General Hammond has been imprisoned and is in need of rescue! How will John find him? And what will happen when John encounters the bitter and reclusive Rodney? Love at first sight? Probably not…

Chapter 3

John shut the barn door and secured it against the chill of the winter morning. The bull and the cows were fed and the chickens were happy enough scratching around in the straw and perching on the dividers between the stalls. He'd offered them some fresh air, but the birds had squawked softly and reproachfully at him and remained in the warm. He didn't blame them.

He swung the sack of feed up onto his back and carried it across the snowy yard and through the gate into the ten-acre field, where the sheep were overwintering. They were a hardy bunch, but even they needed a bit extra when the ground was covered. He dropped the sack and it sank into the snow. Taking a knife from his belt, he made a quick cut and then dragged the sack along, letting the contents spill out in a long line.

"Hey, sheepy, sheepy, time to eat." He looked up. A crescent of yellow eyes in brown faces stared at him. "Jeez! Don't do that!" The sheep had appeared as if from nowhere. "Stealth sheep," John muttered, as they crowded around the scattered feed and began to nibble.

He picked up the torn sack, then smashed the ice on the water trough before leaving the sheep to their breakfast and securing the gate behind him. All done.

"Now I can eat." But though the early morning's work was done, John hesitated to go into the warm farmhouse. A lot of snow had fallen overnight and the sky was grey with the promise of more. It was a bad time to travel. Had the General set out from the city this morning? Or would he stay at an inn until the road had cleared? Or had he even set out yesterday and been overtaken by the bad weather?

John decided to have breakfast and then walk into the village. There might be news.

He turned to go in, but distant, muffled hoofbeats stopped him. Maybe the General had stayed overnight at one of the river towns and this was him back now. Just in time for a hot meal, which he'd need in this bitter weather.

John stamped through the snow toward the track, ready to help unhitch Ronon. The hoofbeats grew louder, a slow, heavy trot, followed by a burst of a canter and then back to the trot. It sounded like Ronon was keen to get into the warm barn.

The horse came into view; and just the horse, alone. No wagon, no rider, no sign of the General. Ronon put on a burst of speed and came to a shuddering, trembling, head-down halt.

"What's happened? Where's the General?" John took hold of the horse's bridle and looked into Ronon's white-rimmed eye. The horse had clearly been running hard, for a long time, his nostrils flaring wide, a trail of foam dangling from the corner of his mouth, and his sides stained with sweat despite the freezing air. He puffed great gusts of hot breath into John's face and then butted him with his head.

"Okay." John tried to keep his voice even and reassuring to calm the animal. "Let's get you a drink and something to eat. And a rub down.". He led the horse into the barn, filled a pail with water and another with feed, took off his harness and began drying him off with a bunch of old towels. It was hard, nearly impossible to stay his impatience, to do the sensible thing and not go hurtling off into the snow to find the General and rescue him from whatever trouble he was in. But it wouldn't help. He'd just get into trouble himself.

Ronon's harness wasn't broken, but that didn't mean there hadn't been an accident. Why else would the horse have come home alone? Maybe the wagon had slid into a ditch, or lost a wheel. The General surely needed help, and fast. "You can have a rest while I get ready," he said to Ronon. "But then we'll have to go out again."

Ronon looked up at him from the bucket of feed and whinnied agreement.

John snatched a few bites of breakfast while shoving some supplies into his old kit bag: a couple of blankets, first aid stuff, a flask of brandy, spare clothes - what else? A weapon. He grabbed his service revolver and plenty of ammo. He wished he had another horse - Ronon was already tired. But he didn't, and so, when he'd wrapped himself up in an old greatcoat and a hat and scarf, he saddled up the tired horse and set off into the freezing, white morning.

Ronon's tracks were easy enough to follow, carving through the new snow with no other traffic out and about to obscure them. John scanned the lowering sky; if it snowed again the tracks would get overlaid.

When they reached the fork in the road and the tracks led up toward the forest, John shook his head, exasperated. What had the General been thinking of, going that way? Ronon followed his own tracks with no urging, but John checked that his weapon would draw freely from its holster - it wasn't that long ago they'd had sheep taken by wolves.

