So terribly sorry for the long delay for this chapter. Real life, you know how it is... However, this is kinda two chapters in one, being rather long and all, so I hope that makes up for my tardiness a little. And thanks so very much to all of you for the fantastic reviews of the last chapter. I will try to thank each of you individually, but until then, please know how much I appreciate and treasure every single one of them.
Some fairly intense scenes coming up and there is a language warning for this chapter – the boys do tend to cuss a lot. They must be watching too much Deadwood or something… And here we go:
John sat up in the darkness. Without fully waking, he pulled himself from the too warm bed and shuffled across the room, sliding his hand along the wall until he found the door. Still half asleep, he bumped his shoulder against the doorway as he stepped through it, his semi-conscious mind already preparing for the day – his morning run, mission reports, meetings with Elizabeth and his team.
Turning the corner, John slammed his bare foot into something hard and unyielding, and he stumbled backwards, choking back a yelp. He reached for the wall, trying to catch his balance, but he missed it completely. His feet tangled underneath him, and he threw his hands out to break his fall. Desperately, he grabbed onto something that only toppled over, accompanying him to the floor with a spectacular crash. Something crunched and snapped under his weight, and he banged his chin on the floor, his teeth clamping down on the soft flesh of the inside of his mouth. He cried out in both pain and surprise.
He scrambled to find his footing, and couldn't help a rush of fear when his hands and bare feet kept skidding and slipping on the floor. He couldn't figure out where he was, and he couldn't find anything to grab onto, just splintered, broken pieces of something. Flailing helplessly in the inexplicable darkness, John started to panic.
"John!"
He startled and froze at the sound of the voice. Someone gripped his upper arm, and he jumped at the touch.
"You all right, Johnny?"
He pulled in a sharp breath and tried to orient himself. He hadn't been called Johnny since he was a kid. The grip on his arm tightened, and John shoved it off, managing to pull himself to a near-crouched position, his hands held defensively in front of him.
"Jesus… how did you manage this?" the gruff voice said, almost in stunned disbelief.
John sucked in a sharp breath and finally recognized the voice, finally remembered where he was. "Dad…?"
"Yeah," William answered, moving things around him. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
"I… I thought I was back home," John said as the realization struck him. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. His chin hurt and his foot, which he'd bashed about 50 times already that week, throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat. He raised a tentative hand to his mouth and felt his lip swelling a little. "I'm fine. I'm okay," he added too quickly to sound anywhere near believable. "Must have been dreaming."
"You sure you're all right?" William asked, and John could only nod and try to calm down, try to stop shaking. "Christ, Johnny," William breathed out. "You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing up, anyway?"
John frowned at the question and pulled a hand over his watering eyes. "Why? What time's it?"
"3:30 in the damn morning," William grumbled.
"Sorry…" John said. "I didn't mean to wake you." Then the urgent pressure on his bladder told him why he'd staggered from bed half-asleep in the first place. "I… um… I have to pee," he blurted without thinking. Jesus, John. Get it to together, he chastised himself a moment later. He was behaving like he was about ten years old again – like some stupid little kid who'd had a nightmare.
"All right, then," William said, "let's get you up." He took hold of John's arm again, the other hand on his back.
John flinched, biting back the urge to protest. He hated it when people just grabbed onto him like that, taking over. Taking control. He hated being so damn helpless, but he was too out of sorts to vocalize his frustration. He missed McKay with a sudden sharp pang. Rodney knew how this worked. Rodney knew just how to handle things when John got lost in the darkness like this.
Pulling away a little, John staggered to his feet on his own, wincing at the deep ache in his bashed toes.
"Take a big step to your left, there may be some splinters," William cautioned, keeping a firm grip on him.
John froze, then did as he was told, The last thing he needed was to cut up his feet on top of it. "What did I break?"
"Your mother's antique end table."
"Oh, shit," John said, instantly remembering the tall, narrow, ornately carved table his mother had found at a flea market. She'd refinished it herself and religiously polished it once a week. "She loved that thing."
"Yeah, well," William breathed out. "Not gonna make much difference to her now. I should have moved it out of the hallway."
John dropped his head and wondered what his mom would think of what had become of him. Maybe it was a good thing she wasn't around anymore. He didn't want her to see him like this.
William carefully led him into the bathroom then left him alone. It took a few minutes to get business taken care of – adrenaline was still coursing through John's veins and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He heard clattering sounds outside the door, his dad moving around, probably cleaning up the mess John had made.
When John finished and pulled open the bathroom door, he nearly ran into his father standing outside waiting for him.
"Go back to bed, dad. I'm okay now," John told him, myriad emotions filling him – weariness, shame and a strange sense of disassociation from this so-called life. Even though he'd been here for almost a week now, he and his father had barely exchanged more than a few polite pleasantries – each of them awkward and uncertain in each other's company.
What was worse, since John had lost his sight, he found it hard to differentiate time. The days seemed endless. He'd nod off in the middle of the afternoon, or find himself wide awake in the dead silence of night, and what difference did it make when it was always dark, anyway?
Even though he knew he'd never set foot in the Pegasus galaxy again, Atlantis still felt like home. It certainly felt more real than this place. Here, he was lost, drifting in some uncharted labyrinth of hidden obstacles with a father who had become a virtual stranger.
