John Sheppard stands in front of the door uncertainly, carrying a small box while shifting back and forth on his feet as he knocks on the door again, eliciting an excited bark from somewhere in front of him. The house he stands before is old and small, but somehow regal. He finds that fitting.
He allows himself a moment to indulge in the thought of whether or not this is the house she grew up in. He could see her as a kid, her hair curled around her face with boots that are covered in mud and a cardboard sword raised as she declares that she will never be a damsel in distress. He smiles at the image, then shakes it away as other images inevitably wind up following it - as his mind starts to fill in her being tortured by replicators.
The door before him opens and he snaps out of his thoughts, nodding to the woman who stands in front of him. "Mrs. Weir," he says, still shifting on his feet. He's in formal military attire, and it feels constricting and wrong somehow. He ignores the feeling as the woman in front of him takes him in and opens the door wider, motioning for him to come in. He nods to her and enters, immediately taking in a sharp breath when he sees the pictures up around the living room.
He steps forward to look at them, enthralled by her image. One in particular of Elizabeth at prom catches his attention, she's in the front of a group of girls with a long flowing dress that makes her look very much like a princess, her hair is curled and longer than he's ever seen it on her, and her eyes seem to actually sparkle. She is young and full of life.
"Her date dumped her the day before prom," Mrs. Weir supplies, studying John's face as she nods to the picture. "Most girls would have just cried over that and stayed home, but Elizabeth formed a group of girls who had more fun than any couple at the prom." He laughs at that, and it occurs to him that he should be the one talking to her, comforting her, but somehow Elizabeth's mother has slipped into the role of nurturer.
His eyes run down the pictures of Elizabeth, and he can't help but notice that in all of them she is smiling and vibrant, and that one is eerily similar to the image of her he imagined with her covered in mud and grinning, she's just short a cardboard sword. She gets older as the line of pictures go on. They range from her as a toddler with food covering every part of her face to her at the U.N. in a suit and ready to negotiate.
His breath catches at the last picture in the line, it's her with him. He had no idea she'd kept the picture, it was taken when they'd first arrived at Atlantis. She looks younger, with a few less wrinkles that the stress of Atlantis later brought.
He remembers the day it was taken, it had been an unusually calm day and Lorne had suddenly been taking pictures of things. Most of the pictures were top-secret by nature, but he took a few close pictures of people in casual clothes that were allowed out of the city. There had been a few group pictures and at some point Elizabeth had dragged John into a picture with her, wrapping her arm around his as the flash went off.
A small, sad smile spreads across his lips as he stares at the picture. He looks bewildered while she's grinning widely at the camera. "She never sent me pictures with men," Mrs. Weir says quietly from behind him, "she always thought that relationships were uncertain and moved too quickly, she didn't want to come back here and see that... she sent me this picture last year."
"Oh, we weren't-" he feels a lump in his throat as he stops uncertainly. "I mean we were just... friends. Good friends."
Mrs. Weir pats his shoulder and when he turns to look at her it feels like she's staring right through him. An inherited quality, no doubt. She motions to a seat which he gratefully takes, and before he knows it she is serving him tea and smiling at him. "I know you can't tell me much," she says, "I suppose that includes why Elizabeth went from missing to dead?"
"No," he replies, feeling that lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger. She nods in understanding, sitting across from him. "But I can tell you that your daughter was incredibly happy with what she was doing. It was her dream job..." his voice betrays him as it cracks, he looks away from Mrs. Weir but continues determinedly, "she was loved."
Mrs. Weir remains silent for a few moments, as does he. Tears are visible in the corner of her eyes but she takes in a deep breath and her eyes move to the box that he has forgotten he's carrying, even though his hands are now crushing the cardboard around them as he clenches his fists.
He realizes this, and quickly loosens his grip as he moves to open the box. "These were a few of her things... I know most have been sent back to you but these were closer to her." Inside the box is a few small items, on top is her picture of Sedgewick and her father's pocket watch.
"Thank you," Mrs. Weir replies quietly as he hands her the box. She reaches in and holds the pocket watch, her hand running over the face of it. His eyes follow the motion. "This watch was her father's," she supplies, "it meant a great deal to her."
Mrs. Weir pauses, her eyes still on the watch and then they raise to observe John. "I think it reminded her of time... how it passes, how it is constant no matter what we lose..." now her voice is the one that cracks. His eyes move away from her again, and he's surprised to feel something cold pressed into his hand. He looks up and realizes she has put the watch in his palm. He opens his mouth to speak, but she closes his hand firmly and shakes her head, "It should be yours now."
He swallows and shakes his head, "No, I couldn't, it's a family-"
"You are family," she says, very quietly, "her family. I can tell." His eyes move to the watch, unable to meet the eyes of the woman in front of him. She pats his hand with that same amount of knowing that Elizabeth always had, which only makes him feel more torn up inside.
They talk for an hour, about Elizabeth and her life. He talks vaguely about his time with her, and makes Mrs. Weir laugh when he calls her a 'badass diplomat' before he blushes and realizes the company he's in.
When he does leave it's with the watch clutched in his hand and dinner in his stomach. He steps outside the house, not sure if a weight has been lifted or added to him. Maybe both.
As he moves away from the house he can see her, not as a child playing make-believe but as the woman he knew. It has been a long time since he's imagined her without inevitably hearing her say, "Go!" and seeing her being taken from him. Today he manages it as he sees her standing outside, her hair lightly pushed back by the wind and wearing her standard Atlantis uniform.
Her lips quirk into that smile she always gave him, the one he'd like to think was reserved for him alone. "Let go, John," she says, so quietly he almost believes he can hear it.
"Not yet," he responds as he turns down the street right past where he's imagining her, "not yet."