Title: Sheppardology 101

Author: Yodakitty (aka me)

Rating: M (mostly for later chapters)

Pairings: John Sheppard/Carson Beckett (BeckShep) slash - yes, again, it is slash, if you don't like it, don't read it. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own the characters, concepts, or anything else related to Stargate: Atlantis that may be copyrighted or otherwise previously owned. Those belong to Gekko and MGM and all those other people who actually make money from it, with the exception of inspiration pulled from a couple of other stories, to whose authors I will give credit in the chapters where that applies.

Summary: Ever wondered what makes Sheppard act the way he does? Use of a different form of therapy to stave off a break down leads to some interesting insights into the mind of our favorite flyboy.

A/N: This is my first story, which I am only posting at the prompting of a friend who has been kind enough to edit this for me. Thanks hon! With that in mind, things like spacing may be a little off at first, while I adjust to exactly how this works. Reviews/praise/constructive criticism is always welcome. Feedback is like crack to my muse, honestly. Flames will be laughed at and fed to the plot bunnies to fuel further projects along the same lines.

Chapter 1

I don't do journals, John thought, staring at the blank notebook in front of him. This is silly. Besides, I'm fine. How many times must I tell people that? Seriously! What is this supposed to prove anyway?

"It's not supposed to prove anything really, John," came the unexpected answer. John hadn't realized he'd asked that last question out loud.

Oops. "So much for internal dialog, I guess. Sorry about that. Didn't realize I'd started thinking out loud there." John replied, looking sheepishly at Carson, who was curled up on the bed reading…John didn't know what, exactly. "But okay, so the journal isn't supposed to prove anything per se. Fine. What is the purpose of it then? And, you know, why do I have to keep one?" John was being petulant and knew it, but still, it was the principal of the thing, right? It was bad enough Carson knew about the damn thing -if it hadn't been his idea to start with-, but God help him if his men found out, or God forbid, McKay found out about it. It was a scenario John really didn't want to dwell on.

Carson set down whatever journal he'd been reading, looking over at John, who was actually pouting now. "You have to keep it because the alternative is a series of face-to-face sessions with Dr. Heightmeyer." John made a face at this. "Aye, that's what I thought. As to the purpose of it, consider it an alternative form of therapy."

"Therapy for what? I'm fine. Really," came the reflexive answer as John pushed his chair away from the desk, using the current conversation to stall having to actually deal with the journal in question.

It was, as most people knew, John's answer to everything. He was fine, even when he clearly wasn't. Most of the time he could make it believable. A lot of that, Carson had discovered in the almost two years they'd been together, was an act. Much like the brain-dead flyboy routine was an act to hide how bright John really was. Some of it was understandable, aimed at keeping morale up among the rest of the expedition. It didn't look good if the military commander had a nervous breakdown or something. That was just part of the job sometimes, unfortunately. That part of it wasn't really what the current project was designed for. Really it was designed as a way to approach this apparent death wish of John's.

The journal, despite what John may think, was actually Dr. Heightmeyer's idea. She had noticed the warning signs of a death wish both in some of John's recent missions and in his last psych evaluation. Which was worse then it sounded, since it was John, who was usually better at hiding his thoughts and feelings then that. That it was showing through at all was a fair indication of just how bad he was.

Carson sighed, mostly as a response to the reflexive answer. "No, love, you're not." he said quietly. It was an even worse sign when John didn't try to argue the point. The answer really had been pure reflex. "What the journal is for, ultimately, is to use as a space to write whatever comes to mind. You've already made it clear you don't want to talk about whatever is bothering you. This way, you don't have to, at least, not directly." Carson fought the urge to sigh again. That was badly worded, but there really didn't seem to be a good way to phrase it.

"Translation: this is a way to deal with whatever psych issues are behind this death wish you all have decided I apparently have, without having to actually talk to a shrink about it," John stated with less bitterness then Carson was sure he felt.

"Bluntly put, but yes," Carson replied, kissing his boyfriend softly. "We're not doing this to be mean, you know, John."

It was the pilot's turn to sigh. "I know. It's just that, I don't know, it's like admitting there's something wrong, even indirectly like that, feels like a sign of weakness or something. Or…"

"Or like you've failed?" Carson filled in what he knew was really bothering John about this.