William stayed silent for a long moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, I don't know about you," he finally said, "but I'm wide awake now. You want some… hot chocolate, or something?"
John couldn't help a faint smile at that, and the tentative, almost hopeful note to his father's voice was something that John never thought he'd hear in this lifetime.
"If I was five, maybe," he replied, strangely grateful for the offer. The thought of going back to his room and lying awake for the remainder of the night with only his thoughts for company was too much. "You got anything stronger than that?"
"Right," William said, blowing out a puff of air. "Yeah, I, uh, probably still have some Jack Daniels left over from Christmas."
"That sounds good," John said as casually as he could.
William led him to the kitchen and John traced the way by running his hand along the walls and counting his steps. They wound up sitting at the kitchen table. His father pressed a tumbler in John's hand and sat down, the chair thumping, then scraping against the hardwood.
John took a long sip then winced at the sting in his mouth.
"Cracked yourself pretty good there," William commented. "You want some ice?"
John shook his head and raised his drink. "Nah, this'll do the trick." He took another careful sip and lowered the glass, turning it around and around on the table. It was square-cut and heavy crystal. He remembered these glasses from when he was a kid. He remembered helping his mom pack them for yet another move and how she'd cried silently as they'd worked, her tears dripping onto the newspaper they'd spread out over the dining room table. John had pretended not to notice, and she'd pretended that everything was okay, but of course, it hadn't been.
"You remember when you fell from the big oak in the backyard in Portland?" William asked, and John shook his head, surprised that his father had been lost in reminiscences of his own. "Couldn't have been more than six or seven years old. I'd told you countless times to stay out of that thing, but did you listen? You were about ten feet up when the branch broke under you. I saw you fall, and I ran over, but got there too late to catch you. You practically landed at my feet, dropped like a stone and just lay there. You scared the crap out of me then, too. For a minute, I'd thought you'd broken your damn neck."
"I don't remember that," John said, smiling faintly. It sounded like something he would have done, all right.
"Yeah, well," William continued. "Took a minute – you must have knocked the wind out of yourself – but then you just sat up and started screaming bloody murder. There wasn't a scratch on you, either. I didn't know if I wanted to hug you or wallop you."
John took another sip from his drink. "You probably did both," he said, though he remembered far more of the latter from his father. Hit first, ask questions later.
"Yeah, well," William said. "You never listened. I'd tell you not to do something and you'd go right ahead and do it anyway."
There never were any correct answers to statements like that from his father, so John didn't even try. "So why'd you choose to retire in Reno, anyway?" he said instead – a deliberate attempt to steer the conversation to safer ground.
There was a long pause. "Dry climate's good for arthritis."
"Oh," John said. He didn't expect that an old man's affliction could strike someone as ornery as his father. "Does it… bother you much?"
"Ah, it's there," William said, shrugging it off.
John took another sip from his drink only to find a few drops left and set the glass back down. He heard the clink of the bottle against his glass and the glug of liquid pouring—William topping off his drink without asking.
"Thanks." John took another sip, already getting mildly buzzed. Maybe he'd even be able to sleep through the rest of the night after this.
"That ex of yours ever get hold of you? What's her name?"
John frowned, surprised. "Nancy, you mean?"
"Yeah, that's her," William said. "She called here a few years ago, trying to look you up. 'Course I had no idea where you were. I didn't even know you'd gotten married."
"Yeah… well," John said with a shrug and shifted in his chair. He had no intention of talking about his failed marriage with his father. Not now. Probably not ever. "It didn't last long."
"She sounded decent enough," William said in a slightly accusatory tone, and John could all but hear the unspoken words; you screwed that one up, too, didn't you?
"Yeah… she was nice," John said, offering no further information. Anything more than that would seem like he was defending himself. Although, he had single-handedly ruined that relationship, hadn't he? His father knowing him far too well, even after all these years, was like a punch in the gut.
"This happen before you got shipped off to the Antarctica?"
"You heard about that, too, huh?" John took a gulp from his drink and damn if his hands weren't shaking again.
"Word gets around the military," William said. "Can't say as I was surprised. You always were a stubborn bastard – did whatever the hell you wanted to, right from the get-go. I am surprised that you got off as easy as you did, though. If you'd been under my command—"
"Guess I'm just lucky, huh?" John interrupted, deliberately slouching in his chair and pretending that his father wasn't getting to him, just like he always did. And here he was, forty damn years old and living with his father again. If anyone had told him that this was how his life would turn out, John would have laughed his ass off. Or put a fucking bullet in his head.
At the same time, bad as his father was, at least William mostly left John alone, not bothering with any superficial niceties. They both knew that this situation sucked, and wasn't likely to get much better. Even still, living here was a better alternative to the counseling and therapy that the SGC had tried to shove down his throat, and which he'd flat-out refused. Better than spending even one more day with people fussing over him and treating him like some damn invalid. Better than Rodney and his misplaced guilt, and maybe with John no longer there, as a constant reminder, Rodney could put all this behind him and maybe, in time, he could even forget a little.
