When John Sheppard was 9 years old, his father bought him a dog. His mother had just died, and John was pulling away from the world. In one last desperate attempt to connect with his youngest, Patrick Sheppard had purchased the dog from a local breeder. He was a Golden Retriever and John named him Sampson. For three and a half blissful years, he was the best friend John Sheppard ever had. They spent endless summer days just playing catch across the vast lawns of the family's estate and driving the gardeners mad. They played hide and seek and their own unique game of tag in the waist-high hayfields beside the stables. John had loved that dog more than anything else in the world, so it seemed only fitting that Sampson should be sitting there with him now.

John reeled in his fishing line and, drawing his arm back, cast it back out into the sea with practiced ease. He was fishing off the end of one of Atlantis' long piers, Sampson, a warm and reassuring weight at his side. The canine's body heat soaked up into John's arm as Sampson watched the fishing line intently. Every so often he would whine lightly when it appeared the fish had begun to nibble, nudging John's arm with a cold nose until he started trying to reel in again. They had developed a kind of system, though John had yet to catch anything. He wasn't exactly sure where he was at the moment, but it did not strike him as the kind of place where you caught anything. Just fond memories and quiet solitude.

John looked over at Sampson who was still inspecting the water. His coat was a rich, golden brown that glistened in the late evening sunshine. When John had seen the dog last, he had not been in very good shape. The genetic disease that eventually took his life had been quick and brutal. But Sampson's last days were not something John let himself think about very often. His father had decided, for some reason that seemed only to make sense to him, that the only way John was ever going to get over the loss of his dog, was if he put Sampson down himself. So Patrick Sheppard, in his infinite wisdom, had taken his youngest out behind the woodshed, pushed a rifle into his hands, and made him put his own dog down. John had been so angry at his father for a very long time after that. In fact, he still harbored a bit of anger and resentment towards the man over what he had made John do. It made him wonder if his father would be making an appearance in this place any time soon, or if John would even want such a thing. He was still trying to figure out the rules, so there was always the possibility he had a choice.

John had Atlantis and he had his dog. He was content for now, though he suspected this was not how he was to spend eternity. Eventually, he would have to move on from this place.

"Shoulda figured you'd bring a fishing pole to a knife fight," a gruff voice said from his left and John smiled widely in spite of himself.

"I was wondering when you might show up."

John turned to watch as Ronon walked over to take a seat beside him. The Satedan blinked up into the cloudless California sky. "Nice place ya got here."

The pier they were on was more of a place he associated with memories of Rodney, but Rodney was still alive so sharing this with someone else was nothing he was worried about.

"Normally I'd offer you a beer, but it looks like I'm fresh out."

Ronon pulled a face. "Never cared for that crap anyway. Always tasted like lukewarm piss to me. Now the Satedans, they knew how to brew a good ale."

"You made me try some once, remember?" John said with a wince. "That homemade shit you concocted in your bunk nearly took the lining of my esophagus off."

"It's never worth it if it doesn't hurt," Ronon said heavily before leaning back on his hands and closing his eyes to bask in the sun. It was nearly at the horizon now and bathed everything in a warm, golden light. Sampson, apparently unfazed by their new visitor, decided to relax as well. He settled himself down onto the warm metal of the pier and rested his chin lightly on John's thigh. A moment later he was fast asleep.

His fishing pole had mysteriously disappeared by this point, so John just started idly petting the canine's soft fur. The disappearance of his pole didn't phase him. In fact, it seemed perfectly natural for something like that to happen in a place like this.

"So," he said after a while, "does this mean I'm dead?"

Ronon opened an eye to look over at him. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, that's kind of why you're here, isn't it?"

Ronon just shrugged.

John understood then why he'd filled his life with people like Eddie Nostrand and Sean Fitzpatrick. They reminded him of Ronon. Of the friend whose passing had affected John so deeply, he never did quite get over it. To have the Satedan sitting beside him now and looking as solemn and quiet as the last time John had ever seen him seemed fitting in this place.

