Later that evening, and once John was settled into his new accommodations down by the rest of the on-base personnel, a knock came at his door that he'd been expecting for a while. True to their word Rodney, Carson and Lorne had all come over to collect him so John could accompany them down to a small memorial that had been erected near the base of the mountain. It had been created to house the names and grave markers of the fallen SGC soldiers and civilians that had given their lives in the service of John's country.
The graveyard, for that's what John had decided to call it, wasn't anything special. Just a small, private square of fenced-off frozen Earth tucked up against the meandering roots of the mountain. Situated on Cheyenne's easternmost face, it was accessed by a thin paved lane that branched itself off the main road that led up to the entrance of the base. It was dotted with a collection of dark headstones and simple crosses that were slowly being covered by snow.
There were no bodies buried here. The Stargate rarely sent her dead back whole, but it was home to a few soldiers who had no one to claim them and whose urns were held reverently in a small monument nestled up snug against the mountainside.
The grounds were well maintained and John could tell that someone had taken great care to keep the footpaths clear of snow. Even the headstones and crosses had been brushed clean, though the soft snowfall that had started just about the time they arrived was slowly covering them back up again. A thin, crystalline layer of ice had collected on every surface and added an almost ethereal feel to the place. John exited the Jeep Lorne had commandeered for them and cast his eyes over the twinkling tops of the stones searching for the two he had come for.
John found them tucked back in one pine tree-lined corner of the cemetery, their markers side by side for eternity, perpetually memorializing in cold gray stone the names of Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex.
John walked silently through the quietly falling snow and stood before the empty graves of the two people he missed the most in the world. Two friends he'd give anything to have by his side at the moment. There was an empty space inside John's heart that he would never be able to fill. The place was hollow and ached with grief as he pictured the faces of his friends.
John knew that 'what ifs' were pointless to dwell on, but he couldn't help but wonder... had he managed to save both of them somehow, would that one terrible thing he'd been running from all these years ever have happened? If only Teyla and Ronon had been at his side. Maybe then he wouldn't be standing here, more terrified than he'd ever been in his life, about to plunge back into the very world that had stolen them both away.
John knelt before the stones, ignoring the warning his knee gave, and used a bare hand to brush away some of the snow obscuring Ronon's name. There were words he needed to say, apologies to be made, but John just couldn't find the words. McKay, Carson, and Lorne were keeping a respectful distance so he could, but there was just too much to say. And he knew his meager words would never be enough. So he settled instead on resting a hand on each grave in turn in the reverence of that place before rising from his crouch. His friends did not approach until John had wiped the moisture away from his eyes and acknowledged them. He gestured with a tilt of his head that they should join him, and the four settled into a crude semi-circle around the stones.
Carson cleared his throat and broke the silence first. "I'd like to say something if that's alright." When no one objected, he went on.
"It's just a wee poem my mum always loved."
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer -
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
The birthplace of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.*
"That was nice," Rodney said a little stiffly when Carson was done.
The doctor nodded solemnly. "I thought it fitting. I'm always reminded of it when I think back on them. Ronon especially. That lad never was happier than when he was reminiscing about his home world."
"We should try and do this every year," Lorne suggested. "You know, come back around the same time every December and pay our respects. I think they'd get a kick out of that, the gang all back together again."
"Atlantis Reconnaissance 1, back in action," Rodney mused. "No offense Lorne."
The Colonel just shrugged, "None taken."
"You were always part of the team, anyway," John added. "Teyla loved you."
John thought he saw Lorne's cheeks color slightly in the dim light.
"It's an excellent idea, though," Carson chimed in. "I'm sure it could all be arranged. I hear our new expedition leader is a great man. We should have no trouble getting his permission to gate back to Earth this time next year."
This time it was John's turn to blush. "Is that so?"
"Oh, Aye! I mean, I hear he's a right crabby old bastard, but that he's got a heart of gold. Shouldn't be too hard to convince him, considering we'd be expecting him to go," Carson ribbed. The four men began to laugh. It was a sound the graveyard likely hadn't heard in a good long while. A brisk, northerly wind swooped down from the sky to steal the sound away and take it back up into the clouds.
