This is set just after Vengeance but before First Strike so there may be spoilers for that episode. As always the characters aren't mine, just trying them for size before returning them to the box!!!
Desperate Hours
Chapter One
Nagging, burning pain was the only sensation that he could feel, nothing else registered, nothing else mattered. It twisted its needle like tendrils through his brain, clawing its way into every corner of his mind. His hands pulled at the jacket that clung to his skin, the material matted and clogged; sticky with the blood that pumped in a glutinous stream from the hole in his chest. He squeezed his eyes closed and grabbed clumsily at the pocket of his vest, his hand searching for the statutory field dressings stored there, but his fingers wouldn't work properly and he struggled to loosen the flap on the pocket.
A cry of despair ripped from between his teeth as he battled with the stubborn fastener, his blood slicked fingers slipping on the thick material. He could feel the warmth spreading under his jacket and once again he slipped his hand under the sodden material, pressed his right hand down on the wound, feeling the blood streaming between his fingers.
Earlier
Sheppard had been pretty relaxed as he had entered the room for his meeting with Makill. The man apparently had a reputation as a hard negotiator, but he was also known as a fair man with a quiet dry humour, so Sheppard hadn't been expecting a hard time.
The team had been pretty keen to get the negotiations over with a quickly as possible, especially Sheppard; unlike Teyla, thrashing out trade deals definitely wasn't his strongest attribute and certainly wouldn't make it to his list of all time top ten favourite pastimes.
Rodney had whined incessantly about having to meet the eastern region grain master on his own, especially when the meeting had been arranged at Sylers home with his 'family' present. Rodney needed to negotiate trade deals like he needed decaff coffee, but it had been agreed that as he knew more than anyone else about the water purification system that they were trading against he was the best choice, so he had seen little room to argue and had begrudgingly agreed to go.
Teyla on the other hand enjoyed the repartee of trade. She had grown up following her father into trade deals and had subsequently taken on the role as negotiator when her father was lost and she became leader of her people. The delicate art of negotiation came naturally to her and it had been decided that she should take Ronon with her; he needed the trading experience, as his only form of negotiation normally involved his blaster or fists!
So, meetings agreed, the team had headed off in different directions and arranged to liase later over a meal in the local tavern before heading back through the gate.
Sheppard couldn't have known that the man he was meeting would be carrying a weapon, it should have been safe; there shouldn't have been any danger, especially as projectile weapons of any type were banned on the planet and they had been forced to relinquish theirs upon arrival. The office had been darkened when Sheppard had opened the door, and the figure sitting at the desk in the centre of the room had been partially hidden in the shadows.
It hadn't been until he saw the gun being drawn and heard the shot being fired that Sheppard had turned and thrown himself to the side and onto the stone floor of the office. He had landed hard against the floor and felt the air knocked roughly from his lungs.
At first he had thought he had landed against the floor awkwardly as pain had flared in his upper chest, 'Damn it, that's all I need, another busted rib!
Bringing his knees up, he had crawled quickly across the floor, heading for the narrow doorway that he knew led out into the street; but as he had struggled up onto his feet, he had felt what he thought at the time to be the broken rib stab at him and he hadn't been able to stop a strangled gasp from escaping his lips.
The pain had torn through his chest and it had been all he could do to prevent himself from hitting the ground again as he had stumbled towards the open door. Even as he had exited the door into the cool night air, he had heard the booted footsteps start to follow him, the unidentified man running to catch him as he stumbled down the cobbled street.
When he could no longer hear the pursuing footfalls, Sheppard had stopped briefly and lent against the alleyway wall to catch his breath, but each breath that he had drawn in had burned at his lungs, stinging like acid.
As he had pushed away from the wall, he had failed to notice the red stain that he had left behind on the grey stone, but he had heard once more the sound of footsteps running down the street towards him and he had been spurred to continue on.
The voice that called out in the dark chilled Sheppard as he made his way along the alleyway,
"Where are you Lantean! I only wanted to talk to you, I have a 'friend' who has requested your company". A rough laugh had followed the shouted question and Sheppard had almost paused to throw a taunt back, but his busted rib threatening to slow him down and his overriding need to find the rest of the team had stilled his response; he had felt a desperate need to let them know what had happened at the meeting, so he had ignored the shouted comment and continued towards the relative sanctuary of the town centre.
