Summary: Waking up only to find out you're in a dream is never fun. John's experience is rather unique, to say the least. (One shot)
A/N: Written for my best friend as part of an on-going joke. To be warned, it's rather obscure, a monument to my insanity, and not my best piece of work by far. Never become an architect, kiddies. Even us students are beyond help. Plus, I just couldn't help myself; you know how it is, I'm sure. I can't believe I posted this.
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Counting Sheppards
When John woke up, he panicked. But only for a moment.
Still, he couldn't move.
He couldn't see.
And it was dark.
Crap, he thought. If this was what too much Athosian ale did to him, he swore he would never drink it again. As soon as he was able to stand up, he would be sure to tell that to the kid who had given it to him.
He tried to roll over but found that he couldn't.
Dammit, he resigned. I'll just lay here on my side.
My arm's numb.
He wasn't sure how long he laid there in the dark but it seemed to go on forever. Even long after the affects of whatever was in the ale should have worn off, he still couldn't move. It was starting to get frustrating.
And had he been able to talk he would have started calling out for help, hoping that some passerby would come to assist him.
Another hour, year, or century went by.
In that time, he concluded that this wasn't his bed. And that it was stuffy.
And that he was stuffy. Not his mind—that was perfectly clear—but his arm, and his leg, and his tail…
What the hell?
That's when he heard voices. Two of them.
Female.
He didn't recognize either of them.
"What? You don't like my gift, O'Connor? I'm offended. I thought it was you wanted. You told me it was what you wanted. It's all you've been talking about for months. Years."
"Whaddaya' mean? I love your gift." Pause. "He was there this morning when I left."
He?
"Well, I don't see him."
Silence and some shuffling.
Ka-thump!
John was thrown into the air, hit something soft, and landed in an even less comfortable position. It was only made better when blood rushed into his numb arm, causing it to prickle painfully.
And then there was light.
"See? Here he is."
John suddenly found himself lifted into the air, his body limp and something holding him tightly around the middle. If he had eyelids, he would have attempted to blink away the momentary blindness. As it was, however…
When he could finally see, again, it became immediately obvious that he was both hovering in mid-air and tiny. And had fuzzy, stuffed animal hooves.
Seriously with the ale, John. Never again.
Laughter. It was merry.
"Did you honestly think I would misplace him, Anna?" The laughter carried to O'Connor's voice. "I told you that if you bought me a stuffed sheep I would name him John Sheppard. I mean, seriously. My obsessive nature has really gotten the best of me this time. Next it'll be organization and then Swedish boys and then back to Sheppard before returning to Star Wars, my first love." She laughed, then. If not for his predicament, he would have considered it pleasant, if not a little manic.
"Hokay, Dawnie, I think you've had enough caffeine. I'm cutting you off."
"But I'll die. The half of my blood that isn't Irish became coffee years ago. Taking it away now would not be good. I'll just find more if you do."
"Put Sheppard the Sheep down and give me your coffee and nobody gets hurt."
The world shook and John found himself back on what he could now call a bed.
This is screwed up, he thought. Time to wake up now. How about now. Now…?
Please?
When Sheppard woke up, he panicked.
"Not again," he said.
And then he sat up.
"I am never drinking Athosian ale again," he told the wall of his room. "Never ever."
And then he chuckled. That was one for the record books. And one that Rodney would never find out about; or anybody else, for that matter.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Sheppard stood up and got dressed.
Time to save the galaxy.
Again.
Hopefully sheep wouldn't be involved.
THE END