"This place is nice," John said once they had settled back into solemnity.
"You've got Rodney to thank for that," Lorne pointed out.
John glanced over at his friends. "What do you mean?"
"Tell him, Rodney," Lorne prodded, but Rodney was just shaking his head sheepishly.
"It was nothing."
"That's not what I heard," Lorne said.
"I just talked a few people into setting this up, that's all."
"You shouldn't be so modest, Rodney!" Carson said. "You're the only reason this place exists!"
John studied Rodney, completely taken aback at the scientist's behavior. The Rodney McKay of old would have jumped at a chance to toot his own horn, to remind them all of his cunning and ingenuity. This Rodney was ducking their praise like some embarrassed school kid.
"What are they talking about Rodney?" John asked. There was still so much he didn't know about those years right after the war. But was this really the right time? Rodney apparently didn't think so.
"Go on, Rodney," Carson pushed, "tell the man what you did!
"It's nothing really," he said again. "I just refused to turn over some data until they agreed to set this up, and give Ronon and Teyla a proper send off. That's it."
"Again, not how I heard it," Lorne jumped in, sounding almost angry. "It was all over the base how you holed yourself up in that lab and threatened to release all your findings to the public if they didn't agree to arrest all those IOA members. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand after that. This place was just an added bonus."
"It got the job done, I suppose," Rodney said as nonchalantly as he could, casting his eyes to the snow-covered ground.
"It brought down every single one of those bastards, so yeah, I'd say it more than got the job done," Lorne said, clasping a hand on McKay's shoulder. "You were a real hero, Rodney."
"Well, you know, I am a genius after all," Rodney smirked, tapping the side of his head with an index finger. "But I was still too late."
"Mitchell and Carter knew what they were signing up for, Rodney. You can't blame yourself for all that." John watched as Lorne stepped in closer to the scientist. "None of that was your fault."
John felt a sudden pang of jealousy as he watched Lorne comfort Rodney. That should have been him over there with his hand on the scientist's shoulder. John trying to convince him that this was all somehow ok.
But John had made the choice to run away 18 years ago. Now he was going to have to live with the fact that others had stepped in to fill his shoes. To do for the world what he couldn't, not back then.
"Boy," Rodney was saying with a laugh, "you all sure know how to ruin a moment, don't you?"
"I'm starting to freeze my ass off anyway," John said. "Why don't we start heading back?"
No one argued and their little semi-circle broke apart a moment later. John followed behind his friends in silence.
The trip back up the mountain was a little treacherous with the snow that had begun to fall in earnest, but eventually the three arrived back at the SGC safe and sound. Lorne suggested another trip to the Officer's Club to warm up but John was starting his training in the morning. He feigned the need for a good night's sleep as an excuse to bow out. Truth was, after the day he'd just had - first with Woolsey, then the re-enlisting Ceremony, and finally their little trip down the mountain - he just needed a few minutes to himself. John had a lot on his mind and sleep was going to be elusive, though he was in desperate need of it.
Saying his goodbyes to Rodney, Carson, and Lorne near the elevators, John made his way down the hall and towards his new bunk. There weren't a lot of soldiers living on base at the moment, but it was still nice to be back in the land of the living. Especially after so many years of self-imposed exile. John passed a few of these soldiers on their way to the mess. They nodded to him before going back to grumbling good-naturedly about the turkey surprise once again being served in the chow line. Eventually, John reached the little windowless room that would be his home for the next few weeks and stepped inside.
The bunk wasn't half bad. It hardly reminded him of his quarters back on Atlantis, but it would get the job done. He didn't particularly need any creature comforts while his team worked to transform him from recluse back into a soldier.
John let the door close behind him and then made his way over to the foot of his bed. The duffle bag he'd thrown down earlier was still there and he spent a few minutes transferring his clothes over to the small bureau that came with the room. His only other furniture was the bed, a small nightstand, and an ancient desk that looked as though it had seen its fair share of careless owners. He considered putting out the photographs he had hidden in a bottom compartment of the bag, but decided against it in the end. He wasn't going to be here for long, and nothing he owned now was going to improve the look of his sad little room. His Johnny Cash poster was long gone and any trinkets he'd left behind on Atlantis were likely packed away in some dusty old box somewhere in the city.