He had run down the street towards the riverside and the docks, the pungent smell of fetid water hitting his nostrils as the warehouses came into view through the dense fog that covered the water like a funereal shroud.
The fingers of mist had twisted between the buildings like floating spectres, coiling and undulating as the breeze caught them and tossed them around. Sheppard had thrown a rapid glance behind him as he had dipped behind the first of the immense grain warehouses, pausing only to catch his breath again. His lungs had started burning with the effort of keeping ahead of his attacker.
The wooden warehouses were old and decrepit and the walls rotten with age and as Sheppard had leant against the slime covered boards behind him, a rat had appeared at his feet, paused to sniff the air, then scurried off in search of smaller, easier prey.
Sheppard had frozen as a sound broke through the still air, it had been the definite crunch of feet on gravel and he had been forced to hold his breath in anticipation of the arrival of his attacker.
Looking around, Sheppard had noticed a thick wooden post leaning up against the wall beside him. Grasping the post in his right hand, he had picked it up and held it against his shoulder in anticipation of his attackers appearance.
Adrenalin had surged through his veins as he waited, trying to block out the pain cutting through him from his ribs. He had felt his heart pumping inside his chest and the blood roaring in his ears as he had waited, poised.
As the footsteps had grown closer, he had lifted the post above his shoulder, waiting until the figure drew level with his concealed position.
The black boots had appeared first around the corner, but Sheppard had been ready; he had hefted the post like a baseball bat, pushing his whole body weight behind the long swing. The post struck the man in the face, and blood had spewed from the man's broken nose and mouth as he had gone down, the gun falling from his numb fingers.
Sheppard had cried out in pain as the swing pulled at his chest and he had been forced to drop to his knees, crippled by the intensity of the torment.
He had tried to breath, but as he dropped onto his hands, his lungs refused to play nicely and he had found himself drawing in only small stuttering breaths, each one sending cascading fire through his ribcage.
As the pain had intensified, Sheppard had carefully undone the zip on his TAC vest and pushed his right hand under the material of his jacket. He had fully expecting to feel the grate of a broken rib as he had probed the raw area, but as his hand had touched the spot where the pain originated, he had felt the sticky wetness of blood and he had blanched.
The bullet had caught him just under his left arm, penetrating the exposed gap in his vest as he had thrown himself to the ground in the office.
He had felt the ragged edges of the wound under his fingers, and as he had drawn his hand away, the blood had dripped from his fingertips down onto the flagstones at his feet. The pain had bitten hard and he had been forced to lean back against the rotten boards of the grain store hoping that the pain would subside; but his legs had given way and he had found himself sliding down the wall, ending up sitting on the gravel strewn floor, his blood stained hand resting in the dirt at his side and with the unconscious figure of his attacker lying just feet away from him.
Present
Now, as Sheppard sat in the dirt struggling with the simple task of undoing the pocket on his TAC vest and with an unconscious man that he now realised he didn't recognize lying beside him, he wished more than ever that he hadn't agreed to them all meeting separate grain masters in different locations, but as they say, hindsight is a wonderful thing.
The velcro flap finally came undone on the TAC vest pocket and he fumbled inside, drawing out the field dressings that were stored there. Grunting with effort, he shrugged the heavy TAC vest from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground and as he pulled the zipper down on his long sleeved jacket, it finally exposing the blood soaked black shirt that now clung wetly to the sharp contours of his ribcage.
He drew in the deepest breath that he could manage before pulling the shirt up and over his torso, getting his first real look at the wound in his chest, and he felt the nausea sting in his stomach as he looked at the ragged hole in his ribcage.
The jagged hole was oozing thick streams of dark blood and Sheppard could feel the sweat starting to bead on his forehead as he closed his eyes in shock; he had been prepared for a broken rib, but not this.
