John sighed; this was not how he enjoyed spending his day. He was angry due to the fact that one of his men had been killed; depressed because it reminded him of the anniversary of his own loss which was coming up all too soon; and he had a serious headache because the profilers kept giving him paperwork to read with a teeny-tiny font and letters that kept moving around in an attempt to find some location connecting each of the victims, that John honestly didn't think they'd find.
It was frustrating as all hell, and he was about ready to snap and hit something. He could tell that Schmidt, who was resting on the couch that Morgan and he had squeezed into the conference room, had sensed his mood and was watching him warily. Reid had too, if the fact that the man had grabbed half of his stack of papers surreptitiously was any hint.
The rest of the profilers seemed oblivious, although John suspected they were merely pretending, to his restlessness and frustration. John sighed again, resting his chin on his hand, trying to figure out what the hell he was reading. It wasn't working; it hadn't been working for the last two hours either.
"Okay, I'm done with this. No more, find me something besides paperwork to do." John shoved the stack of papers away.
"Still don't like paperwork sir?" A familiar voice said dryly from the doorway.
John looked up at the door, grinning "Stacks."
"Colonel, Schmidt, other people." Stackhouse greeted them deadpan, and John smirked at the looks on the agents' and the detective's faces.
"Sergeant," Schmidt nodded and John saw Stackhouse look the other man over in concern. He also saw the profilers taking note of it.
John decided to draw attention back to himself, "Sergeant, these are Special Agents Emily Prentiss, David Rossi, Jennifer Jareau, Derek Morgan, Dr. Spencer Reid and Detective Carl Salazar." They all nodded at each other in turn. "Everyone this is my Top," John purposefully paused for a moment, "Sergeant David Stackhouse."
Stackhouse snorted and Schmidt let out a bark of laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. The BAU agents and the detective all looked absolutely flabbergasted.
"Sir," Stackhouse's voice was tight as he attempted to hold back his laughter, "You have got to stop introducing me like that."
"Like what?" John asked innocently, noticing that Rossi and Salazar had caught on to the joke (he had guessed they would figure it out first, being retired military).
"Sir, you nearly gave General Landry a heart attack." Stackhouse noted with his typical droll tone.
"O'Neill thought it was funny." John pointed out, noticing when Reid got the joke. The others still looked mildly horrified.
"That's because you and O'Neill were best friends in another life, sir. You have extremely similar senses of humor." Stackhouse's voice couldn't have gotten any drier if he'd tried.
Schmidt was in hysterics in the corner, which was what John had intended. Rossi and Salazar both looked amused, if a bit befuddled; while Reid was grinning broadly. John felt his stomach tighten as he looked over at Reid, and absently wondered if maybe he should have skipped that sixth piece of baklava at lunch. The other BAU agents looked absolutely baffled, and John barely kept himself from smirking.
Reid noticed his teammates faces, and still grinning, explained, "In the military, the highest ranked non-commissioned officer on a base is typically referred to as the 'Top Sergeant'. The term is also a synonym for First Sergeant. I assume that Sergeant Stackhouse fits one of these descriptions."
"Both actually." Stackhouse responded before looking at John, "I received an interesting message from Moore, sir, saying you wanted to see me?"
"Yeah," John looked over at Salazar, "We're taking your office again detective." Then he waved at Stackhouse to follow him.
Entering Salazar's office John looked Stackhouse over, wondering how to phrase things without breaking any rules. He began with a sigh, "Look, Stacks, first thing, this entire conversation is off the record."
"Yes sir." Stackhouse agreed.
"Second thing, right now, I'm John and you're David."
"Yes s- John."
John smirked; he knew how awkward it was when a superior officer told you to call them by their first name instead of by their rank or surname. "Third thing, you remember that exceedingly awkward conversation we had about four years ago? Right after we lost Markham?"
"Yes sir." Stackhouse answered stiffly.
