The Five people you meet in Heaven

The Five people you meet in Heaven

By Angelwings9

Spoilers: anything up to season 4 is fair game

Warnings: death fic- with a difference

Inspired by the excellent book (same title) by Mitch Albom- you don't need to have read it, however if you want to in the future, I apologise for ruining the experience.

XXX

This is a story about a man named John Sheppard and it begins at the end, with John dying in the sun. It might seem strange to start a story with an ending. But all endings are also beginnings. We just don't know it at the time.

XXX

The last hour of John's life, was spent like most others, wandering around a backwater plant searching for allies and listening to McKay moan about his feet getting blistered. The current planet was much like dozens of other his team had set foot on. The village was a short distance from the 'gate, the trees were green and lush. The path underfoot, was dry and pitted with holes just deep enough for a boot- handy for broken ankles. There were small rocks and pebbles too, so John had to take care with each step to avoid said ankle breaking. He was also keeping an eye on Rodney, because McKay was incapable of walking, talking and looking out for pot-holes all at the same time. Geniuses, go figure.

XXX

At the time of his death, John was a tall, lean, brown haired, 40 year old man. He had spiked, gelled hair and a five o'clock shadow. He had no tattoos, nor piercings. He did have a large collection of scars, some old, some not so. He had a trick shoulder, which ached in the winter. His left knee, wounded some years ago, ached and he suspected that he'd have arthritis in a few years. He wore a black t-shirt and BDU pants. He had a tac vest protecting his upper body, filled with extra ammo, bandages and power bars. His dog tags clung to his damp chest, and pulled on his hairs as he walked.

XXX

John's job was to take care of his people. There may well have been other names for his job, names, which contradicted his description of it. If asked, this is the answer he would give; I take care of my people. And take care of his people he did. He took care of his men, by drilling into them safety protocols and training them in the art of survival. He took care of his team by watching their six, off world and at home. He took care of them when they were hurt and tried to help them when they needed solace. He made sure that his guys always came home, even if that meant he didn't sometimes. Today was one of those times.

XXX

With just 50mins of time left, John took his final drink of water. The baking sun beat down with vigour, making his tanned skin slick with sweat. He took a few long, refreshing gulps of water, before replacing the cap and marching on, towards the village.

XXX

"Sheppard, are you listening to me?"

Forty minutes until his death. John smiled at Rodney, he liked the cranky scientist. They were a strange pair, most people were surprised at John's choice of best friend, but Rodney made him smile, with his constant chatter and inflated ego. John had a lot of time for his friends. He'd do anything, for anyone of them. They were more than friends; they were his family. Ronon, Teyla and Rodney were his team, he was proud to be counted as their friend. Over the years he'd known a lot of good people most, unfortunately, were now dead. He wore a black band on his arm to remember them all by. His men trusted him; they believed him every time he said he'd never leave anyone behind. He was proud of the fact that he never had.

XXX

There was a story that went around about John. When Atlantis, their home, had been invaded a few years ago he'd defended the city on his own. He'd killed sixty enemy soldiers in one afternoon using the stargate as a weapon. New recruits were all keen to hear the story, to understand their CO better. John knew the story had been told many times, embellished in parts. He took no pride in its retelling however. He'd simply done what was needed to keep his people safe. That was his job.

XXX

"How much further?" McKay wined. Sheppard rolled his eyes. 38 minutes left.

"I don't know McKay, I've been here as often as you." He replied testily. The scorching sun was giving him a headache, exasperated by Rodney's harping.

A small avian flew overhead, ducking and weaving through the branches of the tallest trees. John smiled as the bird cooed. He loved to fly. As a child he'd sat on Ferris wheels, willing himself to take flight, relishing the feeling every time he left his stomach at the top. When he'd told his parents of his wishes they'd been disappointed that their bright son wanted to join the forces, to fly planes in other parts of the world. It had been his only dream. He was glad he'd done it even if it meant losing his family. He'd been young with his whole life ahead of him, what was an argument with his father to that? As the years rolled on, he'd regretted losing touch with his family. He never once regretted his decision to fly though.

XXX

Another story went around about John. Apparently as a soldier in Afghanistan, he'd been engaged in combat many times and once disobeyed a direct order from his CO. none of the recruits knew the reason Sheppard had disobeyed a direct order, some thought him brave for it. Others thought he'd been foolish; after all, the chain of command was there for a reason. No one, other than John and his team mates, knew the real reason. No one else asked.

XXX

With 19 minutes left alive, John sat at a long wooden table with strangers from the village discussing trade negotiations. John's P90 was clipped to his vest and he rested it on the table top. His lean, tanned arms were draped casually over the top, his finger never far from the trigger. His arms bore many scars, some deep enough to have warranted stitches at the time, others mere scratches. In truth, much of John's body suggested a survived encounter. With clothes on he looked much like any other man of his age, a few scars from a misspent youth, and a few from foolish DIY attempts. Once the clothes were removed however, his body bore many more scars than his peers. Scars of a sinister nature: bullet wounds, shrapnel scarring, even a hand-print over his heart. Without clothes he looked like a survivor from a horrific war. He was. There were a few crow's feet in the corner of his eyes, a few wrinkles appearing on his brow and when he smiled, laughter lines cut down his face. He was considered by many to be a handsome man.

