Another Man's Shoes

by everybetty

What makes a man? John and Carson each struggle with the question...only John’s life hangs in the balance.

Another Man's Shoes
Length ~21,000
Rating PG 15 for some swearing and adult situations. Anyone wanting a heads up on what that entails, please feel free to ask.
Contains ShepWhump (duh) and Team and Carson!
Set late S5 but before the finale.

For the secret Santa exchange over at sheppard_hc , modded by the kind and generous kristen999 whose infinite patience, gentle beatings and general support and betaing allowed me to finally post this beast.

"Dessert tonight says we get a 'fascinating' in the next three minutes."

"Dessert for the week says we get a 'fascinating' and he'll blow his nose."

"No deal. I heard they're making chocolate chip cookies for Friday."

John eased his butt against the moss-covered remains of a stone wall and sighed, adjusted his P-90 strap where it had rubbed a raw spot on his neck.

"Yeah, I was hoping you didn't know about those."

"Hello? Me not know something? Especially cookie related?"

"Yeah, you got me there, McKay," John agreed with an answering smile of his own. "Besides, the nose blowing is kind of a gimme."

Rodney cast a glance over at the object of their betting. The archeologist was half an inch away from the surface of a broken column, his eyes scanning as he muttered to himself. Another geek was carefully putting cut lengths of the vines that had formerly covered the column into a specimen container.

"He's got to be lying," Rodney said out of the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I could get a DNA sample, run it against--"

"McKay, if he says he's not, he's not. Besides, I really don't see the resemblance."

"Okay, that's because you've only known the man a few years and met him a handful of times. If you knew the man I knew you'd--"

"Shh! He's coming over!"

The archeologist walked over with a handkerchief in hand, and a pissed off expression on his face, which was pretty much par for the course for Dr. Jackson. Dr. David Jackson.

"Colonel," Jackson said shortly. "Doctor," he added with a dab at his nose and a brief nod without looking at Rodney.

"What's up, doc?" John asked with a smirk.

Jackson rolled his eyes as he pocketed his snot rag. The parameters you've given us for this mission are insufficient. With the time allotted for my team we'll barely have begun to scratch the surface of what all we may find. The level of technological advancement achieved by this civilization is nothing short of miraculous. I believe we may have discovered proto-Ancients - the step between normal Homo sapiens sapiens and the people I have come to think of as Homo sapiens antiquus.

"Homo antiques?.... Really? Well, doc, I understand your concern --"

"No. No, you can't. You cannot understand the full significance of this find, and it cannot be understated as one of the most important discoveries in human history."

John cocked his head and studied the man in front of them. Standard gray Atlantis uniform covered a tall, thin, bordering on gangly frame. Floppy, sandy brown hair hung over gold framed glasses that covered piercing blue eyes. He really saw no particular similarity between him and their sometime colleague at the SGC, but Rodney had a wild hair about him being a cousin or a heretofore-missing brother. Dinner last night at camp, when Jackson had begun expositing on which language grouping the writing on the columns had branched from, Rodney choked on his MRE then hmphed, "Forget cousin; I'm thinking clone," once the cobbler had been cleared from his throat.

"Well, doc," John started slowly, "while this may be ... all that you said it was... unfortunately, it isn't up to me."

"Then I need to talk to Mr. Woolsey."

"It isn't really up to Mr. Woolsey either. See that sky?" He pointed off to the horizon where the muted light of a red sun glowed dimly through a thick bank of ominous gray clouds. "The meteorologists tell me that storm is pretty damn significant too. We need to be wheels up way in advance of it reaching us. Which gives us…" He pushed his sleeve up and glanced at his watch. "Approximately three hours. Which is just about enough time for you and your team to pack up your tools and specimens and pile into the jumper. The storm'll be nipping at our heels as it is."

Jackson pulled his glasses off and rubbed briefly at them with the bottom of his uniform jacket. No way it was long or well enough to clean them, the move was more of a nervous tic or reflexive action. But John caught Rodney's eyebrows lift along with an index finger.

"So.... Jackson." Rodney coughed into his hand to hide a smile. "Seriously. Our time together is mercifully drawing to a close here. Give it up."

John watched with fascination of his own as red climbed Jackson's neck.

"For the last time, I am NOT related in any way, shape or form to Dr. Daniel Jackson. I am aware that we share a common last name and occupation. But it's merely a coincidence. Are you aware that Jackson is the thirteenth most common surname in the United States alone, not including Canada, the UK and other countries that experienced British colonization? That means that of the roughly 300 million people currently residing in the US that 39 million of them will have the last name Jackson? Derivation Anglo-Saxon, from the oh, so obvious 'Jack's son?' When people decided approximately seven hundred years ago to start differentiating themselves with surnames it was often easiest to describe the family unit they arose from. 'Who's that? Oh, that's David, Jack's son.' This led to Johnson, the second most common name, and Thompson and Robertson etc. Then of course, there were names based on trades they were in, such as Smith, Cooper, Carter and…"

"Sheppard," John cut in. "Think we got it, doc. Rodney promises not to ask you about it again. But I promise you, if you and your people aren't ready to go in what is now two hours and fifty-five minutes, there will be more than a pedantic lecture involved."

Jackson nudged his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, then wheeled about and went back to his equipment.

"Why, Rodney?" John sighed. "Why do you have to be so... Rodney?"

"Because I don't believe in coincidences."

"He doesn't even look like Daniel."

Rodney stood from his perch on the fallen wall. "That's because you've only known him a few years. You didn't know skinny, myopic, allergy-ridden Jackson. He Ascended or whatever --"

"Twice--"

"Yes, TWICE, if it's to be believed, but whatever it was, he came back all short- haired, glasses and allergy-free and 'roided up."

"Maybe Ascension is good for the soul and the body," John sighed as he too stepped away from his resting spot. "Come on. I don't care to spend the next three hours listening to more of your jealousy fueled tirades about EITHER Dr Jackson."

He walked away to the sound of Rodney sputtering behind him.

---

The ruins of PX3-MKZ were typical to those they'd seen on dozens of worlds. At least they were to John's reasonably tuned eye. Crumbling walls, buildings with caved in roofs, the remnants of paved roads felt under the grass and undergrowth.

True, it seemed this civilization was a bit more developed than most that struggled to survive through generations of Wraith cullings. But after a week spent listening to the oohing and aahing and archeological geek speak, he still hadn't seen anything that could have the scientists so jazzed up.

And now that their time here was as Rodney had so untactfully put it, mercifully drawing to a close, at least for now, his only concern was the steadily darkening sky and the fact that it appeared the scientists were making little effort to pack up.

With a sigh he steeled his back to prepare for another argument with Jackson and his fellow Beakers. He stalked over, P-90 in hand as a not so veiled threat to where a group of scientists was working on one of the more intact sections of what once had probably been a massive structure. The fact that so much of it was still standing was a testament to reinforcement and the use of building materials far from the typical stone and mortar.

As he neared them he saw that the plant life covering the wall had been cleared away and the geekish nattering was reaching a feverish pitch.

Artwork covered an interior wall, etched deeply into a surface that was an odd dull but somehow still shiny gray, like old pewter silver. But there weren't any discernable chisel or tool marks. It was more like lasers had been used or the wall material itself had been formed with the artwork in place.

As the geeks continued to ease off the plant material, it became clear what the art was depicting. It was an image of a vast city, similar in many ways to their very own Atlantis. Soaring towers, graceful arches, promenades and parks, all under the planet's three suns. The detail was so perfect that without color, John could pick out the small and smaller blue suns and the giant red.

Without thinking, he stepped closer to get a better look. His face split into a grin to match those the geeks all wore. There, scattered against the sky, were tiny pods…

"Are those… are they flying cars?" he blurted out.

Dr. Myoki looked up through her thick glasses and beamed at him. "Sure looks like it, Colonel! It would appear the denizens of this planet reached technological advances heretofore never before seen in Pegasus. Except, of course," she stammered, "Atlantis herself. Dr. Munoz's supposition is that when we get back the carbon dating results that we will find this civilization pre-dates the existence of Wraith in this galaxy!"

John raised his eyebrows, suitably impressed by the pronouncement. "Well then, I can almost guarantee that Mr. Woolsey will be authorizing a return trip, and probably sooner rather than later."

That got a murmured, pleased response from the gathered geeks.

"But," he said more sternly, "we need to start packing up or I can definitely guarantee there will not be a return trip." The end of his sentence was punctuated with the first raindrops beginning to pelt down.

Damnit! The storm had gotten there faster than expected.

"All right, everyone," he said loudly. "Our timetable just got real tight. Pack up what you can and hightail it back to the jumper. And that includes you, Dr Jackson!" he bellowed as he saw the archeologist continuing to work. "If you don't think I mean it, folks, just ask Dr. Friedman and his geologists."

That got the desired response. Clearly the lab rats all talked and it was well known that Friedman and his team had been benched from away trips for a solid month. It had taken Ronon a week to heal from the arrow wound in his thigh; John had told them all the village near the pretty ore would not take kindly to their presence but Friedman's team dragging their feet had led to bloodshed. They were just lucky it hadn't been too much blood.

John keyed his radio. "Rodney, you at the jumper yet?"

"It's raining, isn't it?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you known me to be a fool who doesn't know well enough to get out of the rain?"

John shook his head like a dog, flinging away a spray of water. "Just get the jumpers up and running. In fact, the geeks aren't even close to leaving yet. Bring the jumpers closer so we can load 'em up."

"Closer. Got it. Tell them space is limited. The stuff for camp and all the equipment they insisted on bringing has Jumper Four full up already, Colonel," came the voice of Lt DeVry, the other jumper's pilot.

John cast an eye over the group of scientists, each holding large plastic cases of samples. One woman was even hauling a giant curled slab of metal with burnt edges. The sample was almost her height yet she carried it with ease.

"Yeah, I'll tell 'em," John sighed. Great. Another argument.

By the time the jumpers arrived and the teams began stowing away their stuff and themselves the rain was a steady downpour, turning ruts in the ground into mud puddles. John splashed around in a final check of the area, receiving updates in his ear from Lorne and Rodney as each scientist checked in.

Only Jackson hadn't been reported in.

"Dr. Jackson, this is Sheppard. Where the hell are you?"

When there was no response John growled and quicktimed it through the mud, back to where he had last seen the recalcitrant archeologist.

Jackson's radio was askew on his ear as he fought with a massive sheet of heavy plastic. He had managed to drape it over part of the artwork but a corner of the plastic sheet had caught up on a ragged, broken part of the wall.

"Damnit, Doc! We need to go now!"

"Please, Colonel," Jackson said, still struggling with the covering. "We can't let this get damaged!"

John hustled over and pulled free the stuck plastic, allowing Jackson to tug it closer into place. "Doc, if what you guys are saying is correct, this has been here for over ten thousand years. I don't think a little rain is gonna ruin it now."

"But it had the plant cover as protection, Colonel."

"And now it has the plastic. Let's go."

"But, Colonel…"

"Now, Doctor," John said with a hand laid on his P-90. It still scared some of the geeks but clearly didn't impress the archeologist. Maybe he was related to Daniel after all…

"I am not one of your grunts, to be ordered about," Jackson sputtered. "I'm--

Lightning turned the sky white and a heartbeat later a screeching boom shook the ground.

Jackson blanched and dropped the plastic, stunned. Then he turned to take off running. His feet skated for purchase and he pinwheeled his arms for balance before face-planting into the mud.

John placed a hand on the wall for support in the slippery mess, and bent down to grab Jackson's arm but before he could, there was another blinding white flash and an explosion of pain in his head.

A lightning bolt hit a connecting wall, exploding it into jagged chunks. Shrapnel rocketed out in all directions and a piece clipped John across his forehead near his temple, leaving a searing trail of acid in its wake. He fell to his knees with a gasp.

Gagging at the pain in his head, his vision still little more than a white glow, and his ears ringing, John scrambled over, finally getting a purchase on Jackson and pushing him to his feet. John flailed, slipped in the mud, then finally got his own feet under him.

Without a word they staggered, sloshing through the mud puddles in a flat out run for the jumpers. John pushed Jackson through the open hatch of Jumper One and stumbled in after him. "Close it up and get us the hell outa here, McKay!"

The jumper lifted off the ground, the hatch closing up behind him as John fell into an open spot on the bench seat and closed his eyes.

Gulping for air, John wrestled to slow his breathing and the hammering of his heart in his chest. The pounding in his head was dulling already but it throbbed with every heartbeat.

When he'd finally mustered the energy to open his eyes, it was to see half a dozen wet geeks staring at him. Jackson was in the seat across from him, covered in mud but seemingly unharmed.