Up and up they went, the track zig-zagging from side to side, Ronon puffing and straining so that John got off and walked for a while. Then the path levelled out, and the cloud gathered and John peered into the gloom beneath the mature trees; grey light on grey snow. Flakes began to fall so that his view was even more obscured and he couldn't see Ronon's tracks. The horse didn't falter and even picked up speed, but there was no sign of the wagon, no sign of the General, and John was chilled even with his thick coat and Ronon's warmth beneath him

Then the horse turned off the road and, quickening his pace further, set off into the trees. John could do nothing but sit tight and trust him. He hoped he'd get the chance to yell at the General for going off the beaten track, to see again the older man's smile in his mind's eye, to hear his soft, reassuring tones and the way he had of calling John 'son'.

The trees thinned out and Ronon's trot became a canter. And John, in his astonishment at his surroundings, lost his balance and slid to one side of the saddle, clinging on to the pommel, his foot flailing to regain the stirrup. He righted himself and his head flicked to one side and then the other and he craned his neck and then screwed himself around to look over his shoulder. Towers; great, reaching, spindle-like towers, curving, graceful structures and short, pepper-pot strongholds - all kinds and shapes and heights, all around him. There was a city - an empty, overgrown, lost city, right here in the middle of the forest.

Ronon slowed to a walk and John ducked to pass beneath a threshold and they were inside the base of one of the towers. The horse headed straight for a pail of water and one of food that were ready and waiting as if somebody had anticipated his needs. Had somebody been expecting them to come? And was that somebody friendly? Maybe the General found shelter in last night's storm. But why, then, had Ronon run home alone?

John slid out of the saddle. He pulled a blanket out of his kit bag and slung it over Ronon's back. Then he checked his weapon once more and began to ascend the stairs.

oOo

"Is he coming?" Woolsey peered down the gloomy corridor.

"I don't know." Zelenka hesitated. He retraced his scurrying progress a little way, then deliberately tapped his arms together. The metallic clink rang out clearly.

A silhouetted figure appeared. "Hello? Is there anyone there?"

Zelenka nodded to Woolsey and together they scurried on, leading the man toward his goal by tantalising noises and flickers of light. They'd led him far into the underground depths of the city, so that even if he decided to turn back right now, the man wouldn't find his way out. Not without help.

He called out again. "General? General Hammond, are you there?" Then he muttered to himself. "He's gotta be here somewhere."

"He's going the wrong way now," remarked Woolsey.

"Ah, come on, mladý muž," said Zelenka. "Just a bit further." He lit up one of his arm candles and waved it around.

"Hey, who's there?"

Quick footsteps rapidly grew in volume, so that Zelenka had to douse the flame and run ahead, chivvying the clock before him.

"John?" A weak voice called out from up ahead.

"General? General!" The man's booted feet thudded past Zelenka. At last, they'd brought him to the prisoner. Now to keep him here.

"What happens now?" asked Woolsey.

"Now the young man will set off the alarm and Rodney will descend like an avenging fury," said Zelenka.

The clock's hands wavered. "I don't see how that's going to help."

Zelenka shrugged his candles. "We've done our part. Now we wait."

"And watch?"

"Yes."

Keeping to the shadows, Zelenka led Woolsey into the brig and skirted the edge of the room, to lurk in the darkness and observe.

The younger man was crouching on the floor, staring at the old man through the bars, while rubbing his hand.

"What is that? It burns!"

"I don't know what it is, John," said the General, his voice rasping and hoarse.

The rescuer's name was John; a good, solid name, thought Radek - John and Rodney.

The General was telling John his story. "I woke up here after he shot me. There isn't even a door."

"He shot you?"

"There was no bullet. I was stunned."

The younger man's fists clenched and he spun around as if looking for someone to punch. "I'm gonna kill this guy, whoever he is!"

Woolsey nudged Zelenka and raised one of his numbers in an irritatingly 'told-you-so' manner. Zelenka shrugged his candles again. What could he do? They'd lured this man into their trap and, though, yes, he was a candelabra, Zelenka could see that their younger victim was an attractive man, even though his features were twisted with anger and worry.

He'd found the control panel. Any moment now. Ah, there we are.

