A Reason

Summary: That stupid band was the only thing keeping me alive even though the only thing I wanted was to die. I hated it. Shep's POV.

A/N: This is my explanation of Sheppard's black wristband. I don't think he really needs a reason but figured what the heck. Besides this idea was driving me nuts and wouldn't go away.

Warnings: This gets kinda dark and it's got implied torture and thoughts of suicide so if that's not your cup of tea, don't read it.

Disclaimer: Not mine. There I said it, ya happy?

I walked through the gate and was greeted by the worried face of Dr. Elizabeth Weir. I wish I could give her good news. I can't. Seems like I never can.

The mission was beyond a total failure. I'd lost three men, three good men, Wilson, Browder, and Jensen, all because I'd miscalled the shots. Again.

I finally manage to meet Elizabeth's gaze through my shame and shake my head. She swallows but maintains her composure and orders my team and I plus Captain Hernandez to the infirmary for Beckett to poke, prod and patch us back up. Numbly we do as we're told.

Teyla had a broken arm that needed to be set and thus earned an overnight all expenses paid lodging in the infirmary, complete with room service. We didn't have any time to stop and do anything for her on the planet since we were a little preoccupied with getting through the gate alive. At least, those of us for whom it still mattered. Ronon had a few shallow cuts and scratches from rolling down a rocky hillside but nothing to serious, he got to go back to his room. McKay was concussed so he also got to join the infirmary slumber party and get those wonderful neural checks every two hours. Hernandez had three broken ribs and a sprained knee but what was worrying everyone the most was that he was so non-responsive.

Nothing. Lights out. AWOL.

And me? I got off scot free. Well, perhaps injury free would be a better way to phrase that.

Ironic isn't it. The one responsible for the mess was also the only one to come out unharmed. I should be thankful I'm okay but it's hard when I'm feeling so guilty. With good reason too.

A nurse comes by to draw some blood from me and I barely acknowledge her. I really don't care what she wants more blood for. I just want out of here. Finally Beckett says I can go but even he seems surprised when I nearly run from the infirmary. I guess he expected me to ask about my team and maybe sit with them for a while. Normally I would too but not today. Not with Hernandez sitting so close with that blank, lost expression on his face. I just can't take watching him anymore and not because the look is frightening or unfamiliar, exactly the opposite in fact. It's familiar; intimately so.

I have to get away. I can't deal with these memories here.

I manage to find my way to my room on autopilot and collapse on the bed, heedless of my filthy clothes. Like I care, I hardly even notice. My mind is far away and a long time ago but the details are clear. Frighteningly so.

I'm not worried about Hernandez. Not yet. As long as he has that blank look on his face he'll be fine. It's when his mind starts to come back that the problems will start.

I know.

I've been there.

I was a captain when it happened. Must be a bad rank or something. I was stationed in the Middle-East, nowhere in particular seeing as I changed bases and CO's so often. It was supposed to be a supply run, that's all, just bring some boxes with who knows what inside from point A to point B and come home. No problems. Why does it never work out that way?

Turns out there was a small rebel faction no one had ever heard of hiding out at the foot of the mountains and, wouldn't you know it, they had themselves some RPG's and I had nothing. Not even a warning. The first sign I had that something was wrong was when my chopper lurched with the hit.

I can say without bragging that I'm a good pilot, an excellent one even, but I honestly have no idea how I set that bird down with out dying. I dislocated my right shoulder in the crash, broken my collar bone, some ribs and my left shin. I also had a lovely collection of cuts, bruises and a few burns. Needless to say I wasn't able to put up anything even closely resembling a fight when they came for me.

A few days later I wished to high hell I had just died.

They threw me in a cell way down deep in their creepy mountain fortress that was very bad guy hideout cliché. Though 'cell' might be an exaggeration; dent in the wall with bars in front would be more accurate.

I wasn't alone either; they had three other soldiers there. Two rangers, Lt. Colonel Varlan and Sergeant Davis, they'd been there the longest and were captured together but they never told us how, and Corporal Miller, a marine who'd been caught about 10 days later. I showed up about five days after him.

None of us knew what the rebels wanted with us. They didn't speak English or if they did they didn't use it. The only thing they seemed interested in was making us scream. Something they had a lot of success with. Not like we were in much shape for holding out anyway. I had my crash injuries to deal with, oh how they loved to aggravate those, and the other three had been there long enough to gather quite the collection of various and painful things themselves.

Weeks went by like that but it could have been months for all it mattered to us. We never saw the light of day and the only time we ever left the cell was when they took us away to torture us again. Our wounds became infected, we became dehydrated and malnourished, we had forgotten what it meant to be warm or comfortable. The pain, cold and dark was all we knew despite out best efforts to remember we were just too tired to.