"You okay, Doc?" John asked quietly.

Jackson just nodded, the formerly stubborn scientist now more like a contrite schoolboy. "I... I'm sorry, Colonel."

John wanted to yell and lecture and scream this is why you're supposed to do as I say! but he only had the flagging energy to nod back, close his eyes down and lean back against the jumper wall.

His ears were still humming with high-pitched annoyance but at least his headache was backing off to background noise. After several deep breaths he was starting to feel almost human again, albeit a wet and cold one, when he felt someone touch his arm and he started. It was Dr. Miyoki, staring at him, her concern clear even through her rain smeared glasses. "Colonel?" she said softly. "Are you okay?"

He mustered up a wry, tired smile. "I'm fine, doc. Just a little wet."

The little Asian woman frowned and fixed her eyes upwards. "Your head, Colonel."

Oh right. Shrapnel. As if triggered by her mentioning it, the sting of the wound left by the flying debris kicked up a notch. He raised a hand to it and his fingers came away stained red.

Huh. He saw Miyoki starting to pale and he quickly reassured her. "No worries, Doc. Head wounds always make you bleed like a stuck pig."

"Colonel?"

John looked over to see Jackson holding out a white handkerchief.

"It's clean, Colonel. I, um, keep a pretty big supply of them with me."

John smiled his appreciation and pressed the cloth against his head, closed his eyes and tried to think warm, dry thoughts for the rest of the ride home.

---

The bedraggled visitors to PX3-MKZ tromped into the infirmary en masse for their after mission checks. John walked over to haul himself up on a nearby gurney, happy to wait his turn, and unhappy to have Rodney hovering like a mother hen.

"I told you, Rodney. It's nothing."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that, aye?"

John smiled to see Carson Beckett walking over, clad in an Atlantis uniform and white lab coat.

"Hey, Carson. You tire of Dr. Porter's company already?"

"Hardly, Colonel," the doctor grinned. "Alison is continuing our work while I fill in for Dr Keller."

"Jennifer's back on earth, spending time with her father," Rodney explained.

"So," Carson said as he pulled on latex gloves. "Dr. Miyoki seems to think you might be bleeding to death, Colonel."

John lifted the blood soaked handkerchief in his hand. "It's already stopped on its own. Geeks. They can be so…"

"So what?"

"Scared by a little blood, Rodney," John replied, pushing the bloody cloth towards his friend's face.

Rodney reared back, his stricken expression exactly the response John had hoped to bait him into.

"Ack! Hello! Blood borne diseases!"

"Of which I am certain Colonel Sheppard has none," Carson grumbled as he grabbed the bloody cloth from John's hand. "Still, there's a reason for gloves and biowaste bins, Colonel." The doctor toed open one of the aforementioned bins and dropped the handkerchief in, letting the lid close with a snap. "Now then, let's see what all the fuss was about." He leaned in and examined the wound closely, prodding and poking at it while John tried not to wriggle. There had been only a little ache where the shrapnel had hit him but Carson's attempt at gentle ministration only aggravated it.

"Any loss of consciousness?" Carson murmured as he poked.

"Nope," John replied.

"Blurred vision or dizziness?"

"Nope and nope."

Carson stepped back and pulled out a penlight. "Headache?" He asked as he pulled one eyelid open.

"Nope," John said with a sigh. "Well… I guess, yeah, when it first happened. I mean, I did get clipped in the head with a chunk of flying metal, and it hurt, so technically my head….ached."

Carson muttered an mm hmm as he moved on to the next eye. "And now?"

"Aside from being covered in caked mud from the waist down… it chafes a little," he whispered conspiratorially.

With a chuckle Carson clicked out the light. "Oh, aye, I'd imagine it does. Just a quick trip under the scanner and I'll let you go." He reached over to a rolly cart and pulled out a pair of scrubs. "You can change into these."

"What? No, not gonna be here that long, I'll shower and change back in my quarters."

"Sorry, Colonel, but you'll not be going anywhere near my pristine equipment with that mud. Every time you move it flakes off."

"You do look a bit like Pig Pen," Rodney commented.

Rolling his eyes John took the scrubs and walked into the bathroom.

By the time he emerged, clad in clean scrubs, he was feeling closer to human, if not still a mud-smeared one. A look in the mirror had showed a dark red streak about an inch long, high on his forehead. The area around it was a little swollen but other than that, the bleeding had stopped completely and on the whole, it looked pretty innocuous. Even if it had hurt like a son of a bitch when it happened.

He lay out on the bed, let Carson run the scanner over him a few times while they talked about the work Carson had been doing on the various planets he visited and the pretty Dr. Porter. It was clear the doctor was quite smitten with the young scientist.

When he was done, John gathered up his dirty uniform and padded out into the infirmary to find Rodney waiting in a chair. Like a mom waiting for her kid at the pediatrician's office.

"Did you get your own check, Rodney?" Carson asked.

"Yes, yes, war wounds to prove it." He held out an elbow with a small bandage nestled in the crook. "So, I take it Sheppard is gonna live?"

"Yes, Rodney, sorry to disappoint," John drawled.

"Oh. Good. Hey, how come he doesn't have the whole arm bandage getting stuck thing?"

Carson shook his head. "Because as you rightly pointed out, there was concern that Colonel Sheppard had a head injury."

"And does he?"

"Colonel Sheppard is the recipient of a cranial laceration with a concurrent hematoma."

"That… that sounds… what the hell does that mean, Carson?"

"It means, Rodney, that he has a booboo and a goose egg on his head. And now that we know that, Colonel Sheppard can go get stuck as well."

Rodney brightened at that.

"Thanks, Rodney," John growled. It looked like the shower would continue to wait.

---

Not even bothering to think on the lights, John made his way to his bathroom, stripped off the scrubs and stepped into the shower. He nudged the water up a few degrees too hot for comfort, hissing until his skin acclimated, then stood under the hot spray until his skin felt boiled and he'd shaken off his earlier chill for good.

Minutes later he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung around his waist, and another covering his shoulders. With a groan he sat down on his bed, and lifted a hand to the sore spot on his forehead. Carson hadn't even bothered with a square of gauze or bandage, told him it was a clean abrasion and should heal on its own in a week or so.

He hadn't even taken John off duty, which was a big relief. John had been worried he might actually have to face the pile of paperwork on his desk that he usually saved for times he was benched.

He turned the clock face and considered the time. The cafeteria would still probably rustle him up something if he went down, but the thought of getting re-dressed and heading over there was less than appealing. The day had been exhausting and he was more than ready to put it in his rear-view.

When his stomach growled at him with just the thought of dinner he sighed, pulled on the jeans draped over his chair and a rumpled oxford that didn't smell too badly, and headed down to the cafeteria.

It smelled great and his stomach gurgled again in happy anticipation. The delicious odor of cumin, beef and onions hung in the air. And it was empty save for Rodney and Ronon sitting together at a table. John gave a wave, then headed past the empty warming trays down to where their chef, Lt Ramirez, was talking with two of her kitchen staff. She brightened as he walked up.

"Colonel Sheppard. Another late night, huh, sir?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "I don't wanna make you dirty dishes, but I'm famished. You have anything just pre-made or packaged?"

The chef nodded towards an iron skillet behind her. "Already dirty, Colonel. Made some of my famous burritos for Dr McKay and Mr. Dex. You want one?"

"Oh hell yeah, Lieutenant. That'd be great, thanks." Minutes later he was digging into a massive roll of greasy, spicy beef and cheese while Rodney regaled a clearly bored Ronon with all that he hadn't missed on their week with the geeks.

When John finally returned to his room, belly full and happy, he donned a soft tee and flannel boxers before peeling back the blankets and rolling himself into a cocoon of cotton and wool.

With thoughts of piloting one of those flying cars, soaring over Atlantis, he soon fell asleep.

---

The curled up ball of fluff on the end of the bed was the lavender of the sky at second sunset. She lifted her broad head and snuffled softly as he slipped under the covers.

"Sorry to disturb your slumber, dear one," he said affectionately.

She yawned. A dark violet tongue licked out at her nose, then she settled back down.

He plumped up his pillows, pulled at the blankets to better cover him in the cold room, then eased back with a sigh. A book sat on the bedside table, his reading glasses on top of it. But his heavy eyes said there wouldn't be much reading tonight.

She could sense it too. She snuggled up closer to his feet with a sigh of her own.

He considered thinking the heat up a bit farther, but it wouldn't do for the voice on the Council that spoke loudest about Allora's environmental concerns to be wasteful with heating fuel. Besides, he had a natural heater in bed with him. He could already feel his feet growing toastier.

So, with a brief thought he turned out the lights and lay back to start mentally rehearsing his speech for the morning's meeting.

"My fellow Allorans. Yes, Allorans. Not Vendalians or Margites. I come to you today with a task. …No… a plea." No… he needed to stand firm. "I come to you today with an imperative."

He sighed and wriggled deeper under the covers. "A mission. Imperative…

"A mandate." He smiled with satisfaction. Good word. And it would be needed if there was to be any hope for peace between the two peoples. And with Juno and her cabal there it would be of paramount importance to sway her vote.

Suddenly, a bright, blinding white light came blasting through his window, turning his world into a photographic negative. His heart began to beat madly as he flung back the covers and hurried over to pull back the drapery. The sky was clear of storms but now glowed an unsettling rosy gray. He gasped, grabbed at the bedpost as the boom of a sonic wave thudded against the house, rocking it on its foundation.

Brief fury soon melted to deep dismay. It was too late.

His heart heavier than it had ever been, even at the loss of his beloved wife, he dropped the curtains and walked over to the bed.

"Come here, dear one," he gestured with a pat on the covers. She gamely got up and came to him, butted his hand with her broad head. He scrunched his fingers into her soft fur, bent to plant a kiss on her snout and inhale her sweet smell.

"I do this out of love, dear one," he murmured in her ear. Then his hands cupped her face, turned her head with a sharp snap and his only remaining family was dead.

---

John awakened with a start, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling above his bed. His diaphanous curtains never fully blocked all the light from the city outside and the light colored walls of his room reflected back the soft ambient glow of a hundred points of light coming through the window.

He strained to listen over the rush of blood thumping against his eardrums. The room was quiet, and everything seemed perfectly normal, but for the feel of his heart hammering in his chest. He laid still, taking slow, even breaths, closed his eyes back down. He'd been dreaming. Dreaming of being in bed, ironically. And there'd been a dog… his dog. But not like any other dog he'd ever had or even seen.

He struggled to gather up the quickly dissolving wisps of memory before they were lost forever, but each trail he followed eluded his grasp and all he was left with was a feeling of deep sadness. And anger. The only now starting to slow pounding of his heart, the acid burn in his stomach. The dream had left him with a fury he rarely felt, and generally only in the severest of circumstances. His mother had called it, 'getting his Irish up' and she knew just what she was talking about, since he got from her.

Knowing full well that only time and usually a good run or sticks workout with Teyla would ever get him relaxed enough to sleep again, he pushed back the covers and got out of bed.

His quarters were Spartan, to be generous. He'd taken a small room on their first day in the city and never felt a need to move, even after his impromptu promotion to military leader. They were nicer than anything he'd had at McMurdo or any of the other myriad bases he'd lived on. Even the place he shared with Nancy had been small and dingy. He'd been a newly minted Captain and she was struggling through law school. And by the time she was pulling in six figures as a junior partner, he was always halfway around the globe. He'd planned on suggesting a move to a nicer place when he'd gotten back from the Balkans, come home with a sad bouquet of airport flowers, but he'd instead of Nancy he'd found divorce papers waiting for him on the rickety kitchen table.

But his room had one thing that made the cramped box special. And that was his balcony.

He padded barefoot over to the glass door, had it sliding open with a thought as he arrived, and stepped through into the crisp night air. A few deep breaths cleared the last of the dream from his head and the cobwebs from his eyes. It was a beautiful night, not that they weren't pretty much always here on their new home. He cast his gaze out, taking in the beauty of the city and all her gleaming towers. From here he could see the command center, the muted blue of its computers and the lower internal lighting the night crew used.

Lifting his eyes he looked out over the ocean, watching the reflections glistening off the gentle waves.

And there, on the horizon. His heart rate kicked back up and the taste of bile rose in his throat. His fists clenched at his sides and he felt an overwhelming sadness bring the prickle of tears to his eyes. The sky was lighter, a salmon pink glow brightening the darkness.

