground was clear, wasn't it?
Except what was once an open plain, darkened by night and lit by an active 'Gate, has suddenly become pale grey bushland, red with distant flames. He recognises the planet, just as he realises what caused him to fall. Dumbstruck, he stares at the pale corpse of one Private First Class Catherine Sullivan. No and no. He got them back home, back to Atlantis. She survived, was at the SGC for rehab even now. Except he hesitantly reaches out to touch her cold, clammy skin, feels the stiffness of rigour mortis. It feels too real to be a dream.
He lifts his fingers from her lifeless body, hearing still the cries of his team, knowing he has to go help them, but as he struggles to stand he slips in the bloodied leaves, and falls again, greeted this time by the shrunken forms of three other Atlantis off-world team members. The distinctive markings left upon their chests leave no doubt as to the fate that befell them. He pulls the first body's tag. Lieutenant Kerrigan. It wasn't too hard to guess who the other two were.
Suddenly, he sees them the way he, Ronon, and Teyla had found them back on P4V-872, only this time, he cannot reach them. He watches Lance Corporal Thomas Blackburn frantically try to keep Sullivan from bleeding out, Doctor Tessa Jacques already unconscious, Kerrigan single-handedly holding a defensive line, almost out of ammo. Held back by an invisible force, Sheppard is mired in horror, forced to witness Kerrigan pull Blackburn away from Sullivan, hear their screams of anger and defiance as Jacques wakes just in time to be fed upon. Hear them pleading into their radios for help, hear their accusations.
"You said you'd come for us! We trusted you!"
Fighting hand to hand, the last standing members of AR-16 are besieged by the Wraith, then Kerrigan is caught in a headlock. The gloating Wraith Commander allows Blackburn to push through, desperate to reach his team leader, only to be grabbed at the last second, and fed on, Kerrigan kicking and screaming until Thomas' last breath. She deflates then, as though her life was tied to her team's. In one last act of defiance, she spits in the eye of the Wraith Commander, then her life is drained, her body tossed aside like trash.
The scene shifts back to the burning trees, the fire is closer now, the heat begins to sear his body. Though the time jump should be read as a sure sign he is dreaming, John is only pushed harder to find his team, as though what he had seen was prophecy. As though fate had shown him his destiny. As he jumps to his feet, sprinting through the now-burning clearing, leaping the ember-glowing fallen tree trunk that had failed to provide adequate cover for AR-16, the fire races ahead of him. It burns the bushland down, the smoke chokes out the sun, and the land morphs back into the dark, open plain, the dancing blue light of the 'Gate nearly smothered by the flames now consuming the grass, picking up more and more speed.
Pouring his desperation into his own speed, John sees three figures silhouetted black against the fire. Nearly crying in relief, he closes the distance between him and his team, but then a rush of wind blows the flames back, casting the figures in stark orange light. Frozen by fear, Sheppard stares at the three people he failed to save, that he knows he failed to save, because he'd been awake for the nightmares they each represented.
Captain Lyle Holland, Lieutenant Aiden Ford, and Doctor Elizabeth Weir stare back, their faces blank.
"He's too late," Weir says sadly.
"Again," Holland says, a bite of accusation in his voice.
"He never could save them," Ford says with a shake of his head.
"You have to leave them behind, John," Elizabeth orders firmly.
"You disobeyed orders again, didn't you?" Lyle asks in anger.
"You didn't even try to find them," Aiden accuses.
"You're as good as dead, son," a new voice says. Lyle, Aiden, and Elizabeth part, allowing Colonel Sumner to stride between them, full tac gear, P90 raised. "You put me down to end my suffering, without knowing what I really wanted. Now I get to repay the favour."
A single shot rings out, Sheppard feels the impact in his chest, feels himself collapse backwards. He stares at the night sky, suddenly free of smoke, free of Wraith Darts. He senses he is alone, the fires have died out, and he will soon follow. He feels an odd sense of relief, and some part of him is concerned by that, but he accepts what the moment is, his final passing from the world.
