Thanks again for all the reviews! And I also want to thank the people who have reviewed under the anonymous banner. I'd love to reply, but unfortunately ff doesn't allow me that facility.

I also want to thank my beta and friend Sterenyk Strey for putting up with the late delivery of these chapters. And in this chapter especially all mistakes are mine, as I tweaked it endlessly after getting it back!

So...John is alive, but what next for our favourite pilot?

THE PATH NOT TAKEN

CHAPTER 4

In his fevered state he drifted in and out of consciousness but when the fire eventually cooled, he missed the relief the uneasy oblivion had brought.

Even doped with Libero's drugs, the pain was immense. His body ached with unseen bruises. His head pounded so hard, he thought it would explode. And the fierce shafts of pain shooting through his leg were sometimes so unbearable, it threatened to take his breath away. Only one thing got him through it, the person who never left his side - Libero.

In the height of the fever she bathed him. Cared for his wounds with a tender touch, and during the worst of his pain she would hold his hand, a comforting presence in his world of darkness.

At first he was frightened his sight would never return but just as Libero had promised, the fog started to clear after a few days. It took a little longer before he saw the wrinkled blue eyes of his healer clearly for the first time, her kind face wreathed in smiles as the slight, stooped figure gave him a gentle hug, but while he was relieved to see again, his nightmare was far from over.

The constant pain he was becoming accustomed too, but he still couldn't remember anything about himself – not even his name. No clues to his identify or where he came from. He couldn't even remember what caused his injuries or how he got there. His life was a complete blank, until the moment he woke up in agony in Libero's spare room.

In an effort to jog his memory, Libero gave him the clothes he'd been wearing on the day he was found clinging onto life at the foot of the ancestral ring. He didn't even know what this 'ring' was, but then nothing rang a bell, not even the torn, blood-stained black fabric.

The black cotton cloth felt quite soft to the touch, but wasn't like the stiff ornate braided uniform worn by the village militia. Although casual in design, he was pretty sure the functional garment was a uniform of some description - had he been a soldier too? There were faded scars littering his body which hinted at a life of action and danger, but he couldn't remember how, where or when he'd sustained these injuries, let alone whom or what cause he'd been defending.

Night after night he lay awake in the small narrow bed racking his brain, trying to remember, but all it did was aggravate his headache. It was tearing him apart but nothing resurfaced, zip, nada, zilch. His past was a mystery, but regardless of what he'd been, it was all clear that his days of action were well and truly over.

The injury to his leg was so severe, that much to the old lady's regret the limb hadn't healed the way she'd hoped. He was now a cripple, and combined with the persistent memory loss, sometimes the constant nagging pain threatened to overwhelm him.

A man with no past, with nothing to validate his existence and restrained by his own body, he was living a nightmare. Almost as if he'd been stranded on a desert island or held in solitary confinement - a prisoner held captive by his unresponsive memory and broken body.

He could tell by her sad blue eyes that Libero felt guilty, so during the day he sucked up the pain, and tried not to let his misery show. Except at night, in the privacy of his room he allowed his feelings, his tears of frustration, rage at the injustice of his situation come to the surface. At those times he almost wished she'd allowed him to die instead of healing him.

Weeks turned into months and with still no clues as to his past, he decided it was time to start building a new life. This village, and the cottage his shared with Libero was all he had now, it was his home. It was clear the old lady enjoyed having him around, as when he'd suggested it was time to move on, she'd insisted he stayed with her. He couldn't remember his own mom, but reckoned if she'd been anything like Libero, he'd been one lucky kid.

The villagers were friendly too. Right from the start they'd come to visit, bringing gifts of food when his appetite had been poor, and clothing once he'd started to get back on his feet. There was one thing missing, he needed to choose a name. He had been putting it off hoping that someone would recognise him, or better yet if he could start to remember. Regrettably, neither had happened.

It wasn't long after he'd arrived that Libero had told him he resembled her dead husband - Shaule. The old lady's eyes had lit up as she'd described their life together, and while she'd been talking, he wondered if he'd left a wife at home – wherever home was. Then the old woman's face clouded over as she described the accident that took her husband's life. Shaule had died young before they'd even had a chance to have a family, but their love was so strong she'd never remarried.

He suspected Libero would be pleased if he took the name for himself, but somehow the name Shaule just didn't feel right. In the end another name sprang to mind, a name that was a better fit - Jolin.

While the old woman dozed rocking in front of the log fire, he sat on the worn upholstered chair opposite with his bum leg supported on a padded stool. He rubbed the aching limb, and glanced over at his crutches in distaste. Spring was fast approaching, and maybe it was the symbolism of the season of rebirth, but Jolin was filled with a determination to improve his lot. In the fading light, only the flames from the fire and the one oil lamp illuminated the drawing on his lap. It was the crux to his plan, because Jolin knew if he was to have any kind of future, he would need better mobility.

