A/N: This was the hardest of all the chapters. And also my favorite. As always. Thank you everyone who reviewed, and thank you Drufan for the wonderful and much needed beta'ing.
Ch. 24
Shatter
John wished he had said something while he had the chance, because Teyla had given him the opening to talk about his dream and everything that went with it. It wasn't so much that anything had changed in some drastic manner that had left them uneasy in each other's company. Nothing had changed, actually, except that Sheppard was more aware.
More aware of their caution, their concern, and an air of walking on eggshells around him. It had been the prevalent attitude since Carson had brought him home. He was used to it, but without the extra distractions Atlantis provided in the form of movies, music, and the team needed elsewhere, it was taking longer getting back to ignoring it.
Which wasn't happening. It was McKay's constant exaggerated consideration – practically tripping over himself to make John feel comfortable (he had gone as far as slipping candy bars into John's bag as though he hadn't noticed, and even handing over a painstakingly put together s'more when John's had fallen in the fire) that made it all so glaring.
It hurt being so aware of it. All that effort, that kind of compassion and love that only a family would have for each other, was candy to the little voice hissing on just how much of a selfish bastard he was to the image of Anja being sucked to ninety years of age. John argued he couldn't have known that that would happen to Anja, that it was going to happen. The voice argued back that he had known all right. It was, after all, the reason he wasn't supposed to have made friends with the woman and her children.
You leave her kids orphans to avoid one night of rolling around in the sack and let everyone think you're the victim? That woman died for the sake of your dignity and control issues, Sheppard. And you won't tell them, the ones who have the right to know – who need to know – that you aren't the selfless leader they think you are.
John should have said something and was now lamenting it. He wished they would ask already. He knew they wanted to ask, but putting him first wouldn't let them. He knew the voice was right, about everything – that they needed to know, had a right to know, would eventually find out in some unforeseen manner anyways; but for those inexplicable reasons that always turned out to be a bunch of crap in the end, John couldn't bring himself to say anything.
He opted for long, as near as possible to solitary, walks from the camp to the river and back; never truly solitary because Ronon would always be several steps behind watching his back against the still-unknown dangers of the mainland. John both appreciated it and hated it, which was pretty much the story of his life as of late. Hate, mostly. He hated solitude and company. He hated distraction and the constant chatter of his own brain. The kindness and concern, wanting it, not wanting it, and not deserving it. His desire for secrecy, the guilt of keeping secrets, the guilt over what he had done, knowing he hadn't meant it, knowing he should have known, the voice that was always right and his inability to tell it otherwise.
Above all, he was really, really starting to hate himself. But he supposed that he deserved.
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Ronon didn't think Sheppard was trying to lose him by waking up an hour earlier each night for another long walk to the river. The new routine had manifested after only two days, today making three nights in a row. John had been doing a lot of walking, always to and from the river morning, then again at noon, and staying until twilight. No one asked him about it since there wasn't much of a point. If Sheppard answered, it would be something elusive, simple, or he just wouldn't answer at all. It was his way.
Although, Ronon had to wonder if John took the walks to keep from saying anything.
That dream. One night of normalcy shattered by a single nightmare. It wasn't as though they didn't know Sheppard had been having bad dreams, that some of those dreams reduced him to a quivering lump of terror and skewed reality. There would be a feeling of humiliation on John's part, but he was acting more as though the others had seen something they were not meant to see more than witnessing something that was a little on the embarrassing side.
It was achingly obvious he was ashamed to be around them.
As per the routine, Ronon forced himself to wait until the beam of the flashlight was only a blob of flickering white through the foliage, then got up to follow after. Sheppard wasn't a dull-witted man and probably knew he was being followed. Ronon, however, felt the man deserved a little bit of an illusion of isolation. This time he left a note rather than waking Teyla to tell her what he was doing Then he set off into the woods after his team leader, accustomed as needed to wade through the underbrush in the dark, which was walking a wide clear path compared to running for his life at night.