A small sound of distress disturbs his gentle respite. A scuffle. The sounds of someone held captive, exhaustedly trying to break free. If he doesn't look now, he'll be haunted for all of whatever lies beyond this mortal coil. He struggles to lift his head, to cast eyes upon that which has interrupted his soft drift towards death. And suddenly he is not at peace. Suddenly, he needs to fight again.
The Wraith Commander snarls, holding Teyla in the same headlock he used on Kerrigan. Wraith Warrior-Drones hold McKay and Ronon in similarily iron grips. His teammates' eyes plead with him to get up, to save them.
Raising a stunner, the Commander's lips peel back over his yellow mess of fang-like teeth. "Keep running."
Sheppard jackknifed in bed, waking up to a rush of pain through his head as the sound of the Wraith stun-blast seemed to echo in his ears. Heedless of the pain in his stiff, mostly healed left thigh and the duller ache of his sprained rib, John tumbled out of bed, staggering into the attached en-suite of his brother's downstairs guest room.
Collapsing at the basin of the posh porcelain toilet, John heaved, throwing up last night's dinner and desert. His rib protested like hell, but that didn't stop his stomach trying to expel itself in the most violent manner possible. When he was finally done, he leaned back against the cold, half-tiled wall of the bathroom and cursed under his breath. He sat half propped against the basin, half against the wall, and reached gingerly up to flush the toilet, banishing the sight of what his nightmare-induced sickness had brought up. Running a shaking hand over his sweaty brow, temporarily slicking his hair back with perspiration, John hesitantly pushed himself to his feet, stumbling over to the bathroom sink.
Turning the tap on, he first rinsed his mouth out, then splashed his face and neck with the shockingly cold water, which helped to drive away the angry ghosts his dreams had called to him. Realising his tee-shirt was soaked with sweat, he pulled it off and tossed it in the corner, allowing to cool air of the crisp Autumn night to chill him. As he tried to focus on that cold to convince his skin it wasn't on fire, he heard a gentle rap on his bedroom door.
"John?" Dave's concerned voice drifted through, muffled by the varnished hardwood. "John are you alright in there?"
Cursing again, John quickly went to his luggage, throwing on a clean tee, though he was still sweaty. "Uh, yeah," he said, and winced at how hoarse his voice was. He opened the door to find Dave, dressing gown and slippers thrown over silk winter pyjamas, looking skeptical.
"I heard you yelling something a minute or so ago," Dave said, "then I heard you throwing up."
John sighed. "Sorry for waking you, but I'm fine."
Dave hovered awkwardly in the door, but somehow managed to give off an annoyed air.
"What?" John snapped.
"If you have PTSD you should just tell me." Only David Sheppard could make an offer for help into an accusation.
"Go back to bed, Dave," John said, shaking his head and turning back to his own bed. Picking up his toiletries bag off the bedside table, John dug through it to find a thermometer and set his toothbrush and toothpaste to the side as next up on the agenda. Sticking the hospital-grade device into his mouth, he turned back to see Dave still standing in the open doorway, staring at the other diagnostic devices John had tossed out onto the bed while looking for the thermometer.
"What's all that?" Dave asked in that same accusatory tone.
As the thermometer beeped, John pulled it out of his mouth and checked the reading. Ninety-five point nine, a little low, but he had been sitting on cold tiles. With another, annoyed sigh, John dropped it on the bed with the rest of its colleagues. "What does it look like?"
Dave looked angry. "You're turning into a hypochondriac."
And that rankled. More than that, it pissed John off. "Really? That's what you think? You see me for all of a week or two the last few years, and you think that's enough to judge me on?"
"Look I'm not denying you've been injured and stuff, but you know, you can't always just sit around and wait for them to get better, you've got to work the muscles and push through a bit of pain sometimes," Dave said in what was clearly supposed to be a reasonable tone of voice. "It's the only way to get better."
