HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN
John Sheppard sat on the floor of the reeking cell, and wearily laid his head on his outstretched arms. His knees were drawn up towards his chest; it felt more comfortable that way, his midriff was still sore from being used as a punching bag earlier.
He was always advocating positive thinking in everyone else, even his Wraith prisoner Steve, but somehow, this time he was finding it hard to practice what he preached.
His captors were seemingly experts at the torture and torment game, keeping him short of food, water and sleep. It was the sleep deprivation that he found hardest to deal with. Sirens sounded irregularly, ensuring that anyone held in the cells would get no rest, jerking the prisoner awake by their strident call, just as he was beginning to drift off.
He longed to rub his wrists, they were sore and chafed beneath the rough rope that bound them together, and his hands were numb and swollen from the reduction in circulation caused by the tight bonds.
He wondered for the thousandth time where his team were, if they were even alive. He had no way of knowing, as the attack had been so swift and unexpected, the natives seeming to come out of nowhere, surrounding them. He'd stepped forward, raising his P90 to a defensive position, trying to protect McKay and Teyla, trusting Ford to cover their six, when he'd been struck by an energy weapon that dropped him instantly. It had been agonizing, but he hadn't lost consciousness immediately. He'd managed to fight it long enough to see the natives surround his team before he'd succumbed.
When he'd woken up, he'd been in this cell. He had no idea how long he'd been there, his watch having been taken along with everything else – vest, belt, weapons, even his boots. He regarded his filthy bruised bare feet regretfully: socks wouldn't have been much protection, but at least they might have helped to keep them warm.
He hadn't had to wait long before the inevitable had begun. He'd been expecting it. It seemed that humans were the same wherever you were, even in a galaxy millions of light years away from Earth.
He tried unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position. Wasn't gonna happen, there were just too many places that hurt. The prison guards here were nothing if not thorough, and brutal. But the thing that had him wondering was the fact that no-one had said a word. Not one goddammed word. No questions, no threats, none of the usual bluster. Just fists, feet and anything else that came to hand. He had no idea what this was all about, what it was they wanted from him. It could only end one way, and now he just wished they would finish it.
A few hours later, and it seemed he was going to get his wish. Two of the guards he'd had the misfortune to get to know quite well opened the door to his cell. Huey and Dewey, he called them. They hustled in, looming over him like a couple of monoliths. Huey grabbed his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. His abused ribs screamed their protest, and the resulting fit of coughing would have driven him to his knees if it hadn't been for the huge hands holding him upright.
Dewey produced a black hood and slipped it over Sheppard's head. Suddenly, even though he'd been wanting them to end it, he decided he wasn't ready to give up yet. He began to fight back, though it was feeble compared to what he could normally do. Dewey effectively subdued him by smacking a mighty fist into the side of his head. At first he saw stars, but then nothing as the hood was drawn tighter. He continued to kick and thrash, he knew what this was about, and though John Sheppard was no coward, he didn't want to die alone, away from everything he held dear, not even knowing why for fuck's sake!
His arms were briefly unbound, but before he could even think of using them in his defence, Dewey had seized them again, and rebound them behind his back. His efforts at lashing out with his feet were also summarily halted by the placing of heavy metal shackles around his ankles.
This was it then. He was as helpless as a kitten, unable to even pretend to defend himself. That didn't stop him though. He fought back as much as he was able, every step of the way. Eventually Huey, or maybe it was Dewey must have had enough, because he slugged John in his jaw hard enough to stun him. Then picked him up and slung him ignominiously over his shoulder.
John didn't know what was worse, the pain in his ribs from being carried like this, or the humiliation of – being carried like this.
After an eternity. Sheppard was set down on his feet, dizzy, disorientated, barely conscious, and made to stand still. He waited, muscles tense, expecting to feel a bullet, or knife, or something else lethal enter his body and end it all painfully. So he was taken completely by surprise when instead of roaring death, he felt a huge shove in the centre of his back which sent him stumbling forward, tripping over his own feet. A second push catapulted him into a sickening, freezing somehow familiar vortex. He clenched his teeth to keep the scream in, feeling the pain of his abused jaw keeping him slightly grounded, when the vertiginous movement stopped and he hit the ground, hard.
He laid there, stunned unwilling to move. Eventually, he felt the hood being removed, and looked up, blinking in the harsh light to see Dr. Weir's face looking down at him, her expression a curious mixture of horror, compassion and relief.
"Elizabeth?" he croaked quaveringly, then before he could confirm she was real, her face swam away from him in a spiralling kaleidoscope of colour until it diminished to a pinpoint of light, and winked out.
There was an annoying beeping. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't quit. Eventually, out of frustration, he flung out an arm only to be stopped in his tracks by an explosion of pain. "Son-of-a- " he began, but found his voice choked by a tube in his throat. Suddenly ho couldn't breathe, and began thrashing in panic.
"Major, Major, open your eyes. You're safe now, laddie, you have a tube in your throat to help you breathe. You've been a wee bitty in the wars, and we had to help you with your breathing, but if you'll just keep still a moment, now, then I'll take it out."
Sheppard opened his eyes, squinting in the bright light. Beckett immediately dimmed them. And John was able to focus more clearly, seeing Beckett staring at him in that concerned but comforting way that he did.
"Now, take a deep breath, and hold it, good, good, that's it, and we'll just take that nasty tube out. There we go, all gone." Carson beamed down at John. "You gave us quite a scare, son, but you're going to be ok now."
John tried to speak, but only a series of strangled gasps came out. Beckett tut tutted, and held out a glass with a straw in it. Sheppard took a couple of sips, it was sore, but manageable.
He muttered something that Carson didn't quite catch. "What was that?" the doctor queried.
"I said," replied John, finding his voice getting stronger, "I may have been knocked out, but I haven't regressed. Last time I looked, I was still an adult."
"Glad to hear it," was the non-impressed reply, "And next time you go posturing at some unidentified natives, just remember who it is that has to put you back together. Now. I have some people here that will be as glad to see you back as I am." He stood back, and Sheppard could see McKay, Ford, Teyla and Elizabeth all smiling down at him.
"This is real right?" he asked.
At their nods, he began to relax, and felt the warm fuzzy feeling stealing up on him as Backett added something to his IV. " Then it's good to be back," he said. "I must admit, it's a pleasant surprise."
He snuggled down into the – surprisingly – comfortable infirmary blankets and drifted off, safe in the knowledge that he was home, among friends again.
END