John left the pictures where they were and slid the near-empty duffel under the bed. That done, he collapsed down on top of his thin bedspread, not even bothering to kick off his boots. He was beyond exhausted at this point, yet still felt on edge. Like a ticking time bomb that was just waiting for the right moment to explode all over the next person who triggered him.
John sighed and flipped over onto his back. There was a pile of freshly laundered linens waiting for him over on the desk to make the bed with, but John couldn't bring himself to move. He wasn't ready for all that structure quite yet. There would be plenty of time for him to get himself back in that neatly ordered headspace of a soldier. But for now, he was content to just lay there on top of his military-issue comforter and stare up at the ceiling.
A small desk lamp with a green shade was doing its best to illuminate the room. But the spartan space was a far cry from the rustic construction of his cabin. It was warm and dry and would serve him well, but John still found himself missing his old home.
John let his thoughts wander back to Blue River. He wondered what Carrie might be doing and if she had any idea where he was or what it was he was preparing to do. The surviving civilians of the war had never officially been given the full story about what happened with the Wraith. Would Carrie have ever even given John the time of day if she knew? If he had told her how instrumental he had been in nearly ending the world? He liked to think that she would understand. She hadn't lost everything in The Great Culling, but she'd certainly fallen victim to its aftermath. Lived through those long years right after a third of the world's population had disappeared and entire cities had burned. Carrie owed all that destruction and chaos to John, and he doubted she would ever be able to understand. Or that she would ever be able to forgive him if she knew who he really was.
Even so, it was Carrie's face John saw when he eventually closed his eyes that night. Her laugh that invaded his dreams for once, instead of the faces of the dead.
Early the next morning, and after a few quick laps around the running track and an inhaled breakfast with Rodney, John found himself on his way back down to meet with Former Petty Officer Sean Fitzpatrick. This would be his first real test of physical endurance and John was really looking forward to seeing what Fitzpatrick had planned. John had asked around a bit, but no one had really been able to tell him what to expect because none of them had ever gone through this before. John was a special case, apparently, and this program had been tailor-made just for him. He could only hope everyone had gotten the measurements right this time.
John recalled former Navy SEAL Sean Fitzpatrick and shivered a little. That man was built like a tank and John had heard some whispered rumors about him the day before. He'd tried to squeeze some intel out of Rodney over their bowls of soupy oatmeal that morning, but the scientist had had little to say about the relatively unknown Navy SEAL. John was heading into this thing blind, something he didn't quite appreciate. Then again, they had to start somewhere.
The SGC training facilities were located just one level below John's new bunk. He stepped inside and was immediately greeted by floor-to-ceiling khaki green. Mats that reminded him of the ones his gym teacher used to make them pull out before class lined the walls. They were the folded, faded kind with hardly any padding, and John knew the first time he was slammed into one, it was going to hurt.
At various stations around the room, training scenarios had been set up. They ranged anywhere from empty spaces to spar in, to an elevated ring for hand-to-hand combat. There were also any number of cardio and weight machines. John found Fitzpatrick waiting for him over in one far corner of the cavernous space. They were the only ones in the room and John jogged over to where the former Navy SEAL was standing, thanking his lucky stars. He didn't need any witnesses for what was coming.
"Petty Officer Fitzpatrick?" he called out carefully. Fitzpatrick did not strike John as the kind of man who reacted passively to being startled.
"Brigadier General Sheppard," the man offered back as he turned. He was as big as John remembered and was holding a Bantos rod in one hand. It's twin still sat on the table, right next to another set John assumed would be his.
"First rule of my gym is that we're all equals down here. There's no pulling rank and I could care less who you are. And if you call me Petty Officer one more time, I'm gonna mop the floor with you." Fitzpatrick's dark eyes sparked a bit with an unvoiced dare. "And it's just plain old Fitz."
Entirely uninterested in challenging the enormous man standing before him, at least for the time being, John nodded. "Fair enough."
"I understand you have some experience with these?" the former SEAL asked, gesturing towards the Bantos.
