Hammond looked down at the embarkation room, to the standing monument. There had always been a coldness to the Stargate, an emotionless mood that only naquadrah could give. Today that coldness, that strange emptiness was reflected in his eyes, in the eyes of every SGC personal. It is said that eyes are the windows to our souls. These workers, these heroes had drawn shut their curtains, boarded their windows, shut the doors. There was no mistaking this day, for it was carved into their hearts like hieroglyphs onto stone. Exactly one year ago, four heroes had failed to return. Exactly four years ago, death finally captured SG-1. They had eluded it for so long, enlisting the aid of the Nox, sarcophaguses and hand devices every time they fell. The men and women of the facility knew it couldn't last, knew that someday they would lose them, their ever guiding star. Most were hard core military and knew the risks of attachment, but years of separation from reality couldn't prepare them.
Their presence could still be felt, for SG-1 could never truly leave the SGC. They lingered there, their spirits everywhere. There were the overly thick medical files all lined up in rows. An entire cabinet dedicated to the former team and three of those five drawers to the space monkey. No one had the strength to remove it, and so the gray chest stood, a memory for those who visited of all they sacrificed. There were the candles that stayed untouched in the gym. No one knew how, but every morning they were lit and they never melted. The aroma wafted around the room, giving strength to those who needed it, speaking of the honor in the fight, of the passion for freedom inside each man and women. The childish "Do Not Enter" sign on the oak of one door. Twenty third floor, second hall, three doors down. Age turned the paper yellow, the glue crusty. But even as the adhesive fell, the sign never wavered. And it was always obeyed; no one dared enter the sanctuary of his office. There was the blue jello that the cooks refused to stop making. No one ever saw anyone take some, but the amount slowly dwindled throughout the day. Somehow, despite any planning there was always only one left at the end of the day. One left for a young woman who could never again taste it.
See that closet over there, the one at the end of the hall. By unspoken agreement that door is left unopened. The supplies in there go unheeded as did the meetings SG-1 held within it's flimsy walls. The dust has settled on the cooler, decay turning the ice cream into soup. The cookie dough ice cream the jaffa had so vehemently protected fell to the combined attacks of age and heat.
To the heart of these brave men and women, SG-1 would never leave the SGC. They were the SGC and the two could never be separated. Those brave men and woman gave up their passions, their comforts, their homes, their families, their love and ultimately their lives for freedom.
And maybe, when the SGC personnel died, when new, fresh minds replaced them, SG-1 would be forgotten. The spirits would fall away, their memory diminished. But until that day, SG-1 would be remembered, loved, and cherished.
SG-1 had always flirted with death and even as they were overcome with darkness, they still were alive. Because they lived in every single person who had ever meet them, in everyone who had seen their smiles or listen to them speak. A galaxy of people lived for them, each as passionate as the last. No, they live, then and now.
They're in you.