This story came out thanks to a prompt from Stealth Dragon. I originally wrote in a completely linear fashion, then decided to mess with the structure. There's a bunch of back and forth in time on it now. Any comments or feedback on whether or not this worked, was understandable, or easy to follow are welcome. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy!
In John Sheppard's mind, this mission had started off as a lifesaver for him. Colonel Carter had sent his team to Ayadath, one of the smaller, farming communities active in Pegasus trading circles, and while he normally didn't look forward to negotiating treaties, he'd been anxious for this one. As soon as he'd stepped through the stargate, he'd felt the tension that had been weighing him down all week lift, and he'd breathed a sigh of relief.
Anxious to get off Atlantis, more like it. It had been a week since they'd encountered that crystalline entity that had wreaked havoc on Atlantis. Everywhere he went, scientists and military personnel alike had stared at him—the walking embodiment of their worse nightmares. Most would look away when he caught them, but he could feel their eyes on his back wherever he went, see their looks of fear and uncertainty, even anger. He was tired of it, and a day or two away from it all had sounded like heaven.
Hours after that moment when he'd first stepped through the stargate, a screeching, distant howl shattered the silence of the night and jarred John out of his thoughts. He stood in the doorway of the tent his team had been given for the night by the Ayadath, listening intently. The howl was followed by two more in quick succession, signaling that the pack of wolf-like animals were even closer to the village. Despite his earlier fatigue and the lateness of the hour, he was wide awake.
John turned into the tent, a little surprised that none of his teammates were awake. They lay sprawled and snoring on the cots set up against the edges of the spacious, one-room tent. He could hear villagers running past his tent outside, obviously preparing for the worse. Someone in the distance screamed, and the thrum of adrenaline began pumping through him.
His teammates had assured him they didn't blame him or hold him responsible for what had happened, but even then, he would still catch them out of the corner of his eye giving him strange looks. Surprisingly enough, it had been Ronon and Teyla that would stare, not quite covering the lingering fear from their own nightmares when he'd meet their eyes.
Maybe it wasn't fear. Maybe it was an uncertainty about whether it was the real Sheppard or the Sheppard of their nightmares. Regardless, the lingering distrust was unnerving. On top of that was the guilt of bringing the crystalline entity back to Atlantis in the first place, and the end result had been a week of restless nights.
John approached McKay in his cot, who was twitching and mumbling but otherwise dead asleep. McKay had been the least freaked out by him, almost like they'd arrived somewhere in the middle of their shared dreams at some kind of unspoken understanding.
"McKay," John said, poking the man in the shoulder. The man in question flapped his arm and rolled over, oblivious to the world, lost to whatever dream held him captive for the moment. John prayed it was dream, not a nightmare.
He approached Teyla next. He could see her face was covered in sweat and she too was twitching and mumbling in her sleep. He felt a stab of guilt knife through him as he realized she was most definitely caught in some kind of nightmare.
"Te—" John started then stopped, his voice caught in his throat. The sound of another howl pierced the tent, and it was clear the animals were headed straight for the village. He swallowed and tried again.
"Teyla," he said as he shook her shoulder. She cried out, almost like she was in pain, but she slept on. He tried again, louder. "Teyla!" He bent forward, intending to shake her again when her eyes flew open. She flew upright, her arms shooting out in front of her as if she'd been fighting someone off in her dreams. Before John had a chance to react, Teyla struck him with both fists directly in the throat.
John fell backward, landing hard on his shoulder with a choked cry. He grabbed for his own throat, feeling as if someone was squeezing it closed. He lay squirming on the ground, choking and gagging as he tried to draw in a breath. Next to him, McKay mumbled and rolled over again.
John pulled in a ragged breath and looked up at Teyla. She was sitting straight up on the cot and staring at something unseen in front of her. John sat up slowly, using a table as leverage.
"Teyla?" He croaked. She was panting and continued to stare into space. John called out to her again, but she seemed completely unaware of him. Her face was pale and drawn, a stark contrast to her appearance of only a few hours ago.