He closed his eyes, braced for the sonic boom he somehow knew would come. After a full minute he eased his hands open with the ache of strained tendons relaxing, and opened his eyes. He blinked, stared at the horizon, then choked out an almost hysterical laugh. It was sunrise.

He'd never even looked at his clock, had no idea how close to morning it had been.

He shook his head, turned from the balcony and returned to his room to pull on sweats and sneakers.

Half an hour later he was rounding his third mile when he saw Ronon waiting at their usual starting place. Only slowing to a jog, John greeted his friend, accepted the squeeze bottle of water gratefully and downed half of it in several pulls.

"What's up?" his ever-perceptive friend inquired as he took back his half empty bottle and offered a dry towel in exchange.

John grinned as he wiped away the sweat streaming down his neck and forehead. "I know it might not be obvious, big guy, but I'm running."

The Satedan just nodded, then crossed his arms. "You haven't beat me to a run in months. And usually when you do it's because something's got you pissed off or worried. Which is it?"

"Neither," John said, tossing the towel back to Ronon. "Weird dream woke me up. It was already morning-ish anyway."

"Weird dream?" his friend echoed.

"Yup," John said, starting on his fourth mile. "Next time I'll just say no to the burrito before bed," he added over his shoulder. "You coming?"

---

PK7-23L was not the most exciting of planets, but it was good to get back out with his team as a whole after a week of Jackson and the Beakers. Ronon had wisely declined to come along to PX3-MKZ when he'd heard the planet had no life, no energy readings, and the largest life signs had been determined to be grazing animals. And that that Dr. Jackson would be there. And Teyla had stayed behind to nurse Torren through a childhood illness.

But now the band was back together, even if it was for the equivalent of a gig in a high school gym. PK7 had a small population, but Teyla's people had traded with them often before the Wraith awakening. It had been a year or so since they'd been checked in on, so when the day presented without anything planned (at least until Woolsey got tired of hearing Jackson bitch about going back to PX3) John had suggested they pay them a visit. Teyla had been thrilled, Ronon had been bored enough to go and Rodney… hated being left behind.

The planet's winter had set in, and recently by the look of it. Streams had ice along their banks and their feet crunched through a thick covering of crusty snow.

John took in a deep breath of fresh crisp air, enjoying the sight of his exhale coming out as a crystalline mist. Tugging the zipper of his turtleneck collar a little higher, he picked up the pace, getting a few feet out in front of the group before turning with a smile. Things just felt good. Michael was gone. The Wraith had been defanged with the one-two combo of the retrovirus and the Hoffan bug. And the day looked to be a glorious walk through a winter wonderland, topped off by a comfortable visit with Teyla's friends, snuggled under furs around a roaring fire and enjoying some of the local ale that warmed the blood.

"Why is Sheppard smiling like that?" Ronon asked.

"Snow Miser is back in his comfort zone," Rodney answered with a roll of his eyes and a shiver. "All that time in Antarctica turned his blood to cherry Slushee."

"I like the heat just fine too, McKay," John said, his smile not fading. "Surfing, swimming, beaches… girls in bikinis… and out of them," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Sand is grating and irritating and hard to walk on, and it gets everywhere," Rodney grouched. Then he grimaced and lifted his foot from the ground. "But at least it doesn't melt and run down into your boots."

"That's why I tuck my pant legs into the boots, Rodney. Just gotta learn to adapt."

"I am not ashamed to admit I look forward greatly to reaching the village and taking my own boots off," Teyla said. "The fire will feel wonderful on my toes."

"They just better still have that ale," Ronon observed.

"I can't believe you're cold, big guy," John teased. The Satedan wore his long leather duster and tall, fur lined boots.

"I'm not," Ronon grunted with annoyance. "I just really like their ale."

"It is rather good," Rodney mused. "Sorta like Molson with a little Tabasco kick."

"Well, if we pick up the pace a bit, we should be there in half an hour or so."

"And we didn't take the jumper closer because?"

"Because it's a beautiful day for a winter walk and all the whining you can whine won't ruin it for me, Rodney. And I happen to know that Keller has been at you about getting out of the lab and getting more exercise."

"Jennifer labors under the delusion that one's BMI is more important than one's IQ. The most important muscle I have is the one I exercise the most," he added smugly, tapping a glove to his head.

"The tongue's pretty important, Rodney, but I'm not sure it's the most important one."

"Oh, har har."

John laughed and turned around, setting a slightly quicker pace as they continued towards the village. His world soon narrowed down to the pristine field of white in front of him and the sound of their boots smashing through the icy crust.

About ten minutes outside of the village, their approach startled a bird up ahead of them. It was small and dark, rounded like a quail, and it burst from the ground with a flurry of wings to land in a nearby tree's branches. John followed its flight, watched it take its perch. It dislodged a dead leaf that had remained hanging on the branch.

John's eyes followed the leaf as it floated down…..

"Minister, please. You shouldn't --"

"Shouldn't what, Parma? Shouldn't be out here, looking for my son?"

"They have already scanned this entire area for life signs, Minister." Her aide hesitated and flinched. "We have found nothing, madam."

"The message was quite clear, Parma," she replied coldly. "He was to be left at the border, unharmed. We will find him, but only if you quit your infernal nattering and turn your efforts to coordinating the next search party."

"Minister," her aide continued doggedly, as she'd known he would. Eleven years by her side, shadowing her physically but three steps ahead of her every move in thought. He lowered his voice and stepped closer. "Please, Minister. You must begin to accept that Teegan is…"

"He's ten," she whispered.

"I know, Minister. Please at least take some tea; it will warm you up some."

With numb hands she accepted the metal bottle, hissing as the hot, extra sweet tea burned her lips and tongue. She ignored the heat, took in enough to fortify her so she could continue the search.

As she was replacing the bottle's lid she heard a cry from up ahead. A man came running up the path, and her heart raced as the bottle fell from her hand. Her Teegan had been found.

The man approached, his pace slowing to a somber walk as he neared her. Men parted to let him through with his heavy burden.

She knew, as he removed his hat and crumpled the soft fur in his hands that her son was dead.

"M-minister," the man stammered. "I -- I am so sorry."

Without a reply she pushed his shoulder and stalked past him, her gorge rising in her throat, silent prayers to the Protector a mantra racing through her head. It wasn't him. It couldn't be him. They had promised her son would be returned unharmed. Her pace quickened as she stumbled down the path, her boots cracking through the thin rime of ice that covered the stone.

A small group of her men were gathered together in a huddle, all looking down at a something on the ground. At her approach they backed away silently.

Someone had placed their coat over his face.

She knelt beside the form, her hands shaking with more than cold. She took off her gloves, flung them to the ground, then peeled back the coat.

His face was unmarked. She moved a lock of dark hair from his forehead, felt the skin beneath her cold, pale as alabaster.

A sob caught in her throat. Grief battled with fury at the betrayal and won. She gathered her hand in his, raised it to her lips and kissed the cold flesh.

She poured her grief out to the clear, wide sky, heedless to her position and the presence of her men, screamed her pain at the Protector who had ignored her pleas. "My son!"

John was on knees, his hand knitted in his hair as he sobbed. "My son. Oh God, my son."

He felt hands on his arms, on his shoulders, tugging and shaking him. Could hear his teammates shouting his name over and over, but the grief was overwhelming, pushing everything else into the background.

The loss was visceral, like his heart had been ripped from his chest. He hugged himself, rocked with the waves of tears that wracked him.

"What the hell is happening?" he heard Rodney's panicked voice.

"He keeps talking about his son," came Ronon's voice. "I… I never knew Sheppard had a son, did you?"

"Are you kidding? This is Sheppard we're talking about; I never knew he had a brother and a wife 'til this year. But no, I can't believe even he wouldn't tell me he had a kid."

"John?" This was Teyla's voice. He could feel her small hand on his arm, warm through his fleece pullover. "John, please, talk to me."

"You think this is from his head injury?"

"Thought you said Beckett cleared him?"

"He. Did. But medicine, as I've said often enough, isn't much more than guesses and snake oil."

As he heard his teammates continuing to bicker, the real world started coming into clearer focus. He didn't have a son. But the emotion was real. The memory, was real. Wasn't it?

"John, please," came Teyla's insistent voice. "Please tell me what is wrong."

He loosened his grip on himself, eased out of the near fetal ball he had curled into and took in several deep, shaky breaths.

The snow was cold under his hands and knees. His breath misted in front of his face. His team was standing by, likely convinced their leader had gone completely out to lunch. But he could still see Teegan. Feel the cold flesh under his fingertips, the soft curl of hair.

"Sheppard? Buddy? You okay?" Ronon's heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder and tried to get him to look up.

His face was hot but the breeze chilled the tears that coated his face, the snot that he realized covered his upper lip.

He raised a still shaking hand, wiped his nose with the back of it and sat back on his heels. He finally managed to stammer out a 'Y-yeah,' in reply to his friend's concern but he wouldn't look up, too shamed by the loss of control, too scared by what it could possibly mean.

"The village is close by, John. Can you make it that far?"

"No! He clearly has a major head injury," Rodney spat. "Bleeding on the brain, a stroke, who the hell knows, but all the furs and tea and antler-wearing witch doctors they have aren't what he needs. We need to get him back to Atlantis."

"McKay's right," Ronon said. "I can carry him."

"No!" John blurted, horrified by the image of his blubbering carcass being hauled around. "No, I can…" He tried to get his feet under him, stumbled and fell back down on his hands. His whole body was shuddering and he was alarmed by the new tears he felt threatening to fall.

"Look, you've already got some kind of traumatic brain injury, Sheppard. After all that time in the snow, you're probably hypothermic to boot. Just let the friendly giant carry you so we can get you back to Atlantis and I can read Beckett the riot act."

"No, Rodney," John growled, fighting to maintain control. "I just need… a minute."

Without looking up, John knew that Rodney was doing a slow burn.

Then there was a loud sigh and Rodney muttered, "Fine. I'll go get the jumper and bring it here. You two try to keep his brains from leaking out his ears. And for Pete's sake, get him up out of the snow."

END OF SECTION ONE

---

The wait for Rodney to return was interminable. John's tenuous memory of the … vision? -hallucination more likely in his case- was fading with every passing moment. All he had left to show for it was sopping wet pant legs and sleeves and a general shakiness he recognized as adrenaline leaching out of him.

Teyla remained at his side, even after the two of them had finally gotten him to his feet. And Ronon… well, the big guy clearly had no idea what to do. He paced back the way the jumper would come from, scanning the skies, then immediately turned and raced back as if expecting that John'd had another breakdown.

When Rodney returned with the jumper, John didn't even bother trying to take the driver's seat. He slumped onto a bench in back and dropped his head against the wall, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see his teammate's concerned looks.

---

Any hope that he might get to disembark without fuss when they arrived ten minutes later at Atlantis was quickly dashed when he saw Carson standing there with a med team and a gurney.

"I'm afraid I must insist, Colonel," is all that Carson said as he patted the padded stretcher.

Feeling the weight of stares from the control room staff, he hopped on and laid back, eager to leave so his team could fill Woolsey in on all the sordid details.

He let Carson mother him into dry scrubs, sat patiently through pricking and prodding from the nurse, then waited for the questions to start.

Carson pulled the curtain, sat down on a rolly stool and smiled at him.

"How are you feeling?"

He chuffed out a laugh at that. "Foolish. Is that a symptom of something?"

"Och. Men cry, Colonel. I do all the time. I was watching Georgie's Girl just the other night, had me weeping like a babe."

"I… I don't cry, Carson. I didn't even cry when y- … even at funerals. It's just not in me. At least 'til today," he added ruefully. "And I can't even say why I did today."

"I'm not sure if… I mean, I know there was a time when… look, I don't know if it's something you ever divulged to your Carson before… he died, but John, I need to ask… did you have a son?"

"No. No, I mean, sure, anything is possible. I wasn't a monk my whole life but I was pretty… pro-active, if you get my drift. And what I remember of this… this boy.. I hallucinated." He was ten. "His age… I was with Nancy at the time. Granted, I was away a lot, but I'd've known if she'd had a kid."

"Had you ever seen this boy before?"

John couldn't even remember what he'd looked like. They only reason he had the faint memories he did was because Teyla had told him what he'd been… well, not exactly 'saying.' "No, I… sure, I guess maybe I could've. Seen a lot of kids in my time, doc."

He sighed and stared at his cold-reddened hands. "What the hell is this, Carson? What's wrong with me? And why aren't you all freaking out like Rodney and the rest of them?"

The Scotsman smiled and stood from the stool. "Because I've been observing you, Colonel. You show no altered gait or speech, no facial or motor paralysis. And I have confidence in my initial exam of you yesterday. You had no head trauma to speak of. But…"

"But you'll do a hundred more tests just in case," John finished tiredly.

