John spent the next few days in his cabin waffling between leaving Blue River and staying. The morning after his fight with Carrie, he'd been ready to pack his bags and leave town right then and there. Between her and the USSF poking around, what was the point in staying? But after going so far as to throw what few possessions he still had into the back of his pickup, he changed his mind. He wasn't about to let the USSF just drive him out of town, or away from the home he'd built for himself in the Wisconsin wilderness.

Being the town recluse was not without its merits. If John didn't show his face in town for a very long time, no one would think anything of it, or come looking for him. Well, Eddie probably would. And Carrie might have. At least, she would have before their fight. John had pretty much sealed the deal there. The things he'd said to her… he'd be lucky if he ever saw her again, let alone got the chance to speak to her.

But what did it matter? He had everything he needed right here. The Wisconsin River afforded him all the fish he could eat and he had an impressive root cellar out back practically bursting with all the vegetables he and Carrie had harvested from the garden last summer. Maybe he could even talk himself into shooting a deer if the need finally arose.

John was set. He could make this work. Any other supplies he needed he could bypass town altogether and head into Port Andrew. And if he got really lonely, well then maybe he'd just go get a dog. Find some shelter in another town where nobody knew him and adopt the ugliest, mangiest, most unwanted thing they had. He'd done it before, long ago right after the war. He could do it again.

John poked at the fire he was sitting in front of and watched as a few orange embers popped out of the grate and sat smouldering on the stone hEarth. He was once again toying with the idea of packing all his shit up and getting the hell out of dodge. He knew this wasn't the last he was going to see of the USSF. The fact he was likely still the only human being on the planet that could fly Atlantis back to Pegasus meant they weren't going to give up after only one try. Major Fancy Pants would not be the last USSF representative to darken his door, and he wondered how far they might go to try and bring him in.

John set his poker back into its iron rack and looked down at his stomach when it began to rumble. He realized he had not eaten a real meal in days. Sighing, he pushed up from his chair and headed into the kitchen. The plates Carrie had gotten down for their meatloaf the other night were still in the sink, globs of congealed mashed potatoes clinging to their rims in places. He'd forgotten to wash them yet couldn't bring himself to do so now. They were reminding him of Carrie and what happened between them, and he just wasn't interested in rehashing all that with himself again. Donning a very heavy winter coat and grabbing his favorite fishing pole, John stormed out his back door and stomped off toward the banks of the Wisconsin River. Whatever snow had been on the ground days before was long gone, the higher temperatures and sunshine of the past few days erasing all signs of it. John picked his way across the frozen ground carefully, and made his way over to a little dock he had built himself out over the river years ago.

The Wisconsin River could be swift in these parts and John had lost his little riverboat to the current a few summers ago. The dock still stood, though, and was a nice place to sit and fish. John eased his tired body down onto it and stared down at the swiftly moving current beneath his dangling boots. The occasional little island of ice floated past, but other than that, the water was clear of debris. John threaded his fishing line through the eye of the hook he had brought with him with cold fingers and tied a messy clinch knot, wetting the line a little when he couldn't get it to pull tight properly. He attached the weights he would need to fight against the river's current next and then finally the bright red bobber Carrie had given to him as an impromptu birthday present one year.

John had never told her when his actual birthday was, so she'd chosen some arbitrary date on the calendar and presented him the bobber that next day. He had half a mind to just chuck it in the river right now and let it float away, but his stomach had other ideas. Begrudgingly, he pulled a worm from his bait container instead, and used it to bait his hook. The cold little body captured between his thumb and forefinger squirmed in his grip a bit but he managed to get the sharp end of his hook into it a few times over before offering up a quick apology for its unfortunate end.

Finally ready to cast, John drew his arm back then forward again with a quick snap. The line flew out to the center of the river with the practiced flick of his wrist and a quick press to the release on the side of his reel. It was a series of movements he knew by heart and he let go the exact moment he knew his line was where he wanted it to be. The red and white bobber Carrie had given him settled gracefully into the water with a tiny plop.