I don't believe this, John thought as he threw his arms up in anger. "What the hell?" he asked, his still-hoarse voice rising in volume. "What do you think you know? God, this is so typical David! You lead me to hope that maybe, just maybe, you're starting to get it, then you pull crap like this! You think I'm a hypochondriac? That's an interesting theory, maybe you should forward that to my teammates, to Doctor Keller and Doctor Beckett. Then, when you're done pontificating, they can tell you about all the medical emergencies they have to deal with because I didn't realise something was wrong, or thought that it wasn't that bad. Beckett can explain to you that he makes me check my temperature every time I feel even vaguely nauseous, or check my blood pressure if I feel faint, or all the vitamin supplements Keller's got me on because I can't afford to get sick and loose weight because I'm always borderline! McKay can tell you about all the times he's found me passed out on base because I didn't think to get checked out at the infirmary, while Teyla and Ronon can tell you about the shitty missions that almost ended in failure because my pain tolerance is too high for anyone's good! A hypochondriac, hey? It's just great to know you think so highly of your own damn brother!"
Dave's voice rose above John's, always striving for the last word, always having to be the one that's right. "All I have on that is your word and what I've observed of you. I remember you never had a problem with massaging the truth as a teen, and so far I haven't seen any proof you've grown out of that habit. I accept that the work you do is dangerous, but I fail to see how it's possible for you to-"
"Hey!" Cindy yelled from the dark hallway.
Dave spun guiltily to face his wife, as John loosened his rage-clenched fists, breathing heavily, with each breath twinging his sprained rib.
"What are you two doing, arguing like this?" Cindy demanded, entering the room with a cross expression, forcing Dave to back up closer to John to let her in. "I thought we'd put all this behind us! That you were focused on being a family again!"
Dave mumbled something incoherent.
"I don't want to hear it, Dave," Cindy snapped. "You came down here to check on your brother, because you care about him. What happened to that?"
Rolling his eyes, Dave gestured angrily. "He said he was fine, but then he goes off taking a bloody hospital out of his bag and started checking himself for every known ailment under the sun, like a hypochondriac."
"I was checking my bloody temperature," John retorted.
"And what's the problem with that, then?" Cindy asked her husband.
"Well, he's- you know, he's just being paranoid. He was getting all over zealous about it," Dave explained.
Cindy raised an eyebrow. "So you think your brother, John Sheppard, the man who was sent to us to recover from a severe leg injury and has so far spent the entire time trying to find stuff to do around the house, begging to go horse riding, indulging the kids in wrestling matches, and doing hours of physio exercises, was being a hypochondriac."
John saw the pause in Dave's eyes, that moment of hesitancy when he realises he might be wrong, but that stubborn need to be right remained, and it was clear Cindy saw it too.
"John, take off your shirt, please," Cindy asked softly.
"What?" John replied in confusion.
"Please," Cindy repeated as she walked over to her brother-in-law.
John obeyed uncertainly, and Cindy pulled Dave around to face him. "What is that?" Cindy asked, pointing at a long, thin, pink-silver scar across John's right bicep.
Dave was silent for a moment, then let out a soft breath, and seemed to release that stubbornness with it. "That's where John was shot at the country club while stopping a gunman from killing anyone else."
"While protecting our family, and everyone else in that club," Cindy gently corrected him. "You were so impressed with your brother that night, so grateful to him, and what did he do?"
"He shrugged it off like it was nothing, acted like he was just doing his job," Dave answered.
Cindy nodded. "The kind of man that can single-handedly bring down a gunman while unarmed and not want any attention from it is not a hypochondriac. Stop letting your fears make you angry, you old grump."
At this, Dave sat down on John's bed, burying his face in his hands. At last, he lifted his head, turning beseeching eyes to John. "I am so sorry, John. Cindy's right. I was being stupid."