His old friend appeared ready for battle. His feet were bare and his weapons were missing, but he looked ready to jump up from the pier and head out on another mission with John if he were only to say the word. He was dressed in that same hastily hand-stitched linen shirt he'd always loved, his heavy dreadlocks pulled back and away from his face by a length of cord. He had on his favorite leather cuffs as well. The same ones he told everyone he'd won from some tribal chieftain, but which actually covered a few old wounds left behind by one particularly nasty run in with the Wraith.

Everything about Ronon was the same. All that seemed to be missing were the holes the Wraith's blades would have left behind after they killed him, but John figured this was probably not the place for such things. Even so, it didn't seem to stop distant memories from trying to resurface. John tried to push them away, but they came anyway, lashing out at him like the cords of a whip, slicing into his skin and right down to the bone.

The living walls of a Wraith ship began rising up out of the water around them, conjured by his own mutinous brain. The gently lapping water of the bay faded away and was soon replaced with the cold, grey bodies of the Wraith he'd just mowed down. Ronon and Teyla floating at the epicenter of that colorless pool. Their hands reaching for each other like they had been when John found them all those years ago. Outstretched as if trying to touch one another one last time, but dying before they could make it. If only John had been a few seconds quicker. Maybe then none of this would have happened…

"Yo!" Ronon called out from beside him, the Satedan's huge hand coming down on his shoulder hard. "Snap out of it, Sheppard!" John shook his head, trying to clear it of the visions. "You can't keep doing that in here. You'll get stuck."

John closed his eyes, willing away the images of the Hive. When he opened them again, Atlantis and his pier were back.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked, still breathless as he shrugged Ronon's hand off. "What is this place?"

Ronon shrugged. "It's whatever you want it to be."

"Am I stuck here then?" John asked. "Is this it?"

Ronon looked over. "Do you want it to be?"

John wasn't sure how to respond. "You're not making much sense here, buddy."

"Neither are you," Ronon shot back. "There's nothing you could have done for us back then, Sheppard. I thought you would have figured that out after 18 years."

"Yeah, well," John said, still agitated. "I think you're giving me too much credit there, bud."

Ronon raised a brow. "Doubt it."

There was a quiet fury that had always burned hot at the center of Ronon Dex. It was a fire that had been fueled by the loss of his home world, and one that had been smoldering inside of him ever since. It had never taken much to stoke the flames of that fire. John could remember the countless times he'd watched it explode outward from within his friend when he was provoked.

When Ronon was angry, you knew it. At the moment, there was no hint of that fire in the man sitting beside him now. Maybe it was time for John to start believing in what he was saying. But that was a hard thing to do after 18 years of self-flagellation.

John let his head fall forward. "I know there was nothing I could have done, but I still need to tell you I'm sorry for it anyway."

For all John knew this place was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. A safe haven created by his own mind to help him work through some of his unfinished business before he kicked the bucket. Every so often he could feel four pinpricks of pain erupt in his shoulder and chest, reminding him of the reality he had run from. Now he was getting the chance to say all the things that had gone unsaid between him and Ronon. Why waste it?

"If that's what you need to hear, then fine. I forgive you, Sheppard."

John looked up from where he had gone back to rubbing Sampson's head idly.

Ronon seemed genuine. But John had been playing that day out in his mind over and over again for the past 18 years. That constant game of cat and mouse he'd played with the Wraith patrols searching for him. The countless bodies he'd littered the corridor floors with.

"Sheppard?"

The acrid smell of spent energy weapons filling the air as he neared the sounds of heavy battle.

But he'd stopped. God forgive him, John had stopped, and everyone died.

"John, don't…"

It was instantaneous this time. No slow disappearance of Atlantis as the memories overcame him again. He simply closed his eyes against them and found himself right back in the middle of his worst nightmare when he opened them again. He was pressed against the living wall of the Super Hive, a ball of blue light careening past his face and exploding the slimy wall beside his head.

John ducked as another blast from a Wraith weapon missed his head by millimeters. He let loose a barrage of bullets that crumpled his Wraith attackers to the floor one by one. The firefight was brief but intense, and when it was over, John eyed the pile of dead bodies warily, remembering the Wraith's affinity for reanimating and trying to kill him all over again. But the bodies at the end of the hall remained still and John stood panting against the slimy wall, trying to get his bearings.

