Chapter 16

Time had passed; day-long, night-long, in a blur of cold and heat, discomfort and distress. Voices spoke to him, but he didn't respond, because he had been in this situation before, hurt and helpless, and he found the best approach was to ignore it and do his best to pretend it was happening to someone else.

The sensations of discomfort and sometimes pain resolved themselves into the routines and rhythms of the Atlantis infirmary and John knew he would soon have to make some kind of effort to show that his awareness had returned. But he was warm and relaxed, no doubt due, in part, to something that he should make the most of, while it made its covert way into his veins. He drifted.

It wasn't until an intriguing, repetitive sound pricked at John's consciousness that he finally worked up the enthusiasm to pay attention to his surroundings. He still didn't open his eyes, however; that would be giving too much away. The sound was an alternating tap-thud, tap-thud, approaching and then receding unevenly. It stopped and John heard Ronon's voice.

"See? Can I go?"

John almost smiled, but managed to remain impassive, waiting to see what would happen.

"Ronon, it's not a question of whether you can manage, but whether you should!" Carson: entertainingly exasperated, as usual. This could be good. "You'll tear your stitches! I want you to use the wheelchair!"

"Wheelchair's stupid."

"Then you can stay right here until I decide you're healed enough to use the crutches!"

"You gonna stop me?"

There was a slight pause and then Carson's voice took on a smug note, as if he had found the perfect clincher to his argument. "No! He is!"

There was another, longer pause. John frowned, feeling the determined regard of two pairs of eyes. He opened his, tentatively; Carson, arms folded, watched him with one eyebrow raised and Ronon, leaning on crutches, a mischievous grin lurking under the fall of dreadlocks. It crossed John's mind that the argument had been staged, in order to get him to return to the waking world.

"Hey, Carson... Chewie?" said John, innocently, annoyed that his voice was so weak and croaky. "What's going on?" He regarded Ronon's casted leg and bandaged arm in puzzlement.

"Mutiny," said Carson, bluntly. "The flagrant disobeying of doctor's orders."

"Stupid orders," rumbled Ronon.

"C'mon, buddy. Beckett knows what he's talking about."

"You gonna do what he says?"

"Well, yeah, of course I am!" said John, then mumbled, "mostly," under his breath, which spoiled the effect. "What happened to you?"

Ronon shrugged, as far as he was able, around the crutches. "Hunt went bad, coupla grenza cornered me." John knew there was far more to the story than Ronon's typically minimalist report, but it could wait.

Carson called over the Marine who had been lurking at a safe distance with the hated wheelchair, and Ronon subsided into it, grumbling, his casted leg supported, and was wheeled away. He gave John a grinning thumbs up over his shoulder as he went, to which John responded with a half-smile and a casual flick of his fingers, knowing that he would be unlikely to escape from under Carson's eye any time soon. The doctor began checking John's various IVs and blood pressure and whatever else it was doctors did when they wanted you to know that you were in disgrace for ending up on their hands once again.

"I did try to stay in and rest, Carson," said John, not sure why he was feeling guilty.

"I know you did, Colonel. Teyla told me what happened."

"Hey, is Teyla okay? How long have I been here? And what time is it?" John's throat and chest began to object to his rush of urgent questions, making him cough, which resulted in savage, stabbing reminders of his injured ribs.

"Slowly, John," said Carson, helping him drink some water and indicating a blanket-shrouded lump in one of the other beds. "Teyla's going to be fine. She was exhausted and she's pretty stiff from all the bruising and cuts, but she'll soon recover." He looked at his watch. "We brought you both back at about ten o'clock, Atlantis time, yesterday morning, and it's just coming up to two pm now."

"And Teyla's still asleep?" John asked, worriedly.

"No! She was up and about this morning," said Carson. "It's you that's been enjoying 'the honey-heavy dew of slumber' for so long."

John frowned, feeling the conversation was getting away from him. He rubbed his gritty eyes, wincing at the damage he encountered, and thought back to the long, dark journey through the cave system. He couldn't recall making it to the surface.