"Och, you do know me, Colonel. Why don't we try to stick to a dozen or fewer, eh?"

"Long as you pick the least painful and invasive ones," Doc.

---

True to his word, Carson kept the tests mostly painless, running John back through the scanner a few times, conducting some neurological exams.

John waited for an 'aha' from the doctor, eager, in fact, for a medical reason for his embarrassing meltdown on the planet. But none came. Through them all the doc just smiled and reassured him with each test that the results were normal, not to worry.

Truth be told, all the smiling and being told not to worry just made John even more concerned. He was being handled with latex kid gloves. As if the slightest anxiety might send him off on another crying jag.

He was sitting on the scanner bench, legs swinging, when Rodney barged his way back.

"Wha? Why don't you have him in a bed, hooked up to monitors and, and wires and and … stuff?" Rodney demanded.

Carson sighed but kept on smiling. "I have run the colonel through a whole battery of tests, Rodney. He's fine."

"You didn't see him, Carson! He is NOT fine. Fine is not him on his knees in the snow, howling like a banshee--"

"Shut it, Rodney," Carson bit out through a now icy smile.

John felt his face go hot and he averted his eyes to a nearby blank monitor screen. His reflection in the shiny black looked odd. He raised a hand to his face and felt the puffiness around his eyes that hadn't gone down.

Rodney and Carson continued to trade barbs: the traditional 'incompetent quack' and 'witch doctor' comments exchanged for opaque medical-ese and the occasional admonitions to leave the medicine to the MDs.

John's already frayed nerves reached their snapping point. "Hey! Knock it off, both of you!"

He almost flinched as they went silent, turned to stare at him to see what he would do next. He slid off the bench, the floor cold under his bare feet. "If I'm fine, as you say, doc, then I'm getting out of here."

Rodney opened his mouth first but Carson beat him to the punch. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, lad," the doctor said, smile fixed back in place. "Whatever happened down on the planet, we have as yet to find a cause. You need to stay here, for observation."

"No one's observing me do anything except walking out the door."

"Rodney?" Carson said quietly.

"What?"

"A little privacy, if you don't mind."

Rodney appeared to consider a response, then just nodded and left the room.

"John… you yourself noted that you aren't exactly a man prone to behavior such as you exhibited on the planet."

John sat back down on the bench and ran a hand through his hair. "No," he admitted grudgingly.

"As I have yet to find a physical cause, perhaps there are other avenues we should explore?"

"What? You mean, you think I'm going crazy?"

"Not at all, lad," Carson said, smile still rigidly fixed in place. "There are other reasons for… hallucinations, or visions if you will. Perhaps we could have Rodney check the Ancient databases for similar experiences?"

"Ah, the good old 'Pegasus has been known to do weird shit to us' theory. I like it, doc," John said with a forced humor. "Anything else, since Rodney can do that while I'm in my room?"

"I'd like to try polysomnography."

"Poly som …"

"-nography," Carson finished. "The way you describe your vision and the way it faded so quickly, it's almost as if you had a waking dream."

It did have the feel of a dream. And a familiar feel at that. "You know, I had a really weird dream last night. Can't remember much about it but it had me so wound up after I woke up I couldn't go back to sleep."

Carson's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Well, then. Polysomnography it is."

"Yeah, and what the hell's that? Please tell me no needles or crappy stuff to drink."

The doc smiled wider and this time it reached his eyes. "No, lad. You sleep and I monitor your brainwaves."

"Sleep, huh?" Just the mention of it jerked a yawn from him. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Thought you might. I can't give you a sedative but I imagine you might be feeling a little rough right now?"

John nodded as he realized how cruddy he felt. "Yeah," he said, surprised. "Why is that?"

Carson placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you'd ever had a good cry before you'd know, it can leave you feeling pretty wrung out. I'll grab you some ibuprofen and get a bed set up for you."

"Thanks, Carson."

After the doc left John leaned back on his hands, his fears eased a fraction. Carson seemed pretty keen on the dream angle. And the words 'psych consult' hadn't been mentioned. Yet.

---

"Are you serious?"

"They really aren't as intrusive as you think they'll be, Colonel," Carson said, holding the handful of leads. "The wires are thin and very flexible, they have a lot of slack. You can sleep in any position you like."

"But they'll be stuck all over my head?"

Carson sighed and rolled his eyes. "My mum goes to bed with hot rollers in her hair every Saturday night. I think you can handle a few leads."

"A few leads here, a few leads there," John grumbled, pulling at the EKG wires that sprouted from the vee of his scrub top then tugging at the pulse ox meter on his finger.

"Stop fussing," Carson muttered as he stuck the first pad to John's forehead. "It's not like you haven't had those before." Soon several more pads joined the first in various places all over John's head.

"And these won't get stuck in my hair?"

"I never said that," Carson muttered. "Healing often takes a little pain, Colonel. There." He pushed hard on John's temple. "Stubborn bugger. Okay, all set. Just try to relax and ignore the leads, Colonel. And we'll see you in eight hours or so."

John glanced at his watch, and sighed when he saw it was still a few hours before his normal bedtime. Aside from the walk on the planet earlier, his day had consisted of him laying down a lot already. He yawned again, tried to get comfortable in the bed and to ignore the sticky pads and octopus of leads attached to the machine parked next to him.

Well, it wasn't the first time he'd had to sleep when available. He had a couple tried and true relaxation techniques, plus a few he'd picked up from Teyla.

He cleared his thoughts, envisioned a wide open blue sky……

"Commander!"

"What is it now, Hermot?"

"You… you'd asked me… you'd asked me to tell you…"

He stood from his desk, his fists balling at his sides. "He's there?" he asked quietly.

His aide de camp stuttered out a nod. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Hermot. Dismissed."

"Very good, sir." It was clear the aide was happy to be leaving, the order not even gone from his lips before the door was shutting.

Struggling to maintain his composure he shook out his hands, tugged his uniform into place and took several calming breaths before opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out a small silver dagger. Technology wasn't what he needed. Blood, up close and personal. That was all he sought.

He made his way through the city, taking back routes, passing by men huddled in small groups, ignoring the muttering he heard in his wake.

As he approached the house his anger grew. This was HIS home. It had been in his family for generations too far back to count. She was sullying his home with…

His chest was already heaving as he thought off the security system and slipped through the back door. Winding his way through the great house, he stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He closed his eyes and held a breath as he heard the sound of laughter from above.

Taking the stairs two at a time he strode down the hallway and flung open the door to HIS chambers.

She was naked, seated on top of him, brazen and bold, beautiful as the day he had married her.

He was at the bedside in two strides, before his presence was even noted. His arm swung wide as he backhanded her. She cried out, fell in a sprawl across the silken cover, her eyes going wide as she stared at him.

"Morla!"

"Did you think I would not find out, Neridia? Did you think me a blind old fool?"

"No, Morla! I'm sorry! Please--"

He turned from her, let her crawl down the side of the bed to the floor and hide like a rat in the alleys. She would be dealt with later and at his leisure.

Jurnal hadn't moved, hadn't even bothered to cover his own nakedness, his spent seed smeared on his thighs. He was even more beautiful than his glorious Neridia. A rosy-cheeked youth, soft but slender of body, untouched yet by age or work.

"Get up."

Jurnal slid out of the bed, his eyes never losing their matched gaze, and stood easily, gracefully. "Commander Morla."

The metal dagger was warm, clenched in his hand. He could see the pulse fluttering under the pale, smooth skin on Jurnal's neck.

He saw a smile lift the corner of Jurnal's mouth. Saw the glint in his eye, the ice in his gaze. Knew how he looked, fat around the middle, his hair a silvered wisp, his beard gray against gray skin. Knew that if he heard the next words to come out of the callow youth's mouth that he would be lost, defeated in front of his Neridia.

Fat and old he may be but he was a Commander in the Vendelian Army, a soldier for over forty years. His reflexes were slower now, but would always be better than a soft civilian's.

Wordlessly he struck out, slashed the blade at that pale white throat.

Jurnal's arm rose and deflected his attack just as the tip pierced flesh. Crimson sprayed from the wound, but not enough.

Then Jurnal's hand was wrapping around his wrist, pulling him in to grapple for the blade.

He sank a fist into the youth's soft middle, grinning at the strangled cry and the way Jurnal folded in half. His fist flew upwards next, catching that fine, smooth-shaven jaw, reveling in the pain in his knuckles and the spray of blood from the youth's mouth.

Neridia was screaming his name - HIS name, not Jurnal's, and it was almost as good as the cheers of his men on the battlefield.

Jurnal was splayed on his back on the bed - HIS bed. The dagger back in his hand, bloody knuckles wrapped around the hilt, he raised it above his head and plunged it into that soft white belly. Blood, hot and red as his favored mulled wine, gushed freely, coating his hands. He was grinning like a madman, he knew, reveling in the smell of Jurnal's bowels splitting open while his beautiful Neridia cried his name --

"John!"

He felt a hand grab him, but he jerked free, shoved his attacker back and waved his blade in front of him. Then another set of hands grabbed him from behind, pinned him down. He thrashed wildly, swearing and spitting.

"John!"

A face hove into view as hands grabbed his face, forcing him to meet their gaze. Blue eyes stared into his, as he was held firm despite his struggles.

"John!"

He blinked several times, trying to figure out where he was, what was happening. He could still smell the copper stench of blood, the fetid odor of rent viscera.

"John, please! Can you hear me? It's Carson! Carson Beckett."

His heart was hammering in his chest. He broke free of Carson's gaze, darted his eyes around the room. He was still in the infirmary, in the same bed. Hands dug into his shoulders, holding him firmly in place.

"Carson?"

"Bloody hell. Aye, lad. You gave us quite a scare."

"Didn't scare me," he heard grunted from behind him. The hands eased their grip on him and Ronon stepped to his side. "Musta been some dream. What was it?"

John wiped a shaky hand down his face, then flinched as he remembered it coated in hot, sticky blood. Before he could answer he heard Carson say, "It wasn't a dream."

"What?"

"You weren't asleep, lad," Carson said with a sigh. "I'd barely had time to get back to my office when the monitors started caterwauling. I saw the readouts, John. You weren't asleep."

---

By the time Carson was done fussing John had a nasal cannula to add to the mix. The doc had said something about hyperventilation and low sats and his heart beating faster than the Edinburgh Military Tattoo before casting an unsubtle look at Ronon and bustling back out of the room.

"I don't need a babysitter," John bit out.

"Didn't say you did," Ronon shrugged back laconically.

"Beckett didn't have to. Well, I'll tell you what… if it wasn't a freaking dream then I guess I don't need these anymore."

With that he started pulling the leads free from his head, cursing a blue storm as the sticky pads ripped at his hair. By the time he'd flung the last one to the floor his head was aching from all the abuse. He laid back, rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sighed explosively.

When he finally opened them back he saw his erstwhile guardian quirking a smile at him. "Better?"

"No," John answered sullenly. "And what the hell did Beckett mean, it wasn't a dream? I --"

"You what?"

"I killed a man. I think. In the not dream."

Ronon looked suitably impressed. "Anyone I know?"

John grasped for the phantom image of a face but all he was left with was a seething anger and the metallic tang of blood in his nose.

He closed his eyes, concentrating harder on the face…

The toy nestled in the brightly colored box was silver, shaped like a tava seedpod and not much bigger than her small fist.

"Oh, Papa!" she cried. "It's perfect! Can we take it out to the school field?"

Her father smiled and nodded, laughed as she dashed put the front door. "Your coat, Bronnie!"

Heedless to the cold breeze raising bumps on her bare arms she ran until the trees opened up at the field, her shiny new prize gripped tightly in her hands.

By the time Papa caught up to her and wrapped her coat over her shoulders she'd thought "on" and watched, enrapt as a series of golden lights came on.

"It's very delicate, Bronnie," her father warned.

"It's not that delicate, Papa," she admonished. She knew every spec of the toy: its tensile strength, the power capacity of the internal core, the amount of thrust needed to keep its weight aloft.

Holding her hands out, she commanded it to rise.

Even with all her research, as much as she knew the physics at work, the sight of the silver pod rising into the bright cerulean sky was still enough to take her breath away.

The small toy dipped and she screwed up her concentration, nudged it back into the air and soon had it flying loops, swooping and diving through the crisp spring air.

Someday she would design pods big enough to carry people. Just the thought of gliding silently through the sky, over the Great City, around her soaring towers… it made her smile giddily…

"Colonel!"

John blinked, sat up and saw he'd been gone again.