John had never been what anyone would call an outdoorsman, but he enjoyed fishing well enough. He'd learned the basics from the master himself, General O'Neill, on one of the rare occasions when he'd been back on Earth and actually had the time for a weekend away. O'Neill had laid the framework but it was here on the banks of the Wisconsin River that John Sheppard had truly become a master. There was something powerful about the way his arm knew exactly where to go to set his line perfectly in the water, the satisfaction that would come later when he fried his catch up on the stove.

Like his cabin in the woods - the one he had rebuilt himself, and with his own two hands - here was where he had reinvented himself and created the man Blue River would come to know as John Evans.

The old John Sheppard was dead. John had buried him long ago. He had to.

Back in the old days, and for much of his life prior, John had believed that he was in charge of his own destiny... but then one horrible and unimaginable event had shown him that the idea of being in control was nothing but a delusion. At any time, anyone in his life that he trusted could betray him and use the unending loyalty he'd always had against him.

But no one, no matter their rank, could ever come here to this place and control the instinctual way John knew how to flick his wrist. Or dictate to him the exact arc of his arm needed to let his fishing line fly. Those were still things that belonged to John, and always would, if he had anything to say about it.

Shaking himself away from the weight of those heavy thoughts, John let his eyes roam over the brown banks of the river on either side of him. Above his head, a flock of geese in a tight formation appeared over the trees. They honked their displeasure down at John as though offended by his very presence. He stared up at them, wondering where they had come from and where they might be going until their brown and white bodies disappeared behind the trees once more. The river chugged along below his boots, demanding nothing more from him than his focus on his fishing line and absolute silence.

John could still remember the day he'd stumbled on this little piece of paradise. He'd been having a hard time finding a place to live that fit his… specific needs, and it was only by chance he'd heard about the old cabin in the woods that used to belong to Old Man Johnson. Eddie was actually the one who had turned John onto it, and for the past 10 years or so, it had been his home.

When John had first arrived here, the cabin in the woods was nothing more than a collapsing collection of dilapidated wood that looked like it might topple over at the next sign of wind. John had painstakingly rebuilt it from the ground up, and with all the care he'd had left in himself at the time. With no living relatives left to object, Old Man Johnson's cabin at the end of Smith Street had very quickly become John Evans' place and no one had mentioned it ever since.

Like the man who had brought it back to life, to look at it now, one might not even be able to guess its history. It was a cozy, secluded place where John Sheppard could hang his hat… and wasn't that just what he's been searching for all those chaotic and confusing years after the Wraith? A house? A home? The cabin complimented him. It was simple and unassuming. It gave back what was put into it: a roof over his head and a fire to warm his hands.

Even though John never thought he'd find it again, or that he even deserved to have it, his cabin in the woods really was just that: a home. And now he just might have to leave it forever.

Carrie's face swam back to the forefront of his mind and John resisted the urge to sigh. The way they had left things was still weighing him, refusing to be discarded completely. He had half a mind to drag his sorry ass off the dock and go into town to apologize. He'd been playing their fight over and over again in his mind and knew he'd been incredibly cruel. All she had wanted was a bit of truth, and instead of trying to give her some, John had pushed her away. And irrevocably, because Carrie was never going to forgive him. That was just the kind of person she was.

Something tugged at the end of John's line and the red bobber he'd been watching absently dipped below the water line. Giving the pole a quick tug upwards and back, he watched the line dance around the water and knew he had caught something. And judging by the fight it was putting up, he imagined it was something fairly sizable.

Pulling the fish in quickly and expertly, and careful not to let his catch throw the hook, John looked down at the fish he had caught with smug satisfaction. A decent sized catfish sat flopping on the dock and eyeing him angrily. Wasting no time, John scooped the fish up from the water darkened dock boards and dumped it unceremoniously into the tin bucket he'd brought along with him. The catfish put up a spectacular fight at first, but eventually gave up trying to escape and lay heaving on top of the mostly frozen water at the bottom of the bucket. John filled it with more icy river water and then set the bucket aside before resetting his line for another go.