"To celebrate our new friendship, we insist you join us for a feast of harvest," the village councilman and lead negotiator had announced. The team had managed to negotiate a reasonable treaty pretty quickly, and now their new friends, the Ayadath, were eager to share their good fortunes. Teyla had nodded her head, smiling, and John had noticed that she seemed invigorated after putting her diplomatic skills to use. Ronon and McKay had looked equally invigorated at the mention of a feast. John had grinned, knowing he couldn't have torn those two away from the promise of food no matter how hard he tried.
They'd made their way to a large tent at the center of the tent village. John had lagged behind, enjoying the anonymity he wished he could have had in Atlantis over the last week. As tedious as treaty negotiations could be, it had required most of the attention of his teammates to be focused on something other than himself and the nightmares he reminded them of. Three hours after leaving Atlantis—three hours without a single veiled glance or sidelong look—and John had found himself relaxing into his chair at the feast as his team settled in and dug into their food.
Something crashed outside his tent, and John heard growling and barking. The wolves or whatever they were called were in the village. He wondered how many wolves traveled in a pack; the sounds coming from outside seemed to pointed to at least a dozen of them. He had to wake up at least one member of his team. Teyla was still sitting up, but her eyes had slid shut. John took a deep breath and turned around, approaching Ronon with caution.
"Ronon," he whispered as loudly as he dared, aware that the pack of animals could be nearby. The man continued to sleep. Having learned from his experience with Teyla, he grabbed a long wooden stick and used that to poke the sleeping giant. Ronon grunted and turned his head but did not wake up.
"Ronon," John called out again, poking him even harder. Ronon's eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the ceiling above him.
"You awake, buddy?" John lifted the stick, intent on poking the man again. With a growl, Ronon suddenly sat up and turned, yanking on the stick in John's hand. John, caught off balance flew forward toward the Satedan. Unable to stop his forward momentum, he tried to change direction so he wouldn't land directly on top of Ronon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of metal flying toward him then felt an agonizing pain in his chest.
It was over in seconds. John opened his eyes and found himself lying on the floor in the center of the tent. With every ragged breath, he felt a burning pain on the right side of his rib cage. Something snarled outside and John suddenly remembered the wolves. They were in the village. He grit his teeth and tried to sit up, but he only managed to raise his head a few inches before his chest exploded in pain again. He cried out and moved his hand to his ribs, trying blindly to find the source of the problem.
His hand hit something small and smooth embedded in the right side of his chest, and the agony that slight movement caused had him gasping for air. The room above him began to spin, and John squeezed his eyes shut. He focused on trying not to breath in so deeply. Finally, the pain subsided and he could open his eyes again.
He lifted his head slowly this time and managed to catch a glimpse of one of Ronon's small, ornately carved knives sticking out of his chest before he dropped his head back to the ground. Something thudded past the door of the tent, breathing heavily, and its foul stench filled the tent.
Ronon appeared in front of him. The man's eyes were glassy and unfocused and he peered around the tent in confusion. A cry from outside drew his attention to the tent door, and he walked toward it.
"Ronon," John called out, but his voice was weak and breathless. Ronon ignored him and began opening the door of the tent.
"Ronon, don't. Don't go outside," John said again, forcing as much energy as he could into his voice. Ronon had finished untying the flap, but he paused. "Ronon, come on. Come back over here," John begged.
Ronon turned around, holding a hand to his head. He looked pale and sickly and not a little unsteady. John watched him, hoping the man would move away from the door. There was nothing he could actually do to stop him, though. He tried to reach down for the gun in his thigh holster, but that slight movement set a fire in his chest and he froze. His hands were beginning to tingle, and he could feel warm blood dripping down his side.
Ronon stumbled away from the door and toward the cots where Teyla and McKay were. John tried to turn his head toward them but he couldn't move. The pain was joined by the sensation of pressure on his chest, and he realized with a jolt of fear that it was getting harder to breathe.
"Guys?" He tried to yell, thought he was yelling, but it came out as a whisper.
"You."
John opened his eyes, not realizing they had slid shut. Ronon stood above him, glowering. His face was flushed and he seemed to be trembling.
"You," he said again, the accusation in his voice sending a chill through John.
"Ronon, please, help," John begged. Warm blood oozed down his side.
Ronon pulled his gun and pointed it as John's face. John could feel himself shaking, and he wondered how much of it was from pain and blood loss, and how much of it was from fear of being shot by a friend.
"I know you."