Feeling wrung-out, John collapsed back onto the bed as well, only he allowed himself to flop completely back. "I'm still mad," he said after a while. "You've been downright idiotic just now."
Dave nodded, accepting the criticism.
"You're going to make it up to me in the morning," John threatened. "But for now, you're going to leave me so I can brush my teeth and take a shower, then go back to bed."
"Sounds fair," Dave said, but he sounded worried. John almost wanted to offer forgiveness, but he couldn't just yet. David was his brother, and John would always care for him, but just being family did not grant you a 'get out of jail' card for free.
"Are you going to be okay, John?" Cindy asked with genuine concern.
John sat up and managed a reassuring smile, "It was just a bad dream."
Cindy wasn't fully assuaged. "Alright, but keep your mobile on the nightstand, and I'll do the same with mine. If you need anything, don't hesitate." Grabbing her husbands hand, she turned in the doorway as the two departed. "Goodnight, John."
Smiling 'till they left, John lay back, stretching over the width of the queen-size double bed. 'Goodnight', ha! Chance would be a fine thing.
Finally, he got up and brushed his teeth, minty toothpaste burning away the foul taste left in his mouth. Still sticky with sweat, he then jumped in the shower, running the hot water until the room was full of steam, the heat helping his tense, tight muscles relax.
Pulling on a fresh pair of sweatpants and another clean tee, John grimaced at the messy bed, then slipped on a jumper. It was just past three in the morning, and he felt tired as anything, but was no where near ready to go back to bed. Still fuming over his brother's accusations despite the apology, Sheppard decided to sneak out to the study, hoping to find a decent book to read to take his mind off things.
As he crept down the hall and began heading up the stairs, he heard hurried footsteps from above him, and froze as Cindy appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in casual clothes and wearing joggers.
"John, what are you doing?" she asked hesitantly, stopping at the to step.
"I was going to look for a book to read, what are you doing?" he replied with a questioning glance at her clothes.
Dave appeared behind her, also dressed. "I was half-way back to sleep when I suddenly remembered; you're supposed to go back to the Emergency Room if you started vomiting."
Ducking his head and cursing under his breath, John took a moment, then, "I had a bad dream and threw up I did not 'start vomiting'! This has nothing to do with me falling off a horse!"
"Better safe than sorry," Cindy said cheerfully. "Come on now, get some shoes on, we're driving you."
As they headed down the stairs, forcing John to retreat, he looked for reasons not to go back to the damn ER. "Cindy, Dave, this really isn't necessary, and the kids-"
"Have Ben to look after them, come on," Cindy repeated, chivvying John towards his current room.
"Your stable manager is live-in?" John asked incredulously.
"Yes, now come on, shoes on and in the car," Dave hustled.
Groaning, John reluctantly obeyed. Curse his stupid, stubborn, mercurial brother and his task-master sister-in-law.
When John finally, after much grumbling, got in the car, Dave hurried to get the key in the ignition and get moving. He had still been lecturing himself on the importance of keeping a cool head and an open mind with his brother when the ER Doctor's words had floated back to him out of no-where. Sure, John had seemed well enough when they were arguing, but his movements now were stiff, reluctant, and Dave was sure it was more than simply not wanting to go to the hospital.
No, John was working hard to mask it, but there had been a slight hesitancy before each step on his left leg. Either his supposedly-healed injury was stirred up, which was worrisome in itself, or the sprained rib had worsened. With a dawning spark, Dave realised the only reason he could spot this was because of his experience with horses, who instinctually hid problems out of fear of rejection from the herd.
Driving through the dark, empty streets, silence prevailed in the car, and Dave mentally chewed himself out. Of course, he thought, I should have seen it sooner. All those times I've been critical, seeing him injured or all the scars he has... true, I was worried, but I let fear blind me to what my reactions could mean to him, and then tonight... tonight I have been an idiot.