"Remember how I told you I knew what it was like, losing your best friend? That I'd been there? And if you ever wanted to talk I'd listen?" John rubbed the back of his neck, he hated having to talk around things like this, but because of the fucking regulations and a too thin door, he couldn't have an honest conversation with Stackhouse. After Stackhouse had nodded unhappily, he continued, "I need you to keep Schmidt with you for a couple of days, Orsini was his best friend and the guy is about ready to shatter into a couple hundred pieces. Take him back to your apartment, get him drunk and let him sleep on the couch, but he needs someone there, particularly someone who understands. I'd do it, but I have to work on this case per O'Neill's orders; and honestly, I don't have a couch at the moment."
"Of course, sir. John. I'll be there for him like you were for me." Stackhouse paused, "Moore mentioned something about the case, sir, and who the targets were."
"Current and former military men who… prefer men," John confirmed, trying to figure out how to phrase the next part without breaking regulations. Honestly, if they'd had privacy, John wouldn't have watched his mouth at all, but they were too public here. He may not give a fuck if his men were together or not, but other people did. And his official policy was 'I'm happy for you. Don't tell me shit, officially, but make sure I know about it unofficially.' He knew there was plenty of brass out there looking for any excuse to get rid of him, and as long as he didn't officially know anything, he was safe and could keep his men safe. Finally he decided on, "If you… know of… anybody in the area who might fit that general description I'd… appreciate it if you could warn them."
Luckily, he and Stackhouse had been working together long enough that Stackhouse knew exactly what he meant. "Yes sir."
"Good." The two men sat in comfortable silence, both collecting their thoughts. They'd worked together for five years now, and Stackhouse had been the Senior Non-Com since Bates had been shipped home injured after the Siege. They not only had a good working relationship, but had become friendly, if not exactly friends, over the years, both having lost lovers to combat.
It helped that after Stackhouse had lost his lover John had dragged Stackhouse back to his place, gotten him wasted, let him sob on his shoulder, and then tucked him in on John's couch. For almost two weeks. Then the Siege happened, and they got a little busy. It wasn't the last time a member of the expedition had crashed on John's couch. In fact, over the years, "The Colonel's Couch" had become a standing tradition on Atlantis. Anyone who lost someone close to them (whether it was Sergeant Yamato after his grandmother had died, or Lieutenant Crown when her best friend from high school died, or Dr. Corrigan after he lost his lover, or Teyla after Charin passed away) knew that they could go to John's quarters and talk to him or cry on him or scream until they fell asleep, and he wouldn't breathe a word of it. That he'd been there and done that, and would sit there and listen, and then pour them drinks until they slept that first night (but not any night after, it wasn't good to depend on alcohol); or almost anything else they needed- only comfort sex and expecting John to talk about his past and/or feelings was out (but he'd gladly listen).
The Colonel's Couch was right up there with Story Showcase, Movie Night, Heritage Day, and Field Day as far as Atlantis traditions went. Essentially sacred.
John and Stackhouse sat quietly for a while, collecting their thoughts and praying that they'd catch this maniac before he killed again. Eventually John sighed and stood up, Stackhouse automatically standing as well. "Come on, Stacks, time to go back and battle the beast."
Stackhouse blinked, "Beast sir?" He followed John out of the borrowed office and towards the conference room.
"Yeah paperwork." John sighed miserably at the thought as he entered the conference room. Stackhouse let out a snort of laughter behind him. Glancing around the room, John turned to where Schmidt was still sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. "Schmidt." He began, waiting to continue until the man had looked up and focused on him. "I'm sending you home with Stackhouse for the next little while. He'll watch out for you okay kiddo?" He watched as Schmidt nodded numbly at him, and glanced over at Stackhouse, catching his eye. Stackhouse nodded sharply, he'd watch out for Schmidt and make sure the kid didn't sink into depression.
John smiled sadly at the kid, and he really was a kid, only twenty-five. "I'm sorry I don't have a couch at the moment Hans, otherwise I'd be taking you home with me. So instead of 'The Colonel's Couch' you're getting the Sergeant's sofa." Schmidt let out a strangled laugh, and Stackhouse smiled. "He was my first guest, and he's been there a couple of times now, so he knows what to do, okay?" At Schmidt's nod, he held out a hand and helped the kid off of the couch, passing him over to Stackhouse.