"Yes, it's me. John Sheppard. You're friend."
"No, you were trying to kill me. You stood over me…"
"That wasn't…me…Ronon," John pleaded. The pressure on his chest was getting worse. Ronon's face hardened, if anything, and his grip on his gun tightened.
---
The week of restlessness and poor sleep had finally caught up to John, and even as he had watched his teammates enjoying the feast and their new friendship with the Ayadath, all he had wanted to do was curl up in his bed and sleep for days. There had been no chance of that, though. The tent had been alive with people talking and laughing and eating. The councilman had shuffled the team over to one end of the long table where piles of food had been shoved in front of them.
John had nibbled at his food, content to listen to the lively conversations of the people around him. Teyla and the councilman had struck up a quick friendship and had discussed everything from the Wraith to the state of trade in the Pegasus galaxy to favorite farming practices. McKay had asked a young woman seated near him about every type of dish on the table, growing more and more flirtatious and less and less inhibited as the night went on. Ronon had mostly just eaten, occasionally adding his two bits to either Teyla's or McKay's conversations.
"Have you tried this stuff?"
John had jerked in surprise and looked down at the bowl McKay had been holding in front of his face. He'd zoned out completely, and wondered how long he'd been staring off into space.
"Sorry, um, no. Haven't tried it."
"It's really good," McKay had said, shoveling a spoonful of it into his mouth. "Tastes like cherries. Actually, more like cherry pie without the crust."
John had pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a growing headache. All he'd wanted to do at that moment was go lay down, but McKay had continued to wave the bowl of cherries in front of his face. "No, thanks, McKay."
"Are you sure? Teyla and Ronon have both had like three bowls of this stuff. I seriously can't get enough of it. Hey, do you think we can get some of this in our new trade deal?" McKay had turned around without waiting for a response, interrupting Teyla and the councilman. "Does our treaty include these cherry-like fruits? It really should. Teyla, can you do that? I've got to tell you, I've had a lot of these…"
John had leaned back in his chair, listening to McKay's rambling. Ronon had joined in the conversation soon enough, adding his own praise to the Ayadath's feast. The councilman had seemed more than pleased to hear how well received his people's food was. John had nibbled some more at his own food, but he had been too tired to really eat and so had closed his eyes, intending to rest his eyes for just a minute.
---
John's eyes flew open at the sound of a growl just outside the tent. Ronon spun around. The door flap he had untied fluttered in a slight breeze, and the faint light from the lamp spilling outside revealed something large and dark approaching cautiously.
Ronon stood motionless, confusion etching his face. The hand holding the gun was shaking badly now, and John wondered how much longer Ronon would be able to stay on his feet.
"McKay!" he rasped. "Teyla!"
He could hear nothing from his teammates behind him. Ronon swayed, and stumbled a little farther from the door. "Ronon!" John called.
A deep growl sounded at the door, and John's heart almost stopped when a large, shaggy animal creeped inside. It looked vaguely like a wolf, but it was huge—at least twice as big. It sniffed the air a moment, then took another step toward John, baring its jagged teeth and growling deep inside its throat. John tried to slide away, but gave a broken cry as Ronon's knife grated against his rib bone. He was panting again, from pain and adrenaline, and wondering if this was the end. Don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out. He moved his hand toward the knife in his chest, thinking he could pull it out and use it to defend himself if he had to.
The wolf growled again, curling its lip. John wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife, bracing himself. He watched the beast take another step forward, its eyes trained on its bleeding prey on the floor. John gripped the knife even harder, but the slight movement of the blade in his chest was too much. He screamed, arching his back, and his hand fell empty and limp to his side.
The wolf tensed at John's sudden movement. John, gasping, looked over right as it was about to pounce, and thought he heard someone screaming, but the blood rushing in his ears drowned out all other sound. This is it, he thought. He heard an inhuman shriek, felt the ground around him thudding underneath him, and then his body erupted in fiery agony.
---
"Excuse me? Excuse me, sir." The voiced had floated somewhere above John's head, and the incessant tapping on his arm had finally forced him to open his eyes.