He found Sheppard in his usual spot – sitting on a bare, flat shelf of rock on the shore's edge just out of reach of the fall's spray, hunched and miserable in a gray sweater, black sweat pants, and tennis-shoes without socks. As much as Ronon tried not to think it, in the pale light of the early twilight hours, Sheppard seemed smaller and frailer, enough to be carried away like dead leaves and dust on the wind.
There was little in life that frightened Ronon, really truly scared him on a continuous basis beyond the immediate moment that was more fight or flight instinct. Fears of the kind that were mental – what-ifs and probabilities, worries and concerns that stuck to him, sitting at the back of his mind like a lump of cold stone. Five little rocks – his new home, the people who resided there, and the three he called teammates.
What Ronon saw now scared the hell out of him, because it was almost too easy to think Sheppard an inferior copy of himself, hollowed out, and decaying right before his team's eyes until there was no Sheppard – real or fake – left to them. It also pissed him off. As much as he understood the need to be alone, he didn't want Sheppard to be alone. Yes, technically he wasn't, it just felt like he was.
Ronon was usually better at self restraint but he really couldn't take it anymore. It was being selfish, he knew. He didn't care. He'd come to learn the hard way that people really weren't better off alone.
So he broke from his cover, taking long but casual strides to a rock several feet from Sheppard's and settling himself down on it. If Sheppard knew he was there, he didn't act like it, or acknowledge his presence in anyway, which was fine. It wasn't about being acknowledged, it was about being there.
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There wasn't enough heat to the fire to rekindle it. Teyla piled fresh wood over the gray ashes and then lit the kindling with her laser. The wood smoked before smoldering with red-hot embers that she gently blew on coaxing tired sparks into tongues of flames. She set the metal tea-pot of water next to those flames.
"Morning."
Teyla looked up at Dr. McKay stepping out of the jumper, lifting his arms and arching his back in a stretch. The blue-striped button night-shirt he wore rode up exposing a sliver of white belly. McKay must have felt a draft when he dropped out of the stretch tugging the shirt down while glancing around.
"Sheppard and Ronon on another little nature hike, I take it," he said with masked indifference. "I swear they keep getting up earlier and earlier. It's barbaric."
Teyla smiled in response, holding the black iron pan over the fire to heat it.
Rodney clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. "So... what's on the agenda for today? Waiting for Sheppard to come back? More waiting? Seriously, is it just me or has he been avoiding us. I thought the whole point of this trip was team bonding. And what's for breakfast?"
"Bacon and orfa eggs."
Rodney's eyes brightened. "Those eggs with the really big yoke? I love those." He padded over to the nearest chair and settled down, leaning forward with hungry intent when Teyla cracked the first of the blue/violet eggs into the pan when it was finally hot enough.
"The purpose of this trip was to occupy Colonel Sheppard," Teyla said.
"Which is working out oh so well," McKay coolly replied. "Someone needs to talk to him. Seriously, he can't avoid us forever and the whole 'giving him time and space' theory appears to be having a backwards affect. You should talk to him. You're good at that kind of thing."
Teyla gnawed her bottom lip to hide a wince. Talking to Sheppard, getting him to respond – as much as she longed for Sheppard to tell her what was wrong-- it felt too hypocritical of her expecting him to open up when she was making an effort to avoid opening up herself. In times like these, she would have been confiding in Halling by now, and could not bring herself to do even that much.
Guilt surged biting, and in an uncharacteristic show of bitterness for having the emotion resurfaced, she tightly responded, "Are you not usually the one pushing John to speak when he does not wish to?"
Rodney blinked, mouth partially open in a gape. "Uh, well..." his stuttering brought her a momentary sense of vindication. Then he cleared his throat uneasily. "I, uh... I think I've kind of done enough damage."