XXX

Every life has one true-love snapshot. For John, it cam on a warm September night after a thunderstorm, when his local boardwalk was spongy with water. John loved thunderstorms; they always made him feel alive. He loved that boardwalk too. Much of his youth and childhood had been spent there, riding the Ferris wheel over and over. She wore a yellow cotton dress with a pink Alice-band in her soft, brown hair. John didn't say much. He was so nervous he felt as if his tongue were glued to his teeth. They rode the Ferris wheel and he bought her cotton candy. He won an oversized stuffed bear for her by knocking plates down with a baseball. She said she had to go before her parents got angry, so he walked her home and they kissed chastely on her doorstep.

That was the snapshot. For the rest of his life, whenever he thought of Nancy (which became less and less over the years), John would see that moment. Her standing at the door, waving over her shoulder to him, her dark hair falling over one eye, and he would always feel the same burst of love. Love of innocence. That night he came home and woke his brother. He told him he'd met the girl he was going to marry.

"Go to sleep, John." His brother groaned.

He used to think about her a lot. Not so much now. She was like a wound beneath an old bandage, and he had grown used to the bandage.

Sixteen minutes to live.

XXX

No story sits by itself. Sometimes stories meet at corners and sometimes they cover one another completely, like stones beneath a river. The end of John's story was touched by another seemingly innocent story, days earlier - a cloudy, over cast day when a young man arrived on this world with three of his colleagues. They'd come, unbeknown to the villagers and hidden in some old caves, which ran under the centre of the village. They'd only stayed a night to evade some smugglers chasing them. They'd built a small fire and when they went, it was Nic's job to put the fire out - to eliminate the evidence. Nic, being in a rush to leave, stamped the fire out and ran to catch up his friends. The fire was not out.

XXX

Fourteen minutes until his death. John wiped his brow with the back of his left hand. The warmth of the sun had baked the ground so much, that it seemed to John that heat was coming from the soil and dirt, as well as the sky. He spared a glace at Teyla who was chatting with the village's leader. He excused himself, and ignoring worried glances from his teammates, he strolled over to a water buck, gathered the collected rain water into his hands and splashed his face and neck. A sigh escaped his slightly parted lips.

XXX

Twelve minutes left.

"Scuse me."

A young girl, maybe eight years old, stood before him blocking his view of the dirt track, which led to the stargate. She had blond curls and wore a simple summer dress in cream.

"Scuse me," she said again. "What's your name?"

John sighed and smiled down at her. "John, you are?" he said.

"John, uh hum. My names Applice." She bit on her lower lip for a moment, pensively before asking, "Can you play with me?"

"Not really kido, I'm supposed to be over there, talking about trade and such."

"Oh, that's too bad. Later?"

John looked up, as if thinking about her question and then replied with hopeful honesty, "Sure why not, if there's time."

"Yessss!" the little girl said, slapping her hands. She ran off and John walked slowly back toward the negotiation table.

XXX

How do people choose their final words? Do they realise their gravity? Are they fated to be wise?

By his 40th birthday, John Sheppard had lost nearly everyone he'd cared about, one way or another. Some died young, and some had been given a chance to grow old (naturally) before a disease or accident took them away. At their funerals, John listened as mourners recalled their final conversations. "It's as if he knew he was going to die…" some would say.

John never believed that. As far as he could tell, when your time came, it came, and that was that. You might say something smart on your way out, but you might just as easily say something stupid.

For the record, John's final words would be "Get back!"

XXX

Here are the sounds of John's last minutes on earth: birds squawking, the earth rumbling, and the crackle of fire. And this, "Oh my God, we are so dead!"

John was automatically on alert at Rodney's words. The scientist was busy examining the LSD in his hand and pointing to the fissure that had just cracked open along the village floor. John unfolded himself from the chair at the table and took stock of the scene around him. People were screaming, running into their homes for protection. He made a snap decision to help, the ground was shaking, the crack widening and smoke and heat were poring from it like a volcano. He rallied his team, handed out instruction and orders, to get as many people as far from the scene as they could. Through the 'gate would be preferable. For all John knew they were standing on the caldera of a super-volcano. Of course, the falling, burning coal mine shafts were a little less dramatic, although just as frightening.

He joined his team in helping people to escape. Many were reluctant to leave their homes, unaware as they were, that their entire village was about to collapse into the ground. The earth gave an almightily tear and four building fell into the crater of flame and smoke, in the middle of the village. "Get Back!" shouted John, as he pulled an elderly gentleman to his feet.

It was then, that he saw her. The last face of his life. She was sprawled on the floor, on the other side of the widening crack. Her nose was running, tears filled her eyes and she was screaming for her Mommy. Without a thought for his own personal safety, John jumped the 5 foot, smoking divide. The heat was unbearable, and he could smell the hairs on his arm being singed away. The little girl, Amy? Annie? Was crying for her Mother, her little chest rising and falling rhythmically, her body frozen in fear. He grabbed the child in his arms and prepared to jump the gap. As he bent his knees and leapt for life, the heat and smoke impaired his vision; he could not see the other side. He could not see his friends calling to him.

In those final moments, John seemed to hear the whole world: his friends' shouts, the little girl crying in his arms, a rush of wind, a low, ugly sound that he realised was his own voice blasting through his chest. He threw the little girl as far as he could in the direction he hoped was her salvation. He half flew and half stumbled through the air, in a graceless arch. He felt two hands in his own, two small hands.

A stunning impact.

A blinding flash of light.

And then, nothing.