John knew he wasn't going to last much longer out here in the cold. The wind was already ripping through his coat like he wasn't even wearing it. But the thought of leaving the riverbank and heading back into the cabin was putting him on edge. Out here it was easier to think, the bitter cold somehow making his thoughts sharper. Not to mention the view was so much nicer out here.

Nothing could compare to this place at the height of summer, but even in the dead of winter the Wisconsin River was picturesque. Come summer, the banks would be teeming with the wildflowers that grew in mindless clumps, as if someone had taken fists full of seeds and scattered them in random patches all over the bank. That was when the gnarled roots of the trees bending over the water like stooped old men would gain shaggy manes of moss and algae. Those were loud times too, when Mother Nature screamed at him louder than the cries of the dead...

An hour or so later, and having no more luck with the fish, John finally eased his achingly cold body up off the dock and headed back into his cabin. The fire he had built up inside was still blazing away and he spent a good deal of time warming himself back up in front of it. Eventually, his rumbling stomach reminded him of how hungry he was and John headed into his kitchen. He took the now dead fish out of the water and laid it out across the countertop. Normally something as mundane as cleaning a fish wouldn't bother him, but the events of the past several days - in the blind with Eddie, the USSF Major, his fight with Carrie - they were all messing with his head. His brain kept making connections to things he'd rather not think about, and it was driving him mad.

What was John supposed to do? Sit in his chair in front of the fire and wait around to see who might come and try to collect him next? Pack up everything he owned yet again and put this place in his rearview?

But John Sheppard was tired of running. He was pushing 55 now and ready to slow the hell down. To be still. The idea of running again made his stomach churn, and not just because he was hungry.

The rewards of his life were supposed to be peace and quiet, weren't they? So why was he being denied that basic right? Why was fate fucking with him so much? He'd certainly put in more than his fair share of sweat and blood, so why couldn't everyone just leave him the hell alone?

Because of what you did , that little voice inside his head reminded him.

John let his head fall forward. It really all came back down to that one, immutable fact, didn't it? John Sheppard deserved everything he got.

Conflicted and incredibly pissed, John banged open his silverware drawer and drew out the sharpest knife he owned. To think all of this was crumbling down around him because of a photo on the internet. Christ, if he ever saw Gale at Eagle Cave again, he was going to strangle that woman. Or at least tell her what he thought about her use of his picture without his consent.

But John should have known better. He was the one who should have been more careful. What else did he expect her to do with the photo he himself had let her take? It was stupid and reckless and his own damn fault that the USSF had shown up at his door.

But John also knew why he had done it. Guide , they had called him. Just like the Wraith used to. He'd had one moment of sentimentality, and now he would pay for it with his freedom.

John stabbed his knife into the skin on the back of the catfish near it's spine and slashed downwards as ruthlessly as he dared. He should have been doing this outside and with the proper set up to contain the mess, but he really could have cared less at the moment. He angrily ripped the skin away from the body with a pair of pliers he always kept handy in a can near the edge of the sink. Having just caught the fish, the skin came away from the body easily enough, though it angered John. Easy wasn't what he was after. He wanted another fight. Something else to take his aggression out on like his woodpile last night. Something to use to forget about Bradshaw and Carrie's damn silk flowers gathering dust in their vase on the counter. The catfish wasn't cutting it. In retaliation, John savagely slashed at the parts he needed to remove, mindful of the spurs on the fins, then let the fish's slimy entrails fall out over his hands and onto the counter as he flipped the fish over to attack its belly. The process still wasn't as satisfying as he had hoped and instead of feeling better, John was left with nothing more than shaking hands and a completely wrecked kitchen countertop at the end of it all.

Sighing in defeat and letting a little of his bluster release, John rinsed the catfish carcass clean in the sink, set it aside to scrub down the countertop, then filleted the catfish as carefully as he could into four decent-sized helpings. It was more than he needed but maybe he could put some of the leftovers out in the ancient icebox behind the cabin next to the generator for later.

If this had been any other Friday night John might have thought about heading into town and having a bite at the Tamed Tiger and then a beer at Eddie's. But that wasn't exactly an option for him anymore, so John busied himself with lighting the ancient potbelly stove that took up most of the room in his kitchen instead.

