Title: Shudder
Author: Angel Leviathan
Disclaimer: Atlantis, characters, concept, etc, aren't mine.
Spoilers: None, I think.
Notes: Follow up to Close Your Eyes.
You wake that evening and know you have been in a deep, dreamless sleep. You tend to remember your dreams, even when taking the sedatives, and you're thankful that your body has at least let you rest without the stress of your mind creating nightmare scenarios of its own. You sit up and reach for the tablet computer on your bedside table, waiting for it to boot up. Your throat is sore from dehydration, so you reach for the cup of stale, day old tea that was beside the computer. Stupid, you know, but you were asleep so damn fast the previous night, you didn't care that tea and computers don't make the best of friends. You grimace, but take a sip of the tea anyway. You don't want to move. And you certainly don't want to go and get something else to drink, walk the halls of the city for someone to alert you to the status of one John Sheppard.
You start to type a report on the day's events. Specifically on the return on your 2IC. You remember the five other cases of absences as long as his. A one out of five survival rate. His will make it two out of six. The suicide sticks in your mind. The gunshot rings through your head with a painful, echoing, clarity. You wonder if John has been medicated in case his mind tries to protect itself, if his return doesn't turn out to be real to him. You wonder if he is sitting there in the Infirmary, laughing with relief. Perhaps he wonders where you are. That doesn't matter. You can't face him. Silent accusations of things you like to think he would never say out loud. Or maybe is he screaming, held down, seeing darkness and twisted faces. Maybe he needs your reassurance. You're not strong enough to give it.
Your mind still lingers on the suicide. You remember the confusion, the relief at seeing a long forgotten IDC flash up on the computer systems. How you ordered the shield to be lowered, but not for arms to be. You watched the raggedly dressed figure stumble through the 'Gate and glance hesitantly around, eyes seeming to dart in every direction possible in under a second. You called their name in a neutral tone and welcomed them home, before heading down the steps to the 'Gate. At the time, you wondered why John insisted on accompanying you, armed.
Then the screaming started. You halted, stunned, and actually covered your ears, shocked that one person could make so much noise. The 'Gate disengaged, and you remember John taking aim, that you shouted for him not to, until you saw that your recently returned airman had the muzzle of a handgun pressed to his head. A gun not of foreign design, a gun you probably issued him with. Well. Perhaps not you. Whomever you put in charge of the armoury. You still insisted that everyone lower their weapons, and you tried speaking to the officer in a calm, understanding voice, just like you'd been taught all those years ago. You don't know if they heard a word, for they were still screaming as if in agony. You called for Carson and a med team, then outright struggled against John as he tried to hold you back from making any form of contact with the shrieking figure.
"I'm Doctor Weir, you're in Atlantis, you're safe," you remember yourself saying, "You're home. Nobody is going to hurt you."
They were screaming that it was all an illusion, a trick, a game to get them to break. You insisted that it wasn't, that you were only there to help, you pleaded with them to lower the gun. You had almost reached them at that point, your hand was almost on their arm.
A shot rang out. There was little blood, but you feel the weight of the body as it collapses on top of you like its happening all over again. You didn't say a word. You didn't scream, you didn't curse and you didn't cry. Shock, you were told. You didn't even move, try to crawl out from beneath the body. Frozen. Still. A resounding silence, though you were told it was only in your mind. John lifted the body away from you and had to drag you to your feet. You couldn't move. You remained practically collapsed against him, his arms around you, and you remember thinking that perhaps he was holding you a little more tightly than was appropriate. You still couldn't move. You thought you were stupid for reacting in such an extreme manner, told yourself there was nothing wrong with you, but you still don't know how you got to the Infirmary.
It was John who spoke to you that night, about anything, about everything he thought would keep your mind off what had happened. He rambled rather well, but when he addressed the issue, he knew what to say. You wonder if you would have remained in a stupor that night if it weren't for him. He reassured you and he told you it wasn't your fault, that there was nothing you could have done. You remember he held you and that you thought it was the longest a man had ever held you without expecting, or trying, for something more. You remember chastising yourself for being so comfortable, and for perhaps wanting a more physical form of comfort he might give you if you asked.
You didn't ask. You needed a friend and didn't want to look back on that night with more confusion than you already felt. Neither of you slept that night and somehow you weren't as exhausted in the morning as you expected you'd be.
You've written barely three lines of a report before you set the computer aside, run your fingers through your unruly hair, and make your way to the door. He's been missing for so long and you have no idea what he's been through. He could have been to hell and back and you don't know. He's been through more than you have in your lifetime, whatever it turns out to be. He has offered you support and comfort and, dare you even think it, love, without question. And you're afraid of seeing him because he might reproach you, because you blame yourself? Those aren't reasons. They're fears. And they're irrational.
Enough is enough.
You head to the Infirmary.
Fin