John could hear the whirl of machinery around him as he slowly opened his eyes. The lights in his area had been dimmed to simulate nighttime but John had no idea what time it was. Moving gingerly, John looked under the sheet and was surprised to find that while the bullet wound was still red and angry, the hole had completely closed. His mind floated back to what McKay had said about him being a hero and he snorted. "Stupid, Lucky, Suicidal - maybe - but a hero? I don't think so." He didn't think he had done anything that anyone else wouldn't have done in the same situation. And honestly, he had done it pretty badly. He could just kick himself for approaching the trailer head on – it was pretty much a rookie mistake.

John shifted again. His chest and collarbone hurt but not enough to truly concern him. He looked around wondering where everyone was – not that he expected anyone to be holding vigil over him. "Nope - not me. I'm a 'solitary man,'" John hummed a few bars. "I'm a loner and that's how I like it." He laughed but it was a hard sound when he realized that he had just described the typical serial killer. "Yep, I can see Mrs. What' her face next door talking to the press – 'he seemed like a nice young man, nice looking but he kept to himself. I just can't believe he killed all those people . . .'" Twelve people – John had killed twelve people.

John ran his hands over his face, trying to halt his train of thought. "I want off," he thought sardonically. He was antsy. He wasn't one to sit still and contemplate his life. In fact, John would pretty much rather have his fingernails pulled out than to indulge in introspection. No, John needed to move and the impulse suddenly become overwhelming. "Just how long have I been in here?" He looked again at his chest and an idea occurred to him. The wound looked like it was two weeks old – not two days. "Have they been drugging me?" John thought quickly and then made a snap decision "Time to go." He looked around again to ensure that no one was in sight and pushed up to sitting position, swinging his legs over the side.

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply hoping the nausea would pass and after a minute the worst of it did. "Shit, that hurt." His bare feet struck the frigid floor soundlessly and John glanced around looking for his boots and clothes. Seeing nothing of his in the immediate area, John grimaced. "At least my ass isn't hanging out one of those hospital gowns," John thought, momentarily thankful for the loose fitting scrubs he was wearing.

Slowly moving to the corridor, John paused when he realized that it was deserted; not only of people but of hospital equipment, doctors, nurses, anything. Frowning he made his way to a window at the end of the hall.

"Great! That's just . ... Great!" John muttered frustrated as he took in the view of nothing but sand under the bright moonlight outside the window. There was no way he would last on foot with no shoes and no supplies. "OK Sheppard, on to Plan B. Child's Play – you know – if the child was 6'4 and 220 pounds and grumpy from a dirty diaper." Realizing that he was talking out loud, he clamped his mouth shut.

John turned away looking for a stairway. Surely a place like this had a motor pool or someone was working late. He hated to hot wire car but instinct told him he needed to leave now before something else happened.

John followed the stairs down to the main floor. By now his collar bone and chest had begun to throb and an unhealthy sweat had broken out over his face. Cracking the door open, he spied M.P.'s at the entrance of the building. He eased the door shut again before he began to swear "Shit. Shit. Shit. Okay, Plan C - third times a charm." John took a couple of deep breathes and moved down the stairs towards the basement, slowly opening the door.

The corridor was clear as John eased out of the stairwell. Gaining more confidence, he headed in the opposite direction, hoping to find another stairwell that would lead back up to a rear exit of the building. As he jogged down the corridor, he began to see spots but never slowed, seeing his objective in the distance. In fact, he was so focused on the door that he never saw the person coming around the corner until it was too late. Rodney McKay, head bowed over a tablet, never stood a chance.

Both men went down in a tangle of limbs - John with a loud grunt and McKay with an indignant "Ow!" John curled in on himself holding his chest and willing away the tears of pain in his eyes. Rodney realized he was the less injured of the two and scrambled over to John's side. "Oh Hey, You okay?"

"Peachy," John gritted out.

"Yes, well . . . hey! Wait! What the hell are you doing down here? You're supposed to be in the infirmary."

"Just taking an evening jog, McKay. Care to join me?" John ground out as he sat up and started using his feet to leverage his body up the wall.

Rodney reached out to help Sheppard but his hand stopped, hovering above John's arm. "No I don't want to join you for the idiot parade! You shouldn't even be out of bed! In case the loss of blood has caused brain damage – or more precisely more brain damage, let me explain that you are still healing and . . ."

"I'm fine . . ." John said, shooting Rodney a look that would have made the Artic Tundra seem like a warm, sunny vacation spot. THE look.

Unfortunately, the look that caused criminals and superiors alike to hesitate and weigh their options, seemed to have no effect on Rodney McKay as he huffily continued, "You are NOT fine. You have been shot – in the chest."

"Jeeze McKay, I didn't know you cared. You're going on like I died or something," John said as he closed his eyes and breathed through the pain, finally having gotten to his feet.

"You DID die – twice. Once in the chopper and once on the operating table. If I hadn't been able to reconfigure the base programming of the nanites to heal the chest wound, you would probably . . ."

Rodney's voice died when John grabbed the scientist's shirt in both hands. "You did what . . ."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Nanites, Detective. They're minute . . ."

"I know what they are Dr. Smug . . . That's why the hole in my chest is gone? How long have I been here?" John demanded in a threatening voice.

"Uhm, well, okay, yes to the first question and as to the second - I'm not sure," Rodney replied. Taking in Sheppard's stormy look, he continued defensively, "Well, it's not as if we have a lot of windows down here. I mean, hello, top secret government facility working all hours of the day and night to save the world . . . :"

"Then guess . . ."

"I don't know - two, maybe three days?" Rodney looked at the man hoping he had mollified him for the moment.

Apparently he had since John released the scientist, his anger draining out of him. So he hadn't been there for weeks - that was a relief. But then again, having tiny machines floating around in his body creeped him out to no end.

"Can you get them out?

"Get what? Oh, the nanites. They are already out – or should be out – mostly . . ." Rodney consulted his tablet again and started to mutter, "assuming your kidneys are functioning properly and you haven't been dehydrated in the last . . . "

"McKay!"

"Hmmw what?" Rodney looked up, "Oh yes, well, as I have already explained, I reprogrammed the nanites so as soon as they finished the basic repairs to your chest, they shut down. They're completely inert. Do try to keep up with the conversation, Detective."

John growled, pulling his arm protectively around his chest and began to make his way to the stairway doors again. "Whatever . . ." he muttered.

"Well, you could show a little more enthusiasm or oh, I don't know, how about some gratitude? You . . . hey, where are you going?"

"Home . . ."

Rodney stopped nonplus. "You can't just go home!"

"Watch me," John tossed back over his shoulder, pushing through the door.

"Stupid, Neanderthal, Captain America wanna-be, son of a . . ." Rodney went through the door after Sheppard.