"Rodney! He was there, in the caves, and he hates places like that!"

"Yes, well, he was, let's say, a bit 'spooked', but he's fine too. Colonel, don't you want to know the details of your condition?"

"Not really," replied John, with a grimace. "I guess it could probably be summed up as 'crappy'."

"An apt enough description," agreed Carson. "Your main problem was hypothermia, and then there are the four cracked ribs, and that chest infection that wasn't too bad has got a pretty good grip now. Last night, I thought you were in for a bout of pneumonia, but we've headed that one off. And I had to restitch your arm. And then there's all the other minor injuries."

"Oh," said John. "I think I'll upgrade to 'real crappy', then."

"I'll write that on your chart, Colonel."

oOo

So familiar was the view that Elizabeth was sure she could have drawn it from memory. If she had thought to bring some good-quality pastels to the Pegasus Galaxy, the portrait could have graced her office wall: 'John Sheppard in the infirmary, from a visitor's chair'. Because nobody was looking, Elizabeth allowed herself a small smirk and, as if in response to her impish expression, her military commander's eyes opened and certainly caught the tail-end of the smirk before it morphed into a more straightforward smile. His brows drew together, suspiciously.

"Hello, John," she said.

"Hey, 'Lizbeth," he said, clumsily, and yawned. "Sorry. Still tired."

"I'm not surprised. You've been through a lot."

"Uh, yeah, um... sorry things didn't go too well."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, John!" Elizabeth reassured him. "Teyla negotiated a good deal and you all fostered good relations with the locals; even the youngest of them, apparently." Elizabeth felt the smirk grow on her lips again and enjoyed John's characteristic embarrassment, expressed by his not knowing what to do with his hands and avoiding her gaze.

"Huh, yeah, well, just doing my bit."

"And the Manarians are pretty happy with us, even though Smeadon slipped through the net, somehow."

John's head shot up and suddenly his expression was all military business, his hazel eyes dark and penetrating.

"Smeadon's gone?"

Elizabeth took a deep breath and clasped her hands together.

"Major Lorne took the farmhouse and found it empty," she explained. "There was a way down into the caves through a kind of cellar office."

John nodded. "Yeah, that's where we had a little chat."

"Well, shortly after Lorne discovered that, Smeadon's troops began to surrender, coming out from the cave entrance and up through the cellar. The second-in-command, Karron, you'd dealt with..."

"Teyla offed him," John interrupted, absently.

Elizabeth glanced across at Teyla, serenely sipping tea while reading a paperback; it was difficult to reconcile the two sides of her personality.

"Smeadon had disappeared and his men just gave up," Elizabeth continued.

"But how...?"

"Ah, that's when they found another escape route - a hatch, beneath his desk. There was a tunnel that led out into the woodland."

"Sneaky old... Did he go through the Gate?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "That's a definite 'no'. The Manarians took charge of Smeadon's men and they've been keeping a close watch on the Gate since then."

"So he's still there." John stared off into the distance for a moment, then his eyes returned to Elizabeth's. "D'you talk to Gard?"

"The bounty hunter? Yes, briefly. He doesn't give much away, does he?"

"Ha, no, he can be pretty... succinct." John's lips twitched.

"He said he's staying. For Smeadon. To 'wait him out'."

"Yup, Gard's pretty good at waiting."

They were both silent. Elizabeth wondered if she should go; John still looked tired and his eyes narrowed sharply each time he moved, which she knew was a sign that he was in pain but trying to convince himself and others that all was 'good' in John Sheppard's world.

"Shall I get Carson?"

John's head, which had drooped onto his chest, jerked up again, eliciting another eye-squinch, followed by a worried expression, as if he'd inadvertently let slip how he was really feeling. Heaven forbid, thought Elizabeth, mentally rolling her eyes.

"No," he said. "Did Teyla tell anyone about the cold storage cave?"