"C'mon Schmidt, let's get out of here," Stackhouse murmured, wrapping an arm around Schmidt's shoulder and leading him out of the conference room with a nod and a wave at John. He watched through the door as the two men headed out of the building.
John sighed as he sat back down, staring forlornly at the stack of paper in front of him. He hated reading, and reading hated him. The only reason he'd brought War and Peace on the expedition was so he could stay in practice, otherwise he stuck to audiobooks. Hell, he even had adaptive technology on his computer so that it would transcribe his oral reports into digital format, and read aloud the ones that were sent to him or anything else he had to read on the computer. It was one of the things he loved about Atlantis- everything was digital. In the past, he'd had to have friends transcribe his reports for him or read him briefings and memos if they were in a rush. Trying to read the teeny tiny print of Lopez's bank statements was doing nothing to help his headache or frustration levels. Nor was it helping the case any, since he only read about fifty words per minute on average (seventy on a good day, thirty on a bad day; and today was not a good day).
Finally John sighed, "Okay, look, if you guys want me to get anything useful done, having me look through papers isn't going to be it. What else is there for me to do?"
"What's wrong with what you're already doing?" Salazar questioned, sneering. John could practically hear him thinking that he was just another lazy officer leaving everyone else to do the work. It was a common thought among enlisted men (and in some cases not all that wrong, to be honest), but John wasn't lazy despite common misconceptions. He gave every action 110%, and expected his men to do the same, and he wouldn't make any of them do anything he wouldn't do, and they knew it. He might be laidback, but he wasn't lazy.
John chose to ignore the sneering detective, turning instead to Rossi, who was functioning as unit chief while their regular one was in the hospital. "Rossi, I know you guys did a background check. You do realize how stupid it is to have me going through paperwork, right?"
Rossi looked at him, puzzled, for a few moments, before his face cleared up and he nodded chagrinned. John noticed that Reid had been squirming in his seat adorably, while Rossi had been trying to figure out, obviously trying to keep from blurting out the answer. That thought made John pause, 'adorably', he mentally shook his head, and he needed to get more sleep.
Obviously JJ had recalled why his going through paperwork was a bad idea too, as she asked "If you don't do well with paperwork, how'd you go through all those files yesterday morning?"
"I only had the paper files printed out in case there was something I needed to show you guys, the files I actually used were on my computer, and I have adaptive technology on it to ensure I could 'read' them." John explained.
"Wait, what?" Salazar was baffled.
"I'm severely dyslexic." John explained shortly, he wasn't ashamed, but he wasn't a sharing kind of guy. "I read about 50 words per minute on average. The average adult reads about 250 words per minute. Do the math."
"Oh." Salazar said quietly.
"Yes, oh. Now, is there anything else for me to do? Preferably something that involves movement."
The FBI agents seemed to be looking at each other and trying to figure out what to do with John, while Salazar was steadfastly looking at his stack of papers and pretending to ignore John and the others. John glanced at his watch and bit back a groan, it was only 1600.
Before any ideas could be suggested John's phone began to ring. John blinked, trying to place the sound (five months on Earth and he still wasn't used to cell phones), before realizing it came from his pocket. With a frown he pulled out his cell and flipped it open.
"Sheppard."
"Oh my God sir, save me!"
John blinked, and then rolled his eyes, "What've you done now Lorne?"
"It's not me sir." Lorne protested vehemently, his voice half exasperated and half amused in the way only Lorne could manage. "It's the scientists. I'm going to shoot them all. Seriously, sir, save me!"
"What have they done now?" John sat back in his chair and kicked back, putting his feet on a clear spot of the conference table. He ignored the curious looks that the rest of the room threw him, knowing that Lorne was speaking too quietly for them to hear. (And even if he screamed bloody murder the adjustments the Atlantis scientists made to secure the thing meant that they would still only hear it as a muffled voice, unless he used a code word to put the receiving phone on speaker for emergencies. John didn't know how they had done that, and didn't want to know.)
