A/N: I don't own anything, and I'll put them back when I finish with them.

These chapters are individual stories but they are in the same universe. You can make it alternate if you like.

He walked through the corridors of the city with an expression that could only have been called fierce. The darkness served to enhance the impression and made him more unapproachable, had anyone been awake where he was walking. With a swift hand, he opened the door to his room and, without turning the lights on, filled a bag haphazardly and left again. The transporter door opened before he reached it and he hit the farthest possible point on the sketch-like map. In the light, John Shepard looked like a man who had just discovered an enemy he had to defeat, but didn't know how.

The doors to the room opened easily for him, and John set the bag near the door and paced. They hadn't figured out what this room had been for yet, but they had discovered that it was soundproofed and that was all that mattered at that moment. Trying to get his breathing under control, he tipped the contents of his bag onto the floor and stared at the mess. With shaking hands, he turned the mess into something he could use. Attaching the metal rod to the wall, he hung what counted as his portable punching bag up and stared at it. For a moment, everything was still and silent. With a cry halfway between anguish and rage, John hurled the first punch.

She was watching the gate room, as she always did, when he looked up and saw her. It was the first time he realized that she was there when he left and came back. A savage, possessive thrill ran through him as he lifted his hand to wave. Her smile was more than confirmation enough, despite it's exactly appropriate degree…

The second punch was as hard as the first and he savoured the sting. It was easier to strike out at the bag as the memories surfaced, driving the feelings into the fabric.

She was in the infirmary, standing by his bed when he opened his eyes. How many times had he seen that? And then the smile touched her lips and she stepped forward and for a moment, he could have pretended that she was there as something other than the leader of the expedition. And in the subtle shifts of her face when someone else announced their presence, that thrill shuddered through him.

He remembered each time he'd been in the infirmary, and for each instance, his fist met the bag. Again and again, the rhythm coming to him easily but without the calming quality a workout usually held.

She looked at him as she made her decision, and he could tell she didn't want him to do it, didn't want him to risk himself again. But she let him and he went to get ready. In the reflection of her office walls, he caught her expression and didn't smile. Which parts of her, he had wondered, were fighting over that choice?

He kept hitting the bag, almost not realising that he was even hitting it, ignoring the sharpness of his stinging knuckles. How many times had he backed her into a corner that she had to find a different way out of? How many times had he seen that tinge of regret and anticipated pain in her dark eyes? And how many times had he been compelled to do nothing about it? He hurt her, in small ways mostly, but sometimes…

She went backwards easily, she was so light! She hit the wall and blinked, her eyes finding his and he could hear himself screaming, knowing no sound was reaching the world. Still, she had stuck by what she had said, his hand around her throat or not. And he flung her to the ground and left. He hadn't looked back…

He had hunted her down, intent on killing her. And he'd been screaming and cursing, pleading and threatening until that damned alien had gotten out of his head. Then he had shot her, and watched her fall, and been so grateful that he was doing it because she would live.

He was breathing hard and the punching bag was a bit worse for wear, but he kept going. It was all he could do because every thought brought more to the surface, and he couldn't force them back into the darkness that was the back of his mind anymore. Not after- No, that he wouldn't think about, anything else, but not that.

She had smiled, wary and curious, as she pulled back the material to reveal the Athosian jar. It was perfect for her, he'd thought. It sat on her desk and every time he went into her office, he saw it and felt that same possessive buzz. Of all the personal items, his gift was on display.

Her arms around him as he stood in the gate room, alive and finally back in Atlantis.

Her lips on his, even though he knew it wasn't really her. And the temptation to pull her back to him, had he been in control at the time…

Standing next to her on the balcony, just watching the sun dance over the waves, more aware of her presence than he should be. And knowing she was just as aware of him.

A snarl echoed in the room as he lowered his head and lashed out again. He couldn't have her. Not on Earth, not on Atlantis, nowhere in two galaxies… But others could, if she let them.

She held the gourd as though it were the most precious thing in the world. It was ugly, and useless and tacky, given by a man who was definitely not worthy of her… But she had smiled.

She played with the silver necklace, stroked it as though touching skin. He wanted her to do that to him, and it had been with fierce satisfaction that he had noticed the lack of it around her neck. Whoever had given her the token didn't deserve her.

Finally, he stopped, gasping for air. With care, and more than a few winces, John packed everything up and left the room. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor until he reached the transporter and was gone. He paused at his room, throwing the bag back inside and sighing. Shaking his head, John headed for the infirmary, of his own free will, and waited until Carson could see him. The Scot cleaned the torn knuckles carefully, noting the damage wasn't severe, despite the bloody condition of John's hands.

'What were you doin', lad?' Carson asked as he applied some salve to the wounds.

'Thinking.'

'Thinking? Bloody hell, what happened?'

John didn't answer, he just licked his lips and avoided the doctor's eyes.

'John, you can tell me, doctor-patient confidentiality still exists in the Pegasus Galaxy.'

'I know,' John replied, 'I guess I just realised that I can't change some things.'

'Lad, no one is expecting you to, you're doing a fine job here and we're all very grateful.'

'Thanks Carson. Look, I should get some sleep before my next mission…'

'Aye lad,' the doctor said, stepping back, 'you do that. Come see me if you need anything.'

John nodded and walked back to his room, entering it without turning on the lights. Night was still on the city, and the darkness was welcome. John slipped into bed, lay on his side and closed his eyes.

She was on the balcony, leaning against one of the pillars, cradling something to her chest. It was dark and the stars barely reflected on the ocean around the city. She was meant to be off duty, not that she ever was, instead she was on the balcony. He was going to approach her, step through the open door and go to her, when the sob broke the comparative silence. He hesitated, and watched as she lifted one hand to brush her hair back from her face and wipe her cheeks. The starlight caught on the curve of her cheek, glistening on a tear she had missed. John was about to move when she inhaled, tilted her head back, exhaled and spoke. The words cut him, and he left as silently as he had arrived, getting as far away from her and the realisation of what he'd done as he could.

'He's home,' she had said, 'that's all that matters. He's home.'

In his head, he could hear one of the smart kids in school taunting him angrily, although he could only remember part of the conversation. It had altered slightly, but it applied. The words rang through the memories he had slammed into fabric, whispered in the beating of his heart.

John rolled over, trying to focus on something else, anything other than what he'd done to her. But there it was, in the sound of the waves.

For I have made her prison be,

Her every step away from me.

And he had. If he'd meant it or not, he had flirted with her, defended her, comforted her in small ways… He had tied them together so tightly that there was no place in his heart for anyone else. Sure, he had relationships, he refused to call it Kirking, with women he didn't let into his heart, but what man didn't? But not her, and that tore at him. Apart from that jerk on Earth, who no longer counted, she had never been with anyone since she'd arrived on Atlantis. And now he understood why. She was too honest to do it, and she was as tied to him as he was to her. And he couldn't let her go…