Deliberately changing the subject. "Yes, she did. Lorne and Stackhouse had their men carry all the carcasses out. They took them in a Jumper and pitched them out further into the mountains."

"Nice job," he said, sarcastically. "Hope they cleaned the Jumper out properly."

"I talked to the landlord... Tam? And others." Elizabeth smiled. "You all made quite an impression, you know. Major Lorne was trying to report and I kept hearing people in the background, wanting to send you messages, so, in the end, Lorne gave up and passed the radio round."

"They're a great bunch. What'd they say?"

"Well, Tam agreed that the grenza had probably come down from the mountains because Smeadon's men had been hunting their natural prey in such large numbers; so, with any luck, that situation will resolve itself."

John nodded, satisfied, closed his eyes and let his head rest on the pillow.

"The landlord's wife wants you all to come back soon, and a very firm-sounding woman insisted that you attend their Midwinter festival; she said Ellet wants you to come."

"Grella," murmured John.

"A little girl said she needs Ronon, and something about going trapping?"

"Maddy," he said drowsily.

"And then there was a kind of growl, which made Rodney smile."

"Boudicca."

"And after that Lorne took the radio back because somebody was going to give it to Franca to say hello. Who's Franca?"

"She's a helg." John yawned. "Lorne was right; she'd probably have eaten it." John's head turned away and his breathing deepened. Elizabeth thought he was asleep, but he spoke again.

"Can we go? To the festival?"

"In the interests of diplomatic relations?" she asked, amused.

"Yeah, that," John replied, thinking about the beer.

"We'll see."

oOo

Rodney had wanted to walk, but had kept his thoughts to himself, it being so unusual that he would seek to engage in any undue exertion, particularly in harsh weather conditions, that his colleagues were bound to question his reasons. It had snowed; and Rodney had craved the simple pleasure of stepping through the Gate into a Narnia-like scene of bare trees and large, gently-falling flakes. The event horizon would set the scene sparkling, the soft blanket would muffle the sound of their voices and Rodney thought that wading through the drifts, feeling the cold numbing his face and toes, would increase his anticipation of their arrival at the Happy Helg, where fires would be roaring and an array of tasty, hot treats would be ready for consumption. It had always been his favourite part of the Narnia stories and, as a child, he had envied Lucy, invited to a cosy tea by a friendly faun; besides which, the complexity of the dances in the stories, where woodland folk wove in and out in intricate patterns and threw snowballs at precisely timed intervals, argued a natural instinct for the beauty of math. Rodney would have had Tumnus extolling the delights of fractals before the butter had melted on the toast.

But they came through the Gate in a Jumper, and were landing on the snow outside the Happy Helg within five minutes, and Rodney had to acknowledge the necessity of their easy transport. Even Ronon, no matter how casually he hurtled along the hallways of Atlantis on his crutches, could hardly have managed in deep snow. John, still occasionally coughing and wheezing, and unbalanced, with one arm in a sling, looked as though the first snowdrift would defeat him, and Rodney knew John's ribs were still sufficiently painful to leave him vacillating between a choice of taking painkillers or being able to indulge in tankards of the local brew. Even Teyla moved with less than her usual grace, and the bruises on her face could still be seen, faintly.

Carson had decided to accompany them, ostensibly to see that they didn't incur any more foolish injuries, but Rodney thought he was coming at least as much for the log fires and conjured memories of distant Burns nights, that the rumoured prospect of helg puddings had evoked. Rodney had tasted real Scottish haggis, and sincerely and greedily hoped that helg puddings were a close approximation.

Elizabeth had come too, and although she dressed-up her justification in fancy 'furthering the interests of the expedition'-type phrases, as far as Rodney was concerned, she might just as well have admitted that she was there to 'eat, drink and be merry'. Everyone knew she deserved a break, anyway.