The metal brace he'd designed, while still not giving him a full range of movement, would at least give his damaged limb more support. Support, that would also hopefully lessen the pain, and allow him to ditch the crutches in favour of a cane. He was no artist but the plans didn't look too crappy, and he was confident they were something Kammel could work with. Jolin knew that in the grand scheme of things it was only a small step, but it was still progress of sorts and he felt a sense of achievement.

"You're smiling. I was beginning to think you didn't have a smile to spare." Libero said with a trace of mischief, but as the colour flooded his cheeks, she stopped teasing. "No…don't stop, it's a lovely smile, one I hope to see more often. Tell me child, what has happened while I've slept to make you so happy?"

Jolin was shocked. He was taken aback by the revelation, and now realised the old woman hadn't been fooled by his act for a second. Libero had saved his life and given him a home, but he owed her so much more. It was time to lighten up, or at least try to.

"I've decided on a name." At her surprise, his smile got wider. "Jolin."

Libero pulled herself further up the chair, and leaned forward. "That's the name of the character in the book I read to you when you couldn't see."

"Maybe that's why I chose it, because somehow he became real to me when everything else in my life had slipped away." He shrugged. "Or maybe it's because he was a hero to his people, someone I'd like to aspire to."

Libero smiled. "It's a fine name, for a fine young man." She reached over and patted his hand, accidently sending his design falling onto the floor. Before Jolin managed to retrieve it, Libero picked it up and studied it carefully before looking up with curiosity.

"And what is this you've been working on?"

He held her gaze. "I can't thank you enough for everything you've done, but its time I started to pull my weight around here. I want to get a job, but to do that I need to be able to get around better." His expression grew serious as he gently took the drawing from her. "If Kammel can make this for me, I'm hoping to be able to do just that."

"You don't owe me anything…Jolin." Her wrinkled face fell, and her voice cracked slightly. "I'd been alone for a very long time when you turned up on my doorstep and until then, I never realised how lonely I was." She whispered that last part almost as if to herself, before smiling at him. "It's been a joy having you around, Jolin, and I hope you know you have a home with me for as long as you wish."

He cared for the old woman but didn't feel comfortable with displays of emotion, so settled for reaching over and giving the withered hand a squeeze.

Jolin wondered if the man he'd been in his former life was the same, and whether he would ever get the chance to find out. By the grey in his temples and the fine lines on his face, he reckoned he was close to middle age. Plenty of time to formulate some set traits. Yet in a different place, with a new life ahead maybe he would be different. People could change, couldn't they?

"Anyway, what say you sit back down and I'll wait on you for a change?" Jolin said, reaching for his crutches, then suppressing a wince, hauled himself painfully out the chair.

In truth he'd made the offer partly to lighten the mood, but also because Libero looked tired. It was no secret she hadn't slept much during the early days of his recovery. He was worried that the hollows in her cheeks were a sign all the sleepless nights were catching up with her.

"But your leg…" she protested.

In response Jolin took her arm, and led her back to her chair. "My leg is as good as it's gonna get, and it's about time we both accepted that." The light seemed to fade from the sparkling blue eyes, but his comment hadn't been made to wound.

"Look…I've accepted my life will never be the same again, but at least I have one, thanks to you." He smiled, and was pleased to see if not a smile in return, at least the strain had left her face.

"Very well then. Some tea would be nice…but not too strong. And put a little milk in it – I think we still have some left." Libero eased herself back on the old wooden rocking chair and closed her eyes. "And, Jolin…thank you."

Jolin hobbled away. He was still in pain, but felt better having finally taken charge of his life. There was no point in dwelling on the past, because his memory was a clean slate. The future was out there still to be written, and from now on he – Jolin – was looking forward to wherever the path would lead him.

ooooOoooo

The empty box seemed to mock her as Elizabeth stood, rooted to the spot, wondering where she was going to start.

It was hard enough packing the sum of a man's life into a soulless container, but John Sheppard was no ordinary man. In many ways it felt like a betrayal, as she still couldn't believe he was dead.

At his memorial service that morning she'd read the eulogy, but the words sounded trite, insipid, the whole service surreal as she'd spoken over the empty casket. With no body to bury she understood it was an emblem to signify loss, but it felt like a sham. Deep down inside she knew he was still alive. It was unquantifiable, and undoubtedly illogical, but she couldn't shake it. He was out there somewhere waiting for them to bring him home, and if she were to give up now, she'd be letting him down.

Last week when she'd gone to the SGC to plead for more time, General O'Neill had gently taken her aside and told her it was time to move on. Part of her knew he was right. Over three months of searching, pulling ever favour they had, had yielded nothing. John Sheppard was still missing, and common sense dictated she must accept the only evidence available - he'd perished on Andulanan.

It was time for her to pick up the pieces, or at least try to. Not an easy task because John had been more than the military leader of Atlantis, he had, and always would be, her friend. There was no doubt his loss would be keenly felt for a long time to come, but their mission must continue so it was time to move on.

The room, his quarters, were just as he'd left them. It was like he'd left to go out for a jog, or to the mess, and would walk back in at any moment.