John stepped up to the table and ran his fingers down the smooth wood of one of the rods. Fitzpatrick wasn't just asking him a question, he was letting John know that he'd read up on him. He was familiar with John's previous training and had no qualms about using it against him. The Bantos would be part of that. They looked old and worn, just like… John snapped his hand away as thoughts of Teyla invaded his brain. Were these hers? Had Fitzpatrick brought them here on purpose? And if he had, what kind of game was this kid playing at?
"A little," he admitted shortly as Fitzpatrick handed him a rolled-up strip of material he could use to wrap his hands.
"Then let's see what you can do."
The two men spent a few minutes getting ready in awkward silence. John took off his shoes and socks and then started in on the process of protecting his hands. His knuckles wouldn't stand a chance against the sticks he was about to work with. Not to mention the blisters he would be sporting if he neglected to wrap his hands. The work was automatic and John was reveling in the feel of old muscle memory.
Fitzpatrick was going to dive right in. Well, that was perfectly fine by John. His earlier fears of being treated differently because of his rank had been proven irrelevant the moment Fitzpatrick had opened his mouth. This preemptive strike was a smart move on the part of the former Petty Officer. He could use today to both get a picture of John's overall abilities and instincts, as well as establish their boundaries.
John had no qualms about using it to his advantage, too. This was his one chance to show Fitzpatrick what he was made of, before personality and ego muddied the waters.
"What have you been doing to stay in shape?" the former SEAL asked as they worked. "Dr. Beckett seems to think you're up for just about anything I can throw at you, except for some issues with your knee."
"It doesn't always bother me," John replied, wriggling the fingers of one hand a bit after he'd finished wrapping it, "and I run mostly."
Fitzpatrick nodded and then handed John his own pair of sticks. They were heavy in his hands but oh so familiar. He gave them an experimental twirl, and then followed the former SEAL out onto the mats. John checked their surroundings one final time and was relieved to see that they were still alone. Perfect. He had no idea how his body was going to react, and he was glad there would be no one else around to watch him get his ass handed to him. And John had a feeling that was exactly what was about to happen. He was an old man now, as hard as that was to admit. An old man long past his prime, even if Carson's paperwork had tried to say otherwise. What in the hell had he been thinking?
Moving across the mats in an effort to familiarize himself with the feel of the springy foam beneath his feet, John tried to push the intrusive thoughts aside and focus on his form.
It had been an awfully long time since he'd held such a rudimentary weapon in his hand. But John had to admit, it felt damn good. He tried a few moves and was pleased when the Bantos didn't slip from his grip or clatter to the floor. He used his movements to get his blood pumping as Fitz led him to the center of the mat.
"Let's just see what happens," the Irishman suggested, clacking his sticks together with a mischievous glint in his eye.
John agreed and then settled himself into a stance he hadn't taken up in nearly two decades.
The muscles of his arms and legs engaged immediately. His heart rate ratcheted up a few notches in his chest as he flexed his hands around the Bantos and brought them up in front of his face. This was something he knew, something that was still as much a part of him as breathing. So much so, John nearly faltered as his brain took him back to long-forgotten memories of sparring with Teyla.
He got lost in them just as Fitzpatrick lunged. John wasn't ready for the surprise attack. He managed to deflect it at the last second, but not before Fitzpatrick's stick glanced off his own and caught him in the hand. John danced off, shaking his stinging fingers and cursing. Fitzpatrick just stood his ground in the center of the space, loosening the muscles of his neck with a tilt of his head in either direction. John took a breath and then walked back over to resume his stance.
One corner of Fitzpatrick's mouth curled upwards in a sly grin as he shuffled forward in a feint, sending John stumbling back a few cautious steps. When the man-made no further moves after that, John took advantage and sprang forward.
Their sticks met in the space between them as Fitzpatrick parried and then dodged. The move threw John off balance and he stumbled forward. Fitz was right there beside him, grabbing his wrist and twisting John's arm painfully behind his back. The pressure forced John to drop the Bantos he was holding in that hand. He expected Fitzpatrick to withdraw right then and there, but the former SEAL refused to let go until John dropped the other stick as well.