"Don't know if I'd call that lucky," William said, startling John from his thoughts. "May as well have sent you to damn Siberia, putting you out to pasture like some—"
"Actually, they did me a favor sending me there," John corrected, all feigned casualness. In truth, his heart was pounding with growing anger and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. "It was kind of… nice. Great skiing. No uptight, by the book generals who wouldn't see a gray area if it bit them in the ass. I could fly as much as I wanted to, and it led to my last assignment, and my promotion to Lt. Colonel." John couldn't help throwing that last bit in his father's face. Hell, at the time, he'd gloated about his promotion to anyone who'd listen, but hadn't it always been his father to whom he'd wanted to prove that he was worth a damn?
"Yeah, I heard. Also heard that someone pulled a few strings on your behalf, playing favorites," William said, equally casual, though it did nothing to soften the cruel sting of his words. His chair scraped against the floor with a loud squeal, making John jump a little. "Think I'm more tired than I thought. I'll give you a hand back to bed."
John was both relieved that the conversation was over and frustrated at being dismissed like some wet behind the ears rookie subordinate. He finished his drink in one gulp and insisted on finding his room on his own. He was too pissed off at William to let him touch him again. It took a few minutes, but he found the small bedroom by recounting each of his steps.
Instead of getting back into bed, he sat in the overstuffed chair by the window. He fumbled for the remote he'd left on the armrest and turned the TV on, keeping the volume low. Of course he couldn't watch anything, but the sound would at least offer a distraction. He kept flipping channels and stopped at some educational channel or other. It was the sound of waves that caught his attention. The sound filled him with him such futile longing for another sea that he almost turned it off. Instead, he sat back and listened to the seagulls crying in the background, the splash of waves slapping against a boat.
The last time that John saw Atlantis, the day he'd lost his sight, the sun was just rising in the horizon. The Lantean sea had been sparkling, and the waves were splashing against the walls of the city as he stood on the balcony near his quarters, watching the last of the sunrise. Atlantis herself had been gleaming like newly polished silver in the golden light, almost as though she knew it would be the last time he'd ever see her. And staring sightlessly into the ever-present darkness and listening to the waves in the documentary, John realized that he could still see Atlantis. All he had to do was clear his thoughts and there she was, shining in the sunrise, the image of her forever burned into his memory.
Though John tried hard not to think too much about his old life, he still missed Atlantis and her familiar thrum through his veins so badly that he wasn't sure how he'd make it from one day to the next. His team and Elizabeth – well, he tried not to think too much of them at all. It didn't hurt so badly that way. Even still, he couldn't help worrying about them – wondering if they were okay, if they were safe.
That day back on M3R-6P8 though, John had always thought he'd experience a sixth sense about when it would all come to an end, some impending premonition of when his number was up, so to speak. And losing his sight had been a sort of death – the death of the man he used to be. But on that day, he'd felt nothing other than irritation with McKay's gleeful over-exuberance at finding some new Ancient toys to play with. He remembered thinking that he'd probably have to forcibly pry Rodney from the place if they ever wanted to see home again.
The truth was, John had let his guard down and become too comfortable with Ancient technology. He had forgotten how it could so easily turn on you and bite you in the ass. Any half-decent soldier would tell you that complacency would always be your first and fatal mistake.
He didn't remember much about being stuck in that room with McKay. He remembered the terrible pain and terrifying, relentless burning in his eyes. He remembered that droning alarm; he could still hear it sometimes in his dreams. He hazily recalled Rodney stumbling around in the dark, and the frustrated helplessness he had felt lying there, not being able to do a damn thing to help his friend as he desperately tried to find a way out.
He did clearly remember waking up in the infirmary, scared, disoriented and with his eyes heavily bandaged. For a moment, he'd thought he was still in that dark locked room with Rodney, that they were minutes away from death. He'd frantically called out for McKay and then a nurse had taken hold of his hand, gently urging him to calm down. She'd assured him that Rodney was fine and sleeping a few beds away from him.
Dr. Keller had spoken then; John recognized her voice right away. She'd tried to coax him into going back to sleep – it was late, 03:00, she'd said – but John had insisted that she tell him what was wrong with him, how bad off he was. He remembered her laying a hand on his shoulder and telling him that he'd suffered a serious concussion. She took a deep breath and then told him something to the effect that although she and Dr. Ito, a renowned eye specialist, had done everything they could, it was highly unlikely that John would ever regain much of his vision.
That was where things got a little harder to recall. He'd heard a heart monitor beeping like crazy, but he hadn't paid attention because everything had started swimming. Nausea roiled in his stomach and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. Bile rose up in his throat and he'd gagged on it. The bed had been pushed down flat and a firm hand pressed on his chest. Keller said something urgent to the nurse about not allowing him to vomit because it would exert too much pressure on his eye sockets.
"John," Dr. Keller called to him, "it's okay. Take a deep breath, it's okay. Just take slow, deep breaths." A needle pricked his arm, and all at once, his limbs became heavy and a strong, medicinal taste filled his mouth.
"It's okay," she repeated, gently rubbing his arm. "Don't think about it now. Just relax, let the medication do its work and go back to sleep. We'll talk some more in the morning. Just sleep now."
A ragged, helpless sob tore from John's lungs, but he tried to listen to her. His breaths slowed along with his sluggish thoughts. Everything became muted and far away.
"That's it," Dr. Keller reassured him, "it's okay, just go to sleep."
Even though he knew that nothing would ever be okay again, he did as he was told and allowed the drugs to pull him under.