"What happened this time?" Carson asked him seriously.

With a shift and a hand wiped over his face, John shook his head, completely at a loss. "I'm a girl. I mean, I was a girl. In the dream… or … the girl … I had this amazing toy and…" Catching a glimpse of the strange looks the two men were giving him John sat up further and shook his head to clear the last of the vision. "What the hell is going on, Carson?"

The doctor didn't answer him right away, which was usually a dead giveaway that something bad was coming. Bad like you're turning into a bug, bad. Instead, Carson took the nasal cannula off and placed it back on the hook behind the bed, picked up the leads John had dashed to the floor with a sigh.

Then he picked up his laptop and placed it on John's lap, opened it up and turned it to face John. He reached over, hit a button, and John watched as a series of waves and jagged lines crawled from side to side on the screen.

"What the hell is this?"

"What you see there is your brain wave pattern," Carson answered calmly. "Just keep watching."

Suddenly there was a hitch in the readout, then the waves and jagged lines continued… but even to John's untrained eye he could tell they were different.

"What the …"

Carson sighed and shut the computer lid with a snap. "Aye. Thought you'd see it."

"I didn't see anything," Ronon grunted.

"His brainwave pattern is completely normal when the testing starts. Matches up with readings we've taken at various times during our stay here. Around about the time that John's … well, when he has the images of memories that aren't his… that's because they aren't."

"Aren't images?"

"Aren't his," Carson said quietly.

"Come again?" John finally managed to ask calmly.

"The brainwave pattern becomes completely different. I have no bloody clue whose it is, but it isn't yours, Colonel." With a nod at the leads in his lab coat pocket he smiled grimly. "And I think, had you left these on, lad, that we'd've found yet another set of brainwaves just now."

"What exactly are you trying to say, Carson? I've had the whole alien entity take over my mind thing, thanks very much. And I can tell you, I knew what was happening the whole time, fought the sonofabitch with everything I had. But this… a girl and her toy? A murderer? Some poor woman who lost her son? I don't get it."

"I wish I had answers for you, Colonel, but I can promise you I will keep trying to find them."

"And in the meantime, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Just sit tight." Carson gave his ankle a squeeze through the blanket and smiled sadly. "I'm afraid the leads have to go back on."

END OF SECTION TWO

---

He'd already had four more visions by the time the inevitable visit from Richard Woolsey came. Thankfully, none had been long lasting or as emotionally wrenching as the earlier ones, but they'd left him dazed and hazy and a steady throb had begun building in his temples.

"You understand why I had to come talk to you and Dr Beckett," the IOA rep started without small talk.

John nodded. "Makes sense. So far I'm still me and I plan on staying that way, but yeah… Beckett's got me a little freaked out too."

"Would you consider these messages from other sentient beings, Colonel?"

He shrugged. "I can't imagine what they'd be trying to say, truthfully. All the images have been pretty random, especially these latest ones. Someone giving a speech, another of what I think was a marriage ceremony."

"I see." The bureaucrat rubbed at his chin. "Have these visions led you to want to harm yourself, or others?"

John scowled and shook his head, then scowled deeper as the leads tugged at his hair. "I'm not a danger to anyone, including myself, if that's what you're getting at."

"But from what I understand, the visions have been compelling enough for you to actually experience the emotions that the people in them are feeling. Isn't that so, Colonel?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And if the visions can make you experience emotions that aren't yours, do you believe that you could be manipulated into doing things you may not want to do?"

"How the hell should I know?" John spat. "I've only been dealing with this for a little while. I'll let you know if the voices start telling me that all work and no play makes John a dull boy!"

"Movie quotes," Woolsey said quietly. "Colonel, my primary concern is your safety and the safety of this base and everyone on it. What we know for now is that you are experiencing unforeseeable visions, some depicting acts of violence and bloodshed. We have no explanation why they have begun or what is causing them. Further, I would point out that were you in complete control of your faculties, you would be the first man recommending certain protocols be put in place."

John fumed. The man was right, of course. The whole thing smacked of a time in his life he'd just as soon forget, but as before, he'd been man enough to recognize when he posed a danger to Atlantis.

"What do you intend to do?" he finally asked.

"Post a guard outside the infirmary," Woolsey answered, clearly already having thought things through. "I want a psych consult" - there they were- "to work along with Dr Beckett. If these manifestations are psychological in nature --"

"They aren't," came a voice from the doorway.

Woolsey turned to address Carson. "And how can you be so sure, Dr?"

"Because no matter the nature of a mental illness, Mr. Woolsey, it doesn't change the fundamental makeup and output of the human brain."

"What about cases of depression or bipolar disorder, Doctor? I was of the understanding that these illnesses were the result of changes in the brain's biochemistry. Serotonin, dopamine, all that."

"Aye, but it doesn't change brainwave patterns. Each is as individual as a fingerprint. And right now, Colonel Sheppard appears to have approximately eight different fingerprints."

"But you just said--"

"That I did, Mr. Woolsey. I canna explain it but just in the short time I have had the colonel on the monitor I have recorded eight distinct brainwave patterns."

John gaped, not really following. "What, like I'm Sybil? Sybil Sheppard?" he laughed.

"No, Colonel," Carson replied without an answering smile. "You have the patterns of eight different…consciousnesses. In your brain. And I have no bloody clue from where or how they got there."

"But I'm… I'm me, doc. I think I'd know if I wasn't." He gave Carson a meaningful look.

"Aye," the Scot sighed. "It is remarkably similar to the findings I - - that is, the records from that time that you and Elizabeth were… well, they are similar."

"Yes, and I knew the whole time that Thalen was… gah - what? Possessing me? I could feel myself… take a back seat while he took over driving. It doesn't feel that way, Carson."

"No, I wouldn't imagine it would, Colonel. Even when Thalen was in control of your body, your consciousness, as you pointed out, was very much there. You could see your brainwave pattern, but it was altered… blurred by the overlay of Thalen's. It's how we were able to once and for all determine that Thalen and Phoebus were gone from the pair of ya- when your EEG readings returned to normal. This is more like a…" The doc sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Like a patchwork quilt. With your readings being interrupted by these patches of others'. I'm sorry I can't explain it better, but I'll admit, I'm a wee bit in the dark about all of this."

That had Woolsey's head nodding furiously. "My point, exactly. Recent events have made us -- me-- painfully aware of what it is like to have your mind manipulated, and to be completely unaware that it is happening. We are all in the dark. And I apologize for the bluntness but, until some light can be shed on this situation… "

"I should have a guard," John finished for him, giving him a nod of mutual understanding. "You're right."

The bureaucrat straightened his shirt and dipped his chin once at John. "Thank you, Colonel."

"I'll need to bring Lorne up to speed-"

"Already done, Colonel," Woolsey said awkwardly. "I believed time was of an essence."

John took a slow, deep breath and absorbed the fact that many more would eventually need to be made aware of his current status. "I guess HIPAA doesn't really apply, does it?" he said dryly. "Fine. Have Lorne assign a guard-"

"Don't need a guard," came from the curtain's opening. Ronon stood there with Teyla and Rodney. "One of us'll stay with him until we figure this out."

Teyla came straight to his bedside and touched his hand briefly. "Carson told us what was happening." At least she had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed by the admission. "How are you feeling, John?"

Not like myself was what he wanted to answer. "Fine," he sighed instead. "I feel fine." Then he ruined the façade as his hand rose to the bridge of his nose to knead at the ache in his head.

Carson immediately frowned. "Headache, Colonel?"

"Under the circumstances I'd think it'd be kinda expected, wouldn't you?" John snapped. When five sets of worried eyes settled on him he fidgeted in the bed. "Sorry. Guess it's getting kinda crowded in here."

Carson's eyebrows rose. "You have a good point, Colonel. Alright, everyone out. And you three, pick someone to stay but be quick about it."

John raised a finger and tapped it on his head. "Meant in here, Doc," he said ruefully.

The Scot smiled sadly and nodded. "I can imagine, Colonel. Actually, strike that. I don't believe I can. But what I can do is make it less crowded in here," he said firmly, waving his hand at the gathered group.

"I'll stay for now, if you don't mind," Teyla said, placing a proprietary hand on the bed.

Ronon looked ready to argue but nodded, threw John a small wave then turned and left.

Rodney actually looked a little dejected for a moment, then shrugged and said, fine. "You know where I'll be."

"The cafeteria?" Carson said airily.

"Ha ha," was shot back over the retreating physicist's shoulder. After he left Carson smiled affectionately in his direction. "The lad's been combing the Ancient databases since your return from the planet this afternoon." He shot his wrist forward and frowned at his watch face. "Actually, he'd better hie himself down to the cafeteria at some point or he'll have a neighboring bed in here."

"Allow me to go see to Dr McKay's nutritional needs," Woolsey said with a tight smile. "Colonel, feel better," he said stiffly, then turned and left, leaving John with a mercifully emptier room.

"Well, I have my own research and cold supper to return to," Carson said. "I'll have a nurse in the area if you need anything, Colonel - and, before you go telling me you don't need anything," he continued over John's attempt to speak, "I'll at least have her bring you some more ibuprofen for the headache. And I'll trust that you'll tell her if you need anything stronger."

John settled his aching head back into his pillows and nodded shortly. "Advil sounds good, doc. Thanks."

Teyla pulled up a chair and leaned an elbow on the bed. "How do you really feel, John?" she asked frankly.

He sighed and allowed himself another rub at his forehead, then fumed as his fingers caught on a lead.

"Freaked out," he finally answered.

Teyla nodded knowingly and sat back in her chair, seemingly relieved by his admission which he thought was odd. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For admitting that to me. What is happening to you should 'freak you out,'" she added, smiling. "It can be hard to explain to people what it is like, to have another's thoughts and feelings in your head."

Realization dawned on him and he gaped. "Yeah, I guess I never really… is that what it's like for you? When the Wraith… when you…"

She shook her head and smiled. "It was, at first, of course. You remember what it was like when the visions first came to me. Not only was I scared and confused by what was happening, it made some people… "

"Bates," John muttered grimly. "Yeah, I remember."

"I do not blame him. Now," she added with a sly grin. "At the time… well. But I understand that it must have been just as frightening for him - for all of you. We knew so little about the Wraith. But in time the ability I have became…well, a blessing of sorts. We found ways to use it to our advantage. And now that I am familiar with it…" She stopped and chuffed out a small laugh. "I asked you to be truthful with me…. …. It still 'freaks me out' sometimes."

John hesitated, gripped her hand briefly, squeezed it, then quickly pulled away as the nurse entered the room with his medication. Out of the corner of his averted gaze he saw Teyla smile.

Without looking in the paper cup John tossed down the pills, dry swallowed them, then settled back, trying to make himself comfortable within his spider web of leads.

"Do you think you could sleep, John?"

His mouth started to say no, but the throb in his head and his heavy eyes made the answer come out, "Probably, yeah."

Teyla curled up in the visitor's chair, tucked her feet up underneath her and settled in. "Kanaan has Torren for the next several days. And after the last week of living with a spotted, sniffling, and decidedly cranky child, I welcome the time to relax. Sleep, John. I'll be here if you need anything."

John nodded, the leads rustling the pillow linen. "Do you, um. Do you have a weapon?"

"You have faced me almost daily in the gym," she said with a quirked eyebrow. "Do you really feel that I need one?"

"Point and match," John muttered as he closed his eyes and drifted….

The summer breeze teased at her hair as she knelt in the garden, surrounded by a bounty of vibrant blossoms. The soil was rich and loose and the small weeds came up freely. A small wilted pile of them already covered the grass behind her.

Early as it was in the season, it was still quite warm and beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead. She wiped them away with the back of her gloved hand, then eased back on her heels, stretching at the kink in the small of her back. There was a time that she could spend hours in her garden, trimming and fussing over it.

She rubbed at the swell of her belly and smiled. The pain in her back was a small price to pay for the miracle the Protectors had brought her. Older than most women, she and Daveth had been blessed with a child. With every visit to her doctor, every scan and test, she had been assured that the baby was healthy and progressing well.

But that hadn't relieved her misgivings. Three prior pregnancies, none had advanced this far.

She shook herself free of the bad thoughts and rose to her feet, even if it was with a little less than her usual grace.

She headed up to the house, looking forward to a glass of cool water and some of the berries she'd picked earlier. As she reached the sliding glass doors she thought them open, sighing as she felt the cool air that waited inside.

One foot in the doorway and she felt…something. A dull ache within her womb. The ache sharpened, for a brief moment, and her heart lurched.