Miller was the first to go. He finally snapped and lunged at the guard when he was being taken away. The guard was so surprised that Miller managed to grab his knife from him before he could react. He slit his own throat.

Davis was next. One of his broken ribs punctured his lung. After listening to him fight for his life for what felt like days but couldn't have been more then a few hours, his rasping breaths finally quieted.

I wanted to follow him. We'd been stuck here for so long I only wanted things to be over. Forever.

Not Varlan. He still talked of getting out. Said they'd come for us. Never leave a man behind and all that crap. No one ever came.

Varlan got sicker and sicker and he still said we'd get out. He said that right up to the day he died. Right up until he gave me that damn black wristband.

He was dieing and he knew it. He also knew that I had given up. I wanted to die. In fact I'd made up my mind that as soon as he died I would jump the guard like Miller did, except I'd try to get the guard to kill me instead of doing it myself. It'd give me at least a little bit of satisfaction to go down fighting.

Apparently Varlan had other ideas.

He grabbed my wrist and pushed the wristband his son had given him just before he was captured onto it. He told me I couldn't give up. I wasn't allowed to. I had to be the one who survived, I needed to get out of here and tell the military what had happened. Let his son know. Notify their families that three men wouldn't be coming home. I told him it didn't matter. We were both dead anyway.

I have no idea where he got the strength from but somehow he reached up and grabbed my shoulder pulling me down so our faces were inches apart. He hissed at me that as long as my heart was still beating I was still alive and as long as I was alive I had a responsibility to fight the enemy and to tell their families that they'd died honorably doing their duty.

He made me swear to get out. Made me swear to survive, said I would be the only one left, I had to remember, had to carry on, had to remember them. I was the only one who could.

As soon as he extracted the promise from me he gave a small nod and breathed out. He didn't breathe in again.

When the guard came for us he saw Varlan had died. He opened up the cell grabbed him by his wrists and dragged him out. I guess he thought I was too weak to move or too scared. Whatever it was, he made the mistake of leaving the cell unlocked while he dragged my dead companion down the dark, dank hallway. I didn't wait; I gathered what was left of my strength and walked right out of there. I honestly don't remember how but somehow I got out of the mountain and was found several days later by a patrol. I told them what had happened then lapsed into silence.

The same silence that Hernandez now resides in.

I was silent for weeks, saying nothing, responding to nothing, and thinking nothing. I was brought to a hospital and treated but I don't recall any of that time. My injuries where severe, I had multiple surgeries and was hospitalized for over a month. I was finally released but not returned to active duty so I went back to the States to continue my recovery.

Physically anyway.

Four days after I returned I sat on my bed and decided the hell with this. I grabbed my knife and had every intention of finally ending this whole screwed up mess. I was gonna do it to but when I brought the knife to my wrist that black wristband was sitting right there. I froze, my mind going back to that cell and Varlan telling me I had to live. For the entire night I sat there with a knife to my wrist, just staring.

This became a frequent occurrence for me; sit on the bed with a knife to my wrist. That stupid band was the only thing keeping me alive even though the only thing I wanted was to die. I hated it. I hated Varlan. Mostly though, I hated myself. Hated myself for not being strong enough, for breaking, being scared – for giving up.

This went on for months. No one ever knew. My days were spent between the hospital, PT appointments and talking with shrinks. I never actually told the shrinks the truth. If I did I'd have been tossed in the nearest loony bin and forgotten about. My nights I spent with the knife, the band, and my failures.

Finally one night I completely broke down and for the first time since my mother died I cried. The tears tracked down my face and fell on my pillow wetting the fabric. I screamed and cursed and pounded my fists onto my thighs all night. Why should I live? I wasn't any better then Miller, Davis, or Varlan. What was the point? Why couldn't I just kill myself? Why did I have to be the one to survive?

When morning finally came, it brought with it resolve. Yeah life sucked right now; yes I had so much crap on my conscience it could sink the Titanic and no, I would never be able to forget what had happened to me but I wasn't going to dishonor those men by giving up. I'd fight.

As soon as I made that decision it was like a transfer of burdens. The old one had been impossible for me to bear but this new one, while difficult, I could and would hold up. All I had to do was live, and for the first time in a long time I realized that I wanted to.

Dragging my thoughts back to the present, I finger the wristband that I still wear to remember. With a sigh I push the dark memories of those days I spent as a prisoner to the back of my mind.

I had more reasons to live now. I had my team, Carson, and Elizabeth, my family now, and whole new galaxy to explore, and I had one traumatized captain who I was going to make sure didn't give up. No matter what. This wasn't going to be easy; then again neither was my decision to live but I've never regretted it. With another sigh I push myself off the bed and head to the shower. As soon as I get cleaned up it's off to the infirmary for me to check on my team and talk with Carson about how we can help Hernandez get through losing his entire team.

He just needs to find his reason.

Okay that turned out way different then I thought.

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