"Sorry to wake you, sir," the councilman had said. His eyes had been bright and his smile a little lopsided. "The feast is over. We have a tent set up for you and your people, if you would like to retire for the night."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks," John had answered, a little irritated that he'd allowed himself to doze off. He had rubbed his face, trying to wake up and wondered how much time had passed. Ronon, Teyla, and McKay had all still been awake, but they had a decidedly drunken air about them.
"You guys okay?" John had asked, standing up from the table.
"We are excellent, Colonel. John. Colonel," Teyla had responded. She had covered her mouth with her hand and just barely stifled a giggle. McKay had continued to pick at the plates of food in front of him.
"Let's go, people. I think this is enough feasting for one night." John had walked around the table, helping Teyla stand and steadying her when she had swayed. He had tapped Ronon's arm to get the big man moving, then had hefted McKay up. Ronon had stumbled toward the entrance of the tent, causing Teyla and McKay to burst out laughing.
"They have eaten too many of the Akira," the councilman had solemnly declared.
"Akira?"
"Yes. These," he had said, pointing toward the bowl of cherries. "They are quite powerful when ripe." The councilman had begun giggling, and John had grimaced. "It appears I too have had too many Akira."
"That's just great," John had muttered. "What exactly do these Akira do?"
"They make for a wonderful evening and very vivid night visions, but they will have quite the headache in the morning," the councilman had whispered. He had stumbled at that point, giggled some more, then mumbled something about going to bed before staggering off into the night. John had pushed his teammates toward their own tent, stopping for a minute while McKay had stumbled off to the side to throw up. When they'd finally reached their tent, all three had collapsed into their cots and immediately fallen sound asleep.
John had stared at them for a moment before grabbing a chair and setting it up just outside the door of their tent, intent on watching his friends' backs as they slept off the intoxicating effects of the berries. He had hoped they hadn't eaten enough of the berries to have the vivid dreams the councilman had mentioned. They'd had enough vivid dreams lately. John had settled into the chair and rubbed his eyes. He had still been tired, but after his short nap during the feast, he had felt like he could stay awake the rest of the night to keep watch.
Some hours later, John had leaned his head into the tent when he'd heard someone moaning and whimpering. It had sounded like a nightmare. John had cringed, wondering how many nightmares he was still starring in. He'd sat forward, concentrating on the dark village around him.
The first screeching howl had rent the air, and John had flown up out of his chair, gun in hand. He had stared into the darkness but could see nothing that might have caused the sound. Another screech had sounded and John had spun around. He'd realized that time that the sound was coming from a point much farther away than he had first guessed, but it had still caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
Minutes later, one of the villagers had arrived and warned him of the danger—beasts from the mountains that came into the valley in search of fresh meet when the weather turned too cold too early. The villager had been uncertain whether the animals would come all the way into the village, but he'd recommended that John and his team stayed inside the tent just in case.
"Thanks for the warning," John had said, but after sealing the tent door shut, he'd wondered how much protection the tent would actually provide.
---
John woke up to the sound of someone vomiting nearby. He opened his eyes slowly and saw the roof of the tent take shape above him. A cool breeze fluttered in through the open flap of the door. John tried to turn his head, but the right side of his chest was throbbing, and his breaths came in short gasps. A minute later he noticed the stench above and beyond that of someone throwing up. Something that smelled like dirt and blood and rotting meat. The smells swirled around him, making him nauseous.
Whoever had been vomiting stopped. John managed to successfully turn his head on his second attempt and was immediately confronted with the reeking mug of the wolf. He jerked in response, then gasped at the pain the movement incited in his body. He gagged, but swallowed quickly, praying he wouldn't actually throw up. He knew that would probably kill him in his current condition.
"Ronon?"
The Satedan was nowhere to be seen. John turned his head a little more and spotted the source of the vomiting from before. Rodney McKay was kneeling on the ground, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and his head resting against the edge of the cot.
"McKay?"
McKay jerked up at the sound of his voice, then moaned. He slapped one hand over his mouth as he started to gag again. His other hand, holding his handgun, flailed around for a moment as he tried to grab a hold of the cot.
"Sick…" he mumbled.
"Rodney," John called to him again, but his voice was barely above a whisper. He watched in horror as the physicist swayed and crumbled to the floor. John collapsed back to the ground and closed his eyes. He was so screwed.
