His body ached with a bone-deep weariness. The result of an infection, and getting shot. Oh yeah, and blown up. Did he mention the blown up? Damn those pilots, damn McKay and damn the Wraith.
The feeling was familiar. Waking up in an infirmary, wrapped in bandages, hooked up to a drip and a monitor with a nurse hovering, asking him how he felt before a medic flashed a penlight in his eye. He'd always been entirely too cavalier with his own life for his own good.
He settled back against the pillows, scanning the interior of the hospital. No windows. Grey walls. Strip lighting. He was in a bunker. Probably underground, but he didn't recognise it, nor the uniform of a soldier who stood nearby, sticking his fingers into a panel filled with wiring.
Technical glitch.
Sergeant. The soldier was a sergeant. Grey haired and tall, the soldier glanced his way and flashed a brief grin when he saw the patient was awake. A half-smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth in reply before the tech got back to work. He preferred being ignored. Life was easier that way.
He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling more than a few days stubble sprouting there. He looked like hell and he didn't even need a mirror to tell him that. He shifted again, restless for the first time. It was a good sign. At least, it used to be.
McKay had come by twice. His first and only visitor, with a word of thanks for saving the world. Yeah, great, now if they just let him out of here, he could get back to the life he didn't have in a car that didn't run.
But the radio still played. It played just great.
Footsteps and he closed his eyes, it was easier to just not be here, even if the footsteps weren't for him. They came closer, light and quick. Decisive. A pause and a whispered word before they resumed, coming his way, stopping close by.
A shadow fell across his face, the darkness behind his eyes suddenly deeper.
'John Sheppard?'
His name, spoken by a voice that matched the footsteps. Light and sure. And undeceived. He cracked open his eyes to find long legs, clad in denim. A red shirt. Then a face, fine-featured with short dark hair that threatened to curl at the ends. Wide green eyes, holding the barest hint of amusement, locked into his.
'Is that a yes?'
'Huh?' John caught himself staring for a fraction of a second too long and diffused the situation with a grin, noting no sign of rank in her civvie clothing or her address. 'Yeah, yeah, John Sheppard. And you would be?'
She held out a hand, obviously intended for him to shake. Slowly he lifted the wrong arm, the other side shot up and bandaged , and took it. Her skin was warm, fingers slight under his own.
'Dr Elizabeth Weir, Commander of the Atlantis Expedition. Mr Sheppard, I think I may have a job for you…'