The old stove was monstrous, but it had served him well for years, and was probably the only thing in his cabin that John would actually miss if he was forced to leave. The cabin had also come with a few cast-iron pots and pans that hung from hooks on the wall beside the stove. John chose the one that would work best for his fish, added the oil, and then set the pan on the burner. That was when he noticed it.

At first, John thought his brain was just playing tricks on him, but after a few careful moments of quiet listening, he realized that really was the sound of a car engine struggling up the lane. John strained to pick up on the noise again, certain it was an engine he didn't recognize. Eddie's pickup was not that quiet and it sounded nothing like the old beat-up Nissan Carrie drove. John hoped to god it wasn't that asshat Major again, for his sake at least, because John had no qualms about chasing Bradshaw off again with a shotgun.

The shotgun in question was locked away out back in the old woodshed. Exactly where he had left it when he got back from hunting with Eddie the other day. Not that it mattered. There were guns stashed all over John's house. Tucked away into every available hiding place, completely accessible at all times, but not so easy to find that Carrie might stumble across one someday. John went for one of those guns now, pulling the P-14 secured to the underside of his dining room table from its holster and raising it up close to his chest. The gun hadn't been fired in nearly two decades, but John knew it would work perfectly, and with deadly accuracy, if the person approaching in that car had less than ambivalent reasons for visiting. With nothing much else to do in a cabin in the woods that had no electricity, constant gun maintenance had become an excellent way to pass the time.

John listened as the car finally reached the front of his house and cut its engine in the turnabout. There was the slam of a door (just one, he noted) and then heavy footsteps on his front porch.

Years ago, John had enclosed the space below his stairs for a coat closet, and he hid behind that closet now, handgun held at the ready as he prepared to protect his domain. The heavy footsteps paused at his door and then the sound of heavy knocking filled the space. John risked a quick glance around the wall, but it was getting dark outside and all he could see of his visitor was the dark silhouette of a head and shoulders through the small window cut into the door. The one that had a new spiderweb crack in it thanks to Carrie's angry departure the other day.

Taking advantage of the shadowed interior of his cabin, John used the darkness to shield his movements as the figure moved off towards his windows. He ducked down low and was soon pressed against the rough wood of his ancient front door. The person on his porch, as far as he could tell, was trying to peer in through the living room windows now.

John used this momentary few seconds of his visitor's distraction to carefully and quietly turn the knob of the front door. His heart was in his throat at this point, but John just swallowed it down and made himself focus. This was no different than an off-world mission when danger lurked around every corner. He was as good a soldier back then as he was now. He could do this.

Drawing in a deep breath, John closed his eyes for a fraction of a second before pushing open the door, jumping out with gun drawn and screaming: "FREEZE ASSHOLE!" note

The man peering into his window - and John could tell it was a man right away - stuck his hands up straight in the air. "JESUS CHRIST SHEPPARD!"

John's entire body froze, every other thought in his head abandoning him in an instant as he took in the figure standing before him with his arms still up in the air. Memories came rushing back, years of them, and old feelings too, rooting him in place and stealing his air as Rodney McKay turned around to face him.

"Rodney?" he stammered as the scientist let his arms fall.

"You're alive," was all his friend was able to say.

"Rodney, what are you doing here?"

"I can't believe you're alive."

"What in the hell are you doing here?" John repeated, wanting nothing more than to pull the man in front of him into a fierce hug. One he might never let end. So many memories...

"I mean, they told me you were alive, but I didn't believe them."

" Rodney! "

"Yes, we've established that. Me Rodney. Now would you please stop pointing that gun at me, Sheppard?"

John looked down at his hands and realized he was still pointing his gun directly at the center of McKay's chest. He slowly let his arms fall to his sides.

"Much better, thank you," Rodney said. "Now, are you just going to stand there with your mouth open? Or are you going to invite me in?"

But John did just stand there for a moment, wondering if he was so far gone that Rodney might just be a hallucination. But the man before him was very real. A lot older and definitely balder than the last time John had seen him - but very real, nonetheless. Older Rodney sighed at John's silence and pushed past him into the cabin. John slid his gun into the waistband of his jeans and followed him in.