"Oh come on Sheppard," he goaded as he shoved John away. "I thought you were supposed to be good at this?"
John bit his tongue against an insult that would have made his own mother blush and picked up his sticks from the floor. This cocky kid was starting to piss him off.
Centering himself with another breath, John tried to clear his mind and focus on the task at hand. All his life he'd been able to rely on his instincts. They had kept him alive for this long, but memories of the past kept trying to push their way up into his thoughts and throw him off his guard. He tried to shake them off again, stomping his feet on the mat a bit to get his blood flowing again.
Fitzpatrick was like some hound dog that been trained to pick up on distraction. He immediately sensed that John's thoughts had wandered again and made his move. Their next skirmish ended with John doubled over with a couple of bruised ribs and Fitzpatrick's stick hovering inches above his bum knee. John's Bantos were lying uselessly on the mat a few feet away.
"Shit," he muttered, moving off to retrieve his sticks. But Fitzpatrick apparently had other plans. He lunged at John again, giving him no time to recover, and for a few breathless seconds, the training room was filled with nothing but their grunts and the clack of wood against wood. John spent the entire time just blocking blow after blow from Fitz until finally the guy swept John's feet out from under him and he crashed into the floor. It hurt just as much as he imagined.
"Better," Fitz said, coming to stand over him. "But I gotta admit, Sheppard, I'm a little underwhelmed over here."
John kicked out with his feet, hoping to bring Fitz down with him, but the former SEAL knew exactly what he was trying to do, and danced away easily. John peeled himself up off the floor quickly, and with no warning, rushed Fitzpatrick.
The kid sidestepped with ease. "Almost!"
Fitzpatrick was all cocky smile now, and John wanted nothing more than to knock that stupid grin right off his face. He readied his stance again and let his instincts take over.
It was just a game. That's all he'd been doing with people since he got here. John just needed to find that calm, focused center he knew was still in him somewhere and show these people who he was. It wasn't about bragging rights later, it was about proving he could still do this. So far, he was failing spectacularly.
Fitzpatrick's Bantos cracked him across the jaw. "What in the hell's the matter with you?"
Rage began boiling away John's blood. Ignoring the sting in his cheek, he brought his sticks back up and circled Fitzpatrick who had suddenly lost that cocky smile. They spent the next few minutes just offering up half-hearted attacks. The moves weren't necessarily meant to inflict any real damage. They were mostly an opportunity for each man to get a feel for the other's fighting style. At least, that's what John had assumed they were doing before Fitzpatrick burst forward in a sudden strike that nearly sent him back down to the floor. He blocked the stick headed straight for his head as best he could, but there was nothing he could do about the fist Fitzpatrick drove up into his stomach next. John bent at the middle again, gasping for air and choking.
"Well shit, Sheppard!" Fitzpatrick mocked him. "With instincts like those, no wonder all those people died."
John snapped his head up. "What in the hell did you just say?"
"You heard me," Fitzpatrick fired back. "I mean, come on. Look at you! It's no wonder they all left you."
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" John spat, trying very hard to control the anger that was threatening to consume him.
Fitzpatrick took a quick step towards him and John stiffened, expecting another attack. It didn't come, though. "I'm just a former Petty Officer who trains sorry-ass old ex-soldiers like you. Who the hell are you?"
Fitzpatrick lashed out then, but his rods were too far away and John was easily able to avoid them. But the former SEAL didn't stop there and immediately went on the offensive. John diverted the Bantos headed straight for his face again, but Fitz was able to grab the arm John had raised to protect himself and use it to bend him over. A moment later a knee was driving up into his solar plexus.
"Nope, you're going to have to do better than that," he taunted as John started coughing again. "And here I thought I was about to spar with someone who actually knew what they were doing."
Fitz let his sticks fall away in disgust and John took advantage of this momentary distraction. Without even straightening, John drove his shoulder into the Seal's midsection. He missed by a mile when the Petty Officer weaved away.
"Hear something you didn't like?" he asked dangerously, answering John back with a full-body lunge of his own.
John was flat on his back again. He rolled onto his side, wheezing. "Asshole."