There was no sign of Atlantis or his pier. They had been completely replaced by the damp darkness of the Wraith ship he'd hoped to never see again.

Pulling himself away from the wall, there was a disgusting squelch as viscous slime refused to let him go. Wraith ships had always disgusted him. He couldn't understand how a race so advanced could live in such conditions, their homes little more than industrial strength storage containers for their prey. Everything was organic and pulsed around him as if he were Jonah in the belly of the whale rather than John Sheppard trying to find a way out of the nightmare he'd suddenly found himself in.

Ignoring the cool slime coating his back, John stepped away from the wall and glanced around. There was no sign of Sampson or of Ronon, though somewhere far off he could hear the distant sounds of battle. Judging by the direction it was coming from, John knew exactly who was fighting, and took off at a run towards the sound.

At first, he tried to tell himself that he was being given a second chance. That this new element of his dream was an opportunity for him to right a wrong that had been committed so long ago. But as John ran down the corridor, he knew that wasn't the case. This was penance. Whether that penance was self-imposed or forced, he wasn't sure yet.

The corridor John was traveling down had changed. He realized he'd come to one of those areas where the Wraith kept their prey. He sprinted past them this time, trying to ignore the shadowy silhouettes of the bodies bound within their cocoons. Those wretched souls lost in the emptiness of suspended animation until some Wraith decided it was hungry.

These people were why John had not reached Ronon and Teyla in time that day. He'd paused before those opaque barriers, imagining his own face peering out from inside as he contemplated releasing every last one of them. Being captured by the Wraith was a fate worse than death, but there hadn't been enough time to save them. The timer he'd set on the C4 was ticking away. So he left them to die in whatever peaceful worlds their minds had created to deal with their imprisonment.

Save them, or help his team. That's what it had come down to that day, and his hesitation at the pods had cost his friends their lives. John had lost them all in the end, and that grief was only compounded a few days later with what happened in the skies above Earth.

This place seemed to be offering John something. A rare chance to see what different decisions might yield. He was always thinking what if? , so maybe this was his opportunity to actually see. A glimpse into what could have been if he hadn't stopped but rather arrived in that corridor in time to save his friends.

John sprinted on down the corridor, barely sparing a passing glance to the doomed souls in their pods. He rounded a corner and was barely able to stop in time to avoid the twin balls of blue light headed straight for his chest. He dove back around the corner, the hard floor of the corridor knocking the wind out of him, but it had been enough. The shots exploded uselessly against the walls, sending slime and sinew splattering as John scrambled back up to his feet.

The Wraith were continuing their advance down the hall. John crouched low, peered around the corner, and took them all out with a spray of bullets from his P90. Once he was sure they were all going to stay dead, he rose from his crouch and moved on down the hall. But one of the Wraith had managed to fool him. The faceless footsoldier sat up suddenly and the discharge from his energy weapon caught John in the arm. He put the creature down instantly, but the damage had been done. His arm had gone numb, but the hit hadn't been enough to take John down. He lost his grip on the P90 however, and it now hung uselessly from its strap at his side.

"Shit." There was nothing to do but run. He couldn't shoot, so he just cradled his numb arm to his chest and bolted.

More Wraith were coming. He could hear them marching down the next hall but he didn't have time for another firefight. He needed to find Ronon and Teyla. Get to them before the Wraith had time to kill them this time.

None of this was happening like he remembered. Weren't these moments before death supposed to be about redemption and saying goodbye? Making peace with what happened in the past, not failing spectacularly at trying to change it all? His attempts to reach them in time were being thwarted at every turn, and John knew exactly what he would find when he eventually reached his friends.

John backtracked, finding another corridor near the storage area. He was close now, though everything in him was screaming at him to stop. He didn't need to see this again to remember. He'd been reliving the moment in his head every night for nearly two decades. But there was no escaping it now as he rounded the next corner.

