Title: Sheppardology 101

Author: Yodakitty (aka me)

Rating: M

Pairings: John Sheppard/Carson Beckett (BeckShep) slash - yes, again, it is slash, if you don't like it, don't read it. You have been warned.

Spoilers: None that I can think of...'Outcast' of you squint really hard and look at it just right...

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own the characters, concepts, or anything else related to Stargate: Atlantis that may be copyrighted or otherwise previously owned. Those belong to Gekko and MGM and all those other people who actually make money from it, with the exception of inspiration pulled from a couple of other stories, to whose authors I will give credit in the chapters where that applies. Oh, and I don't own Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy either, though there is a short reference to it in this chapter.

Summary: Ever wondered what makes Sheppard act the way he does? Use of a different form of therapy to stave off a break down leads to some interesting insights into the mind of our favorite flyboy.

-Several hours later-

Ack, I am getting too old for this- or they're too young. Let's go with that, John thought, rolling his shoulders. Even with the mats and everything for padding, getting thrown that many times hurt. Next order of business: nice, long, hot shower. Nothing else was going to be of any help for his knotted up, now very sore muscles at the moment. Unless he could talk Carson into a massage… if he was even still there. It had been several hours he noticed now that he bothered to look at his watch. No, he decided; double checking to make sure he'd read the time correctly. Carson had gone on shift about an hour ago and wouldn't get off until dinner, which wasn't for another four hours yet. John, on the other hand, was free for the rest of the day, having had the early morning shift today. He couldn't sleep past dawn anyway, so there was no reason not to.

Walking back in to his quarters (yes, they were actually still his, they weren't living together, yet anyway), he found himself glancing almost nervously over at the notebook he'd been writing in earlier. It was still closed and didn't appear to have moved from where he'd left it before heading to the gym. For reasons he couldn't quite place that made him feel better. Strange to get so nervous about it though, as the only one who could have possibly read it at this point was Carson, who was going to read it eventually anyway, so what difference did it make if he read it now or later? Tabling the issue for later, John decided to focus on getting that shower instead.

Almost two hours later, feeling mostly human again and with his muscles not protesting nearly so much, John settled on the bed to try and decide what he was going to do to occupy himself until dinner. Usually with this much time to kill he'd go bother McKay in his lab. However, the scientist was off-world with another team, Major Lorne's this time, helping them with some Ancient tech in the ruins they'd been sent to explore that was too large to bring back to the city. They were due back shortly. Dinner was McKay's particular request to the kitchen staff, some kind of steak type thing, and it would take a Wraith attack to keep him from it, John was certain. It took some time before he realized the longer he sat there, the more often his eyes would drift back to the notebook on the desk. He still had no idea what he was actually supposed to be writing about. It seemed to him like they were asking for his thoughts on life, the universe, and everything. The answer to which, 42, being much simpler then what they were really trying to get at: the internal workings of his mind. A topic he had never spent much time dwelling on, mostly intentionally. Well, if it was his thoughts they wanted, then by all means. For all the good it would do them. It wasn't like he knew anything of any great importance anyway. He was neither bright enough nor important enough to know anything that one or both doctors didn't already know. What the hell, maybe if I play along and write more then they expect they'll realize this really isn't necessary and life can return for what passes for normal. Even as he thought it, John realized it wouldn't work. Maybe if it had only been Dr. Heightmeyer he was dealing with he could have gotten away with BSing something, but Carson knew him too well to let him slide with that. It was something John dearly wanted to know when and how it had happened; it was really kind of scary sometimes. Always before he'd been able to keep his distance from everyone around him, well, most everyone. There were the occasional exceptions. Mitch, Dex, Holland, hell, Nancy even. You'd think I would have learned not to get emotionally attached to people by now. It never ends well, John reflected bitterly. Too late now, I guess. Ah well, time to BS more ammunition for the resident shrink to play with I suppose. After a moment's internal debate, John decided his muscles weren't so relaxed as to take sitting in the relatively uncomfortable chair at the desk, retrieved the notebook and pen from the desk and settled back down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard and balancing the notebook on his knees. His handwriting would probably suffer for writing this way, but it wasn't all that fantastic to begin with so he doubted anyone would notice.

Hello again.