"Sir, not only am I dealing with daily explosions from the Physics and Engineering Departments, both literal and figurative, but Computer Sciences has taken to entertaining itself by hacking into various government agencies in order to solve bets based on various conspiracy theories and mysteries. Sir, seriously, they found out who killed Kennedy the other day. Most of the Ecology, Geology, and Geography department is teaming up with Oceanography and Botany, sir. To do something involving picket signs they were trying to hide when I went down to remind Margolis that her leave is coming up. Zoology lost the fucking mini near-deer things somewhere in the city. Again. Seriously, sir, this is the fourteenth time they've lost those stupid things in a year. Last time one ended up in the desalinization tanks and we couldn't drink the tap water for 48 hours because it got caught in a churner and we were fishing guts out of the tap. Let me just kill the things this time sir, I don't care if the zoologists cry!"
"Yeah, sure, why not." John decides after a moment, he won't have to deal with the fallout and cold shoulders from the scientists this time, he's not on base. "Go ahead and shoot to kill, Lorne."
"Oh my God, thank you sir." Lorne's voice was relieved, and John really did get why- those mini near-deer were the stupidest, most annoying creatures that John had ever set eyes on. Unfortunately they were cute, and cuddly, so a lot of the civilians on base liked them as pets.
"Anything else exciting happening?" John asked ignoring the stricken looks at his order to shoot to kill.
"Dr. Jackson is here." Lorne sounded pained, and John hid a wince. The last time Jackson had visited he'd managed to find a seriously twisted botany lab that everyone called the Defensive Herbology Lab, since there were so many carnivorous plants in there (and way too many Harry Potter fans on base); a torture chamber, complete with body parts in jars, torture implements and blood stains, from an Ancient serial killer in one of the remote personal quarters (John had puked violently after seeing it and hadn't slept for a week); and an experimental genetics lab with stasis-preserved specimens, including random crosses between species that were absolutely idiotic. Most of the expedition still couldn't watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail without cringing (or in some cases crying) at the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog scene. Then he'd found the Attero device.
"Oh God, what now?" John tried not to whine and cringe, but Jackson was a menace when he was left alone on the city, or with McKay.
"He's only been here for 40 hours sir, and he's already found another "Ascend or Die" machine and a Milky Way style DNA resequencer in the same room." Panic shot through John, if Jackson ended up ascending again or dying, Lorne's and his careers were over. "He did not turn them on or set them off, thank God." Relief flooded through John as Lorne reassured him, and he could hear Lorne's relief as well. "The next room over had a disease lab, like the Nanovirus lab, but all biological diseases. The Chemistry and Genetics department is having a field day trying to identify everything.
"We're also pretty sure he managed to find an Ancient beauty parlor, based on the hack job it gave Sorokin and Balfour when they were exploring it. Either that or it's where the Ancients stored their wall-mounted weed whackers." Lorne told him drolly. John couldn't help but snicker at the image. Sorokin and Balfour were anthropologists from Russia and Scotland, respectively, and they were both obsessed with their hair. Sorokin had chin-length blonde hair, and Balfour had hair down his back in a ponytail like he was the Highlander or something.
"Take pictures." John ordered.
"Already did sir. I'll email them to you later." Lorne told him.
"Thanks Lorne, I could use the laugh. Has he done anything else?" John asked.
"He found another experimental lab for plants, trying to breed some sort of sex pollen in this one. Apparently the Ancients had issues remembering that they needed to procreate, so they decided that breeding a plant to put all over the City that would make them have mindless sex whenever it bloomed." Lorne offered his disgust clear. "Parrish wants to write a paper about it, even though they failed."
"Thank God." John said relieved. Who the hell thought making a plant to roofie citizens into fucking was a good idea?
"Also a Nanite Construction Lab, which is used to repair equipment, kind of like a Star Trek Replicator. You put the broken thing in and feed it the necessary raw materials, and boom, good as new sir."
"Sweet," John nearly crowed, that was the answer to their prayers. Well, some of them.
"I know sir! We've already started using it to repair the drives. McKay was about ready to kiss Jackson when they figured out what it was for. Says that this means we can repair the wormhole drive now."
John looked up at the ceiling, "Thank you."
"Sir?" Lorne questioned.
"Just thanking whatever deity is in the area Lorne."