The former SEAL just smiled. "Come on already! Quit pussyfooting around! Get up off your ass and hit me already!"
The Irishman pranced across the mats, daring John to pick himself up and try again.
John sprang back up to his feet, ignoring his aching body, and threw himself into an all-out attack. Fitzpatrick was ready for him, but did not go on the offensive like before. He let John expend his energy just trying to land even one blow. The Petty Officer easily blocked them again and again. Eventually, John's arms began to tire. He eased off minutely, and that was all Fitzpatrick needed. He re-engaged without warning, throwing John off balance and managing to swing him around before Sheppard could even recover. In an instant, John was on his knees and caught in a chokehold.
"Pathetic!" Fitzpatrick hissed, pressing his Bantos into John's windpipe. "How in the hell do you expect to lead an entire expedition of scientists and soldiers if you can't even control your own emotions for one goddamn minute. Let alone enough to hit me with a stick ?"
John wrapped his hands around the stick and pulled it away from his throat as far as he could. "I haven't done this in 18 years, you fucking psychopath. You can't just expect me to pick right back up where I left off. Especially not against someone like you!"
"That's bullshit and you know it!" Fitzpatrick snapped. "Bantos fighting isn't about who's bigger. It's about focus and discipline. But I doubt you would know focus and discipline if they bit you in the ass right now."
John felt something snap in his chest. Drawing his head forward, he ruthlessly snapped it back again and caught Fitzpatrick square in the nose with the back of his skull. There was a satisfying crunch as the former SEAL finally let him go. John scrambled back up to his feet to watch on with a smirk as the Petty Officer clutched his bleeding nose and swore. The blood was already oozing out from between his fingers.
But instead of looking incredibly pissed, Fitzpatrick just smiled over at John with blood-stained teeth. "You're so twisted up inside right now, I bet you don't even know which side of the bed to piss on, do you Sheppard?" he said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "You know, blind anger might put you back on your feet in a firefight, but it sure as hell won't save your ass."
"I'm not angry," John rasped out, his abused throat threatening to close up on him. This kid had no idea what he was talking about.
"Oh no? You're so focused on the past that it's eating you alive! And believe me, things are only going to get worse until it gets you and everyone under your command killed."
"Did you get all that from reading some file on me?" John said angrily. "You think hearing a few stories about me and a few rounds in the ring are enough to know who the hell I am?"
"I saw you at the re-enlisting Ceremony, Sheppard. You were barely holding it together." So someone had noticed.
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit!" Fitz said. "You're scared shitless. And what makes it even worse is that you have no idea how to make it stop, do you?"
Anger burned its way through John's core and into his very fingertips as he lurched forward, stick striking out to catch Fitzpatrick in the side but the former Seal didn't even try to block the blow and staggered back a few paces with a laugh.
"Again!" he yelled and John was all too happy to oblige. He savored the feel of his next blow as it reverberated up his arm.
"Again!"
Rage whited out everything but the man standing in front of him as John let that 18 years of repressed anger carry him away. He let go of everything but his instincts and attacked Fitzpatrick with the strength of every memory, every face that haunted his nightmares. For immeasurable moments the pair were lost in a blinding battle that brokered no mercy. It was an entirely one-sided fight, John would later realize because he was the one fighting to regain a part of himself he'd lost somewhere along the way. Fitzpatrick was just there trying to make sure that it happened.
The fight was dirty and viscous. Eventually, it turned into just fists when John threw his Bantos down onto the mat and lunged. He used every ounce of the rage and uncertainty he was feeling until he wasn't even aware of himself anymore.
Fitzpatrick held his own and it was over several minutes later.
When awareness eventually returned, John found that he was lying on his side on the floor trying desperately to draw in enough air into his lungs to get rid of the blackness encroaching on his vision. Blood was pooling into a puddle beneath his head, but he barely noticed. Fitzpatrick was still somehow on his feet and walked back over to the table. When he returned, he was carrying a few water bottles.
"Here," he said, holding one out to John. Sheppard eased himself up and took it without comment. He wasn't sure he could speak even if he wanted to. He had nothing left. Fitzpatrick had somehow managed to hollow him out entirely.