"Teyla…" The name left John on barely enough breath to give it life. It took form and substance as it spilled from his mouth, a million memories giving it a mournful shape.

His nightmares were real now, and as tangible and devastating as the day he'd lived them.

Teyla was lying on her back and the unmistakable smell of blood invaded his nose. The unseeing pools of her eyes stared up at him from the floor. John had seen enough of war to remember what that unnatural angle to her neck meant. He'd walked past enough of his fallen brethren to understand that that was a scream her mouth was still contorted around. Blood dripped from the mangled remains of the arm twisted up behind her head, the one not reaching for Ronon. Crimson painted rivers along her skin and the red dripped down to the floor to mingle in with the grayish blue hue of the dead Wraith around her.

"I'm sorry..." John choked, fighting against the urge to fall to his knees and weep. "I'm so fucking sorry."

The sounds of an advancing party of Wraith filled his ears. It was likely the same group that had been tailing him, but John just couldn't make his feet move. Not this time. Years ago, when this memory had been real, he'd made himself pay attention to those sounds. He'd let them pull him away and leave the bodies of his friends behind.

For a moment, John wondered if he should find a place to hide and wait until the detonator on his C4 went off and this place blew. Maybe that was how this all was supposed to end for him. If he just let it happen, let the universe scatter his cells across the galaxy like it had with his friends, maybe then he could finally rest. Slip away and forget all about hesitating in the hall, finding Teyla and Ronon's mangled bodies. Forget about destroying two billion lives.

John flexed his numb hand, the feeling was returning slowly.

Would it be painful to die in a place like this? Would it even work? Could he let himself be blown up like that on the off chance it would finally bring him peace? Was that something he could really let himself do? All his life John had been fighting to try and make it right. Death didn't feel like the answer. It was too final, too...

Cowardly.

The word sat heavy and bitter on his tongue. John had been a good many things in his life, but a coward was never one of them. Yes, he'd left after what had happened with the Wraith ships, but it hadn't been because he was afraid. He'd left because he thought he had no other choice. Well, he had a choice to make now. Live or die.

It seemed simple enough, right? And yet it sat before him like some impossible riddle he wasn't sure how to solve.

John's sightline dropped back down to Teyla's unseeing eyes and for a moment, he remembered...

"How long will the surgery take?"

"Doc says a few hours. I'll be off my feet for a week or so."

Teyla shook her head. "I cannot believe you attempted to mount a rescue in your condition."

"Attempt?! The last time I checked, I succeeded... How's the kid?"

"Doctor Keller says he's perfectly healthy... I say he's perfectly everything."

"That's great."

"John, I want to thank you."

"There's no need."

"I never gave up hope because I knew. I knew that you would come for me, John."

"You would have done the same for me."

"Yes."

"...So what are you going to name the kid?"

"Well, if it's alright with you, I was thinking of Torren John, after my father. And after you."

John had expected the sudden memory to fill him with regret at having failed Teyla yet again, but it was her son's name that dug its claws into him and refused to let go.

Rodney had raised Torren John as his own. If John died here, then TJ's hopes at returning to Pegasus would be crushed. There was no one else who would be able to fly Atlantis home. If John gave up now, if he let those Wraith get the jump on him and mow him down, then he would not only be ruining his own life, but TJ's as well.

For a fraction of a second John had a picture in his mind of a young man leaning over a still figure in a bed, pleading desperately for a life he'd always wanted.

TJ... Carrie... they were his real unfinished business, and to give up on them now would be the true act of failure, not botching an imaginary 2nd attempt at stopping a tragedy that had already occurred.

"Okay, Ronon!" he called out.

Sometime during his internal struggle, the carnage in the room had disappeared, but John could still hear the advancing Wraith.

"I get it now, buddy, and I'm not ready."

He waited for the Hive to disappear around him and the sunny Atlantis pier to reappear, but nothing happened.

"Ronon?" He tried again, but the only answer he got was the swarming mass of Wraith that rounded the corner next, firing off their weapons from every direction and the sudden uptick of his heartbeat in his chest.

He'd waited too long.