"Yes sir." Lorne said voice bland (which meant he was trying not to laugh).
"Is that everything?" John asked, hoping it was.
"Hold on a moment sir, I'm getting an update now." Lorne put the phone on hold. John snorted when Lorne's "hold" music began to play the Steve Miller Band's The Joker. After a moment he realized he was humming along, when he caught sight of Rossi, Morgan and Salazar's amused smirks. He purposely ignored them, knowing that stopping would show them weakness, and he tried to avoid showing anyone weakness if he could.
"Sir?" Lorne came back on the line, sounding revolted.
"Lorne." John confirmed, wary.
"We found, oh God," Lorne's voice moved away from the phone, and John distantly heard the sound of retching. Returning to the phone Lorne continued, despaired, "He also found some sort of medical lab where their twisted scientists were experimenting on humans to find both the secrets to ascension and a way to stop the Wraith from feeding on humans. It makes Mengele look like a pediatrician sir."
"God," John said desolately. And some people thought the Ancients were gods.
"Sir, they were experimenting on children," Lorne sounded as if he might be sick again, "They just left the bodies of the 'failed experiments' in a pile in the next room. It's a charnel house, sir; Biro's sorting through the remains now, and says that based on the bones most of the victims were between age 4 and 8." They were both silent for a minute.
"How many victims Evan?" John asked, removing his feet from the table and leaning forward to put his head in his hand.
"The current estimate is between 80 and 100, sir."
"Find somewhere for us to give them a proper burial, Lorne. They don't deserve to rot there. Make sure that Biro documents the cause of death in each case thoroughly, so that we can determine whether they were legitimate experiments or another twisted mind who got off on torturing people, like the last guy. Because if this was sanctioned research, we'll have some problems." John rubbed his forehead.
Most of the SGC and almost all of the IOA had this twisted view that the Ancients were infallible. That any problems with any Ancient technology were due to misuse, and not due to faults of the Ancients. They didn't deify them, but they certainly sanctified them. Most of the Atlantis expedition had learned differently, but many still treated the Ancients as if they could do no wrong. Elizabeth Weir had been a prime example of that, she'd believed the Ancients to be divine- all-knowing and all powerful and unwilling to allow their "descendants" to be harmed. She'd believed that until the day she died due to one of their creations. If, no when the SGC and IOA found out about this, it would send them into an uproar, especially if this had been a legitimate project instead of a rogue one.
They'd barely believed the serial killer's torture chamber Jackson and McKay had found last time, and only referred to it as a fluke, one sick individual who needed help. They didn't see that the Ancients were all sick in a way- they created terrible things, and then left them lying around where anyone could find it, including children. Just look at the Shadow creature, the nanovirus, the Asurans, the explosive tumor machine, the ascension machine, and so many more- the Ancients didn't care about anybody, only about science. They'd all basically been psychopaths, they felt no remorse for their crimes, and continued to commit them galaxy after galaxy. Their only rule was not to interfere in the lives of "lesser" beings, yet they'd still done so- just look at the social experiment that he and Rodney had stumbled upon and almost destroyed a planet with thinking it was like The Sims. They were cowards- they ran from the Ori in their home galaxy, the plague in the Milky Way, and the Wraith in Pegasus, and then from life altogether.
To have had this sort of experimentation on small children be legitimate would blow most of Earth's views of the Ancients out of the water. They denied that the Ancients could have been responsible for the creation of the Wraith (although most of Atlantis secretly thought so), that there was no way there had been an Ancient serial killer (that was something reserved for humans), that their machines didn't work properly (that was the fault of the ATA carrier not using it properly) or that they'd made mistakes. Those who lived in Atlantis knew better, as did most of the Pegasus Galaxy- they honored the Ancestors, but most of the societies didn't worship them. But Earth and most of the Milky Way revered the Ancients; saw them as either Gods or Saints.
John was dreading the upcoming discussions about this find because he knew that Earth's initial reaction would be denial and accusations. Then fear and panic. Followed by either depression (for those that accepted that this was the truth of the Ancients) or willful ignorance (for those that refused to accept the truth), and he already knew most would choose the latter.