"Nice digs, but is something burning?" Rodney asked, sniffing the air.

"Oh shit!"

John rushed past Rodney and retrieved the smoking cast iron pan from the stove. He nearly grabbed it with his bare hand before remembering at the last second to grab a dishtowel. Rodney shrugged out of his heavy winter coat as John opened a window to start letting some of the smoke out. There wasn't much, but the cabin was still filled with the acrid smell of burnt oil.

"Your light switches don't work," Rodney commented a moment later from near the coat closet.

"No power," John replied, fanning the smoke out of the window with one of the baking sheets Carrie had bought him but John had never used.

"Seriously?"

John shrugged. "Never saw the need for it.

"That's just like you, Sheppard," Rodney said with a chuckle as started inspecting the interior of the cabin. "Forever low tech despite having touched Ancient technology powerful enough to alter time itself."

John set the baking sheet down on the counter. "Just… wait here a second," he ordered before disappearing out the back door of the cabin. The generator was only in case of emergencies, but John figured this was about as big an emergency he was ever going to see. He checked the fuel levels, fiddled with a few things that had come loose during the winter, and after a few moments of careful tinkering, the generator finally roared to life. He reentered the cabin to find Rodney already turning on what few lights there were in the place.

"Much better," he said once they could both see again. "So what's with the beard, Paul Bunyan?"

John touched the side of his face. His winter beard was thick under his fingertips. "What are you doing here, Rodney?" It was the third or so time he'd asked the question, and for the third time since asking, Rodney didn't answer.

"I could ask you the same question. Blue River, Wisconsin? Really?" Rodney paused to run a finger over the fireplace mantle. Inspecting his fingertip, he pulled a face at what he had found. "Hearing that you were still alive was a shock enough, but when they told me where you were living…"

Rodney trailed off again and moved over to John's chairs. When he eventually found the radio, he flipped it on and the gravely tones of Johnny Cash filled the room.

"Oh that's much better," the scientist said with a smile. "I don't know how you can stand all the silence."

John just stood there, at a loss for what he was supposed to do. The fact the USSF had sent Rodney McKay in after Major Bradshaw was either the smartest idea the SGC had ever had, or the most asinine.

"What happened to your window?" John looked up to find Rodney now inspecting his front door.

John cleared his throat, "Uh… relationship trouble."

"Figures," Rodney snorted, glancing up John's stairs but not heading up them. "Even out here in the Wisconsin backcountry you're still Captain Kirk. What's her name?"

John shook his head, not really sure how to answer. Or how far he wanted to take this little reunion of theirs.

"Or his name," Rodney added, innocently enough. There was a glint of something sad there in the physicist's eyes when John met them. A grief over something that had started then been stolen before either of them could even name it.

" Her name," John answered thickly, "is Carrie."

"Oh," was all Rodney said, and then the moment was over and he was back to his old self. "So, what were you cooking before I arrived?"

"Catfish."

Rodney wrinkled his nose up at that. "Sounds lovely, but I don't suppose you have anything else to eat around here?"

"No."

"I figured as much," Rodney sighed. "Alright, Captain Ahab, why don't you fry up that fish while I build your fire back up? I assume you don't have any heat in this place?"

Rodney was off again before John could even respond. Figuring there was no point in arguing with the scientist, and no chance he was getting him to leave now, John did as he was asked. He switched out the ruined pan for a new one, and soon the acrid smell of smoke in the cabin was replaced by the thick scent of frying fish. Rodney, when he was finally done with the fire, found the rest of John's plates - a mismatched collection he'd cobbled together from the remnants of old sets in Eileen's antique store - and set the table. He was waiting for John there when the catfish was finally finished and John set the skillet down on a trivet in the center of the table. Carrie's vase of artificial flowers had been placed there too and John pushed them away so he could get an unencumbered look at McKay.