Teyla's revenge heaped her guilt higher. She had forgotten Rodney was still retaining remorse from the incident at the party. She said nothing, flipping the eggs as a brief distraction until she was able to formulate kinder words. "I think," she said, "that is why we have not talked to him. I do not believe what we are doing, and have done, can be considered as right or wrong. We are merely trying and, so far, what we have tried has not worked. I think..." She looked up at him "…we are all afraid of making things worse."
Rodney snorted a caustic laugh. "This is really bad, isn't it? And I mean 'we-have-no-freakin'-clue-how-bad-this-is' kind of bad. A nothing-we-can-do bad. So bad that even if we did get him to tell us what happened, it won't make a damn lick of difference." He stared off into the woods, seconds crawling by in a long moment of contemplative silence. "He'll probably end up wanting to go back to earth, thinking himself useless or something." He shook his head and then looked directly at her with fright in his eyes and a jaded expression on his face. "What do we do?"
It pained her, not being able to answer.
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Ronon's silent presence was killing John, and he suddenly missed the man's more obscured presence to this obvious one. It was a distraction, yet not the kind he needed.
Is this really fair, John? He's not going to leave until you leave. Look at him. Patient, calm, like he does this kind of thing all the time. He's doing it for you. He's out here because of you, thought up this whole camping trip thing for you. Rodney, Teyla – they came for you. They're helping 'you'. Looking out for 'you'. Wasting their time and talents all for 'you'. And you refuse to tell them to stop, to let you go. Damn, you really are selfish.
John dropped his eyes to the rock he was sitting on, picking up a twig caught in a shallow crevice. He used his thumbnail to dig into the desperately clinging remainder of bark, peeling it all the way to the smooth bone-white insides. As a preoccupation, it sucked. Ronon's proximity was giving the voice plenty to talk about.
They're going to find out, John. And it'll be bad, because they aren't going to be too happy about you having kept this from them. They need to be able to trust you and they can't. Shouldn't you let them know? Shouldn't you let them in on the possibility that the next time you lead them off world and you hear a dart coming that you're going to take off back to the gate, everyone else be damned?
John picked faster. That's not going to happen.
You sure?
I would never do that to them. If there was even the slightest possibility, he would resign his commission, return to Earth, and never look back. He would never do that to his team, and would do what he had to in order to prevent it.
But the voice had its intent and its tactics. Go back to Earth – good idea, John. Play it safe. Give up.
The twig snapped in John's shaking hands.
Oh, that's right, you're not a quitter. Think about it, John, and I mean really think about it. If they knew, all knew, how far you went for the sake of 'not giving up and giving in' how do you think they're going to handle it?
John shook his head. They won't care. I've done a lot of things, made a lot of mistakes. They've forgiven me.
Just like you forgave McKay after Doranda.
I did forgive him.
You stopped trusting him.
I don't trust his ego. I trust him.
Does he know that?
Yes he knows that. Damn it, he knows! He...
You're a hypocrite. How is what you did any different? What right do you have to be treated any different? What right do you have to keep their trust?
John covered his ears, hoping the physical affect would translate to a mental one and shut the damn voice up.
Crap you're pathetic. The queen should have just killed you. You're useless.
Shut up, just shut up!
You know it's true, John. All of it! You screwed up. You were selfish. And because of that, two people are dead!
I didn't know, I didn't freakin' know!
You did know! You did! When are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself, wake up, and realize it! Crap, John! All you'd needed to do was give in. One night, one romp, let Vee'rana take you and end of story. But you didn't because your precious pride couldn't handle it. Sticking it to one worshiper was more important than the life of an innocent woman, a mother, a human being who was nothing but kind to you. You killed her, John. You. Killed. Her. You made a choice and you chose yourself. You killed her.
No...
You freakin' killed her!
I didn't...
YOU KILLED HER JOHN SHEPPARD. YOU KILLED HER!
"Nooo! Shut up just shut up you bastard shut uuuup!"
"Sheppard?"