A strident blare of sound rang out. The man had set off the tamper alarm, and it would be ringing throughout the whole city, alerting Rodney to the intruder's presence and stoking his rage higher by using up unnecessary power.

"John, just go!" The old man shouted above the cacophony.

"No! I'm not leaving you." He took out a weapon, stood back and fired into the control box, the shots smashing the panelling open, leaving it sparking and smoking. The horizontal bars of the cell remained in place. The young man tested the forcefield again and once more leapt back with burnt fingers. "Dammit!"

"John, you have to leave me."

"No. Stand back!"

The General staggered to the far side of the cell and his would-be rescuer discharged his weapon into the bars where they met the vertical supports. Bullets sparked and pinged and ricocheted and the blaring of the alarm and the discharge of the firearm made a furious barrage of sound the like of which the city hadn't known in years. But still the cell remained intact.

Zelenka rubbed his candles together, anxiously and somewhat guiltily. He and his friends had caused this old man's imprisonment. And now they'd caught another man in their trap; an honourable, possibly even heroic man, who clearly loved this General Hammond and would do anything to set him free.

The alarm cut out. The young man let his weapon fall.

"I can't get you out."

"Just go."

"No."

Rapid footsteps approached and at last, here was Rodney, his hood shadowing his face, his stunner levelled. "What the hell is going on down here? Do you realise how much energy you've just wasted? Wasted! And who the hell are you and what are you doing in my city?"

"Your city? You're the one who put the General in here?"

"Yes, I did, because the man's nothing but a common thief!"

"A thief?" The young man's tone changed from hot rage to ice-cold anger. "Let him out. Now."

"No. He's getting what he deserves."

"Let him out. He's sick."

"That's not my problem."

"John, just go." The General broke off in a fit of coughing.

"No, I won't leave you!"

"How touching," Rodney sneered. The young man made a move toward him and Rodney fired to one side, in warning. "This weapon is set to stun," he said. "I suggest you leave now before I change the setting and kill you as an intruder."

This was not going well. Surely Rodney wouldn't kill him?

John looked at the General, defeat in his dark eyes. Then his chin lifted and he stood tall and straight as if he were the one in control. He set his weapon down on the floor. "Let him go and I'll stay."

"John, no!"

"An interesting proposal," said Rodney. "Why would you offer yourself? I could imprison you both if I wanted."

"I'm not leaving the General here. I told you, he's sick. If you let him go free, then I'll walk into that cell without a fight."

Rodney barked a harsh, derisive laugh. "A man of honour? Do they exist?"

"John… son... don't do this."

"I'm doing it, General."

"Hmm, well, we'll see, won't we?" Rodney edged over to the control panel, keeping the stunner levelled on John. "Huh. This is a total write-off. I'll add criminal damage to the charges." He reached into the half-melted mess with one hand and began twisting filaments together and bridging gaps with the remaining, undamaged crystals. "No tricks now, or I'll fire." The cell bars slid back. The General climbed shakily to his feet. He staggered toward John and embraced him.

"Son, just go. Live your life. Don't worry about me."

Zelenka sniffed and swiped a candle over his eyes.

"Yeah, right then, Pops." John guided the old man out of the cell and stepped over the threshold himself. The bars slid back, imprisoning him. He smiled a crooked smile through the barrier. "You get yourself home. I'll be back. This place won't hold me."

"Ha, funny," commented Rodney. "You - follow me," he snapped. "And hurry up, before I change my mind and decide to keep both of you."

Rodney strode out of the room. The General reached toward the cell with one shaking hand.

"Go on," said John. "I'll be okay."

Rodney's shout echoed back down the corridor. "Move your ass, old man!"

The General drew himself up to attention and performed a very correct salute. Then he turned on his heel and marched away.

John's shoulders sagged and he slid a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, with a heavy, defeated sigh. "That's that, then," he said. And he sat down on the cold floor of the cell and put his head in his hands.

oOo

"You can see now what your stupidity's led to!" ranted Rodney. "You let that old man in and then we get this other numbskull coming after him! Who do we get next? The sweetheart? The pet dog?" He marched past the shamefaced line, glaring at each of them in turn. "Maybe I should change you back and let someone else have a turn to mess up - they couldn't do much worse! Maybe whatshername…" He snapped his fingers. "The little desk lamp."