The former SEAL plopped down on the mat beside him and unceremoniously dumped his own water bottle over the top of his head. Little pink rivers of diluted blood started running across the mats. John drained his own bottle in a few long, greedy pulls. It felt amazing on his poor throat and he did not refuse it when a second bottle was offered to him.
"Tell me about Teyla and Ronon," Fitzpatrick said quietly after John set the second bottle down on the mat.
John looked over at the former SEAL. Fitzpatrick was still bleeding from the nose and there was a cut just above one of his blackened eyes. He looked smug almost, despite the devastation, and John thought he knew why. The Petty Officer had set a trap. A trap that John had let himself get snared by. There was a reason the SEAL had pushed him over the edge. It was so John no longer had any energy to avoid the truth. It was time for John Sheppard to face his demons.
Something Rodney had said to him yesterday floated back...
"... you can't keep telling people that you're fine. You don't have to talk to me or Carson about it if you don't want to. But please, for the love of god, do us all a favor, Sheppard, and find someone to talk to before all of this turns into something you can't handle anymore."
"I trusted the wrong people and it cost Ronon and Teyla their lives," he began, his voice hoarse. "Then I left their bodies behind on that Super Hive when I blew it straight to hell."
Fitzpatrick opened another water bottle. "And do you blame yourself for what happened to them?"
"What do you think?" John said, a strange numbness taking over his mind.
"I don't think anything, Sheppard," Fitz answered. "You gotta tell me. That's how this works."
John looked away on a sigh, wincing when his ribs protested with a white-hot twinge. It took him a moment to start again, but he eventually made himself. "I trusted Todd and it was the wrong thing to do. That was my call, so yeah, I blame myself for what happened."
"Todd was the Wraith ally you guys had on Atlantis, yeah?" Fitzpatrick asked.
John nodded. " Had being the operative word. He gave us some intel on a Super Hive one of his little minions had developed behind his back. Only he failed to mention that the Super Hive had enough firepower to blow our entire fleet out of the sky. Or that they were expecting us. We barely got out of there alive... and then the subspace transmission happened."
"That would be the one that broadcasted the location of Earth from a parallel dimension?" Fitzpatrick asked and John studied the man for a moment or two. Apparently, his new friend knew a lot more about what happened than he was letting on.
"That would be the one," John said eventually.
"What happened after that?"
"Why don't you tell me? You seem to be the one who knows everything," John countered, sick to death of being prodded about past events he had no desire to revisit.
But Fitzpatrick wasn't having any of it. "Believe it or not, Sheppard, it's important that I hear all this from you. I'm the one you tell , John."
The use of his first name should have made John bristle, but he was just so fucking tired.
"The Super Hive took off for Earth as soon as it had the coordinates. I got orders to return home and coordinate the offensive from the control chair at McMurdo. Someone needed to be there in case the Super Hive got there before Atlantis."
"Only that's not what happened, was it?" Fitzpatrick asked.
John shook his head. "As soon as I gated back to Earth they found out that Carson, sorry Dr. Beckett, wasn't going to be able to fly the city back to Earth. Drones he could handle, but not the entire city, so I got recalled and we switched places." John could still remember the exact moment with perfect clarity. It was one of those "what if" moments he replayed over and over again in his mind in the dead of night when sleep refused to come. John wrapped his arms around his middle, not caring how pathetic he probably looked sitting there on the floor, trying his best to hide the fact he was rocking back and forth now. His ribs ached relentlessly.
"So Carson was handling the chair?"
"No…" John said, realizing he could no longer recall why Carson wasn't in the chair, just that he hadn't been. "It's complicated…"
"Then explain it to me," Fits pushed.
"We eventually caught up with the Super Hive when it dropped out of hyperspace for hull regeneration. Rodney got us there in time thanks to some experimental drive he'd been tinkering with. We got on board through a gate the Wraith were going to use to block Earth's Stargate once they arrived. I set a nuclear charge so we could blow the bastards to hell, but things didn't exactly go according to plan." John paused, the space around his heart starting to constrict. This time when the faces of his friends appeared before him, John didn't fight against their hallucinations or try to push them away. Teyla with her odd angles. Ronon's cold, unseeing eyes staring up at him from the floor where he lay dead and unmoving.