John knew that one of the biggest reasons no one wanted to see the faults of the Ancients was because they were humanity's progenitors, and no one wanted to admit that those who had created them could be fallible, wrong, ill, insane, or cowardly. John however could easily admit that his Ancient ancestors were basically psychopaths; after all his entire family tree was full of them. But others weren't used to that, they had kind and loving parents and families, and wanted the "Godlike" beings that had created humankind to have done so with love and kindness, like the God(s) they had grown up believing in. Not to have been created as a species as an experiment, that had been forgotten about, and most likely considered a failure.
"Sir?" He heard Lorne ask, drawing his attention back to the conversation.
"Don't worry about it Lorne, trying to figure out what we're going to do if this was legitimate, that's all."
"Yes sir." Lorne was resigned, he too knew how difficult it would be to convince the SGC and the IOA that this hadn't been "accidental", that the Ancients just didn't care if they harmed others, and they had no ethics.
"Make sure the remains are treated properly, Evan." John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Tell Biro to try and see if theirs anyway to identify where they came from, but not to kill herself over it. I honestly don't expect there to be a way to return them all to their people." He took a deep breath, "Make Jackson translate the records to see if we can identify any of them. Match the "failed experiment" to the bodies if possible. When you've finished and found out as much information about this possible, I want all three of you to write individual reports and submit them normally and wait for the brass to contact you. Don't go to them." John concluded.
"Yes sir. Not a problem." Lorne hesitated audibly.
"Spit it out Evan." John snapped. Then sighed, "Sorry, but you know people hurting kids pisses me the fuck off."
"I know. It's alright sir. I just, I was hoping you'd come back and take over for me." Lorne asked, trying to put a note of humor into his voice, obviously not honestly expecting that to happen.
"Fat chance, I'm playing cop and hunting a serial killer down, then I get leave for the first time in years. Besides, they like you more."
"Yes sir. Good luck on the case, Stacks called and updated me. I hope you catch the son of a bitch soon."
"Thanks Lorne, good luck keeping Jackson out of trouble and explaining that shit to the brass." John hung up on Lorne's groan.
He looked up at the curious faces surrounding the table, all looking at him. "Don't ask. I can't tell you, and you honestly probably heard too much as it is. I need to make another phone call." John stood up and left the room, heading to Salazar's office, which he knew would be empty.
Dialing the number he waited while it rang.
"O'Neill," the man said, picking up on the sixth ring.
"General, it's Colonel Sheppard."
"Sheppard? What's going on? Why are you calling me? Aren't you supposed to be catching me a psycho?"
"Yes sir. But I'm calling to let you know that you should probably call Dr. Jackson, sir. I just received a status update from Lorne, and they just uncovered something very un-pretty."
"Oh for cryin' out loud."
"Sorry sir. Also, I was in the room with the agents and the detective assigned to this case when I found out. I had to respond to Lorne and give him some orders. They didn't find out anything sensitive sir, but they did overhear me telling Lorne to find somewhere to bury the bodies properly after doing everything possible to ID them. That the victims had been experimented on and that the victims were children. As well as to try and find out if they were rogue or sanctioned experiments. I am currently in a private office, but it is not secure." John told him stiffly.
O'Neill groaned, "What the fuck happened Sheppard, because the words "children" and "experimented on" should never be in the same sentence."
John took a deep breath, "While Dr. Jackson was exploring the base sir, he stumbled across a laboratory in which the occupant or occupants were engaging in experimentation on human children in order to find a way to… become like the inhabitants of Abydos." John said, finding a reference he knew O'Neill would get while not giving away anything to anybody who might be spying on him. "The scientists were also attempting find a way to create some form of treatment similar to what Hoff did, with a better success rate."
"Hoff… Hoff…" O'Neill interrupted, obviously trying to remember that mission. "Oh shit, those whack jobs that committed genocide on their own people trying to prevent the Wraith from feeding?"
"Yes sir. The children experimented on, according to the information I received, were between the ages of 4 and 8." John heard O'Neill's sharp intake of breath and continued. "The current number of victims is estimated to have been between 80 and 100. They were found in a pile in the room next to the laboratory. Colonel Lorne referred to it as a charnel house sir."
