Ronon sat.
Teyla had gone home for the night. He'd seen the desperation in her eyes and knew that she had only left to be able to grieve – to have some private time to release the rage and frustration. She would return tomorrow renewed, calm – a pillar of strength.
Ronon had nowhere else to go.
Usually, when the night got too full of memories, he wandered to Sheppard's room. Either Sheppard slept even less than he did, or he woke up fast enough to fake it because every time Ronon appeared, he would be there – ready to go for a snack or to spar or to run along the pier under the brightness of two moons.
Sometimes, Sheppard would be hanging out with McKay. Ronon had often wondered what memories kept McKay awake to seek Sheppard's company in the quiet times. But as he sat in the hard chair in the corner of the intensive care unit, Ronon wondered – for the very first time – what memories John hid from. He felt ashamed that he'd never wondered before. How many times had Sheppard answered the door a little too quickly, a little too eager to leave the emptiness of his room? Where did he go when the memories got too close and there was no one knocking at the door seeking their own distractions?
Ronon shifted angrily in his seat. The tension hanging over the city was a toxic blanket that muffled every friendly voice and twisted every groan of the city or flicker out of the corner of one's eye into suspicion. The city's shield had been up for 24 hours, but only perfect golden sunlight had pummeled its defenses until night bloomed, equally clear and beautiful.
All he knew was that if Sheppard were awake – if he weren't lying in front of him dying by inches – Ronon would be wandering the halls to Sheppard's room. And Sheppard would open the door.
No, Sheppard would be in the control room, in the thick of it – figuring it out and finding a way to fix things.
"How is the Colonel this evening?"
The soft voice startled Ronon out of angry speculation and he lifted his head to find Dr. Zimmer tugging a chair over to sit beside him.
"Uh, Sheppard's worse. More bruising, other side this time. More machines hooked up. His insides aren't working."
Ronon didn't have the medical words, or he didn't have the courage to use them. He'd watched while alarms wailed and Sheppard laid more of his life into the brutal hands of technology.
"Renal failure and jaundice," Zimmer confirmed, holding up Sheppard's chart briefly before letting it swing back to slap against its hook. "Have your people learned any more about how or why these physical symptoms are manifesting?"
"Not really. No one knows much about ascension. No one but Sheppard has ever done it half way."
"But you said he'd done it before?"
"The last time we fought the Ori."
"Did the Colonel experience this kind of thing then?"
Ronon thought back to that planet he'd tried so hard to forget in the years since. "He wasn't gone long that time, but his body did react a couple of times to…something." Ronon remembered heaving a wildly thrashing John through the 'gate as they'd struggled to escape. "Sheppard said he fought the Ori."
"And you believe he is fighting her, now?"
"Yes." The affirmation was adamant.
"So perhaps, his physical body is reacting to whatever he is experiencing in that other plane," Zimmer said, softly curious. Ronon frowned. It was an obvious assumption. He tried to remember if someone had already come up with it.
"Makes sense. Not a nice thought. If this is what he's going through here…" Ronon stopped, finding the idea more disturbing the more he thought about it.
He'd spent two hours in the meeting with Woolsey, Teyla, Lorne and the SGC discussing what defenses they had against an ascended being that might decide to make her presence known at any moment. The wraith-destroying lightening bolts the Ancient Chaya had been able to produce came up many times. Being torn up from the inside seemed even more terrifying to Ronon.
"Sheppard is strong. He won't give up. If there's a way to fight the Ori off, he'll find it."
"I believe you. I've spent some more time with the Colonel's record and he seems a remarkable man." The doctor pushed himself up and turned to leave. He stopped at the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking hesitant, but compelled to speak.
"It occurs to me that if experience can be transferred from that plane to here, it could work the other way, too."
"What?" Ronon shook his head, confused.
"I mean, talk to your friend. Give him encouragement he needs for the fight. He's not gone, he's lost. Help him find his way. When you figure out how to help him defeat the Ori, tell him."
"Right."
Ronon wasn't convinced, but after Zimmer left and Ronon was alone again, the idea grew heavy on Ronon's mind. Where did Sheppard go when memories grew thick? The answer sprang suddenly to mind, and Ronon hung his head with the insight into his friend. Sheppard ran from his own demons by chasing after the demons of others.
Zimmer was right. This time Sheppard needed help. And Ronon owed him too many nighttime visits not to repay some of that debt.
Feeling completely awkward, Ronon pulled the chair closer to the bed, situating himself on the side that Sheppard's quiet, flushed face was turned slightly towards. He looked at his friend for a long time, trying to see past the tubes and wires and softly beeping machines.
"Hey, Sheppard," he began, then cleared his throat and looked around nervously. "Doc says I should, you know, talk to you and stuff. I know you're with the Ori. I know you're fighting, because you're too damn stubborn to let that stanga mess around with us like she did last time."