He'd woken a few times throughout the next day to the sounds of his team moving around him, talking quietly amongst themselves, but he'd pretended to still be asleep. He didn't want to talk; he just wanted to listen to the sounds of their voices, allowing their presence to lull him until he fell back into a welcome oblivion.
The next time he woke, it was to an odd pecking noise, then the unmistakable sound of Rodney cursing under his breath.
"McKay?"
The pecking sound abruptly stopped. "Hey, you're awake." There was a pause. "Oh, god, you're awake."
"What… you doing?" John asked, confused. His head felt too heavy and muted pain pulsed behind his eyes. It was hard to focus through the heavy medication; everything was kind of floaty and distant, but he found that he wanted to talk to McKay now. He needed to make sure that his friend was all right.
"What am I doing?" Rodney echoed, sounding equally confused. "Oh. Typing," he added after a moment.
"Sounded… strange."
"Ahh," Rodney said, understanding. "Well, I've been maimed, so I'm typing with one finger."
"Maimed?"
"Seven stitches in my left hand and six in my right." Rodney sounded almost proud of the fact.
"Oh…" John breathed out. "You okay?"
"Besides nearly losing two fingers?" Rodney said, "sure, I'm fine. How are you… holding out?"
"Been better," John nearly whispered. His hands strayed to the thick gauze pads and bandages on his face. "I… I don't—"
"Hey, don't listen to the doctors just yet. They never know what the hell they're talking about half the time, anyway," Rodney interrupted, sounding nervous. John felt Rodney tug on his wrists, urging him to leave the bandages alone. "Just… give it time. Once you've healed up a little, I'm sure you'll be as good as new in no time. Everything will be fine."
John took a deep breath and allowed himself a glimmer of cautious hope. "Maybe," he said after a long moment. "Hope you're right."
"I'm always right," Rodney said automatically and John smiled a little at that.
"Guess you found a way out for us, after all?" John said.
"Um, no…" Rodney said, then fell silent.
"McKay?"
"If it wasn't for Ronon and Teyla, we'd be dead right now," Rodney finally said in a rush of jumbled words.
"Well, that was lucky, I guess," John said, at the same time, wondering where the rest of his team had gone.
"Yeah. Real lucky," Rodney said, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
John wished that he could see the look on Rodney's all too expressive face so that he could better understand his friend's uncharacteristic reticence. It was too hard to think though, too hard to make much sense of anything, and he almost drifted off again.
"Listen… John…" Rodney suddenly spoke up, startling him awake. "I… I'm sorry."
John almost frowned, then winced at the pull at his brow. He sucked in a breath and shifted his head on the pillow. "For what?"
"I… I couldn't find a way out. I screwed up. I panicked and was absolutely useless and—"
"It wasn't your fault, Rodney," John broke in, realization dawning on him, even through the drug-filled, sleepy haze.
"I shouldn't have gone back for that tablet."
"No you shouldn't have," John agreed. "And I shouldn't have picked it up when you dropped it. So we both screwed up."
"But if I hadn't—"
"McKay – none of it makes any difference," John said, his voice sounding tired and slurred to his own ears. "We never would have made it to the door in time, anyway."
"You don't know that."
"Yes… I do," John told him, his voice firm this time.
"You're not getting it, Sheppard," Rodney protested, unwilling to let it go. "We had almost a fucking hour, and I still couldn't find a way out of there. Every time we've been in a bad situation, I've always come up with a way out – in less than half that time in many cases. But this time..."
Rodney trailed off and John couldn't think of anything to counter his statement. And it was true, wasn't it? Right from day one, Rodney was the answer man, the guy everyone turned to when things went bad because he always figured out a solution to even the direst situation, in record time to boot.
"Well, it was bound to happen one day, I guess," John finally said, trying for a little levity instead. "The great Meredith Rodney McKay can't think his way out of a bind."
"That's not funny," Rodney said in a tight, almost angry voice, and John immediately regretted his words.
"No, it isn't," he agreed. "You can't fix everything, Rodney. Some things just… can't be fixed." Rodney was silent for so long that John thought maybe he'd slipped away unnoticed. "McKay?" he called, moving to sit up a little, then bit back a curse at the instant wave of dizziness.
"What?" Rodney finally answered, all sulky petulance.
"You gonna talk or just sit there breathing on me?"
"I am not breathing on you," Rodney huffed.
"Yes, you are," John retorted, "I can smell what you had for lunch."
Doctor Keller and a nurse came in then and shooed Rodney out so that they could change the bandages covering John's eyes. Keller cautioned him not to open his eyes, but they felt so gummed up that he probably wouldn't have even been able to. Something cool and soothing was gently wiped over his eyelids and some kind of gel was smeared over his cheekbones. And as they worked, Keller and the nurse chatted to one another about trivial things, and John was grateful for the distraction. He almost wanted to ask how bad he looked – if he'd spend the rest of his life frightening old ladies and small children – but he was probably better off not knowing just yet.
Keller must have sensed what he was thinking because she gently patted his shoulder. "You suffered some minor cuts and burns to your face, but they'll heal nicely in time, and you should have only minimal scarring."
"That's good," John said, relieved. "Although," he couldn't help adding, "it's not like I'll be gazing at any mirrors anytime soon." He'd meant to say it jokingly, but somehow, it came out angry and bitter instead.