Rodney was a lot thinner than John imagined he would be. He'd tried to hide this fact with an oversized collared shirt and gaudy sweater vest with pictures of reindeer on it. Of all the people John had known from before the War, Rodney would have been the one he'd expect to let himself go, but the balding man sitting across from him was anything but. In fact, he reminded John a lot of that holographic Rodney he'd met 40,000 years in the future on Atlantis. He was just thinner, as though the incarnation of Rodney sitting at his table had seen more hardship than his future counterpart. And for all John knew, he had.

John realized he really had no idea what Rodney (or anyone else for that matter) had done with himself after the war because he'd never allowed himself the luxury of trying to track his old friends down to check. Back then the danger was still too great that the IOA might want him dead, and John was still reeling from what they had made him do. After the war, he stuck around just long enough to mail Rodney the material they'd managed to smuggle off Atlantis right after the crash, and then disappear. Just long enough to write the scientist a note wishing him good luck with his life and disappearing from his life forever.

"You know what would go great with this?" Rodney asked out of the blue, startling John out of his thoughts. "Beer. Have you got any?"

John sat back in his chair. "Alright, now I know someone has got to be fucking with me. The real Rodney McKay would never debase himself with something as pedestrian as beer ."

There was a faint glimmer in Rodney's eye. "I'm quite fond of the stuff these days, I'll have you know."

Speechless, John got up from his chair and headed out back behind the cabin again. When he returned, he was carrying a few bottles of a local brew he'd always been particularly fond of, and almost always had on hand. Rodney took his happily, popped the cap off on the edge of John's table, and proceeded to drain half the bottle in a few long pulls.

"Who are you?" John asked when he was done and had set the practically empty bottle back down.

"I'm your old friend, Rodney. I thought we established that already." Rodney eyed him critically. "You didn't get stupid on me, did you Sheppard?"

John set down the fork he'd been using to cut up his catfish. "I think it's about time you told me what the hell you're doing here, McKay."

Rodney set his own fork down as his eyes went sad. "What if I told you it's because I just found out my… best friend in the entire world is still alive? Or that I just had to come here and see it for myself?"

John stared at his friend for a moment before answering. "Then I'd probably believe you, right after I beat the real reason out of you."

"Alright fine," Rodney snapped. "There never really was any beating around the bush with you, was there, Sheppard?"

John gave a rueful smile.

"By the way, this fish is fantastic," the scientist added, clearly stalling.

John let him take another few bites of it before insisting he go on. "Rodney…"

"Yeah, yeah, alright." Having no napkins in the place to speak of, Rodney wiped his mouth on the towel Sheppard had used to bring the frying pan over. "But first things first. How the hell are you, Sheppard?"

Rodney pushed his plate away and folded his arms on top of the table. Throw a laptop in front of him and he would have looked right at home. John was suddenly flooded with the idea of Rodney very much at home in his cabin, retrofitting it for power and turning it into some techno fortress where they could live out the remainder of their days in peace. Still rising and falling each day with the sun, but finally able to do it together. Like the way it should have gone before the world ended and John ran away…

Rodney was still waiting for his answer, but it was a complicated one. And he couldn't figure out if Rodney expected a serious answer or not, or if they were just supposed to dance around this thing for the rest of the night.

"I gotta be honest, Rodney," John finally said, "I'm feeling a little confused here, and wondering what in the hell you're doing here." Was that the fourth time he'd asked that now?

"Landry sent me," was all Rodney would say back.

"That's what that asshat USSF Major said to me, too. You all need to get some better material."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Rodney said, crinkling up his nose again. "Believe me, I gave them all a good dressing down about Bradshaw. They've seen the error in their ways."

"Obviously not," John replied. Now you're here , hung unspoken in the air between them.

"Landry is a good man. I think you'd really like him," Rodney went on, ignoring the tension.

"I didn't even know General Landry had a nephew."

"Neither did I," Rodney said. "I guess he's Landry's brother's kid. And you should see the family resemblance, Sheppard. It's uncanny... like looking at a ghost..." Rodney trailed off again, apparently realizing he was bringing them dangerously close to things neither of them probably wanted to talk about.