John snapped his head around to see Ronon staring at him wearing a look not normally seen on the stoic runner: hesitant fear. John stared back, chest heaving, body shaking, blood running fast and arctic in his veins. He hadn't realized he'd said anything out loud. Horror squeezed his chest. Shame danced with anger, revulsion morphing into panic that had him pulling in his surroundings searching out the quickest escape route. This was the point where Ronon would ask what was wrong. Or ask nothing at all, say nothing at all. He would convince John to head back to the camp where they would pack up, head home, and the runner would tattle to Heightmeyer and Carson because it wasn't healthy answering the voices in your head out loud.
Then the questions would come the real questions everyone had been afraid to ask but would have to ask. The questions he wanted them and not wanted them to ask. The million dollar question.
What the hell happened to you on that ship?
And it would be about damn time.
John laughed, small at the start with a few convulsive jerks of his chest working upward into breathy, fast and hysterical. He wanted them to ask. Oh, gosh, how he wanted them to ask, couldn't wait for them to ask. So why wait for the question when he could just give the answer right here, right now? Like practice, so that the next time he had to reiterate it to numerous shrinks it would sound better.
John didn't care anymore. He just wanted the voice to stop.
It hit him with such a nauseating sense of deja vu that tears burned in his eyes spilling down his face even as he laughed and cringed. "Ronon," he gasped. "Ronon I – I did something bad."
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Ronon blinked. "What?"
John covered his mouth trying to dam back the laughter convulsing his body. Tears poured fast down his cheeks, even rolling over the tips of his fingers.
"I..." Sheppard started from behind his hand, then lowered it to cough and pushed onward through hiccups and silent chuckling. "I did a bad, bad thing."
Ronon narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
The laughter increased, high-pitched and fast, giddy giggles of manic amusement that disturbed Ronon like nothing ever had. Dex rose abruptly, surging forward, pushing frustration over fear thinking possibly, just possibly, John had been compromised after all. In which case, Sheppard didn't have the luxury to play verbal games.
"What did you do?" Ronon snarled, advancing fast, stretching to his full height.
The action had an immediate effect, just not the one Ronon wanted. Sheppard panicked, the laughter died, and his body froze for less than a heartbeat Then he startled into motion, scrabbling madly back over the rock only to crash back-first onto the ground and cry out. The broken whimper of pain halted Ronon. Sheppard, however, kept scrambling until blocked by a boulder that he shrank against, shaking.
Shocked, Ronon took a step back, raising his hands in placation and asking in a softer voice "What did you do, Sheppard?"
John looked up at him, wide-eyed, frightened before his gaze grew distant and glassy, deteriorating back to that earlier display of insanity. His mouth twitched as though unable to decide whether to form a frown or a smile. "I killed Anja."
Ronon lowered his hands and furrowed his brow. "The girl you tried to save?"
John nodded. He braced himself against the rock behind him to push himself shakily to his feet leaving a trail of bloody hand prints over the slick surface. That explained the cry of pain, as did the way he cradled his casted wrist to his chest.
"I killed her," he said more quietly, and the manic glee left his eyes. In its place was confusionand while his gaze wandered their surroundings as if realizing for the first time where he was Sheppard moved away from the boulder. Ronon made to follow, thinking Sheppard was heading back to the camp, when the pilot stopped, stared into the forest, turned, stared at the waterfall, and then let his gaze wander again.
"Sheppard?" Ronon said, quietly, kindly, keeping every muscle locked to prevent any sudden movement that might spook the man. "You told us you tried to save her."
John's gaze hardened, turning confusion to anger, and he shook his head. "I knew," he spat with so much loathing one would think he was talking about Kolya. "I knew what Vee'rana would do." He started to pace, slow, to and from the shore agitated and tense as a caged, wild animal. "I knew what the consequences would be. I knew, I damn well knew. And I didn't care." He stopped, blinking, the confusion returning. "No... No, I – I cared. I did care. I just... I couldn't. It would have been giving up. It... I..." Anger replaced confusion, harder, hotter, flickering like lightning in John's eyes. He curled his lip in a snarl and his fingers into a tight fist squeezing drops of blood that patted like first rain on the rocky ground.
