Written for the Sheppard HC LJ challenge... using the sensory loss challenge prompt. Bit of a different take on the idea but hope you like it.
Warnings for adult themes involving implied torture.
I may well write an epilogue chapter to this at some point as I think it would be interesting to see the recovery.
Reviews and feedback welcomed, as ever.
Sheppard had lost all the sensation in his hands.
His arms and shoulders were a different matter; the pain was constant, hot and angry, the weight of his body putting incredible strain on over-taxed muscles, the unceasing pressure straining uncomfortably at his joints. He hung limply from the manacles, his head slumped forward, drifting in and out of a painful semi-consciousness. He'd held on as long as he could but the pain was unrelenting; there was no escape from it. The very tips of his bare toes scraped against the floor as a tremor of pain made his legs twitch helplessly.
The rough metal of the manacles had dug into his hands when he was first chained up, his own body weight pulling his flesh tight against the sharp edges. He couldn't feel that pain any more, couldn't feel anything above his wrists. In his more lucid moments he'd tried a couple of times to wiggle his fingers. He couldn't tell if they'd moved or not. The numbness, the absence of sensation, terrified him; was an agony worse than the pain in his arms, the aching of his bruised and battered body.
Blood loss, pain and exhaustion had left him dizzy. It took more strength than he had left to raise his head so he gazed unseeingly at the rough stone floor beneath him, absently tracing the patterns of blood across the dirty stone. His blood, he thought distantly. He'd lost track of time, had no idea how long he'd hung here. Was it hours? Days? A lifetime? It was getting harder and harder to breathe, his uncomfortable position putting pressure on his chest, constricting his lungs. His ribs ached with every indrawn breath.
The rough stone wall of this small, dank room was cold against the bare skin of his back. When they'd first hung him here he'd struggled, tried to fight free of their grip as they'd lifted him, pressing him heavily against the wall as they clamped the manacles tightly around his wrists. The rough surface had scraped against his back as he struggled, chafing at his skin and pulling open the barely-clotted wounds. The seeping blood had dried slowly as he'd hung here against the wall, crusting across his back and across the wall, making his skin pull when he'd tried to move, to find some leverage to lift his weight from his hands, if only for a moment. He'd long since given up trying.
It was cold in the small room. The cool stone against his skin made him shiver, his muscles trembling minutely. He could see his breath as he exhaled. They'd taken his tac vest long before they'd brought him to this room, stripped him of his jacket and t-shirt as they toyed with him, laughing as they kicked at him, held him down and scored their knives in shallow, painful cuts across his naked skin. He'd still had his boots when they'd chained him to this wall and his captors had lived to regret that as he'd lashed out at them in his struggles, dropping one man with a well-placed kick to the groin and knocking another staggering with a solid blow to the head. They'd made him pay for his defiance – repeated blows to the stomach leaving him dangling in agony, gasping for breath, unable to curl his body to relieve the pain, as they'd stripped the boots and socks from his feet, leaving him shivering in only his BDU pants.
He didn't know how long he'd hovered on the edge of consciousness, fading in and out of lucidity as blood loss and exhaustion warred with the angry pain that refused to let him slip into longed-for oblivion. The muscles in his arms trembled constantly, screaming their protest at the relentless pressure. His labored breath was rasping so loudly in his chest that he barely registered the squeal of the heavy, metal door opening, the tread of booted feet across the stone floor. He had not the breath to cry out when cruel fingers fisted in his hair, jerking his head up to meet cold grey eyes and an amused sneer. It was the one he'd thought of as Billy, back when he'd cared enough to give them names. Billy was the worst of the lot of them. He smiled as he looked into John's pain-glazed eyes, taking a malicious pleasure in the evidence of suffering.
His eyes never left John's face, noting every detail of his reaction, as he deliberately pressed his hand against Sheppard's aching ribs and pressed, hard. John couldn't hold back a sharp cry as bruised flesh protested and he felt something give, grating agonisingly beneath the pressure. If anything, Billy's smile grew wider.
John struggled to pull in air, unable to pull in a proper breath, his vision starting to swim as Billy pushed down again on what felt very much like broken ribs. He was too lost in pain and the roaring in his ears to even realise when the door swung open again; was only aware of the sudden removal of the awful pressure against his ribs, his head dropping abruptly back down to his chest as Billy let go of his hair.
It was a long moment before he could catch his breath, before he was able to think of anything other than the pain throbbing through his body. A cry of fear brought him back to himself, bringing his surroundings back into focus; sounds he couldn't make sense of – grunts and gasps, the smack of flesh hitting flesh. Lifting his head felt like the hardest thing he had ever done, his shoulders screaming as he tensed his neck muscles, and the sight that met him could have been a mirage. Blood ran down Billy's face as he desperately raised his arms, trying to protect himself from the barrage of blows. Spinning and lashing out with the lithe grace of a dancer, Ronon's dreadlocks swung in the air as he systematically broke down the man's defences, landing blow after blow. John watched mesmerised, disbelieving, as the Satedan filled the small room with his rage, raining down his fury upon Sheppard's abuser.
When Billy lay unmoving on the floor, Ronon stood for a moment over him, breathing heavily, his fists stained with blood, hatred on his face. John couldn't hold his head up any longer and he let it slump forward, not sure he could believe what he was seeing. Then hands were on him, Ronon's deep rumble of a voice quietly speaking his name, and he knew it was real. They'd come for him. He couldn't find the breath to reply.
"This is gonna hurt." Ronon's tone was pragmatic, a burning anger making his words sharp.
Hands under his armpits lifted him, bearing his weight, raising him a few, vital inches before pushing him back against the wall, a firm arm across his chest pressing him against the rough stone, holding him in place. It was agony; the motion pulling his bloodied, crusted back free from the stone wall, his ribs screaming at the pressure on his chest, fiery pain shooting up his arms as his muscles trembled at the removal of his weight on them. He coughed out a choked cry of pain and was vaguely aware of something wet spattering his lips. Darkness crowded his vision and he faded for a moment, the world slipping away from him.
When he came to, Ronon was struggling to hold him upright against the wall, his legs crumpling beneath him, his body weak and shivering. He struggled to breathe, feeling a rattling in his chest and tasting copper in his mouth. His arms swung limply, his abused muscles not responding to sensory commands. They throbbed hotly with pain but the sensation ended at his wrists, his relief tempered by cold fear.
"Sheppard?" Ronon was crouching low, peering into his eyes, his face creased in concern. "Sorry, but there's no time to rest. We need to get out of here - now." The Satedan didn't wait for a response, not that John had the power to give him one, and swiftly set his shoulder against Sheppard's belly, lifting and straightening so that John was slung over his shoulder. The aching muscles in his stomach protested the movement, sharp pain stabbed through his chest as something grated in his rib cage and his head swam as he found himself abruptly upside down. His arms hung loosely beside his head, shivering and trembling ceaselessly.
As Ronon carried him from the room his breath caught in his throat, a new agonizing pain squeezing the air from his lungs. He found himself smiling even as he moaned in pain. The slightest of tingles developed quickly into an angry throbbing and then a sharp, hot pain in his hands. As he hung upside down overRonon's shoulder, the blood flowed back into restricted blood vessels, pushing angry pain ahead of it as the starved tissues slowly reperfused.
It was sheer agony. It was the most wonderful feeling he had ever known.
Fin?...