An image of his lopsided grin and the wild, impossible hair flashed in front of her. Suddenly the air got too thin, her jacket too tight, and she was struggling to breathe…

"Elizabeth…Are you all right?"

Elizabeth swung round to see Teyla standing in the open doorway. The Athosian was still wearing her tan leather vest and long shirt she'd worn to the service. The blue shirt she wore, was the same shade as John's dress uniform.

She composed her features, trying not to reveal the turmoil that had nearly brought her to her knees only moments before. "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

Teyla walked into the room and took the cardboard lid out of her hands. Elizabeth looked at them surprised. Her knuckles were white. She hadn't realised she'd been holding on to it so tightly. Teyla laid it on the single bunk and went over to stare at the poster of the Solitary Man. "I always thought it strange that a sociable man like John would think of himself this way."

Elizabeth smiled. Teyla was a highly intelligent woman, but sometimes she failed to grasp the culture they enjoyed in Earth. "It's the title of a song, Teyla, by one of John's favourite artists."

"It means more than that." Ronon's gruff voice heralded his entrance into the small room. He stood with his arms folded as he nodded towards it. "People don't understand men like me and Sheppard. Solitary isn't just about being alone – it's how you feel inside. He and I are the same. I recognised it when we first met, that's why I trusted him."

She had never heard the Satedan say so much, but today was turning out to be one of those days.

"I guessed that's where you'd all be." Rodney shuffled into the room. He looked hurt, and started at them accusingly. "An invitation would have been nice…I was his friend too, you know."

With the extra bodies the room was cramped, but somehow it felt right, natural. The people present were more than his team, they were his friends, and Elizabeth regretted she'd rarely accepted his invitations to movie nights – in this very room.

"None of this was planned, Rodney," Teyla assured him. "I think…I believe that we all felt a need to be close to John. And where better than here, where we spent a lot of our time?"

Ronon strolled over, and picked up the box. He threw it across the room, and glared at Elizabeth "What's the hell's this for? Sheppard's not dead and when he comes back he'll find his room just how he left it!"

Teyla rushed over and edged between them. "Ronon. Can you not understand that Elizabeth has a job to do?" The Athosian reasoned, gently pulling him to the side. "For months we have searched but have not been able to find him. I do not want to believe it either, but we have to accept the fact that John may well be dead."

"Sorry – I'm not buying it." Rodney shook his head vehemently. "How many times has Sheppard cheated death?" He looked at each of them in turn, but with no answer forthcoming he continued. "Well anyway…all I'm saying is it would take more than one Wraith to kill him, besides the man might be a jinx, but he's already proven he's hard to kill." He reasoned, and his voice lost its sharp edge and became quiet.

"Look, that First Minister guy told us Sheppard looked pretty beaten up. So, I'm guessing if John hadn't been thinking straight...or something, that combined with the pressure to get off the planet before it went kaboom - well, I'm betting he dialled a wrong address and ended up in Oz, instead of Kansas."

Teyla's expression grew puzzled. "I do not know of any place called Oz, Rodney."

Even though she didn't feel like it, Elizabeth had trouble suppressing a smile. "It's a fictional place, Teyla. I'll tell you the story later." She raked her hand through her hair as she faced her chief scientist. "I haven't given up either, Rodney, but I've been told to either abandon the search or start looking for another job."

"Oh…" Rodney went silent for a moment then his eyes sprang open, and he snapped his fingers. "But we haven't been told anything – right?"

"Rodney…" Elizabeth cried out, exasperated.

"Wait - hear me out." He persisted, his tone getting more excitable by the second. "My back's been playing up and with Sheppard out of the picture," his eyes clouded over, "temporarily at least, I think its time for me to go back to the lab. I'd like to re-visit an old project of time – to find planets with a viable source of naquada."

Teyla smiled, as she picked up his thread. "Of course it would be necessary for someone – perhaps I and Ronon? To accompany you when you are ready to begin visiting these planets."

"Yeah, can't have you going alone." Ronon grunted, with a twist in his lips and a gleam in his green eyes.

Elizabeth flopped on the bed, and put her head in her hands. When she looked up, it was clear they were looking for some kind of 'unofficial' approval.

"You people are incorrigible." She let a long sigh. "Fine, but keep it under the radar, and don't make it obvious what you're really doing."

Rodney elbowed Ronon in the ribs, and ignored the Satedan's low growl. "I've just said what we're doing. But if we happen to find Sheppard on our travels…"

In a low voice Teyla put a finger to her lips. "Hush, Rodney – I think that is exactly what Dr Weir is trying to warn you about."

Elizabeth mouthed a thank you to Teyla, as she wearily rose off the bed and left the three friends behind, plotting, in Sheppard's quarters.

With Caldwell arriving tomorrow to take over John's post, she didn't know how long she could keep the colonel's sharp eyes, and uncompromising stance at bay. One think was for sure – John's quarters would stay the way he'd left them. The room would be sealed so no-one could touch a thing. At least not while she remained in charge.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Hope you enjoyed the chapter - and please review. I really love to know what you think.