"What then?" Fitzpatrick prodded gently.
"What happened then is that a group of Wraith got the drop on us and before I could stop it, Teyla and Ronon were dead." John stared down at his swollen hands, his knuckles red and angry even though he didn't remember ever having used his fist.
"How?"
"Don't make me say it."
"You have to."
John's hands began to shake and he couldn't make them stop. "They broke Teyla's neck and stabbed Ronon in the back."
Blackness was creeping into his field of vision again, but John knew, if he didn't at least try and get this all out in the open, it was going to continue eating him alive. The memories would follow him around until the day he died. John could not consciously lead a group of soldiers and scientists back to Pegasus with a time bomb ticking away in his chest.
"I tried," he continued. "I tried to go back for them and bring their bodies back, but the Wraith cut us off and the remote timer Rodney had for the nuke had been damaged."
"I can only imagine what that must have been like," Fitzpatrick offered with a shake of his head, "to have to leave your teammates behind like that. What happened next?"
"The hive was destroyed and we set a course back to Atlantis."
"You know what I mean, Sheppard. What happened after you were done with the Super Hive?"
But 'after' was something John Sheppard had not allowed himself to speak of for nearly two decades. He faltered and Fitzpatrick sat up straighter.
"It's now or never, John. Tell me what happened when you got back to Earth."
One of John's eyes had swollen shut, but he made himself look over at Fitzpatrick. The SEAL was asking him to confront memories he'd spent the last 18 years hiding from. But it also felt like the universe, after years and years of self-flagellation and self-imposed exile, was finally offering him this one chance to unburden himself. But could he do it?
"On our way back to Pegasus, Rodney discovered something," he said thickly, trying to control his breathing as he forced the words out.
"What, John?" Fitzpatrick pushed. "What did Dr. McKay find out?"
"That the Wraith were attacking Earth..."
"Why John?"
"Because the Super Hive wasn't the only ship to receive that subspace transmission," John said. It was getting harder and harder to keep the blackness surrounding him at bay.
"So you headed back to Earth?" Fitz nudged.
John nodded. "We did, but it took us too long."
"What happened next, John?"
"Atlantis dropped out of subspace and Woolsey ordered me to open fire on every hive ship we came across."
"And did you?"
"I did," he admitted, his voice cracking. "Between me and some poor kid they forced into the control chair at Area 51, we destroyed them all."
"But that's not all of it, is it John?" Fitzpatrick was asking him from somewhere far off. John focused his tunnel vision back on the former SEAL. The man sitting cross-legged in front of him, bloodied by the damage his own fists had made, and demanding more from John than any other living soul had yet to up until that point in his life. "Tell me what happened. What did they do to you to make you crash Atlantis into the San Francisco Bay?"
John swayed unsteadily and Fitzpatrick shot a hand out to grab him roughly around the forearm and keep him upright. The words that came out next physically severed him in half and it was all John could do to stay conscious.
"Woolsey… the IOA..." he choked, white-hot tears he refused to release burning at the corners of his eyes, "...they didn't tell us... those bastards... All those ships..." but he couldn't go on, something had lodged itself physically in the back of his throat. He could barely breathe around it.
"What about the ships, John?"
"I blew them all out of the fucking sky and they didn't tell me!" he forced out, looking up into the concerned face of Sean Fitzpatrick who was now crouched at his side. "The Wraith had started culling, and those fucking bastards didn't tell me!"
"What John? What didn't they tell you?"
John was tearing at the front of Fitzpatrick's shirt now, fisting the material in his shaking hands. "There were people in those Hives! 2 billion fucking people, and they let me blow every single one of them out of the sky!"
John felt something crack inside his chest. That blackness he'd been fighting so hard against, and for so long, swooped in, and John slumped sideways. A hand caught his head before it could hit the ground as Fitzgerald gently lowered him down, calling out for help at the same time.
But John was too far gone. He let himself be swallowed whole, and down into a nothingness so absolute, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to find his way back out again. Not sure that he ever should.