Another screeching growl sounded, and John remembered the village had been overrun with those foul wolves. He opened his eyes to see Ronon once again standing over him. The man was looking between the dead animal and the passed out scientist. John was relieved to see the anger from earlier was gone, but he still looked as unsteady on his feet as ever.
John tried to call out to him, but no sound came out. It was all he could do to keep breathing. Suddenly, Teyla was standing over him as well. She looked pale and sick, and her face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
"We should go," she said. Ronon looked around, dazed. After a minute, he kneeled down next to McKay and flung the unconscious man over his shoulder.
"Wait," John rasped. He tried to move, but he was weak. Even without the agonizing pain in his chest, he didn't think he'd be able to get far. His cry attracted Teyla's attention, and she knelt next to him. She stared at John's face, but John wondered how much she could actually see. Her eyes were dilated and her gaze unfocused.
"I know you," she mumbled. She reached a hand out tentatively toward his face. John gasped, then coughed. Her face suddenly hardened. "You killed my father," she snarled.
John shook his head. That wasn't me. That wasn't me. He tried to plead with her, he could feel his lips moving, but no sound came out.
"Let's go," Ronon said again. He staggered under McKay's weight. The wolves were still racing through the village, and John could hear the screams of the villagers amidst the growls and shrieks of the animals.
"He killed him," Teyla scowled.
"Leave him," Ronon answered.
John could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Teyla stared at him for another minute, before standing up. She took a couple steps before crying out and grabbing her stomach. John lay immobile on the ground, watching in horror as she fell to her knees.
"We should go," Ronon repeated. He stood facing the door, oblivious to Teyla's moans next to him, but he made no move to step outside. The wolves seemed to have gotten their fill of the villagers. At least the screams and howls from outside had quieted.
John groaned, struggling to stay awake. He felt cold and hot at the same time, and the smell of the dead wolf was making him more and more nauseous.
"Sick," Teyla said, lifting herself suddenly from the ground. "What is wrong?" She crawled out of John's sight, toward her cot. John closed his eyes. Shudders ran though his body, causing shooting pains through his chest. He was feeling dizzy again too, and he groaned. Someone come. Please, someone come.
No one came. Ronon swayed a little when McKay, still hanging over the big man's shoulder, suddenly jerked back to consciousness.
"Whaa…" he mumbled. John opened his eyes at the sound of McKay's voice.
"Sick…gonna be sick…again…" McKay's voice was getting louder, and he was hitting Ronon on the back. Ronon staggered to the side, then dropped his burden. As McKay rolled away and started throwing up again, Ronon sat on the ground with his head in his hands, trembling.
John tried to focus on McKay. The man had stopped vomiting and was crawling away from the smell, groaning.
"I am so screwed," McKay mumbled. "I am so, so, so screwed." He curled up in a ball with his arms wrapped protectively around his head.
"Rodney," John whispered as loudly as he could.
"What? Go away. Sick."
"Rodney, help." His voice had almost no strength to it, and he wondered if it was loud enough.
Rodney suddenly turned toward him, his eyes wide. He was pale and sickly looking, but his eyes were clear and he looked directly at John. A second later, he was crawling quickly to John's side, looking at the knife in his friends chest and the blood dripping into a puddle underneath him.
"What the hell happened to you? Is that Ronon's knife?"
John had no energy to respond. Just keeping his eyes open was taking all of his attention, but even so, he almost passed out from relief as Rodney began to panic and dig through the small amount of medical supplies they carried in their vests.
"Ronon!" McKay yelled, then screamed as he turned and came face to face with the wolf. "I thought that was a bad dream," he muttered a moment later, wiping the sweat from his forehead. John heard a loud thud, and frowned at McKay, wishing he could ask what that was.
"Ronon passed out," McKay answered, seeing the question on Sheppard's face. "Just hold on."
John moaned as McKay carefully placed bandages around the small knife. He thought he'd been tired during the feast; he was exhausted now. He could feel it in every part of his body. Out of sheer stubbornness, he kept his eyes on Rodney's face, suddenly afraid that if he gave into the darkness pulling at him that he would never wake up again.