"Miko," said Teyla.

"Whoever. It would just be nice to have someone around who doesn't get stupid ideas into their substitute for a head, like letting total strangers have the run of the place!" He stopped, thought about continuing his rant and then flicked a dismissive hand. "Oh, what's the point? You'll all just be objects again soon, anyway. The ZPM's nearly dead." Rodney sat down heavily at his work bench and stared blankly at his scattered set of microtools.

There was a hollow, porcelain scrape from the floor. "Rodney, there is still hope," said Teyla. "Perhaps this man is someone you could love."

"Huh. Love?" He snorted. "I don't even know what that is anymore."

The candelabra hopped nimbly up onto the table. Rodney was sure Zelenka hadn't been that nimble as a man. "Then perhaps you could find out."

Find out what? That he was an ugly, mean-minded beast, just like the Ancient had said? That he'd condemned himself to a life of solitude because nobody would ever love him? He picked up a tiny screwdriver and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb. "I've just locked the guy up. Why would he even speak to me?"

The teacup rattled from down on the floor. "Ask him on a date, Dr M!"

"A date? Oh, yes, of course, a secluded table at the best restaurant for miles around, fine food and wine, romantic music - oh wait, there aren't any restaurants for miles around and he's stuck in the brig."

"Let him out of the brig," said Teyla. "And ask him to have dinner with you in the Mess Hall."

"We can cook!" said Ford.

"That's such a stupid idea," said Rodney.

The clock chimed loudly. "It may be our only chance, Dr McKay. I think it's worth a try, don't you?"

Rodney blew out a heavy, lip-flapping sigh. "I suppose so."

oOo

John shivered. He'd dumped his coat and scarf and hat on his kit bag and left them next to Ronon. The cold seeped up from the floor. He stood up and paced, clasping his arms around his ribs. He was hungry too, having only snatched a few bites before setting out on his rescue mission.

Surely the owner of this place would feed him at some point? The weird, hooded figure wouldn't just leave him here to starve. Would he?

No, a light was approaching - a warm yellow glow, in contrast to the pale, diffuse whiteness of his cell. Shadows flickered on the wall, but John couldn't make out the shape of the figure. Something small came around the corner - something or somethings and he couldn't tell what they were, but one of them held the source of the light. And then, yes, there were two and one was boosting the other up the wall and there were voices coming from these tiny creatures.

"I can't reach. Just a little higher."

"You've got your foot on my twelve!"

"Sorry!" There was a metallic rattle.

"Nearly…. And… done!"

The cell bars slid back.

"You may come out now, sir!"

John backed away.

"Please, we will not harm you!" The creature bowed, with a flurry of flames. "Dr Radek Zelenka."

"Mr Richard Woolsey."

It must be the cold. Or the lack of food. Or water. Yes, that must be it. He hadn't had enough to drink or eat and it had just made him a tiny bit crazy.

"And you are?" prompted the clock.

"John Sheppard," he mumbled. "And I'm talking to a clock."

"Indeed," said the other small figure. "He is a very fine, antique timepiece and I am a very fine, antique candelabra."

"A clock and a… a candle?"

"Please! A candelabra." The two flanking candles flourished in graceful circles. One of the flames went out and the little creature lit it again from its head candle.

"This is too weird." John sank down to the floor.

"No, no, get up, up! It is cold and horrible down here. We will take you to a much nicer room."

"Appropriate accommodation for a guest," agreed the clock. Woolsey. His hands said ten to two, which it certainly wasn't.

"A guest? Pretty sure you've got that wrong," said John.

"An honoured guest," said the candelabra. Zelenka. And did he say he was a doctor? "Come, come, follow us, please."

What choice did he have? And when he'd had a decent meal and these things had turned back into people, it would all seem much more reasonable. John got up and followed the pair's hopping, skipping progress. The candelabra was pretty nimble, but the clock lagged and they had to wait for him a couple of times, especially on the stairs.

"So, this place is pretty big," John said, trying not to sound too impressed.

"It is the best, most beautiful city ever built," said the candelabra, simply.