"I'm a selfish son of a bitch!" he whirled around fast slamming his foot into the boulder, then scooped up pebbles and stones, one after the other, tossing them at the rock, the river, across the river, wherever he could and with enough force that it amazed Ronon he didn't dislocate his shoulder.
"Let her take me!" he yelled, throwing a rock at the boulder that clacked off the surface, leaving a white scar. "That's all!" A pebble at the river. "Let her rape me!" A rock at the fall. "One stupid night!" A rock over the river to crack loud into a tree. "But I wouldn't! Because I'm a control freak!" The last pebble he tossed too far for Ronon to see where it landed. Sheppard didn't pick up another. He stumbled back, slamming the heel of his hands into his head repeatedly. "You happy you son of a bitch? I said it! You happy, huh? You happy now!" He hammered his forehead, hitting then squeezing then more hitting.
Balking, bewildered, hesitant for no more than a second, Ronon finally rushed forward, grabbing John's wrists and pulling his hands away. "Sheppard! Sheppard, calm down! Look at me. John, look at me now!"
John didn't look at him. He fought, screaming, bucking backward, kicking out forcing Ronon to finally pin him to the ground, flipping him onto his stomach to pull his arm up behind his back with the other arm trapped under his body. Had this been anyone else, the usual procedure would have been to plant his knee in the spine, or his elbow. Ronon went for pressing his body into Sheppard's back, dispersing the pressure to prevent as little pain as possible, though the pebbles and rocks digging into John's chest and stomach couldn't be doing him any favors.
Ronon was so intent on trying to restrain Sheppard in a way that wouldn't hurt him that he barely noticed the man going stillexcept for the shaking, which was worse.
"Ronon," John said, his voice high and strained and afraid. "Ronon, get off me." He squirmed, just a little. "Ronon, come on, please. You've – you've gotta get off me."
Sheppard was begging. It hit Ronon, then, both what he was doing and what it must be causing Sheppard to relive, and it sickened him. He didn't hesitate moving off of Sheppard, but kept a good yet gentle grip on one wrist. "Sorry," he said, leading Sheppard out of the falls' spray and back to the flat rock. He coaxed John to sit. Sheppard did, dropping onto the rock, cradling his head in one hand, the casted arm pressed against his stomach.
Ronon crouching in front of him, waited long enough for Sheppard to get a little more together and then asked, "What happened?"
Sheppard's body shuddered. He sucked in a shaking breath. "They killed Anja because I fought back. They killed the woman I fought back against because... she kept me up all night humming. And she wanted to…um..."
"Rape you?" Ronon supplied.
John lifted his head enough for Ronon to see his bloodshot, tired, yet glaring eyes. "I was going to say 'have her way with me'."
Ronon just shrugged.
John shook his head and dropped his hand to his side. "What happened to Anja... I knew it would happen. What happened to Vee'rana – the, uh, humming rapist – I didn't expect that. I didn't want it to happen, either. I'd just wanted her to leave me alone."
Ronon moved to sit beside John. "What happened to Vee'rana?"
"Wraith queen broke her neck." John swallowed convulsively, hunching miserably. "That's when I bowed, because I wanted Vee'rana to leave me alone."
Ronon stared at John who kept his gaze anywhere but on Ronon. Shame and anger and pure self-loathing rippled off the man like a heat wave. It was painful sensing it just as bad as seeing it.
"I was selfish," John said, monotone, empty and completely defeated.
It pissed Ronon off. And here he thought he couldn't hate the wraith more than he already did. For a moment, he said nothing, unable to. Beneath the anger was a sudden desire to weep for the man who was his friend more than he was his leader. It was a sorrow that encompassed more than the wounded body and broken mind beside him. It took into account heart and soul that, for all Ronon knew, had been irrevocably damaged: pieces of Sheppard that it had once been so easy to believe could never be so much as cracked.
