AN: Alright, so this chapter will be a little shorter than the others and it's mostly just bridging. I hope you'll bear with me on that.
Also, those who followed Remember I'm sorry to say but it's taking a hiatus until further notice. It seems that Checkmate deserves more of my time at the moment.
Lastly, some have voiced disagreement on Sheppard's reaction to Teyla's death by his alcohol addiction. All I can say is that he's dealing with a lot more than the loss of Teyla - he's also lost the life he's lived for the past five, six years - and resigning from the military can also be difficult, especially when you don't seem to have many skills in other areas.
My point is - John is depressed and this was the way I believe he would deal with it, albeit terribly and at great risk to his health.
The knock on the door made both of the men nearly jump. They stared at each other from across the table, daring the other to answer it.
Ronon watched his opposition with amusement and remained seated stubbornly.
Teal'c, ever the peace-maker and rational man, stood and walked towards the door.
"Who are you?" he called through the door.
"A friend," a female voice called back. "I've come to make you an offer – both of you."
"We are uninterested in any items you might be selling," Teal'c replied after a pause. "Thank you and have a nice day."
Ronon rolled his eyes and stood up. The Jaffa's robotic manners were starting to grate on his nerves.
The woman on the other side seemed to be laughing as she spoke again, "I'm not selling anything, Teal'c and Ronon, but if you don't open the door, I can break it down."
The two looked at each other in shock. How could anyone know they were there? The only people who knew where they resided were at Stargate Command – and no one from there would deliver such a threat.
Ronon, knowing that if need be, they could both easily tackle a single female, even if she was armed, nodded and shrugged at Teal'c to open the door.
The Jaffa slowly opened the door and stepped back.
They both stared at the small-framed woman looking back at them with a tight smile and a mischievous look in her eyes.
She had short, spiky and unnaturally platinum blonde hair that contrasted greatly against her business suit. Pulling her blazer up slightly past her hip, she revealed the weapon latched into her holster and cast them both a sneer before inviting herself in.
The Satedan was still undeterred and merely glared at her in annoyance, however grateful he was for the change of pace in the day. "Who are you?" he repeated Teal'c's question.
She was taking a tour about the apartment, casually peering around corners and looking behind potted plants for cameras. "Nicole Kent. But you can call me Nikki."
"Ms. Kent," Teal'c started. "You have no permission to be within our living quarters. I suggest you leave before we inform the local police department."
Nicole turned and shrugged. "Go ahead, but as you may have guessed, I'm not alone. They've probably already been watching you."
"Who is?" Ronon grunted, gradually beginning to become uneasy.
She caught sight of the camera in the corner. "Aha!" she muttered gleefully and gracefully pulled herself up onto the kitchen counter.
As she rose to pull the wire from the camera out of the wall, she continued talking. "Don't worry, all the James Bond stuff is just for show. We just needed to make sure you guys heard us out before dismissing us entirely…"
"I'll save you the time," the Satedan growled, standing by the opened door, indicating with his hand. "We're not interested."
Nicole's playful expression quickly turned solemn. "I think you are. Are you gentlemen acquainted with a man by the name of John Sheppard?"
Ronon shrugged and shook his head. "Never heard of him."
"You served under his command for nearly four years," she stated confidently, directing her attention towards the Runner. She cocked her head at Teal'c, "and I think you know who I'm talking about as well."
"For what reason would you bring up this man?" the Jaffa asked.
"He's in trouble," she said.
"What are you talking about?" Ronon asked gruffly. "How could Sheppard be in any trouble? He hasn't moved from his couch since he resigned."
The woman's smug smile showed that she was glad for that question and promptly pulled out a rather unflattering picture of the ex-colonel in handcuffs being led by the local law enforcement.
III
"So tell me again your version of the events?"
The provoking question made Sheppard want to spit. The same poking little weasel was sitting across from him, a confident smirk plastered on his face. Meanwhile his head was pounding and his nose hurt like hell.
"I already told you what happened!" John snapped, unconsciously pulling against the restraints that held his handcuffs in place on the table.
The interrogator's eyes shifted towards them and he cocked an eyebrow. "Tell me one more time – we need it for the records."
No,youneeditsoyoucantagmeasahomicidalmaniacandwinsomesortofbetwithyourdonut-inhalingbuddies!
Instead of being a smartass, he decided to play along and inhaled a deep breath through his nose before relating what had happened once again. "I told you, I was at the store when it was robbed – the man shot the cashier and then knocked me out. The next thing I know, I'm on the floor, holding the gun and you and your goons are standing over me."