John could feel the familiar heaviness of old grief shuffle up and join them at the table. The grief made up of old things they both had lost. John realized he was a little angry at McKay for bringing them up and making John face it again.

General Hank Landry Sr. was the first of their casualties. The first one of their ranks to fall. The first in a long line of bodies leading right up to John Sheppard's front door...

"Sheppard?" Rodney called out quietly, and John realized he'd gone quiet.

"What are you doing working for those bastards again, Rodney?" he asked, recovering slightly.

The scientist heaved a mighty sigh and then started playing with the curling label of his empty beer bottle. "Things are a lot different at the SGC these days, Sheppard. Everyone from before is basically gone. And I guess it's also because, regardless of what happened in the past, the Earth is still vulnerable. I figure the only way she's going to stay safe is if I'm around to help keep it that way."

"So what do you need from me?" John asked. "Why is the USSF suddenly on my doorstep after 18 years?"

"Well, in order to make an incredibly long and convoluted story short," Rodney began to explain, "the Stargate Program is back up and running and Landry is heading it up. We recently got our hands on a power source large enough to get Atlantis back up and running again, and the IOA wants to go back to Pegasus and reestablish the expedition there. If you came on board, they would promote you to Brigadier General and hand you the keys to the castle. They want to make you expedition leader."

"And you?" John asked.

"I'll be tagging along as your incredibly intelligent chief scientist, obviously."

Rodney paused as if trying to gauge what John might be thinking. Considering he himself wasn't even sure at this point, it must have been an impossible task.

"There are a few people coming back you'll remember," Rodney went on. "Evan Lorne will be your second in command if you approve it and even Carson has agreed to come back and help."

"Really?" John asked, letting his astonishment get the better of him. The last time John had seen Carson Beckett the man had been slipping a flash drive into his palm and ordering the pilots of his medevac helicopter to fly him as far away from Atlantis as they possibly could. John had so many questions he wanted to ask the doc about those confusing days after he woke up in some Denver hospital with his knee in an external fixator and all the doctors and nurses in the place calling him John Evans. Maybe if he did let Rodney talk him into coming back, he could finally get some answers.

Plus, he really fucking missed his friends.

"You're doing it again," Rodney said quietly, pulling John, yet again, from his troubled thoughts. "Talk to me, What's going on in that cro-magnon head of yours?"

John shook his head to clear it. "I guess I was just wondering why the hell the USSF thinks it can come to me after all these years and ask for my help. Especially after what the IOA did to me."

"Ah. I see," Rodney said sadly.

"...Or how you all could ever think that I'd even want to come back." The last part he added out of pure spite, no longer caring who's feelings he hurt.

"I get it, Sheppard. I really do. I know there's nothing anyone could ever say to help you heal from what happened to you, but there's more at stake here than just the IOA's eagerness to get back to Pegasus."

"Oh yeah? And what's that."

"Expedition members were not the only people who got stranded back on Earth after the city fell, Sheppard. There are… men and women on Atlantis that are eager to return home. Or at least to whatever might be waiting for them back in Pegasus after all these years."

John paused. He had never considered that. Ronon and Teyla were long gone, but they definitely hadn't been the only non-Earth people in residence aboard Atlantis when John had crash-landed her into the middle of the San Francisco Bay.

"Why didn't the SCG just send them all home aboard the Deadalus?"

Rodney actually laughed, "Do you remember the state of the world after The Great Culling, Sheppard? Everything was falling apart and the IOA wasn't about to send its last line of defense against our enemies out on some charity mission. They're stuck here. So maybe you could get your head out of your ass and come back for them."

John ignored Rodney's hostility on that last bit and let his voice go low. "It's still a big ask."

That was an understatement, and both men knew it.

"Look, I know what they did to you was terrible and wrong on so many levels, but you were the one who ran away and left all of us behind to try and clean up the mess."

"I sent you the evidence," John countered angrily.

"I know you did. And it changed everything, but you have no idea how long it took or how many people we lost in the process."

"What are you talking about, Rodney?"