"Hell." O'Neill swore, obviously picturing the same thing that John had.
"I lost my head a bit sir, and ordered Lorne to find somewhere to put them to rest properly, if Biro and Jackson were unable to identify whose remains belonged to who based on the records; and that if we could find their people, we were to attempt to return the bodies to them. I also ordered that Lorne, Biro and Jackson were to write and submit individual reports, and attempt to determine the legitimacy of the experiment. I told them not to contact any of their superiors, but wait to be contacted by them. I did not refer to any details of the program, or anything else at any time, and they did not overhear enough to require any sort of confidentiality agreement, but I am sorry for my indiscretion- I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment."
"Sheppard, if that's what you consider indiscreet, we're fine. Most of us have accidently shared far more than the fact that some bodies had been found and had been experimented on, on accident. As long as you didn't start talking about aliens and wormholes, you're good." John could practically hear O'Neill roll his eyes. He hadn't thought he'd be in trouble, but he still felt better for having made sure. Better to confess and tell the truth, than have someone else tell and exaggerate.
"I'd never do that sir, no matter how emotional I am." He assured O'Neill. "It's just, it was kids sir. I hate people who hurt kids."
"Me too, Sheppard." John heard O'Neill sigh, and shuffle some stuff around. "You go ahead and get back to work on your case. I'm going to call Danny and see if he has any more information. The IOA is not going to like this; it doesn't fit into their little box."
"Yes sir. Have a good day."
"Yeah, sure. You too." O'Neill hung up the phone.
John stayed in Salazar's office for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts, and forcibly pushing back all of his concerns about Atlantis. He trusted Lorne to take care of everything. He turned his mind back to the case, fervently wishing he had a couple of ibuprofen, his head was still killing him. It was almost 1700, and within the next couple of hours everyone would start getting hungry again. After dinner they all had planned to go back out to check the clubs and warn the residents of Colorado Springs to be on the lookout.
Walking back out into the bullpen, John tried not to drag his feet. He didn't want to go back into the conference room, he hated having to sit around and wait. He'd much rather be out doing something. He noticed Reid coming out of the conference room and head over to the coffee pot. He hid a smile; the man was addicted to his coffee, just like every other scientist he'd ever met. Although, John tilted his head, he used more sugar than anyone he'd ever seen.
John decided to join the other man at the coffee pot, he liked the guy- he was smart without being conceited, funny and sweet. And he was attractive, although he didn't seem to realize it, which only made John want him more. John shook his head mentally, since when did he want Reid? He hadn't been interested in anyone since he'd lost Casey in Afghanistan almost six years ago. Shaking his head again, he pushed the thoughts away. He'd consider his… feelings… later. Like, when hell froze over.
"Hey," he greeted Reid.
"Hello Colonel." Reid shifted from one foot to the other. He was obviously trying to think of what to say as he gripped his mug to his chest.
"Sheppard," John reminded him. "Or John," he offered on a whim.
Reid blinked, "Call me Spencer then."
John grinned broadly at Reid- no, Spencer. "Spencer it is." He hesitated briefly, "Sorry about the whole paperwork thing. I know it isn't fair to put all of that work on you guys."
"It's fine." Reid- Spencer waved it away, "I realized what was happening pretty early on, but I figured I wouldn't say anything until you did." Re- Spencer bit his bottom lip, seeming to debate whether or not to say anything more.
"Yeah, thanks for taking some of my pile of paperwork, Spencer, I appreciate it." John told him sincerely.
"I-uh, you're welcome John." Spencer stuttered back, making John smile slightly at him. John noticed that he seemed to be considering something, and looked at Spencer curiously, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you have a headache Col- John." Spencer corrected himself, "I have some ibuprofen in my bag if you'd like some?"
"Please." John smiled at him as he grabbed his own mug of coffee, "My head's been pounding for a couple of hours now."
"Sure," Spencer agreed, and John followed him back into the conference room.