"Daveth", she whispered, stock still, one hand on the door, the other gripping the swell of her belly. Under that hand she felt a ripple of muscle. Then another.

Her heart began to pound, but now it was with joy. She had never felt it before, but she knew - knew- what this was.

"Daveth!" she cried louder. "Daveth, come quickly!"

Footsteps came crashing through the house. Daveth was red faced, a stricken look on his face as he stared with horror and worry at her.

She smiled at her husband and reached out for his hand. "Daveth! Here. Feel!" She grabbed his hand and pulled it to her belly, felt her heart swell with love at the joyous grin that split his handsome face.

Her baby was moving, kicking within her womb.

He blinked, awareness coming back like a slap in the face. He stared rigidly at the ceiling, then slowly realized that his hand was rubbing the flat plane of his stomach over the blanket.

Turning his head he saw Teyla staring at him, but without the concern he'd been accustomed to seeing of late.

"Was it another memory, John?"

"Um, yeah. If that's what… yeah. I guess."

"You were smiling. I wasn't sure if I should try to… to stop it, or call Carson. But you were smiling," she repeated.

He felt heat rise to his face. Not sure why he should be ashamed of being seen smiling but embarrassed nonetheless. He knew Teyla was the sole of discretion, was very aware of how private he was. But he also knew she was dying to know what he'd seen, though she'd never ask it. And he realized, if there was anyone - anyone- he could share it with, she'd be the one.

"I think I was pregnant," he whispered.

Teyla grinned broadly and lowered her mouth closer to his ear. "Did the small of your back ache?"

He chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, I think it did."

She sat back in her chair and nodded. "Then you were."

"This… This is just weird," he sighed loudly, dropping a hand to his forehead, then grimacing as he hit a lead. "And exhausting. Every time I try to fall asleep, it happens."

"Have you tried some of the meditation techniques I've shown you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's the problem. Every time I try to clear my mind, find my happy place, I get whammied."

"Perhaps Carson could give you something to help you sleep?"

Sleep would be good. To have his own dreams, or better yet, just the blankness of unconsciousness. And the ibuprofen wasn't doing anything for his headache; in fact, it seemed to be getting worse.

By the time he'd figured out that yeah, something for sleep would be great just about now, he looked to see Teyla leaving the room. A minute later she returned with a nurse in tow.

"Dr Beckett had an order for these if you wanted them." She handed over another of the small paper cups then pulled a bottle of water out of her smock pocket and offered that as well. Four pills, two yellow, two blue. At the questioning look he gave her the nurse said simply, "Sleep and pain. One bringeth and the other taketh away."

With a grim smile he tossed back the pills and washed them down with a long pull on the bottle. Rearranged his leads so they weren't pinching or tugging, then closed his eyes and tried to relax. Without relaxing.

Instead he built sudoku puzzles in his head, filling in the numbers in each section, then planning out the next three so one through none never appeared in the same row or the same section. He was on the very last section when Carson's miracle meds finally kicked in and the wished for blankness finally came to him.

---

He awoke abruptly, sat up and looked around. Teyla was curled up, asleep in the chair, her shoes kicked off and her tiny feet snugged up under her butt. The dim light of morning in the infirmary came in through the doorway and he could hear the bustle of carts being moved and low voices talking.

He found the forgotten bottle of water, thankfully capped, laying next to him on the bed. He took a few long drags off of it. Sleeping pills always made his mouth dry… and he snored, he'd been told. By Rodney on many occasions. Teyla must've been exhausted herself to sleep through the buzz saw.

A few rubs of his gummy eyes cleared his vision and woke him further. He was trying to figure out how exactly he was going to use the bathroom, tethered as he was by all the leads when Carson entered wearing a white lab coat and a broad smile.

"Morning, Colonel. You'll be happy to know you slept through the night."

"Yeah, I figured that out," John answered dryly. "I didn't…?"

The smile fell a little. "Aye, you did, lad. I recorded several more instances of brainwave interruption. You slept right through them. And I'm afraid there was no REM so you might not be feeling as rested as you should." He pulled a penlight out of his pocket and snapped it on.

While John suffered through a quick exam Teyla woke up, stretched like a cat, and watched intently.

"How's the head today?" Carson asked as light lanced through John's left pupil.

"Was good until the penlight," John grouched. Once the offending object was back in Carson's pocket John lifted a hand to the leads. "You need to unhook me."

"I'd rather not, lad. But look," Carson said with a game smile. "It's got wheels." He pushed the cart holding the monitoring equipment a few inches on the floor.

John scowled, prepared to argue but his bladder wasn't willing to wait. "Fine." He got out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor, then wheeled his cart into the bathroom and shut the door.

Doing his business with a head and chestful of wires was going to be disconcerting at best, but Carson was right. Like mum and her hot rollers, the leads were beginning to become second nature.

That was until he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his way to the toilet. He stopped, leaned in over the sink, and stared. Like a mashup of Borg and Medusa, his face was pale and lined under all the wires. So much for a restful sleep.

As he stared at his reflection he saw another face take its place. A man, long reddish hair, a grey coat with a high button collar. As fast as it appeared another took its place. A woman, white-blonde hair piled high in a bun, wearing a loose caftan of dark blue silk. Face after face flickered like a filmstrip, each staring back at him from the mirror. Men and women, different ages, strange clothing. A man with kind eyes and a jagged scar across one cheek. A woman with sad eyes and a black cloth worn like a hijab. Then another man, heavily jowled, sparse silver hair, ice blue eyes. This one stayed, stared back coldly.

Pain like the world's worst sinus headache times ten filled his head. Like it was going to burst and split wide open. He felt his knees give way, grabbed at the edge of the sink and managed to slow his fall enough that his shoulder took the brunt of the impact. He curled up, moaning as he grabbed at his head, then the humming of a thousand hornets filled his skull.

There was a rush of air, Carson's voice shouting his name, then calling for a med team.

He felt his back arching, his jaw clenching. There was a rush of warmth and the strong ammonia smell of urine. Then the world went sideways and dark.

---

She didn't bother knocking. His outer office was empty, as he always made sure it was on the nights of their assignations, so there was no concern she'd be seen. Not that he'd really cared. Commander of the Vendelian Army carried its privileges, and those few to whom he answered knew of his…predilections.

She stood artfully framed in the doorway, letting him appreciate her exotic beauty. She had worn a gown of the red silk that he adored for the way it complemented her hair and coloring and the ease with which it ripped from her body.

He eased back on the bed as she stepped towards him. Her hand rose to her hair and pulled free the pin that held back a pile of curls. Dark green they were, almost black. Eyes almost the same color glittered within a face so pale it gleamed in the dim light of the room. She turned, preened for him as her fair fell in a dark fountain down her shoulders. As the light hit her skin it reflected iridescent, like the pearly inside of a seashell.

He could smell her. Spice and musk and keffir smoke.

As her hands began to pull at the shoulders of the gown he stood, grabbed her hands and stilled them. "Why so fast, Umana?"

She curled her fingers around his; they were cool and smooth. And strong. Very strong. "Oh, Morla, my love," she crooned, rolling his name around his mouth. The Margite accent was strong, rounded the vowels and flattened the 'r'. "Do not make me wait any longer. The nights we are apart are often too much for me to bear."

"Oh?" he leered. "And tell me, what you do when it gets too much for you to bear."

She whispered in his ear words that sent tendrils of warmth straight to his groin. When she bit his earlobe it was like an electric shock.

Lust overwhelmed him and their hands together ripped the crimson silk asunder to fall in two piles on the rug. She stood naked, perfect as an alabaster sculpture, her flesh cool to the touch but soft and giving under the pressure of his fingers. The fine soft hair at her vee was the same shade as the curls that cascaded over her shoulders.

She was perfection. More beautiful even than his Neridia, made more exotic by the inherent danger of their covert dalliances.

Then she was pushing him back, climbing into his lap to straddle him. Her strong, cool fingers undid the buttons at the top of his trousers nimbly, then began to reach inside.

He grabbed her hands, bent them back cruelly. She gasped with pain which made him harder than any touch ever could. I think it's time we changed things up a bit, he said harshly. "Don't you, my love?" he added with a mocking leer.

His grip tight on her wrists, he wrenched her around and flung her brutally onto the bed where she landed sprawled enticingly on her stomach. He traced the outline of her spine, reveled in watching the bones of her rib cage heaving with every gasping breath. "On my last trip to the baths I discovered something I think you'll really enjoy. I know I did."

His hands were at the unbuttoned top of his trousers when he heard the clamor of voices and an alien noise.

"Colonel!"

He was Commander. Commander Morla.

"Colonel!"

"John! Annie, shut the monitor off, please. And open his O2 wide. John!"

The high pitched squeal was silenced. Plastic covered his mouth and nose and he struggled against it, heaving for air.

"John, you need to settle down! You're back. You're in the infirmary in Atlantis, lad."

Finally recognizing the cool rush of plastic scented air as coming from an oxygen mask, John stilled his struggles, took several deep breaths and tried to calm the hammering of his heart against his ribs.

"Wha?" He heard his voice muffled by the plastic and pulled it away. He needed answers more than oxygen. "What happened?"

He dug his elbows into the bed and tried sitting up, ignoring a sharp twinge in his shoulder. Felt a hand pressing him back at the same time he realized with a flush of embarrassment that he had an erection. He pulled back from the hand on his chest, crabbed backwards against the headboard and pulled the blankets into a pile over his crotch.

Heat rose to his face as he heard Carson speak softly to the nurse. She nodded and mercifully left the room.

Giving her a few seconds to get out of earshot, John finally hissed, "What the hell is going on, Carson?"

"First tell me what you remember."

The bathroom. The faces in the mirror. Ice blue eyes. Falling. The smell of ammonia and wet warmth in his scrub pants. The fact he was in a gown now told him it was all real.

He averted his eyes, chewed on his lip, then muttered, "Not much."

Carson looked thoughtfully at him then nodded. "Retrograde amnesia is common after a seizure. And you had a doozy."

"Is that a medical term?" John asked sourly.

"Aye," Carson said with a half smile. "Just a little lower on the scale than humdinger. How's the shoulder?"

Forgotten, what with waking up with his tent pitched. He rotated it slowly in its socket. It pinged at him a little but wasn't too bad. "I'll live," he grunted. "Right?"

When there was no answering snark back he sighed and shifted, pulled his knees up and tried to get more comfortable. At least the distraction was working on his little problem.

"Why did I have a seizure?"

"Well, I'm glad I insisted on the leads staying on. Several seconds after you entered the bathroom your brainwave activity went haywire. The bursts were short and rapid but I still managed to isolate what appear to be a dozen more sets of waves. Rodney wrote me a program to recognize similarities in the patterns and some appear multiple times while others are singularities."

"A dozen more…"

"There's something else, John," Carson said quietly. "After your seizure one of the patterns stayed."

"Stayed?"

"Aye, briefly. You came around soon after the seizure but… you weren't you."

"Well who the hell was I?" John snarled, his heart jackhammering in its bony cage.

"You said your name was Morla. Commander Morla."

The name brought with it rapid fire flashes. The coppery smell of blood. Musk and perfume and smoke. He saw his hands covered in crimson- blood and silk.

Panic shot his heart rate even faster; his body vibrated with every beat and a light began flashing on a nearby monitor.

"Guards. You need to bring guards."

"Relax, John. Your readings are--"

"I need guards, Carson. Now. I know what I - what he - the things he's capable of."

Carson nodded slowly, then put a hand to his earpiece. Spoke softly into it. A few minutes later Ronon stopped at the door with Teyla and Rodney trying to peer in around his broad frame.

John pulled into himself tighter, wrapped his arms around his knees. "You bring your gun?" was all he said.

END OF SECTION THREE

---

Ronon paced the area around the bed in slow steady strides. When John finally shot him an irritated look he shoved his back into a corner of the room and took up a casual seeming slouch against the wall.

Teyla took her place back in the chair, her expression serene calm. But the looks she was shooting at him… John knew it for the façade it was.

Rodney had pulled up a small chair, pounding away on his laptop set up on the end of the bed. Every few minutes he'd pop his head up like a prairie dog, look around to see if anything had changed, then go right back to his research.

And they all pretended not to notice when he phased in and out from wherever it was that he went. The visions were getting shorter but more frequent, and the memory of each started to blend in to the next.

Every time he came back he waited through the adrenaline rush, the pounding heart, the dashed looks to see that he had, for now, returned to himself. And through the growing dread of the time when he would be lost for good.

"A-ha!"

John's headache swelled with the twinge in his neck and shoulder as he whipped his head over at Rodney's exclamation. "What?"