There was a brief pause and then Keller, in a soft, regretful voice, said, "I am so sorry about this, Colonel. I only wish that there was more we could do to help you. There is a possibility that in time, more surgery can help you regain some degree of vision. Let's just take things one step at a time, all right?"
John nodded, pressing his lips tight together. He swallowed hard, trying to push back the growing fear that maybe McKay wasn't right about this one, at all.
The bandages were efficiently and gently replaced. Keller gave him a pill to swallow, and in time, the steady pulsing in John's head eased, and a drowsy lethargy swept over him.
The next few days passed in a haze of painkillers, more bandage changes, his team sitting with him, and John pretending that he wasn't scared half out of his mind of what would happen when the bandages finally came off for good.
And they did – three days later. Elizabeth and his team insisted on being there for the big event, and John was simultaneously grateful for their presence and reluctant to have them see him like this.
Keller led him to a chair and once he'd sat down, she carefully unwound the bandage around his head, then called for the lights to be dimmed. John immediately and unconsciously thought them down to about 50 percent brightness. Keller breathed out a surprised, 'oh.'
"Sorry," John said, "force of habit." And dammit if his voice wasn't shaking like some terrified kid.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Keller said, sounding a little freaked out. "Okay, don't open your eyes until I say so," she directed, all efficient professionalism again as she very carefully peeled the gauze pads from his eyelids. There was a collective gasp around him.
John quirked his eyebrow, then winced, forgetting that the stitches were still there. "That bad, huh?"
"Nah, you're fine," Rodney said, his voice sounding a little strangled. "Aside from looking like Rocky Raccoon, that is."
"The bruising is from the concussion," Keller quickly explained to John. "Don't worry, that'll fade in time, too."
John nodded and took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering with impatience and fear.
"Okay, slowly open your eyes now."
He followed her instructions and pulled his heavy, sore eyelids open. His eyelashes felt sticky as he blinked a few times. "Umm… I—" A tight, terrified lump rose in his throat, stealing his voice. He swallowed hard and took a shaky breath. He heard a click… click… click… instantly recognizing it as a penlight snapping on and off – he'd heard that sound far too many times while semiconscious.
"John, can you make out anything?" Keller asked. There was the clickclickclick sound again, and she was so close to him that he could feel her breath on his face. "Can you differentiate any light?"
John shook his head. He closed his eyes and opened them again to the same immutable blackness. "No…" he managed to whisper. "There's nothing."
Something in John's chest seized up then and terror so complete it was near paralyzing overtook him. All sounds were suddenly muffled even as his team moved around him, their voices blending together in a concerned jumble. He wrapped his arms tightly around his aching chest and clamped his teeth so hard on his lip that he tasted blood. It was either that or start screaming, and once he did that, he didn't think he'd be able to stop.
His teammates kept calling his name. Dr. Keller had her hand on his shoulder, telling him something, but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't take this. There was no way he could live like this.
Someone tried to put their arms around him, and he shoved whoever it was away from him with a startled and furious snarl. He jumped to his feet and the chair clattered behind him. He wanted to run, but there wasn't anywhere he could go to get away from this terrifying dark place. He sensed everyone moving in on him and he stumbled away until his back hit the wall.
"Sheppard," Ronon's deep voice rumbled. "Take it easy, buddy."
John shook his head, trembling so hard that his teeth rattled together. Ronon caught him by the upper arms. John tried to twist out of the Satedan's firm grip, but Ronon was too strong. He pulled John away from the wall and into an intractable embrace. John tensed, shoving his fists as hard he could against his friend's ribs, trying to break free, but Ronon just stood there, taking it, never loosening his hold. Finally, John gave up and pressed his forehead against Ronon's chest. He began to cry. Ronon curled his tall frame over him, like a protective shield, saying nothing, just holding onto him.
John was still crying when Keller finally coaxed him back to his bed. He asked for his team to leave him alone then. They were hesitant and reluctant to leave him, but in time, they did as he asked. He curled up on the bed, drawing his arms around his head, and as the terrible reality of his situation took hold, John suddenly wished that he hadn't gotten out of that room, after all. He wished that his team had forgotten him there and let the world crash down on him.
The next few days, or maybe it was over a week, he couldn't remember anymore, he'd spent either sleeping, because it was easier to forget that way, or shutting everyone out. His friends kept coming to see him even though he scarcely said a word to any of them. Rodney gave him an iPod filled with about 60,000 songs, and John had listened to damn near every one of them without really hearing any of it. Twice.
Doctor Heightmeyer had tried to talk to him, too. The first time she'd approached him and asked how he was feeling, John had thrown whatever was in easy reach at her, surprising himself with the fury that now seemed to be constantly simmering within him. His uncharacteristic display of temper hadn't deterred her though. She'd come around every day, asking the same damn questions, saying the same stupid, useless things; how are you feeling, today, John? Do you feel up to a walk? It's not good for you to shut everyone out like this, John. You need to let us help you. She'd kept going on and on, until he'd wanted to scream at her. Instead, he'd put on the iPod headphones and cranked up the volume so loud that he couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything, and the world went away for a while.
Doctor Keller was relentless too, constantly urging him to start getting up and joining his team for meals in the mess hall, but John refused. He didn't want everyone staring at what had become of their commanding officer, and besides, he couldn't eat anything without spilling half of it all over himself. Even more so, he didn't want his friends leading him around like some damn invalid, and he'd told them as much.