Damn the wraith. Damn them all to the underworld.
Ronon placed his hand on the quaking shoulder. "It wasn't your fault." By the Ancestors, none of it was his fault. Ronon knew in a way no one else could ever lay claim to, understood in a way words were insufficient to describe. The pain, confusion, torture, self-hatred – all of it. He knew he got it.
And it was only now hitting him. The need to cry became a need to laugh and punch himself in the face.
Ronon dropped his hand from John's shoulder. "When I was a Runner…" He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees, inclined enough for a better view of Sheppard's face "…the first four days released, I got it through my head pretty fast to avoid populated worlds. Which wasn't possible. So I thought that if I could just avoid the towns and cities, keep the wraith hunting me away from them, then that would be good enough. It was, if the town or city was far enough away, a couple- of-days-to-get-there kind of distance. I'd always make sure to go the opposite way, keep close to the gate to head out as soon as possible. I did everything I could to avoid populations. Except... they didn't always avoid me. One injury, one disease, forcing me to stay longer, seek shelter. Then one planet, one wound too infected to deal with. There was a town nearby. The people found me, brought me back to help me. And I let them. I thought, 'why not?' The wraith hadn't come as quick as they usually had. I thought I had time enough to let them help me. When they were done and I was strong enough, I left... just as the wraith came."
John's head moved toward Ronon. Not enough to establish eye contact, just enough to let Ronon know he was listening.
"When it comes to the wraith," Ronon continued, "there's no doing anything right. You would have been holding off the inevitable by sleeping with Vee'rana, Sheppard. Not stopping it."
"It would have bought Anja a little more time with her kids," John argued, "or until the hive was attacked."
"Probably not," Ronon said. "They probably would have killed her for something else. Maybe just to see how you would react. And there wouldn't have been one night with Vee'rana. There would be night after night with someone else being threatened in between."
John's shoulders hunched and back curved in a cringe, and he shuddered. Ronon knew, in a way, that meant she had done it again. And if she had done it again...
"Did she?" Ronon asked.
"She tried," John said, emotionless, "then died."
"You didn't have a choice," Ronon stated.
"She was going to kill Anja's daughter." John's head shot up to lock eyes with Ronon at last, pleading, confused and drowning in utter despair. "Ronon, what did I do wrong? If the ship hadn't been attacked I would have given them everything they wanted. Where did I go wrong?"
Ronon had already answered that question, but not in the way Sheppard needed to hear. "No where. There was nothing you could have done."
"Then why doesn't it feel like it? Why won't the voice shut up?"
"Because the voice doesn't know anything" Ronon growled. "You didn't do anything, Sheppard."
John snorted and the bitter rage turned his gold-green eyes dark and heated. "I know."
Ronon grabbed his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to force John away from that line of thought. "You didn't do anything because everything that happened was exactly what the wraith had wanted. You couldn't do anything wrong. There was no right or wrong. And I know because I have to remind myself of that every day. As much as I hated myself for what happened to that town, I hated the wraith even more. As much as I thought I didn't deserve to live, life was the only revenge I had against them. Life, Sheppard. Living. Right here, right now. If that voice starts arguing otherwise, think about the wraith, what they did to you, what they made you do. They broke you, Sheppard, but broken things can be put back together. Just ask McKay."
That elicited a very brief, very sickly twitch of a smile from John. "How do I do that... put myself together?"
Ronon shrugged. "Don't know. But we'll help you figure it out."
John looked down at his hands, turning them palm up. The blood had dried into flakes and crusts all over his palms and brown in his fingernails The source was from cuts and scrapes that weren't deep but needed to be cleaned up. "I don't know what to say to the others."
"Say what you can."
John looked at him. "What do you think'll happen if I do?"
Ronon stared back. "They'll listen." It probably wasn't the answer John wanted it was simply the only one Ronon could give. Honestly, there didn't need to be an answer. They already knew. Teyla, always open minded, would listen, absorb, and understand. Rodney would probably be more shocked, more troubled. Yet despite what Sheppard might be thinking, he would regard John no differently.