The physicist held a single finger up briefly, then returned to tapping rapidly on his keypad. But his face bore the smug smile John knew to be triumph. "What?" He demanded louder.

Rodney finally looked up from his computer at the group of eyes staring intently at him. "Commander Morla. It was the first concrete clue that we had. I was searching the Ancient database, getting bubkus, then on a whim I opened up the search to all the data on our system. That archeologist, Jackson? He had entered a whole bunch of crap about PX3-MKZ. He'd managed to translate some of the writing they'd come across and that name came up in his findings!"

"Makes sense," Ronon said. "Last planet you two were on before this stuff started happening. Anything happen while you guys were there?"

"You mean besides being bored out of our skulls, surrounded by ethno-archeo-anthro-whatever-ologists nattering about ruins and plants and --"

"John returned with a head injury," Teyla broke in.

"Yeah, but that was just a little shrapnel --"

"A little shrapnel," Rodney huffed.

"Yes, a little shrapnel," John continued, unwilling to roll his eyes and risk aggravating his headache. "It was a glancing blow -- a flesh wound," he emphasized for Rodney. "Carson gave me the all clear. There's no way a laceration on my scalp did this." He pointed at the small red line on his temple as illustration. "Nothing happened to that point and we left right afterwards."

Rodney looked momentarily defeated, then shook his head. "The coincidence is too great, were I to believe in them in the first place. Tell us exactly what happened."

John rolled his head slowly on his sore neck, kneaded at his nape while he thought back. "The storm was on us. Rain, lightning, the whole nine. Jackson was dawdling, dragging his feet. He'd been trying to cover a piece of artwork they'd exposed. He fell and I scooped him up outa the mud. I remember a bright light, a feeling like my head was gonna explode. Then the lightning hit and shattered a piece of the wall. Shrapnel hit me, we went home. The end."

"Wait. You said light, pain, then the lightning?"

"Well, yeah. The lightning was the light, shrapnel was the pain… what the hell are you getting at, Rodney?"

"That's not what you said," Ronon commented. "You're a military man, used to remembering details for reports."

"When he chooses to put them in," Rodney remarked.

"Ronon is right," Teyla said, uncurling from her chair. "John you clearly describe the light and pain prior to the lightning strike. What more do you remember?"

"I -- jeez, it was all so fast."

"Come on," Rodney fumed. "This is Pegasus. There had to be an Ancient device, a hidden lab, a Wraith testing facility, am underground bunker."

John started to shake his head and gasped at the pain. "No, damnit, Rodney!" he growled. "There was a crumbling wall. Mud. Jackson. And that artwork. A pretty map. No lights, no buttons, no crystals. Besides, you were the one who insisted there weren't any energy signs on the planet."

"There weren't," Rodney sighed. He shut the lid of his laptop dejectedly, stood up with it. "This means something. I just don't know what yet." Then he turned and left the room.

Even through his now blinding headache John could see the look on Teyla's face.

"I know," he ground out. "He was just trying to help."

"I said nothing, John," Teyla demurred.

"Yeah, well you didn't have to." He placed the heels of his hands on his temples and squeezed, trying to hold his splitting head together. Risked a glance over and saw Ronon staring at him, his gaze wary.

"What the hell are you looking at?" John snapped.

Ronon's gaze didn't falter. But his hand did drop perceptibly closer to the blaster at his hip.

"I asked you a question, soldier!" John barked as the room around him started to shimmer and fold. A rainbow aura formed around Ronon's face…

"I gave you an order, Hermot!"

"Sir, my family! Please, you must let me go to them!"

His aide's face was pale, lit only by the inferno blazing behind him. The streets were impassable, jammed with men, women and children screaming, crying. Tossing belongings out their windows into waiting arms.

"You wish to be with your family, Hermot?" he asked calmly.

"Y-Yes, Commander Morla."

With equal calm he drew his sidearm and shot the man dead where he stood. The noise of the weapon's discharge was swallowed up in the chaos.

-------------------

She looked out with pride from the platform. Her father and mother were in the very back row, shamed she knew by their worn, unfashionable clothing. Her mother was in her very best dress, taken out for only the most special of occasions but one she'd had since the first days of her marriage. Her father wore the suit he wore every day to work.

All that would change now. Her development of the personal podcraft would keep them comfortable for the rest of their lives and her mother could have a new dress for every day. And her father could finally retire to his books and work on his own inventions.

As her name was announced she saw them stand and clap wildly, broad, proud smiles on their faces.

---

Lights were coming on all over the city as he made his way through streets still mostly empty. He passed a security officer with his communicator pressed to his ear, listening intently but with a stricken expression.

He could still feel his beloved pet's fur between his fingers, the warmth, the pulse beating in her neck as he twisted. She was in a better place, he knew, but still muttered a prayer to the Protectors for her safe arrival. As the city stirred to life around him, he knew it wouldn't be long before panic took hold. He had little time before the crush of terrified people filled the streets.

He rounded a corner, slipped into a dark alleyway. The light of the first moon was blotted by clouds but his path was well memorized. He stopped just before the end and closed his eyes. At the brush of his thought a section of the wall morphed into an open doorway. He entered quickly with a look dashed over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been seen. The lab was through a short maze of corridors and hidden by another illusionary wall. This one would open to his thought only… to his Pattern.

---

The rise and fall of his father's chest was slowing.

He had rushed to his bedside, played the part of a dutiful son, and held his father's hand when the physicians told him it would only be a matter of hours. But his father, stubborn old fool that he was, had fooled them all, hanging on for the better part of three days now.

But even the great and powerful High Cleric of the Protectors was only mortal.

The room was stifling, too warm, and the air was heavy with the scents of dozens of flickering candles. His Eminence's fellow clergy bustled in and out, trading whispers and hooded looks at him and his father.

He knew he was an Outlier, a heretic. His father had screamed the name at him just before turning his back, banishing him from home and family.

And now, it was too late. His father's eyes would never look upon him again.

The next breath was a dry rattle, shallow and stuttering. The susurrus of whispers stopped as the next breath was slow in coming. The clerics moved closer, now the only whispers the sound of their robes on the heavy carpeting underfoot.

The next breath was more a short gasp. And it was his last.

John came back with the now familiar feeling of tears cooling on his cheeks, and snot drying on his upper lip under the rub of a nasal cannula.

He took in a shuddering breath and raised a shaky hand to wipe away the moisture. Finally opened his heavy, swollen feeling lids and blinked away the tears still clinging to his lashes. Sadness was a physical weight, bearing him down into the thin mattress.

"Welcome back, John."

"Carson?"

The doc moved closer to the bed and smiled kindly. "Aye, you're back with us again. I'm afraid you had another seizure… actually, technically a series of them. Several patterns again tried to assert themselves at the same time. All that electrical activity shorted things out for a bit, but you've been you for the last few minutes. You were quite upset.. would you like to talk about it?"

John closed his eyes back down and took a moment to gather the strands of memory together. "This last one hit pretty close to home, Carson," he said quietly. "Think I'll just let it fade like the rest."

"Of course, lad."

"Where…" He looked around the room. "Where's my guard?"

"The big man's pacing around outside," Carson said, bending down and lowering his voice. "He's more sensitive than people give him credit for."

"What? He couldn't stand to watch a grown man crying? Again?" John said bitterly.

"It's human nature, John, to be moved by another man's pain. Unless of course, you're a sociopath."

"Yeah. Speaking of, did you hear from Morla again? The man is- was- is… he's a sociopath. I should know; I've met a few of them in my day."

"No, lad. No, none of the… personalities showed themselves. I believe that as they continue to acclimate themselves to their new organic substrate, they will… och. Jockey for position. The strongest may eventually will out."

He paused and John's heart tripped in his chest. "What?"

"John, you need to know. This situation as it stands has three possible outcomes. Ideally, your pattern is the sole survivor and the others break down, much like what happened with Thalen and Phoebus."

"Yeah, and less than ideally?"

"One of the other patterns takes dominance."

"You said three, doc."

Carson put a hand on his arm. "The seizures will likely increase in frequency. Chemically, your brain is flooded with neurotransmitters every time you experience a vision. Each high and low brings a different one, each often an antagonist of the other. John, your brain is just not equipped, in any way, shape or form, to handle this kind of battle."

"So…" John said slowly. "Win, lose or fried. Those are my choices?"

"We're still working on this, lad. I have every confidence we will find the answer and set you back to rights."

John just nodded tiredly, the growing ache in his head now laden with the image if the battle being waged in it.

"I can send Ronon back in if you like, John. Teyla has also said she'd return to keep you company."

"Not like I have much choice, Carson. If I get… taken over again, I'm not sure you could do much to stop it. No offense."

"None taken, Colonel. Well, maybe just a wee bit. I did wrestle at University. Was top of my weight class."

"I'll take your word for it, doc. But to be on the safe side, the big Satedan with the gun might be a better option."

"Fair enough."

"Hey, I cant believe I'm asking this, but where's McKay?"

"Och, lad's got himself locked up in his lab, bent over a computer. He calls every hour on the hour for an update, though. John?"

The room was narrowing again; it was Alice down the rabbit hole time. He could hear Carson still saying his name as everything went black.

---

Rodney poked his head in the door, more timid than his usual abrupt entrances. He looked around then slowly walked in, his hands uncharacteristically shoved in his pockets.

"Well, I think I know what happened."

John struggled to sit up, grudgingly allowing Teyla to help arrange the pillows to support his aching head.

"Spit it out, Rodney," Carson said in exasperation. The doc was clearly exhausted; his shadowed eyes and the beard growing in made John wonder if Carson had slept in the two days since the whole nightmare had begun.

"It was, uh, Jackson, actually, who was responsible for the translation."

Rodney not taking all the credit made it clear John was about to hear bad news.

"Now mind you, this is only pieces that we've linked with a hell of a lot of speculation… but it sounds right, what with what's been transpiring." He took a deep breath. "It seems the planet, which they called Allora, was divided into two factions or races or territories. Pieces, remember? They were extremely advanced, and likely were some form of proto-Ancient. But as advanced as they were, they were still human and of course, that made them prone to the same disgusting behaviors we still see today. The two factions fought. Over land, over resources. And most importantly, over Ascension. Seems there were, gah - why do they call it political science?"

"Rodney, please," John sighed.

"Sorry. There were, I don't know… factions within the factions, or something. Jackson talks even faster than I do. But some of them felt the only way to Ascension was faith-based, through meditation, yoga and clean living. The rest of them felt the key to Ascension was through science. There was a terrible war, nuclear probably, although from the number of building structures still intact after all these millennia I'd say they were N bombs not… anyway. They had a failsafe in place. Each generation a thousand of the best and the brightest would be chosen to have what they called their "Patterns" saved. When war broke out, each of those Chosen Ones uploaded themselves into a central storage system- like a remote server- where their Patterns were kept. And they stayed there for the next ten thousand years, give or take.

"To what end, Rodney?" Teyla asked.

"Their records indicate they had been working on technology similar to that I used when I built Fran. When I built the body for Elizabeth…"

"But John is not an artificial life form," Carson said bitterly. "And how the bloody hell - a thousand did you say?"

"Originally, yes. We have no way of knowing who survived the war long enough to upload their Pattern or how many were lost as the system degraded." Rodney stepped further into the room and began wringing his hands.

"It's my fault. I said there weren't any energy readings, but there were of course, low level ones. Any planet with organic life, solar energy, radioactive ores… they all register as low level energy, perfectly natural. But the power supporting the system, the server inside the 'pretty map' Sheppard touched. It was so low it barely registered. It recognized the power was almost fully depleted and when a conduit became available it just dumped the whole core into it- him. It could be the ATA gene or just the length of time he was near it or how he touched it--"

"Rodney, settle!" Carson placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Nobody blames you Rodney."

"Well, I do!"

"I don't," John said meeting Rodney's frantic gaze. "Just bad luck, Rodney. Pegasus-style."

Rodney looked away then nodded his acceptance of the reassurance. "I - I can try making bodies, the way I did for…for --"

"No," John interrupted. "We're not messing around with that crap again. Besides… how the hell would you get the… the Patterns into the bodies? And I don't think some of them should be… set free." He took in a deep drag off the oxygen and closed his eyes, unwilling to see the reactions on his friends' faces. "What happens if I die? Do the Patterns die too?"

Silence greeted his question for a heartbeat, then all of then began clamoring, shushing him, smothering him with pep talk. As it died down he finally opened his eyes and pinned them on Rodney. "What happens?"

"They… they would for lack of a better word 'die' too. That is, if they didn't find another conduit, which--"

"How? What could they use? Think, Rodney!" John urged. There was no way he could let them jump to the city or to another person.