"People died bringing those bastards down, Sheppard. People who had nothing to do with our cause but who still had the courage to stick around and help anyway, rather than running off with their tails tucked between their legs."

"That's now how it happened and you know it," John practically growled. "I couldn't come back, not after what they did."

"But did you even try?" Rodney asked, nearly choking on the words. "I mean, you just up and left m… you just up and left us with nothing but a 'see you later' scribbled on a post-it note."

John let his head fall forward, knowing full well the gravity of his mistakes. "I'm so sorry Rodney. I really am. But what else could I have done? They would have killed me if I came back. And I just assumed you all would have no problem bringing the IOA down yourselves. It never occurred to me any of you would need my help, or even want it, for that matter."

"Yeah, well," Rodney said bitterly, "we did."

There was silence in the cabin for a moment, neither man knowing what to say next.

"Look, what's done is done, Sheppard," Rodney eventually said. "I've made my peace with what happened, and with your decisions, a long time ago. And I think I even understand why you did it a little now. They betrayed us all and what happened was unforgivable. But that was 18 years ago and the people responsible are either dead, or rotting away in prison. It's time to put your big boy pants on, come home, and help me fly Atlantis back to Pegasus."

"You really did it, McKay?" John asked, ignoring Rodney's dig, and focusing the conversation back on what Rodney had just told him. "You really brought them all down?"

"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

"What about Woolsey?" John asked with a scowl, suddenly being reminded of that smarmy bastard.

Rodney chuckled mirthlessly. "What makes you think he's still around?"

"Bradshaw," John replied.

"Yeah, that was his handiwork, alright. He's still around, but he's nothing more than a glorified paper pusher these days."

"So at least one rat didn't go down with the ship…"

"It's complicated, Sheppard," Rodney said. "He was just following orders that day, same as you. It was probably the only thing that saved him from a public execution for war crimes."

John let his thoughts settle on Woolsey for a moment or two. When the man had first come to Atlantis, their relationship had been a tumultuous one to say the least. But once Woolsey had calmed down a little, John had actually found himself starting to like the guy a bit. He seemed like a good man with an intelligent head on his shoulders, not the spineless IOA stooge he turned out to be… And to think, it was his orders that had changed the course of the world.

"So what do you say?" Rodney asked carelessly over the rim of the glasses he seemed to need full time these days. "Will you come back and help us?"

"I don't know Rodney…"

"Then how about this. Just come back to the SGC and fly Atlantis home. Give me a few months to show you how much things have changed, and then you can decide for yourself if you want to stay on as expedition leader."

John had to admit, he was seriously considering Rodney's offer. It was a complete 180 from how he had been feeling about the entire thing earlier in the day. But things were different now. He had information now that was making him question everything.

And yet, a grudge held for 18 years was not something one just let go of after a single visit from an old friend.

"They're all gone? Every single one of them?" he asked.

"I swear on the graves of our friends, every single person within the SGC who wronged us is gone." Rodney had never been this poetic and it leant gravity to his words.

"What about Woolsey? Will I have to see him?"

Rodney shook his head. "They keep him busy in the Office of Acquisitions. He has nothing to do with the Stargate program anymore."

John let out a breath.

"So… is that a yes?" Rodney was sitting forward in his chair in eager anticipation.

"I would need a lot of help," John stalled. "I'm not exactly the man I was back then. Not to mention the fact that I've been out of uniform for nearly 18 years."

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that," Rodney replied, his face breaking out into a wide smile. For a moment, he was the excited astrophysicist of his youth. "Carson assures me they have all that covered. And besides, I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could pull it off."

John thought back to his fight with Carrie and to his embarrassing breakdown in the hunting blind with Eddie the other day. He would miss this place, but Blue River no longer held sway over him. It would hurt, but he imagined he would be ok putting this place in his rearview.

He could do it. He could walk upstairs and pack his bags like Rodney was suggesting and leave this place forever. Maybe start atoning for some of those sins his friend had just reminded him of.

"Ok, Rodney," he finally said, looking up to meet the scientist's eyes.

"Ok?" Rodney repeated with a shit-eating grin.

"Yeah, McKay. I'm in."