By the middle of the third week, everyone kept telling him how much better he looked. The cuts and bruises were almost gone, although he did have a 'sort of sexy,' as Elizabeth put it, scar on his left eyebrow.
One night, the infirmary had been bustling with activity, and John had overheard something about one of the teams encountering some nasty plant life and coming down with the Pegasus galaxy version of poison ivy. Using the chaotic distraction to his advantage, John slipped from bed and somehow found his way into the hallway. He'd startled a marine who was passing by, and pulling rank, John managed to convince the young soldier that he'd been released from the infirmary but needed someone to accompany him to his quarters.
Once there, John sat down on the bed and from beside the nightstand, he pulled out the bottle of Black Bush he'd been saving for a special occasion. He supposed this was as good an occasion as any.
Opening the bottle, he took a long sip right from the neck. The alcohol burned his throat and he coughed, his eyes watering. Then he took another sip. And another and another until he lost track of how much he'd drank. His head began to buzz, his limbs became heavy, but he wasn't quite there yet. He took a few more long swallows and then just sat there, allowing the effects to wash over him.
When his thoughts slowed, and everything felt distant and insignificant, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way back to the door. He found it easily enough, the room so familiar to him by now. The door opened even as he thought of it and he stepped through, turning to his left. Dragging his fingers along the wall, he let Atlantis's thrum flow through him, filling his head, as though she were singing to him, reassuring him. He thought of the balcony just a few doors down the hallway from his quarters, and it seemed as if Atlantis herself was leading the way. And maybe she was, because somehow, he knew the right doorway to step though.
When he stepped outside and onto the balcony, the wind was cold, gusting, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. He didn't really feel it, though. The alcohol had numbed him the point where he didn't feel anything anymore, which was exactly what he wanted. He tottered halfway to his feet, reaching for the railing at the same time. He knew this was a small balcony; he'd come out here often to watch the sunrises and sunsets. The view that he could no longer see was spectacular – the vast city sprawling in the distance, the waves crashing some 30 feet below.
When he found the railing, he grasped it with both hands and pulled himself up. He swung his leg over it. Overestimating the width, he wobbled and nearly lost his grip. His heart skipped a beat and fear crept in. Holding on so tightly his knuckles ached, he shifted his position so that he was straddling the railing. Halfway over the edge, halfway behind safety. The wind pushed insistently at him, almost coaxing him to do it. To let go and end this already.
Instead, he just held still for a long time, poised on the brink of an irreversible decision. The waves crashed and smacked against the walls of the city, the wind whistled through the spires, and chilled droplets splashed his face, making him shiver. He closed his eyes. He tried to summon his courage - to face this, either way.
"Sheppard!"
John startled at the panicked voice, unconsciously turning in the direction of the sound, his hands slipping a fraction.
"Don't move!" the voice shrieked, which John immediately recognized as Rodney's. "If you let go, I swear to God I'm jumping in after you!"
Moving faster than John thought Rodney capable of, the scientist threw his arms around John's chest and hauled him back. John's foot caught on the railing but Rodney only tugged harder. John's shoe nearly slipped off and then they both tumbled hard to the wet balcony floor.
John rolled off his friend, sitting up on the wet ground, his heart pounding. That strange sense of grateful disbelief he always experienced after successfully dodging a bullet washed over him. At the same time, he was furious with Rodney for making the decision for him.
"You idiot!" Rodney shouted at him, lost in a fury all his own. "You damned self-centered asshole!"
John pressed his back against the railing. He swiped the water from his face. "What are you doing here, McKay?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" Rodney shouted. "I was looking for you!"
Well, you found me," John said through gritted teeth, "so now you can get the hell out of here."
"No!" Rodney yelled, still furious. "I… I can't believe you – you… how could you even think about…" His voice trailed off and John could hear Rodney's footsteps as he paced back and forth. Rodney suddenly grabbed John's upper arm and that familiar seething anger came to the surface, and John welcomed it. He sprang to his feet, furiously snatching his arm away.
"Dammit, McKay, I told you to fucking go away!"
"And I ignored you!" Rodney shouted back. "We are going back to the infirmary, and we are never mentioning this to anyone, and if you ever, even think about doing something this stupid again, blind or not, I'm kicking your ass, do you hear me?" He grabbed John's arm again, but this time, John was ready. He swung his other arm, and was surprised that he managed to crack his fist against Rodney's jaw.
Rodney cried out, both in disbelief and pain. He abruptly let go of John's arm and John stumbled, nearly losing his footing.
"Just… just go away and leave me alone, Rodney," John almost pleaded, clenching his hands into tight fists. When Rodney only tried to reach for him again, John lurched away, choking back the angry tears that wanted to come. "I said, get out of here, dammit!" he shouted, his voice breaking. He wanted to scream in frustration. He wanted to hit Rodney again, he wanted him to go away before he lost it completely.
"All right, fine!" Rodney shouted after a moment, his breaths angry rasps. "Do what you want! You can find your way back by yourself, for all I care."
John heard Rodney stomp off and then the whoosh of the doors opening and closing. Breathing hard and struggling to rein in his temper, John took a few shuffling steps. He didn't know which way to go. He didn't mean to take out his anger on Rodney. He didn't want to die; he just didn't want to live like this. He didn't know how to live this way.