The Jumper hatch descended and Tam was there, barely recognisable in a fur hat and coat, a huge mallet swinging from one hand. Behind him, another man was tying a rope to the top of a tall stake. Friendly greetings were exchanged and John introduced Elizabeth, but Rodney's attention was elsewhere, scanning the thickets of snow-edged trees and the paths that led to the barn and round to the kitchen garden.

"We're just marking out the course," Tam was saying, "for the helg racing, later."

Rodney caught Ronon and John's exchange of interested glances and Carson's muttered prohibition, which would no doubt become strident, if necessary. Then the world tilted, as something knocked Rodney flat into the snow, and his sky became a mass of black and brown with two yellow suns burning down upon him.

"Hello, Boudicca," whispered Rodney, with the limited lung capacity remaining to him. "You're quite heavy. Could you, maybe..."

The weight disappeared and Rodney pushed himself up, shaking snow out of his hood, to see Bouddica carefully inspecting Ronon, John and Teyla, her sniffs and pats respectful of their injuries. The priss also wound herself twice round Carson, in greeting, but deliberately ignored Elizabeth, sitting down in the snow, facing directly away from her, in statuesque pose, furry tail curled around fluffy toes.

"Oh," said Elizabeth, with a disappointed smile. "I don't think she likes me."

"No, no," Rodney hastened to reassure her. "Being ignored is a good thing. Wait and see."

Lillaina then emerged from the main door and ushered them inside, rebuking Tam for not having brought their guests in straight away.

oOo

The pub was just the same, John thought, except the fire was piled higher than ever with logs, against the winter cold, and the room was a little brighter, the white reflected snow-glare finding its way through the low window.

"Well, it is good to have you all back!" said Lillaina, gesturing to Tam to collect their heavy winter coats and helping John with his, having spotted his one-armed predicament. "And more or less whole and healthy!" She cast John a shrewd glance as he slid stiffly out of his coat and he felt his hopes for enjoying the contents of the row of barrels fast disappearing.

"It's good to see you too, Lil," he said, his eyes sliding to the spot on the wooden boards where he had last seen her crumpled form.

Lil followed John's gaze and handed his coat to Tam, who was almost obscured beneath the pile.

"Yes, well, I don't think any of us will forget that day, especially not the families of those who were lost on the hunt." She looked down solemnly for a moment, but then her eyes swept around her guests once more and she gave a determined little nod. "Still, all the more important for those of us who survive to make the most of the life we've been given. Tirren's been keeping the fires going in your rooms, so they should be nice and cosy." John heard Rodney give a mumble of disbelief.

There had been some rearranging on the upper floor, so that John's former room only had two beds in and, consequently, seemed much bigger. Rodney let his pack fall on the floor with a pointed thud; he'd had to carry John's kit as well as his own, which John didn't think Rodney needed to make a fuss about because he hadn't packed much and the Jumper had brought them to the door anyway.

"They still haven't plugged the gap in the window frame," grumbled Rodney.

"Give it a rest, McKay," said John, sitting down on the bed nearest to the window. He'd tensed up against the cold when they'd stepped out of the Jumper and it had started his ribs aching again. "Why don't you plug it with something?"

"I will." Rodney turned around and scanned the room, looking for something to wedge in the frame. "No!" he said, suddenly, to John, making him jump guiltily.

"What?"

"How many times were you borderline or actually hypothermic last week?" Rodney demanded. "I'll take the bed nearest the window." He steered John to the other bed, nearer the door. "Anyway, it won't matter if I can render it draught-free, somehow."

John, giving up entirely on the idea of beer, drew out his painkillers from his pocket and dry-swallowed two of them.

"I don't know how you can do that!" said Rodney. "Why don't you go downstairs and sit in front of the parlour fire? And," continued Rodney, enjoying himself, "Tam can bring you a blanket and some warm milk. And maybe some tartan slippers and an old man cardigan!" He chortled, annoyingly, but John recognised the convoluted pathways of Rodney's concern; and it was funny. He sneered and snarled, dutifully feigning irritation, but went down to the parlour, nevertheless.