"Can you describe the man for me?"
"Scruffy, dirty and had an Australian accent," John replied as detailed as he could.
The interrogator nodded solemnly. "I think you'll understand me when I say that your story is difficult to believe."
Sheppard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "If I was the one, why would I be out cold with a bruise on the back of my head and a broken nose? If you had all done your job you would have noticed that the wound would be consistent with blunt force trauma."
"We looked at your bruise, Mr. Sheppard," he replied steadily. "But we also took those blood and urine samples. Tell me, John, have you been drinking excessively lately?"
"Yes. And the first thing I do when I'm drunk is knock myself out with a gun."
The man stood and pushed his chair back towards the table. "Your attitude isn't helping things. For all intents and purposes, you seem like the kind of man who would rob and kill in cold blood – I'm pretty sure that doesn't help your case."
John grimaced and looked down. He snapped his head back up just as the interrogator was leaving the room. "Wait! Don't I get a lawyer? One phone call?"
His question was answered with a sour look just before the door closed and he was once again left in the dark, staring at the mirror where, he knew, behind sat those donut-inhaling buddies intent on slapping him with the death penalty.
III
She was too dizzy to walk straight and Aiden, if that indeed was him, was a strong shoulder to lean on.
He constantly handed her his water canteen which looked to her, even in her delirious state, like military issue from Earth. He also happened to have some sort of crackers stashed in his pack and hand fed them to her as they stumbled quickly through the hallway.
"When was the last time you had something to eat?" he asked her, his voice thick with worry but she could also detect anger.
She shook her head weakly. "I don't…" she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.
"It's okay," he assured, still dragging her forward. "We'll get you safe."
"My baby…" she managed to breathe out before she fell to the ground out of his arms, unconscious.
III
One thing John would never be ungrateful of the military for was its high connections.
Visitors for a murderer? It just wasn't done. But a few phone calls and a flashing of badges and the next thing he knew he was seated across the long table from Jack O'Neill, who stared at the former colonel handcuffed to the table and donned in an unflattering neon orange jumpsuit.
"So…" Jack finally broke the ice after a brief awkward silence. "How's prison treating you?"
Sheppard had to force the urge down to give the ex-general a dirty look and a biting sarcastic remark. Instead, he settled for a still sarcastic but less biting "the service here is great".
"John," O'Neill sighed and slapped his hands to his own thighs, "this doesn't look good."
"I didn't do it," John replied quickly. "I can't prove it but I didn't do it."
"Your fingerprints are all over that goddamn weapon!" Jack nearly shouted. "Your alcohol levels were off the chart! No wonder you passed out!"
"I didn't pass out! I was knocked out."
The ex-general seemed to settle as he rubbed his face as though he were overtired. "Even if that were true, your past behavior over the last few months is not good evidence that you aren't the sort of man to do this…"
"Jack," Sheppard interrupted, finally using the name the man had asked him to refer to him by, "you know me. Would I shoot an innocent man for money?"
O'Neill took in a deep breath and shook his head. "No you wouldn't. But how can my word go against the evidence and the handcuff-happy cops out there? They need a suspect and you're it."
John realized he was right. No matter what anyone did, he wouldn't be subjected to a fair trial in this small of a town – he was known as the local drunk and grouch. The jury would, with his luck, consist of all the people he'd snapped at in his late-night hours of drunken stupor.
"But I wasn't sent here to hear your side of the story," the ex-general held up a hand. "I was requested as a sort of…alias from the Air Force."
Sheppard raised a brow. What would the Air Force want to do with him after all this?
"They're willing to release you on parole in their custody for a mission, if you're willing. And, perhaps you'll receive a glowing statement from them at your trial. Might win you brownie points…"
"I don't want anything to do with the Air Force - not after that."
Jack's eyebrows went up and he held out his hands in a helpless gesture as he stood. "Fine, be stubborn, John. But let me tell you, if you're going to just take this lying down then no, I don't know you at all. The least you can do is say you tried your hardest to prove that you're not the sort of man who would do this. That's what the John Sheppard I know would do."
As he walked away, John could literally feel the opportunity to get out of this hellhole, even for a little while, slip through his fingers and he called out.
"Wait…"
O'Neill turned and Sheppard wondered what he was thinking. He had a bone to pick with the Air Force - in fact; he had a bone to pick with just about anyone with any authority who had refused to help him – no, Teyla – when needed. But would it be wrong to take advantage of their offer? To take a little vacation and forget, even for a moment, about this kind of situation he was in?
"How long will the parole be?"