"Yeah. Sounds stupid, I know, and I don't know why it's like that, but it's like admitting I screwed up and now there's something wrong with me." John fidgeted a bit, snapping his mouth shut and wondering when it had come about that he'd started talking without thinking like that. The little voice in the back of his mind that always seemed to sound like his father was screaming at him that he was admitting too much, to shut up before he made it worse. How stupid could he possibly be to admit to such things? The voice went on along those lines. It was why he'd decided it sounded like his father. He'd heard such things a lot growing up.

Carson watched the pain and fear in John's eyes, mixed with flashes of other emotions he couldn't quite place, wishing he knew what was going through the pilot's mind. Abruptly John stood up and started pacing across the length of the room. Granted, the room wasn't all that large, so it wasn't like he was going very far, but the pacing was never a good sign. Carson let him pace for a while before catching his wrist when he passed close enough to reach, tugging on it until John gave in and sprawled out on the bed, with John's head resting on Carson's chest, nestled as close as possible without actually completely laying on the other man. For being as tall as he was, it was amazing how small a space John could curl into if he wanted to. It wasn't until then, however, that Carson realized John was shaking. Automatically he started stroking John's hair, much the same way one would a frightened child. He'd discovered a while ago that this had much the same effect on the pilot as it did with a child, though he had no idea why. Just the comfort of human contact, he guessed. Humans were not by nature solitary creatures, though John did try.

"Sh, hush, love, easy. It's alright," Carson murmured even as John finally stopped shaking.

"Sorry, I don't know where that came from," John said softly, refusing to meet Carson's eyes.

"It's alright," Carson replied, pressing a soft kiss to John's forehead, "but you can see why we might be worried about ye?" He asked, his accent sliding a little thicker, as it did when he was upset.

"Yeah, I guess. Still, I don't know if I can," John answered, still not looking up.

"Cliché as it is, ye'll never know until you try luv," Carson stated, ruffling the pilot's hair, still amazed by the fact you could actually make it stand up more than usual if you tried hard enough.

John made a face at his lover. "That is cliché. True, perhaps, but still," John offered a slight smile before adopting a decent imitation of General O'Neill, "you know how I feel about clichés."

Carson smiled. Clearly John was feeling better, at least somewhat. "Aye, I know. Still, not the point."

John turned serious again. "I know that, too. Only you and Doc Heightmeyer will know, right?"

Carson bit his lip a moment before answering. "That depends on how it goes. You know that."

"Yeah, if it looks like something that might be a security risk then Elizabeth has to be told. I know. Or if it starts looking too much like I'm actually going to follow through with it," John recited the pertinent regulations like a child reciting information memorized for a quiz.

"Aye, but other than that, only Kate and I will see it unless you decide otherwise," Carson said, referring to the possibility of John bringing the rest of his team in on this exercise.

"Yeah, maybe. Not right now though. I- One thing at a time," John replied, still looking distinctly unhappy about the whole idea.

"That's up to you. Whatever you think would work best," The doctor answered reclaiming what he'd been reading earlier, which John now saw was a medical journal of some kind, probably genetics related if he had to guess. The actual title didn't say specifically.

With that, John wandered back over to the desk, still not happy about doing this, but unable to avoid it any longer. Problem was he now had no idea what to write. He wasn't one much given to spilling his guts, even in writing. Especially in writing, where someone could find it later and use it against him. Paranoid habit, yes, but one that had served him well most of his life. Between his father, his ex-wife, and issues like now with "Don't Ask, Don't Tell", among other things, it had always been safer not to have any kind of record sitting around that could possibly be found during a surprise inspection or something. Not that Atlantis had such things, generally, but it was an old habit and one he hadn't given much energy to trying to break. With yet another sigh- it seemed to be that kind of day- and generally looking like someone about to field test a taser from the wrong end, John picked the pen back up off the desk, returning to staring at the blank notebook.

Hi.

Okay, that seems kind of silly. I feel like I should introduce myself or something. Which is also kind of pointless, I guess. If you're reading this, you already know who I am and why I'm doing this, so there's really no point in stating the obvious, now is there? Already feels like some sort of written AA meeting or something. Alright, there has to be some kind of logical way to set about this. Preferably without revealing all of my darkest secrets and such. Most of them are things you don't really want to know anyway. Spending one's entire adult life in the military will do that. Which leads us to the primary problem: what am I going to write about then? Since I have to do this in any case. Mandatory and all that. There's a concept I've never really understood: mandatory therapy. Isn't there a contradiction in that? Just saying.