"I." Rodney clamped his mouth shut, his mind working like only his could. Then he let out an explosive breath. "I don't think they can. They can't. They are currently based in an organic substrate, in their previous natural state. They would need to upload them with technology only they had into equipment they designed. Ten thousand years ago, give or take a millennium."

John relaxed back into his pillows, satisfied that if there'd been a way, Rodney would've thought of it. They were in him and they would stay in him until… at least the city would be safe.

"Am I the only one who thinks Sheppard dying isn't an option?" Ronon grunted out of nowhere.

"Of course not, big man," Carson sighed. "But something Rodney said… I've been researching a procedure. As he observed, the Patterns are currently in a natural organic state. John's brain to be exact. And John's 'pattern' is still there and fighting. It's the overlay of the others that's disrupting his and causing the seizures and the neurological breakdown he's experiencing.

I have a way that might reset his pattern and clear the rest. It's a bit out there…"

"Since when aren't your cures?" Rodney huffed.

"But I think it may do the trick," Carson continued with a sigh. "And I think it worth it to try anyway."

"Whatya got, doc?" John asked.

"Perhaps we should discuss it in private, John? I know you've already had your share of audience, but this is a decision you should be able to make on your own."

John looked around at his team. His family. Family was supposed to be by your side in life and death decisions. His yearning to have one small part of the situation be private was strong. But he knew that ultimately they'd be there through it and at the end if it came to that. "No. I appreciate your attempt at discretion but they can stay."

Carson hesitated then steeled his shoulders. "All right, just hear me out now. ECT."

"ECT?" Ronon asked.

"Electroconvulsive therapy. We administer an electric shock to the brain in order to - I believe Rodney would say 'reboot'. It's been used for the last eighty years or so on Earth and the literature is generally positive."

"Electro- Carson, I've called your medicine quackery before but this takes the cake! Are you insane? It's barbaric!"

"Shut it, Rodney. It's not barbaric. John, we induce a seizure - I know, you've been having them already, but this is a controlled seizure. Longer in duration and more severe, but controlled. The shock has been proven to reboot the brain-"

"He's not a PC with a Vista operating system --"

"Cram it," McKay John growled. "I wanna at least hear the man out."

Carson closed his eyes briefly and took a calming breath. "The seizure is thought to increase levels of BDNF. It's a protein in the brain that acts on certain of the , helping to support the survival of existing neurons. Although the vast majority of neurons in the human brain are formed prenatally, parts of the adult brain retain the ability to grow new neurons from neural . That's the key. Your stem cells. The Patterns being… inflicted on yours aren't natural. So when your brain… reboots- and yes, I know the colonel isn't a computer, Rodney- it should come back with the existing neurons only.

"What're his odds, Doc?" Ronon asked in the silence after Carson's speech.

"I can't honestly say, big man. But I do know that if this abnormal activity continues his brain and body won't be able to handle the stress."

John swallowed and tried to absorb everything through the ache and fog in his head.

"But I'll be able to handle a few thousand volts to my brain?"

Carson smiled and shook his head. "No volts. Milliamps, 800 as a start. We increase wattage until we get the desired effect."

"Which is me doing the St Vitus jig?"

"A crude way of putting it, but, aye. You won't be awake for it John. We'll put you under sedation; you won't feel or know a thing about it."

"I saw A Beautiful Mind, doc. I know what happens."

Carson's face colored. "That movie depicted something completely different and outdated I'll quickly add. That was the 40's, John. This is 21st century Atlantis. Please give me a little credit."

"Didn't he forget his wife after?"

"I won't lie to you. There is a very real risk of retrograde amnesia. It's often temporary, and they have made improvements that limit it. I'll be trying unilateral ECT first; it's sometimes not as effective but the reports of memory loss are much less frequent."

"And if at first you don't succeed?"

"Why don't we cross that bridge if we come to it, lad?"

Not getting the expected 'try, try again' meant Carson doubted he'd get a second chance.

He scanned the room, took in the eyes of his friends, then settled his gaze on Carson. It was still a bit jarring, seeing his dead friend's smiling cherubic face, hearing the familiar brogue. He had trusted Carson with his life on more occasions than he'd care to remember. This was Carson, clone or not. And he still trusted him with his life. "So what happens next?"

END OF SECTION FOUR

Any doubts Carson had about the ECT went out the window as John's condition worsened. The memories trapped in his head were in an all out battle, images coming in slivers so fast they began to blur. His headache had ended him up on a morphine cocktail that was only barely touching the pain.

John emerged from reliving a son's birth, from the aspect of the husband, thank God. But the vision had touched him all the same. Often conflicted between the desire to have a family of his own to memories of how screwed up his had been. And Pegasus wasn't exactly Anytown, USA. Unless the neighbors there were life sucking space vampires.

He looked up at the sound of a voice clearing. It was Carson, bouncing patiently on his toes. "We're ready when you are, Colonel"

John nodded, still caught up in the experience of seeing his… a child born.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Let's get on with it, I guess."

Carson cocked his head and studied him. "Do you have any questions about the procedure. Concerns, beyond the obvious, I mean?"

"After the … after you do this, they all go away? Where do they go?"

"Och, lad, if I knew that…" Carson sighed and sat down on the chair, began playing with the stethoscope in his hands. "Having been dead once myself you'd think I'd have more answers."

"I'm consigning the last remnants of this entire race to oblivion, Carson," John said softly. "Just to save my skin. I really hadn't thought about it too much… but they were…are…were people. They had lives, families. Loved ones. They were artists and inventors, soldiers and scientists. And they'll be gone with the flick of a switch."

Carson appeared uncomfortable, averting his eyes. "I'm sorry, John. Maybe your Carson…"

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"The 'your Carson' bullshit," John said angrily. "Whatever made Carson, Carson is in you. IS you. I don't know how but… you are OUR Carson, damnit."

The doctor flushed red and his blue eyes brightened with tears. "I've been thinking on that, John," he almost whispered. "I'm wondering if Michael had technology similar to what the Allorans had. Maybe I'm nothing more than Carson's pattern in a homegrown body."

"Carson, I have these patterns inside my head. Trust me when I say, that whatever made them the people they were, it's here. I feel their love, hate, anger, joy. I remember their childhoods, their marriages, the loss of their loved ones. It's what's making it so hard," he finished, taking a shaky drag off his oxygen. "You have his soul. As far as I'm concerned, a friend was miraculously resurrected and all I can do is be thankful for it."

The doctor wiped a hand across his cheek, then steeled his back. "Thank you for that, lad. But we have work to do. And as far as the Allorans go… Their time was ten thousand years ago. They lived their lives. Now its time to make sure you live yours."

---

Awareness returned slowly. There were muted voices. Then a slight breeze blew across his closed lids.

Brief snapshots, like a slide show of unconnected images ran through his head. So many faces, so many voices. Summer, winter, day, night. Each had its own smell, its own feel. Its own emotion. Anger, fear, lust, heartache.

Then over everything he heard a low moan and the slight breeze became a rush of air that made his eyes blink.

"John?"

His eyes opened briefly, too quick to see which of his realities he would find. A wife and child? A soldier with a gun? A grave or a celebration.

"John?" The voice grew louder and more urgent. A woman. But which woman would he see? Would her face bring sorrow or happiness? Desire or repulsion?

"John, please. It's Teyla. Can you open your eyes for us?"

"Yes, we're all quite done with the waiting by your bedside thing. So come on."

John waited a heartbeat, then two, three. Waiting for what he wasn't sure.

"Seriously, John," came close to his ear. "Wakey wakey. You're beginning to scare Teyla."

"Just give the lad a moment, Rodney. The procedure will probably leave him more than a wee bit disoriented for a good while."

Procedure? As a little more of the fog lifted John finally remembered. The ECT. Several hundred watts to the noggin, then the mother of all seizures. By the lingering aches now awakening all over, especially in his jaw and neck, they had that right.

He finally worked his eyes open, blinked away the veil of white that lay over his vision. Of all his realities, it appeared he was, at least currently, in the right one.

He turned his head slightly to see Rodney bent over, staring intently at him, his blue eyes filled with concern.

"Teyla's worried, huh?" John managed to grunt out.

"OhthankGod," Rodney said on a rapid exhale.

"All right," came Carson's stern voice. "The lot of you, you've seen he's awake, give us a few minutes to get him sorted out and we'll see about having you back in later."

The lot of you? John turned his head-- slowly- God, his neck was stiff- on his pillow to see Teyla to the other side of his bed, Ronon standing, arms crossed over his chest at the foot and wow… Richard Woolsey standing in the doorway, looking like he was trying to blend in with the frame.

"Did it work?" he asked the room in general, too sore to even try to focus on anyone in particular.

"We'll be trying to figure that out, once everyone clears out," Carson said with a sigh but a small smile accompanied it. "Go on. I promise to give you all a status report, but I'm afraid I must insist."

John felt hands touching his shoulder, arm, leg. Heard a few softly spoken goodbyes and good wishes, then the room was suddenly much emptier. Colder. He pulled at the blanket on his chest, wincing at the soreness in his arm. A hand appeared from over his shoulder and he flinched away.

"Sorry, John." Jennifer Keller stepped from behind the head of the bed and grabbed the blanket, eased it up over the wires that flowed from the loose top of his hospital gown. "Didn't mean to startle you," she said with a bashful smirk. "This room is cold. You want another blanket?"

"When?" John's heartbeat kicked up a notch and a light began flashing on a nearby monitor. She hadn't been part of this reality, he was certain of it.

To her credit, Jennifer quickly figured out the reason for his concern. Put a hand on his arm and rubbed gently. "I'm sorry, John. I just got back from my trip this morning. You had to go and have all this excitement without me," she teased. "I just wanted to help. I didn't mean to… I can go."

"No. No," John said, taking in a deep breath. "Home, right? To see your dad?"

She grinned broadly and shot Carson a jubilant look before nodding back at John. "Yup. Fishing, Scrabble, all the Fox News programming I could stomach."

"Aye now, fishing. That's my idea of a good time," Carson chuckled. "What were ya fishing for, might I ask, love?"

"Well, we were trying for trout, but I caught a tiny sunfish and almost cried at its little gaping face. I made my dad throw it back, then watched the water for the rest of the day, waiting to see if the poor thing came floating back up."

John just laid there, basking in the normality of listening to the docs make small talk as they fussed over his monitors, leads and tubes.

The pillow felt good, supporting his head, easing the strain in his neck. He settled in, felt the warmth of the blanket. Allowed himself to…

With a small start, he realized that he'd been relaxed, allowed his mind to drift, and he had stayed rooted in his time and place.

Next he realized that the two docs had stopped their ministrations and were sharing the same smile.

"I'm… I'm still me," John said quietly, almost afraid of tempting fate.

"Aye, you are, John. 100% John Sheppard."

"Heard that one before," John said with a scowl.

"And that, my friend, is another good sign," Carson said smugly.

John's brow creased in confusion. "Huh?"

"Long term memory," Carson replied. "You remembered that we, that is, you --" He stopped before John could even open his mouth. "We", Carson continued more firmly, had a very similar conversation a few years ago.

"Yes, we did, John affirmed.

"Must've been quite the conversation," Jennifer observed, clearly confused by the loaded exchange.

"Sorry, you had to be there," John said with a wry smile. "So… when do we know for sure that it worked? That they're - that I'm…"

"You'll be our guest for another few days at least, John. The readings so far are all good. Your brainwave pattern is back to normal, but we'll need to keep you on the leads for a wee bit longer. The ECT appears to have worked, but don't expect to bounce back too quickly. As hopeful as I am that we avoided any major damage, don't be surprised if you do find gaps in your memory."

"So if I forget your birthday I get a free pass?"

"Cheeky bastard," Carson smirked. "Seriously, John. The ECT was a traumatic injury inflicted on your already taxed body. Deliberately inflicted, but no less traumatic."

Then he flashed Jennifer a quick look. Even still groggy from the anesthesia and the seizure, John could read an 'amscray' when he saw it.

Apparently, so could Jennifer. She smiled, then quietly excused herself from the room.

"It want just physical trauma, John," Carson said quietly after she'd gone. "What you experienced… I know the decision weighed heavily on you lad, but I can only assure you that you made the right choice."

When John didn't reply Carson patted his leg through the blanket. "Get some sleep, lad."

After he left John curled up on his side and closed his eyes. He couldn't dredge up a single image of the Allorans. So he let his mind drift, pictured himself flying one of those pod cars over the city, and dreamed his own dreams.

FINIS