Warning: This is a BIG FAT DEATH FIC featuring Sheppard.
Beta: J.A.B.
A/N: I hate death fics, and yet, I wrote one. I blame it on my Writer's Block (Blockzilla) and all the rumors flying around about the show.
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In the end, did it matter how he died?
Did it make a different if he fell before his enemy squealing like a slaughter pig or with quiet dignity?
No one would ever know. They'd find his body, see his wounds, see his blood, see the evidence of the fight, but know nothing of the emotion.
Hell, he didn't know the emotion. There was nothing but numbness and a kind of hazy gray mist that covered his vision.
There was a way to leave a message. Maybe for Elizabeth, maybe for his soldiers. Maybe even those that chose to ignore him back on Earth. There was some time left.
He let it tick away.
Only time for a message for Elizabeth and his soldiers.
Only time for a message for Elizabeth.
Oops. No time.
He was up and picking his shots. If he was finally going down, the sons of bitches were going to remember him for a long time to come.
One down.
Two.
Dust puffed into the evening air as he hit the ground with a bloody shoulder. No pain.
Thee down.
An impact on his left arm. No pain.
And he realized he was quiet. The only sounds he could hear were the enemy coming at him and his weapon.
So he guessed going out squealing like a slaughtered pig was out.
Somehow, that was comforting in a way.
Four down.
He was picking them off and they weren't slowing down or letting up.
Five down.
No time.
No time.
Damn, he should have made that message. He had something to say now that his time was gone.
It almost choked him as he tried to roll onto his knees for a better angle. All those things he wanted to say that now had no voice . . . it seemed unfair even though he was the one who made the decision.
Six down.
A thump low on his body. No pain, but he was slowing down. It had to be bad. Had to be.
Was six enough? Was six enough to lead him into death like a gory honor guard?
He fumbled for the only grenade he had and slowly, remotely shoved it a distance away. It was probably too close, but he didn't care.
He was tired. Deep down in his bones and in his soul.
It exploded. Seven, eight and nine down. Another was left holding a bloody stump where an arm used to be . . . and screaming.
Squealing.
It pierced his grayness long enough for him to feel a small amount of surprise. It didn't occur to him that his enemy might fall before him squealing like a slaughtered pig.
And then the last one was on him.
He rolled onto his back and held up his handgun, letting his bigger, heavier weapon fall away.
The man was wild looking, partly from the way he was dressed and partly from the hype of the battle and bloodshed. His chest was heaving as he held his own weapon at the ready.
He almost felt sorry for the guy, seeing all his buddies being shot up and blown apart.
Their eyes locked and both flinched, seeing death.
Neither was making it out alive.
"Stranger, you just killed my men," ground out the wild man.
John Sheppard felt his eyes burn. Damn he didn't have time for emotion before and he damn sure didn't have time for it now. "You killed my team, my family you . . . son of a bitch. For something we would have traded to you if you had just . . . asked."
Both shot at the same time.
The wild man went down with a hole over his left eye and Sheppard was pushed back into the dirt as an alien bullet smashed through his chest.
Then he let his gun go and just looked up.
He was no longer an Air Force Colonel, the Atlantis Military CO, the first team leader or even John Sheppard.
He was just a broken man that gasped out his last breath surrounded by destruction and death while he wished he were home with his family.
END