He leaned forward, growing more courageous with a sudden thought. "You're also too damn responsible for your own good. You don't have to do everything yourself, Sheppard. You give me the word, tell me what to do, and I'm there for you, buddy."
A nurse walked in and Ronon stopped abruptly, reddening. The nurse performed her duties quickly and quietly and left again with only a curious look back. Ronon took a deep breath.
"You're not alone, Sheppard. You don't have to do it alone."
John lay against the fabric of space-time, resting in nothingness. He was confused. He didn't know where he was. He finally decided that lying around wasn't going to get him any answers so he sat up. It turned out to be one of the weirder things he'd done, lately.
He was nowhere, and everywhere at the same time. He could see the Pegasus Galaxy stretching out around him in every shade of radiation. He also saw Atlantis lying peacefully on its ocean cushion, a little glowing ball against a pitch black sea.
"Why did they raise the shield?" he wondered out loud to himself. And then he wondered where that thought had come from. He couldn't remember…anything.
Alarmed, he pushed harder to try to stand up. The tug and pull of a thousand needle-sharp prickles drew his attention back to his own consciousness. He was wrapped in glimmering threads, some frayed, all stretched tightly to a nearly painful tension. Most trailed their way into the city nearby, but a few stretched out of sight, beyond the horizon of this galaxy.
He followed the closest lines and saw…himself. They were woven into the body that lay motionless against white sheets. Many were red with blood, and vibrated with pain. He cringed away from the red ones then watched in horror as they frayed and tore away. He snatched for the remaining threads, holding them tightly, clutching them against his chest to protect them.
A low chuckle rippled through his awareness and he shuddered. Someone else was here. He looked around and finally saw her, circling him. He could feel her pleasure at his confusion, and the shudder deepened. He had no name for her, but fear was pulsing through him from a primal source. She definitely wasn't on his list of friends to invite to a picnic.
"Where am I?" he asked when she said nothing. Who am I? Was what he wanted to ask.
"We are together. That is all that matters," she whispered. And then she pounced.
John felt her slide into his mind and he cried out at the desperate discomfort. He struggled at the invasion, shoved her away bit by bit. She retreated at last and he felt a moment of victory until she began to hum with greater pleasure than before.
"Who are you?" he panted.
She pounced again, the attack even more ferocious than before. The galaxy of light began to fade away and another place formed around him as she bent his mind into her own shapes. His struggles grew weaker and he felt himself slipping into the illusion she was creating. He held tightly to the threads. One of them was vibrating, but not with pain; it was attached to a rumbling voice, a familiar tone.
For a moment, he threw all his effort into listening to that one thread, that single line of comfort. Atlantis. The word surfaced again and he suddenly knew it was the shielded city he'd seen below.
Ori. Siren. More words rippled along the thread. He had a name for the one who pulled and scratched at his mind. He knew why the city defended itself. He knew the danger it was in.
Siren screeched in annoyance, yanked on his mind to bring him to her game. He resisted. He had to keep remembering. He had to find a way to fight like the thread was coaxing him to do. The challenge set his mind vibrating with defiance. Siren yanked again and he lashed back, raking at her with frustration born of fierce devotion.
Siren's response was instant and devastating. A great wave rose from the waters to form a giant wall of water, oily and glistening in the moonlight. The wall bent over the delicate snowflake of the glowing city, poised to drown everything under its massive weight.
"No!"
John flung his consciousness towards the city, desperate to shield it from the wave. He screamed in frustration as the threads held him tightly bound, far out of reach. He leaned until the threads were painfully tight. One or two snapped with a jagged stab, but he was still too far away.
Siren chuckled, her voice low and sultry.
"Come," she cooed, still holding the water back, but she let it lean, ever so slightly closer to his home.
John nodded and the water collapsed back into the ocean leaving behind a circle of waves that spread even to the mainland where it washed away sandy beaches and scoured costal rock. He waited meekly until Siren slipped into his mind and called him again. She crushed out his memory, stretching and tearing at the thread that still vibrated in his hand with a warm buzz. But the thread didn't break.
When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else. He was wearing his uniform. Wraith darts whined overhead and he began to run, looking for shelter from vivid-bright culling beams. People were screaming all around him. He had a jumper. He would get them to safety. But he couldn't. He didn't…
When the primary male wraith finished herding the terrified villagers onto a waiting cruiser, it turned last to John.
"There is no need to take you," it hissed through drooling, crystal teeth.
The warrior drones holding his arms yanked him forward and shoved him to his knees. He looked up into the nightmare face, then closed his eyes.
The scream that escaped was defiant. The pain of his life being ripped through his chest was more than he'd yet endured, but it was bearable. He remembered a little. He remembered enough. He would protect the city.
You're not alone, Sheppard, the thread had said.