Hot, furious tears ran down his cold face, his chest heaved with harsh, painful sobs. John swiped his hand over his face again and tried to calm down. Shuffling his feet, he took a cautious, wobbly step in what he thought was the direction of the balcony doors. Then another. He stopped, weaving on his feet, his hands held out in front of him.
"Rodney…" he called out in a soft, uncertain voice, even though Rodney was probably long gone, calling in for reinforcements. "I… I don't…"
John heard the scrape of a boot. He startled, his head darting in the direction of the sound.
"I'm right in front of you – about ten steps straight ahead," Rodney said after a moment.
John almost cried out with relief, grateful that Rodney hadn't left him alone out here, after all, even though he deserved it. Holding his hands out in front of him, John shuffled forward, his motions clumsy, awkward and further hindered by the alcohol that seemed to be fully taking hold.
"You're almost here, move a little to your right," Rodney encouraged.
"You're a sadistic bastard, McKay," John said, shivering.
"And you're only just noticing this fact?" Rodney shot back.
John gritted his teeth and kept shuffling forward. He just wanted off this damn balcony. When he finally reached his friend, he stumbled against Rodney's side. Rodney merely held still and let John make the next move. John hesitated, and though it felt like a terrible, irreversible surrender, he reached out until he found Rodney's forearm, grasped his sleeve and held on tight.
"See, now was that so hard?" Rodney said, as John expected him to. "Letting someone help you doesn't automatically turn you into a little girl, you know."
John could only nod, too wrung out for the appropriate scathing reply.
"Come on, let's get back to the infirmary," Rodney said in an unexpectedly gentle voice. "They've probably already sent out 17 search parties for you."
"I want to go back to my quarters, instead," John said, suddenly realizing that he didn't want go back to the infirmary tonight. He wanted to be someplace familiar, someplace he knew so well it didn't matter that he couldn't see it. When Rodney started to protest, John resorted to pleading. "Please, Rodney… I just… I want to sleep in my own bed tonight."
Hard-assed as Rodney pretended to be, John knew his friend wouldn't be able to say no to a request like that, and wasn't surprised when Rodney wordlessly and abruptly changed directions and led John down the short hallway to his quarters. With each step, John couldn't help leaning a little heavier on his friend, his feet seeming to tangle up beneath him. Rodney ended up draping John's arm over his shoulder and nearly dragging him the rest of the way.
They made it to John's quarters without encountering anyone, for which both of them were grateful. Rodney dumped John rather unceremoniously on the bed then tapped on his radio and spoke too softly to Doctor Keller for John to follow what was said.
Rodney tapped the radio off again, and moved around the room. "Well, believe it or not, but you've been officially released from the infirmary. For one night, anyway."
"Cool," John said without much enthusiasm.
"Well, this explains a lot," Rodney said after a moment, and John heard a faint cluttering sound. "It also explains why you smell like a brewery, come to think of it."
"What?" John said, feeling himself listing to from side to side.
"You're drunk out of your mind, aren't you?" Rodney said, sounding oddly both incredulous and relieved. "This bottle was nearly full a few days ago. I saw it when I came in here to get your stupid Johnny Cash CD's. That's it, isn't it? You somehow found your way back here, drank damn near this entire fucking bottle, got stupid, started messing around and thought that maybe you could fly unscathed right off that balcony, right? That's what happened, isn't it?"
John blinked, momentarily confounded, then nodded, understanding all at once what Rodney needed to hear. "Yeah… that's exactly what happened," he said, deliberately slurring his words a little for effect. "You… you can't blame a guy for having a few too many under the circumstances."
"Maybe, but you're still an idiot – you know that, don't you?" Rodney told him. "Besides, if you were gonna get this drunk, you could've at least called me and shared. This stuff is expensive. How the hell did you find your way back here and to the balcony, anyway?"
"Atlantis showed me," John said, snickering a little, and hell, maybe he really was as drunk as Rodney thought he was.
"Atlantis, huh?" Rodney said, unimpressed. Something tugged at him and then Rodney was peeling off John's damp shirt. John just sat there, compliant, too tired to protest, and Rodney none too gently pushed him onto his side.
"Don't whine to me if you get the bed-spins," Rodney groused as he pulled off John's soggy slippers then draped a blanket over him and tucked it around his shoulders. John huddled into the warmth, burrowing his face into the soft pillow.
"Things will be better tomorrow," Rodney told him. "You'll have a hangover from hell, but everything always looks better in the morning. Or at least that's what my grandmother always said," he amended. "Oh, god… I'm quoting my psychotic grandmother…"
"Sorry for punching you, Rodney," John muttered into the pillow, and shit, the bed was spinning a little. He scrunched his eyes shut, but of course, that didn't help any. "Didn't mean to actually hit you."
"Yeah, well…" Rodney said. "You can make up for it by giving me the rest of your booze." There was a glugging sound and John figured that Rodney had helped himself to a long swallow.
John had fallen into a dreamless, exhausted sleep shortly after that. He and Rodney had never spoken of that night again, and John wondered if Rodney truly believed that it was too much whiskey that had led John to that dark balcony. To fly.
There was a muffled thump and John jolted awake. He heard a dog yapping hysterically in the distance and then his father yelling at it to shut the hell up, dammit!