Ronon clasped him lightly on the shoulder-blade. "Ready to go back?" He wasn't going to make him, but they needed to return. John was still shivering hard and looked like he could barely manage sitting up. His sweater was moist from early morning dew and the spray from the waterfall, enhancing the chill Ronon knew Sheppard was feeling. Then there were the cuts on his hands that needed to be taken care of immediately.
John didn't reply except to give an unsteady nod. Ronon helped him to his feet, keeping hold of his arm when Sheppard wasn't able to find stable footing. They weren't half-way back to the camp when Sheppard folded his arms tight around his chest with a sharply indrawn breath. "D-damn, when did it g-get so c-cold?"
The air was cool at best, and barely. Ronon removed his coat placing it around John's shoulders. It didn't really help. As soon as they arrived back at camp, John was barely keeping upright out of exhaustion and Ronon was practically carrying him. He got John into the jumper, removed the coat and shoes, and then wrapped him below the armpits in the sleeping bag to still have access to his hands.
Sheppard was out the moment he was prone. Not even the sting of the alcohol could wake him. Between the poor sleep and a complete mental shattering, Ronon wasn't surprised. He wrapped John's hands in gauze and tucked them inside the bag, pulling it up to his shoulders and adding a second blanket on top. He left John to his sleep, heading for the fire and sprawling himself into the nearest chair. Watching a mental shattering and preventing subsequent damage from it was exhausting. It wasn't until Rodney and Teyla returned carrying a plastic bag of mushrooms that he realized they'd been gone.
Both stepped out of the woods, slowing on approach when they took notice of him.
"Ronon?" Teyla said, eyes wide and searching. "Where is John?"
"Jumper," Ronon said, "sleeping."
Rodney looked from the jumper to Ronon. "Is he all right?"
"Nope."
Both his teammates gave him an odd look, Teyla's bewildered and Rodney's about to tip over into irate.
"Probably better than he was, though," Ronon said.
Teyla finished her short trip to the fire, pulling a cutting board from their bag of cooking utensils to slice the mushrooms on. "Breakfast is almost ready. We'll he be wanting any?" she asked.
Ronon shook his head. "Let him sleep. He needs that more right now."
"Why, what happened?" Rodney said, still standing, obviously torn between getting answers out of Ronon and going to check on John.
"Sheppard'll tell you when he wakes up.
Which didn't happen until early evening. John awoke looking worse off than when he had gone to sleep – red-eyed, pale and uncoordinated. He remained wrapped up in his sleeping bag as he ate as much as he could of the only meal he'd had the entire day. He didn't talk until he was finished, and even then remained tight lipped and painfully hesitant.
"It's okay to tell them," Ronon said, not as permission, just as a reminder that it really was okay. Teyla scooted her chair next to Sheppard's to put her arm around his bony shoulders since he was still shaking.
Then, John talked. "The reason... I couldn't save Anja..." It wasn't detailed, but it didn't need to be. Anja had died because he fought. His tormentor died because he'd given in. There had been no winning situations and wise choices, only paths that had all led to the same place.
Everyone listened without saying a word, including McKay, who was pale and open-mouthed in horror by the end.
"I didn't mean to," John said.
Teyla pulled him in closer. "We know."
Rodney cleared his throat, straightening. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't. You know?"
John nodded. The second telling had been just as tiring as the first, and Sheppard needed help getting back into the Jumper. They settled him first and then settled themselves after Ronon doused the fire. He was the last one to slip into his bag, but not before kneeling next to John and leaning in toward his ear to whisper.
"You didn't kill them, Sheppard. Doesn't matter what anyone else says. You didn't kill them."
Later in the night, John whimpered in his sleep.
At least he didn't wake up screaming.
TBC...
A/N: Hope that was satisfactory. As I said, it was the hardest chapter to write.