Checking on John in the rear-view mirror, he caught a scowl thrown in his direction, and decided not to take it personally. If what John had said about his teammates and doctors was true, he should be used to this type of treatment by now. Sulk all you want, John, but if you won't look after yourself, then I will, and so will everyone else who cares about you.
Because he didn't look after himself, which was really starting to sink in for Dave. When he'd made those accusations, he'd been half-asleep and cross with John, that he was just blowing off Dave's concern. Only now, did he realise, that John had simply been putting his brother's needs before his own, almost habitually trying to protect Dave's feelings, trying not to worry him. Well, you certainly messed that part up, he thought wryly.
Finally, they reached the hospital, and Dave pulled up at the drop-off for the ER, and Cindy got out to accompany John in while he found a park.
Surprisingly, despite the late hour, he still had to park half-way across the lot, and when he made it into the ER, John and Cindy were nowhere to be seen. Skipping the admissions desk, Dave instead went to the administration desk, and inquired about the missing Sheppards.
"And you're his...?" the nurse asked.
"Brother," Dave answered.
Humming, the nurse then turned to her colleague at the admissions desk. "Hey, George, do we have a John Sheppard in triage?"
"No," George replied, and Dave's heart thudded, wondering what could have gone wrong in the few minutes since he'd dropped them off. "They took him right through to Special Observation," George continued.
Not sure how to feel about that, Dave let out something between a relieved sigh and a worried moan. "Can I go see him?"
"No, I'm afraid only one adult can accompany another adult in Special Observation," the first nurse said sympathetically.
"Right, thank you," Dave said, more to be polite than out of any real gratitude. And so, he took a seat in the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the mostly deserted waiting room, and, as the name suggested, waited.
While he waited, a dozen different nightmare scenarios played through his head, and he tried to tell himself each was as unlikely as the last. The agony of forced inactivity, of not knowing what was happening settled a resolve in his mind. A resolve to never again jump to conclusions, or at least never to vocalise his assumptions before gaining a little more evidence one way or the other. Because there was no denying, his brother was in an extremely dangerous line of work, and with the world seeming to grow more dangerous by the day, he never knew with any sort of certainty whether he would see John again.
The thought made his throat close and his breath hitch. Just as he was on the verge of asking after John again, Cindy escorted his brother out to the waiting room.
Nearly leaping to his feet, Dave rushed over to a very tired looking John and Cindy, but his wife was smiling.
"How is he?" Dave asked, ignoring John's eye roll as he spoke to Cindy.
"He's fine," Cindy assured him. "They did another ultrasound and found a bit of swelling, so they gave him some anti-inflammatories and kept him under observation. They monitored his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature for an hour, then re-did the ultrasound. The inflammation had settled by then, and since he hasn't done any more vomiting, they're happy to send him back home."
"So, false alarm, then?" Dave joked.
John wasn't amused. "I could have told you that," he snapped, and Dave immediately knew his brother was still mad at him.
"Okay, maybe I did overreact, but... John, I do care about you, a lot. I don't always know how to express my concerns to you properly," Dave hesitated. "Too often, I fail to treat you as an equal, a flaw I think I picked up from Dad. I don't know how to deal with my fears about your chosen career, and it's only gotten harder since we've started to become closer. I don't want you to forgive me, John. I'd much rather earn it than be handed it."
John was quiet for such a long time after his impromptu speech, Dave was certain he'd just ended their reconciliation attempts when, "Start by getting me back to bed so I can get some sleep. Then you can make me breakfast."
So offhand, so informal. John Sheppard would forever remain an enigma. Maybe they were just too different from each other to ever fully understand one another. Maybe they'd always have to work to be friends. Maybe that was how families were. Dave would never trade an inch of it.
AN: This sort of just... happened. I had an uncomfortable encounter with a relative the other night and while ranting about it to a sympathetic ear, inspiration struck. It'll probably be a while until I post again- I'm working on something big, with actual chapters!