John was not sure how long he lay there. McKay kept up a continous, panic-induced ramble, but John lost track of what he was saying and how much time was passing. His next clear memory was of more people bending over him, Ronon and Teyla included. He felt hands all over his body, and then he was moving, and the pain ripped through his chest with a sudden that took his breath away. He would have screamed if he'd had any air in his lungs. The darkness creeped in closer around the edges of his vision, and the last thing he saw was the pale, sick faces of his teammates filled with fear and confusion.
---
John woke up slowly. The room was bright and quiet. The dark brown hues of the tent had been replaced with the soft greens and blues of Atlantis. I made it, he thought.
"Yes, you did," said a quiet voice next to him. He turned his head, not realizing he'd spoken out loud.
"Teyla?" He whispered. He still felt incredibly weak, but the pain in chest was more of a dull throb than the acute fire he'd felt back in the tent.
"Yes, John. You are home and safe." She smiled at him, but he could see something was wrong. John suddenly flashed on her kneeling over him, glaring at him as she accused him of killing her father, Ronon standing over her and telling her to leave him.
"You were going to leave," he blurted, and instantly regretted it as her face creased in pain.
"I am sorry, John," she answered quickly, grabbing his hand.
"What happened?" He asked.
"We ate too many of those cherries," McKay answered, stepping into the room. Ronon followed behind him, and John's eyes widened in surprise as the uncertainty in the runner's posture.
"What?"
"Those cherries—well, not exactly cherries—they are apparently quite intoxicating when they're ripe. We all ate way too many of them, leading to quite vivid dreams and even hallucinations.
"Luckily, McKay ate more than all of us. He threw up most of the berries before he could really get drunk off them. He ended being more coherent than any of us," Ronon added.
"Yes, yes. Lucky me. All I really remember is getting sick, getting sick again, some kind of huge wolf, getting sick yet a third time, and then seeing you…um…" McKay pointed vaguely at Sheppard's chest, letting his voice trail off.
"You killed the wolf," Sheppard stated, suddenly making the connection between the memory of the wolf creeping into the tent and the sound of gunfire. McKay shrugged, but couldn't quite stop his smile.
"I remember being at the feast, but the rest of the night is unclear," Teyla said. "The dreams, though, were as vivid as the one I experienced under the crystal entity's influence."
John took a deep breath, jerking as the pain his chest flared. He could feel hands on his arm and forehead as Teyla tried to soothe him. Rodney's voice filtered in from the hallway where he was yelling for a doctor.
"Sorry," he muttered, when he felt like he could breathe again.
"John, look at me." Teyla grabbed his face in both of her hands, forcing him to look at her. "It is not your fault. You must believe that. We are the ones that are sorry."
"You were sick. That wasn't your fault."
"I almost killed you, Sheppard," Ronon said. He stood at the foot of the bed, leaning against the mattress and refusing to look up.
"We almost killed you," Teyla amended.
John shook his head. Seeing the guilt on the faces of his friends was worse than the fear and anger they'd directed at him while under the effects of the fruit. "No, listen, guys. Those berries—you weren't yourself. Don't blame yourselves. What you saw…you couldn't control it."
"Just as you couldn't control the actions of the crystalline entity," said Teyla.
"Or our dreams," Ronon added.
John swallowed, wanting to believe them. He could feel exhaustion pulling on him again. "How about we just put this whole mess behind us?" He whispered. Teyla nodded squeezing his hand, and Ronon patted his leg with a grin. Rodney returned, with Doctor Keller in tow, who quickly moved toward her patient.
"You're going to be fine, Colonel, but you need your rest." She was messing with the IV in his hand, and a after a few seconds, the pain in his chest began to ease. His eyelids were already beginning to droop.
"You guys'll stay?" He asked suddenly looking up at his team.
"Of course, John," Teyla answered, and Rodney nodded vigorously next to her.
"Not going anywhere, Sheppard." Ronon's voice rumbled.
"Sleep for now, and by the time you wake up, it will be time for dinner," Keller said as John's eyes slid shut. "I hear the cooks are making a thanksgiving feast—roast turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cherry cobbler for desert."
John smiled slightly at the groans his friends made at the mention of cherry cobbler, and he relaxed into the pillow. Rodney pulled up a chair next to him, Ronon shifted around at the foot of the bed, and Teyla's warm hand rested against his arm. With his team drawing their usual protective circle around him, he drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.