He blinked his eyes repetitively to clear away the sweat that was now dripping into them and he could already feel the tremors starting in his hand as he pressed the now open field dressing to the seeping wound. The touch of the dressing on his raw skin almost blacked him out, but he shook his head, trying to stop the grey edges from interrupting his vision. The sparkling spots that appeared as he shook his head dispersed quickly, but his head span and the feeling of dread that had touched him briefly as he had slid down the wall now began to settle more permanently in the pit of his stomach. He needed help, and he needed it soon.
He fastened the dressing in place as best he could, then reached out towards the discarded vest. As he extended his arm out towards the protective garment laying beside him, he felt something suddenly change inside. A gasp burst from his lips and he toppled onto his side as a firebrand of pain lanced through his upper body.
He convulsed on the gravel covered floor, his hands grasping at the damp air, desperate to find relief from the burning agony that now tormented him.
He coughed harshly, wrapping his arms protectively around his chest as he felt the pull of torn flesh inside.
He recognised the raw, but distinctive metallic taste in his mouth and on his lips as his abused lungs rebelled, but as he brought his shaking hand to his mouth, the red stain that coloured the back of his hand still shocked him deeply.
'Goddamn it, I'm really screwed this time… Damn it to hell!'
As he lay back on the ground and the pain pulsed through his chest in waves, he suddenly remembered his still present comlink.
Pressing the link, he tried to compose himself enough to speak,
"R-rodney…. 'Oh god, that hurts', ..Rodney. If you c-can hear me, I…" he swallowed hard and tried to continue, "Rodney I r-ran into some t-trouble ..aah, I c-could really do with some h-help.." His head dropped back onto the dirt strewn street and he felt the gravel digging into his face as he looked over at the unconscious man laying a few feet from him. What had happened, why had this man drawn a weapon on him; and where was Makill, the man he should have been meeting?
The only response to his call for help was static hissing intermittently in his ear, so he tried again.
Lifting his hand he once more activated the com, this time trying a different target, "Teyla- Ronon! If you c-can hear m-me, ..uh, I'm in t-trouble. I'm d-down b-by..t-the docks, ..I've b-been hit ..ah!"
His head was spinning. The sound of his own voice was wrong, distant and fuzzy and he felt his vision greying out as he lay looking up into the night sky. Again only static greeted him in response to his call for help.
"S-someone h-help me…."
As the whispered words drifted out of his mouth, his eyes closed briefly and he felt the strength slipping from his body. He knew he couldn't stay here, he needed to get back to the rendezvous that they had arranged, he needed help badly. As his eyes drifted once more to the still figure beside him, his subconscious started to ask questions.
'Who wants me dead?'…'What have I done?'
Looking over at the figure, Sheppard came to a decision and pushed himself to his feet. Staggering to the man's side, he dropped onto his knees and using his free left hand, he searched the man's pockets.
It wasn't until he tried the inside pocket of the man's coat that his fingers hit a sheaf of papers which fluttered in the evening breeze as he pulled them from their hiding place.It didn't take much for Sheppard to realise what he was holding as he saw the picture of himself looking back at him; they were contract papers, the sort sent out to killers for hire and bounty hunters amongst others. The one thing that Sheppard found astounding as he studied the pictures was the writing; it was in Wraith script and he couldn't read it!
'Damn it Rodney, where are you when I need you the most!'
A movement from the figure beside him caught Sheppard's attention and the realisation that the man beside him was slowly returning to consciousness spurred him to move. The man's head moved slightly from side to side and a soft groan issued from his bloody mouth as his hand drifting haphazardly across the ground.With a supreme effort, Sheppard pushed himself off the ground, catching a cry of pain behind his tightly clenched lips before it made itself heard, not wanting to give away his position if his attacker was not alone.
He had no way of knowing if his attacker had accomplices, so the urgency to move now became even greater.
He felt himself drifting sideways as he struggled to his feet and he pushed his hand against the wall behind him in a vain attempt to steady himself against the sideways movement. His hand slipped on the wall, the blood mixing with the moss and slime that had gathered there over the years. A deep groan emanating from the prone form on the ground spurred Sheppard on and with a final stuttered intake of breathe, he pushed himself away from the warehouse wall and staggered along the wharf towards the hazy light of the town centre in the distance.