John watched as Spencer leaned over to grab his bag and placed it on his chair to dig around in. John studiously kept his eyes focused on Spencer's face or hands, ignoring the desire to let them drift downwards. As Spencer pulled out a pill bottle with a soft "Aha" John smiled lightly.
"Thanks," he said, relieved, as Spencer handed over the bottle. Opening it up he dumped two pills into his hand, and passed the bottle back. He swallowed the pills down with a swig of coffee.
John sat down, and put his head on his arms. No one said anything. He heard Spencer settle back into his own chair, and pick up some papers. Slowly the rest of the table also got back to work, ignoring him. John found it amusing, he knew he'd thrown everyone off their game, but no one said anything, and the ibuprofen was already kicking in. It was a nice change, back home, if he'd mentioned a headache he'd have had McKay ranting at him and/or dragging him to the infirmary certain he'd had an aneurysm, or Carson or Keller taking him in to check for concussions. Teyla would have been all concerned mother, and Ronon would have grunted at him. Eventually Lorne or Stackhouse or one of the others would discreetly pass him the ibuprofen they kept in their office, but he'd have already had to jump through hoops in the infirmary first. Here, he was calmly offered ibuprofen (without a neurological exam to make sure he was concussion free first). He knew his friends would have over-reacted because John never mentioned when he was in pain, mainly because he had a ridiculously high pain threshold thanks to his childhood, and also because he had a reputation to maintain. That didn't mean he didn't get headaches or stomachaches on occasion- just that he ignored them.
About thirty minutes later John sat back up, feeling much better now that the last vestiges of his headache were gone. Sitting back up he stretched, enjoying the feeling of his muscles extending as he twisted to and fro. Rolling his neck, he heard a distinct pop, and held in a sigh in relief. That felt much better.
Looking over at the rest of the occupants of the conference room John asked, "Has anybody figured out something for me to do besides paperwork?" Silence. "Anybody?" More silence. "Bueller. Bueller." He drawled in a monotonous tone.
The agents and Salazar cracked up. Apparently they hadn't been expecting that. John smirked. "I'll take the lack of responses as a no."
"Sorry John," Spencer apologized, "But most of what we're doing now is paperwork. If there was anything else we'd give it to you, but there isn't. JJ even finished preparing her press release for tomorrow morning."
John let out a long sigh. Sadly, this wasn't anything new. He'd spent most of his life as the odd one out when it came to any sort of paperwork or group projects. He'd always been useless until the end, when they needed someone to create the models or the diagrams or present it. Hopefully, the FBI wouldn't make him present the case as penance for being "saddled with the retard" like the kids in school had. He didn't think they would.
Leaning back in his chair and slouching, he made sure he projected an aura of boredom and laziness. Shrugging, he said, "It's cool. I'll find something to do." He opened his laptop and plugged in a set of headphones. Checking his email he clicked the symbol that turned on the program that read to him. How the hell did he get 782 new messages in three days? Shaking his head, he listened as the mechanical voice recited each emails sender and subject, deleting the spam, and pausing every now and then to open some memo or other that was actually important. He also opened the few emails he'd received from various friends, listening to McKay's ranting via email, Lorne's summaries of the progress being made, and Teyla's descriptions of Torren's latest antics with a bark of laughter.
He ignored the curious looks being sent his way, if they wanted to know they could ask. He deleted four more spam messages (no he didn't want *GirlzXXX* or a new vitamin guaranteed to prevent colon cancer) before opening up a message that Cameron Mitchell had sent yesterday.
Sheppard heard you're in Colorado Springs. Working on some sort of cop thing, right? Cool. I'm coming to visit wherever you are with Ronon tomorrow around 17:45, and the steaks are on me. Don't worry about directions, Sam told me where the station is.
Colonel Cameron Mitchell, USAF
John bit back a groan as he finished listening to the message. While he was glad he'd be saved from boredom, he didn't want Cam to say anything potentially revealing in front of a group of people trained to find such things. It didn't even have to be something revealing about the SGC or Atlantis, because Cam was too careful for that, but about John himself. (John wasn't worried about Ronon giving anything away; Ronon's primary language around strangers was still grunts.) Looking at his watch John groaned; it was already 17:43. Cam and Ronon would be there any minute.