John's head was muzzy, his sinuses clogged and aching. The room was too stuffy, and the air smelled as dry as the deserts of Afghanistan. He opened his eyes, and even though he could feel warm sunlight on his face, he was almost startled to find the darkness still surrounding him, because every damn morning, in that space between dreaming and the real world, he'd always forget.
Sitting up and wincing at the ache in his lower back, he realized that he was still in the armchair. A blanket had been draped over him, and a pillow propped under his head. This time, he found the bathroom without adding any further bruises to his growing collection. When he made it into the kitchen, he could smell freshly brewed coffee, toast and bacon.
"I swear, I'm gonna run the lawnmower over that damn dog one of these days," William said, rattling dishes and banging pots. "You want some breakfast?"
"Sure," John said, although a Wraith bustling around in this kitchen wouldn't have seemed any less strange to him. He remembered his father being the type who didn't know how to boil water.
"How'd you like your eggs?" William asked.
"I didn't think you even knew how to cook eggs," John said.
"Don't be a smartass, Johnny," William said, but John could hear the smile in his father's voice. "You live alone as long as I have, you either learn to cook or starve to death."
"Well, there's always take-out," John amended.
"Yeah," William agreed, "that's dinner. Any idiot can figure out how to make breakfast. Fried or scrambled?"
"Scrambled," John said and the smell of coffee was too strong to resist. "Where's the coffeepot?"
"I'll get it," William said.
"No, I want to," John said, one hand still on the doorframe for reference. "Tell me where it is. How many feet?"
William was silent for a moment, then said, " Straight ahead, about four feet."
John nodded and took four cautious steps forward, holding his hand out.
"A couple of more steps and you're at the counter," William added.
John followed the directions and stopped when he touched the cool tile of the countertop. He heard the sound of liquid being poured.
"The pot's old, I spill coffee all over myself all the time," William said before John could protest. "You can get the mug yourself, though. It's a few inches to your left."
John felt along the counter until he found the warm mug. He picked it up and carefully made his way to the table, which he remembered was just to the left of the doorframe. He only sloshed some coffee on his hand when he sat down. It was a small victory, but he'd take what he could get.
They shared an amiable breakfast, neither of them saying much, William leafing through the newspaper and commenting once in a while on the sorry state of the world. John would have loved to tell him that if he thought Earth was bad, he should check out some of the Wraith-torn planets in the Pegasus galaxy. But of course, he couldn't. Instead he listened to William grumbling about politics, the shrinking American economy, the never-ending turmoil in the Middle East, and John found himself marveling at how little had changed in his world.
Again, the ever-present grief for Atlantis and his lost life nearly derailed him, but John pushed it back. There wasn't any point in thinking about it anymore. It was over and done.
Later that afternoon, William left to run a few errands. John had adamantly refused an offer of having their next door neighbor, and William's friend, check in on him. Instead, John had allowed William to situate him in the living room with the Chicago Bears playing the Oakland Raiders on the television, and an assortment of potato chips, pretzels and a can of pop and beer on the coffee table in front of him.
Early the next week, John had an appointment with someone Heightmeyer had called an orientation and mobility specialist for an assessment and to start him on the seemingly impossible path to learning how to cope in a world equipped for the sighted. The day before he'd left for Earth, Heightmeyer had pressed the card with the therapist's number in John's hand. She told him that the therapist came highly recommended and that he should call her as soon as he felt ready. John didn't feel anywhere close to ready, but even still, after their breakfast, he'd asked William to dial the number for him and John had made the call.
In the meantime, because he really didn't want a repeat of the night before, John decided to do a little orientation of his own. During the commercial breaks, he slowly walked around the house, mapping out its floorplan in his mind, memorizing every obstacle, every step to every room. He was grateful his dad had bought only a small two-bedroom rancher. Even still, John banged his shins and stubbed his toes countless times, but on the sixth pass through the small house, he managed to make it back to his chair and the game with only one minor obstacle and one bashed knee. The bookcase in the hallway stuck out a little further than he remembered.
William returned at halftime with a carload of groceries, refusing John's offer to help. Once all the bags were inside, William placed one heavy plastic bag on John's lap.
"Made a stop at the library on the way home. I remember you always having your nose in a book on every road trip we took," William said, sounding embarrassed. "Audio books, I think these are called. I don't know what you like, but the librarian recommended a bunch of bestsellers." John reached into the bag to feel a number of CD cases. "Got you one of those portable CD players, too," William added. "I'll get it out of the box in a minute."
John blinked, finding himself at a loss for words. "Thanks, dad," he managed after a moment.
"Sure," William said, then cleared his throat. "So who's winning?"
"It's a tie," John told him. "I don't know about you, but I'm pulling for the Bears."
"The Bears? You're kidding me," William said. "The Raiders'll kick their asses. Gotta put these groceries away before everything melts."
John nodded, settling in his chair. He pulled the audio cases from the bag, slowly counting them. There were ten in all. He knew the gift was atonement for the night before, for a lot of things, really, and John couldn't help but wonder if his old man was softening with age, or if he just felt sorry for his handicapped mess of a son. At the same time, John couldn't help being absurdly touched by the gesture.
The commentator on the television shouted in excitement, the crowd roared. The Bears had just scored a touchdown, John realized when all the shouting died down. Some things were looking up a little, anyway.
--- tbc ---