Well, in any event, since this is supposed to be about whatever-it-is that has apparently screwed up my brain pretty good, chances are upcoming topics will include my family (the actual blood variety, mostly), for what little there is to actually say about them and my ex-wife. (This should be of interest to Dr. Heightmeyer. You were a marriage counselor before coming here, right? Maybe you can pinpoint where that marriage went wrong. Have fun with that.) Not right now, though. Maybe later. Or, you know, maybe not. Not sure it's actually relevant, after all. Oh, my time in the ever so lovely hellhole that is Afghanistan will also likely come up. Most of it's in my record already though. If you really want to know, just look it up for crying out loud. It's not as though I could stop you. At least I don't think they sealed that part. Security clearance necessary to be here, it wouldn't matter if they did.

On a different note, why am I doing this by hand anyway? I know that was part of the instructions, but wouldn't, I don't know, e-mail or something be easier? Just a thought there. Though I get the feeling that restriction was Carson's idea, probably to make it harder for me to edit this before anyone else sees it. Damn mind reader tendencies. Note to self: check office for white out. I think I still have some. Though all my reports are typewritten, so maybe not. Before anyone gets all upset about that, it's as much for spelling corrections and the like as actually editing content. I don't often write much without use of spell-check and am too lazy to look up spellings. Not that I guess it matters. How much could a few misspelled words tell you about my mental state? Somehow, I don't think lack of being able to spell has much to do with a death wish or much of anything else you may decide I have.

Well, this is generally going nowhere fast. Told you it would. There's a reason I don't do things like this you know. Other then sheer laziness, of course. You really didn't expect me to start pouring out my soul into this thing this quickly, did you? I feel kind of sorry for you if you did. Really should know better than that. How many times do I have to tell you people that I'm fine before it sinks through? Okay, so I've taken suicide missions a couple of times. Under the circumstances I had what other choice? To order someone else to die instead? Yeah, ok, no. Not going to happen. Doesn't necessarily mean I want to die, just that I won't point blank order someone else to do so. This is a bad thing? Didn't think so. Granted, I've learned that there a number of definitions of suicide mission, depending on who you talk to. Ramming a jumper with a tactical nuke in the back into a hive ship is kind of an obvious one, I'll admit. Apparently, ill-advised rescue missions behind enemy lines and flying in white out conditions in Antarctica also count. The latter was also generally part of a rescue op, just to clarify. It wasn't like I was doing it for fun or anything. I'm cocky, yes, not stupid. Besides, flying in that crap isn't exactly a fun way to spend the day. Alright, so ultimately I might have taken the concept of we don't leave our people behind to extremes (almost at the cost of my career at one point), but why bother saying it if you're not going to follow through? Actions speak louder than words and all that. We don't leave our people behind. Integrity first, Service before self, Excellence in all we do. A bunch of pretty sounding words, really.

Wow, have I really done more than a page of this nonsense? Damn. Well, that should be enough to appease the dictators for the moment. I will undoubtedly have to do more of this later, but for now I have sparring practice to get to, Marines to throw around the gym, so I suppose that's all for now.

Setting the pen down, John flipped the notebook shut, simultaneously stretching the kinks out of his back. He was actually early for sparring, but he was going to have some serious stretching to do before practice started and it was better if the Marines didn't see that part. Bad enough a fair number of them were about half his age, or so it seemed. Geez, Earth's best and brightest are a bunch of kids. Damn. John thought as he listened to his back crack in more places then could possibly be healthy. Okay, so sparring with Ronon already this morning was probably not the best idea. Too late now. Glancing across the room he realized Carson was asleep and apparently had been for a while. With a shrug John decided there was no harm in leaving him there. Shaking his head he gathered his gym bag and headed down to get a jump start on getting stretched out before the Marines got there.

A/N: I have the rest of the story completed already, but further posting will depend entirely on reviews. So please, pretty please, press the pretty review button! (yes, I will continue to be a review whore for a while. I'm new at this and this is honestly pretty nerve wracking to do.)