I've really got to stop doing that. Has it occurred to anyone that doing this is an excellent recipe for starting to talk to yourself? I mean, really, that's kind of what this is if you think about it. Is it possible for therapy to actually drive a patient insane? Has that ever actually happened? Now that would be weird. Not life-sucking alien vampires weird, but still. Did that seriously say Gandhi's hat? Did Gandhi even wear a hat? No, it actually said Gandhi's Salt March. Don't ask me how I got Gandhi's hat out of that. Reading to fast, I suppose, and not really reading closely. I'm playing with iTunes while I'm doing this, don't mind me. It's too quiet in here for some reason. So I have a podcast running in the background. 'Stuff you missed in history class' it's called. Downloaded it while we were on Earth the last time. Wonderful use of the SGC's Internet. There's another one, 'Stuff you should know', had an entire 20 minute podcast on how Delta Force works. Interesting stuff. Completely off topic, but I thought I would throw that out there. (Keep in mind, I was told to write whatever came to mind. Those were possibly not the best instructions in the world for this exercise. :P)

Okay, getting back to being slightly less off topic- is there really such a thing as off topic for this? - I suppose I should point out that I really don't know what to say. I don't remember if I mentioned that last time. Even if, for argument's sake, we go with the assumption that I in fact have a death wish, or whatever, it's not exactly a secret that I suck at things like this. Well, usually that applies to verbally dealing with emotions and the like, but I'm quickly finding that writing is not all that much easier. So this is probably going to wander pretty aimlessly for a while. Already has been, so that should be fairly obvious, but I thought I should throw out there that I'm really not just doing it to be a pain in the ass.

First tidbit about my family: we don't talk about emotions, feelings, or anything that may remotely be controversial in any way. And that would be controversial as defined by my father, which is generally a different kettle of fish entirely from the definition that the rest of the world uses. Much broader, more inclusive definition, generally. He's always been a man with a plan for everything. Plans for the future of the business, plans for how investments would grow and what direction they would take. Plans for exactly how my life and my brother's would play out. My father's idea of teenage rebellion was going to Stanford instead of Harvard. I know this from experience- as you may recall from my record, I graduated from Stanford. Nor was that the first time I'd had the gall to fly in the face of my father's carefully laid out plans. It's also general knowledge by now that I haven't spoken to my father in years. You're probably starting to get the idea why that might be. Anything that fell outside of my father's plans was strictly forbidden. No exceptions. Go to Harvard, major in math, join MENSA, eventually get a master's and a Ph. d. in math at least, and preferably a second in business, jointly run the family business with my brother. This was the general layout of my father's plan for me. Bits that can be pulled from my general personnel file, I would guess (I really haven't looked at it in a while), I do actually have a bachelor's in mathematics and tested for MENSA and passed. Never joined though. It was enough for me to know I could if I wanted to. I'm generally considered to be a closet geek, yes, but that's all I am. I really am a jock for the most part. Much rather play with my expensive toys, as McKay calls them, then sit around and debate the merits of various mathematical theorems and such (unless it's just for shock value in talking to McKay. It's occasionally worth it to see his face when the goon does geek tricks.). But that was as far as it went in terms of following my father's plans. To say that he was less than happy would be a rather massive understatement. One can likely also see how my 'fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants' methodology would not sit well with someone as methodical as my father.

Okay, that was weird. I must be more tired than I thought. For the record, I still don't like this. Analyze this: I just reread most of what I wrote this time and my first instinct is to burn it, now, before anyone else sees it. Paranoia? Maybe. Holdover learned behavior from childhood? You're probably getting the feeling that's also a distinct possibility. It is, again, not any great secret I have trust issues. Most of the city knows this. (Though that's a bit like saying our relationship is the biggest open secret on Atlantis. Everyone knows, but doesn't talk about it, at least in any official terms.) *sigh* Make of that what you will. That is, realistically, what this is for is it not? In any case, it's…later then I thought. Almost time for dinner. Wow, that took longer than anticipated. Whatever. Steak, or the Pegasus equivalent thereof, tonight. Time to see about getting Carson out of his lab. Honestly, the irony of having to remind the medical doctor to eat. Or sleep, for that matter. Life is just full of little ironic bits like that.

John sat and stared at the notebook for a long moment. He hadn't been kidding when he said his first instinct was to rip out the last page or so he'd just written and burn them. With a conscious effort he closed the notebook and set it back on the desk, intact, and left to see about grabbing Carson for dinner before he could change his mind.

A/N: As always, reviews are love, and love makes the next chapter appear faster. Many thanks to those who have reviewed/favorited the story so far. :) Cookies for all! To everyone else, thank you for reading, of course, but if you could please, please take a moment to press that little review button at the bottom there...would be much appreciated!

-Yodakitty