"Well, I don't know about that." John peered down the dark stairwell and glanced up and down the shadowy branching corridors. The walls were stained and there was a faint smell of mildew and decay.

"Oh, it was not always like this. There just isn't enough power to keep things maintained as they should be."

"Not nearly enough power," said Woolsey, pulling himself over the top step and tottering across the landing. "The air isn't circulating properly. And certain people were most unfortunately transformed into soft furnishings and are going mouldy."

John grimaced. That sounded like a nasty fate, even if it was all in his mind and brought on by lack of food.

At last, the candelabra was ushering John into a room with a fine floor-to-ceiling window and a huge bed. There were various items of mismatched furniture scattered about the room and the clock and the candelabra set about introducing him.

The clock gestured to a side table. "Dr David Parrish, botanist."

The candelabra pointed to the wardrobe. "Dr Kate Heightmeyer, the expedition psychologist."

"Uh… How do you do?" said John, doubtfully.

"Oh, they cannot hear you," said Zelenka. "There are only a few of us who can, thanks to Rodney."

"Rodney?"

"Dr Rodney McKay," said the clock. "Who brought us to life after many trials and much research."

"You mean that guy who locked me up?"

"Ah, yes," said Woolsey. "That was all most unfortunate. I'm sure he regrets it now."

"I bet he doesn't," said John.

"But yes, of course he does," flickered the candelabra. "In fact, he has invited you to dinner!"

"Dinner? With that bastard who called the General a thief and locked him up? Dinner with him? He thinks he can just go from 'Get in that cell!' to 'Please pass the salt'? No! No way!" John had had enough. Enough of the craziness and the hallucinations or robots or whatever the hell they were. "Out! Go on, get out of here!" He scooped up the clock and the candelabra and dumped them out in the corridor, then, not seeing a handle, he slapped at the glowing box on the wall. The doors slid shut. Could they lock? He slapped at the box again and again until he heard a solid click. Then he slid Dr Heightmeyer across the smooth floor and pushed it (her?) close up against the door. He added the botanist for good measure and anyone or thing else that came to hand - no doubt all highly qualified in their respective fields.

Then John fell face down on the bed because he was clearly crazy and couldn't think what else to do.

He lay like that for a good while, his face pressed into the dusty softness of the bedding. He didn't feel crazy. He just felt hungry. And really, really thirsty. But if he looked up, God knows what else might leap out at him. Maybe the furniture had arranged itself into a watching audience while he wasn't looking, like the stealth sheep that always crept up on him out of nowhere. There was no sound of movement or voices, however, either in the room or outside in the corridor. And, thinking about it, his situation had improved - he'd exchanged a cold, featureless cell for a room with a comfortable bed. And he'd locked the door.

"Time to get up, John," he mumbled into the comforter.

He tentatively raised his head and looked around. The room was as he'd left it, although the light had faded. It was snowing again. He rolled off the bed and stood up. His head spun and he bent forward, and rested on his elbows. He'd switch back to the cell if it meant getting a drink and something to eat. Slowly, he stood up again and shakily assessed the window for the possibility of escape.

There was a section that opened onto a small balcony, but the icy blast of wind and stinging snow forced John back inside. His brief glimpse of the outside world had revealed dizzying height and a sheer drop. Maybe when the snow settled he might be able to see hand and footholds, but it would be a terrifying climb.

He jumped at a sudden, frenzied pounding.

"Open this door! Now!"

It was the great and powerful Dr Rodney McKay. John made a rude gesture in his direction.

"What have you done? How did you lock this?" There was a pause and then a stream of curses.

John pushed some of the piled furniture aside and laid his hand on the control. He hadn't a clue how it worked, but if he could he'd make the thing stay locked.

The ranting began again. "Unlock the door and come and have dinner!"

"No!"

"How dare you say no to me?"

"Because you're a total bastard, that's how!"

"You unlock this door right now! Nobody locks doors against me in my own city!"

"Well maybe they should! And I don't believe it's your city!"

"Of course it's my city! Who else would it belong to?"

"Those little guys live here too." Probably. Unless he'd imagined them. John was on shaky ground here.

"Woolsey and Zelenka? Pah! They're just… minions!"

"There! That right there! That's why I won't have dinner with you! You treat people like crap and think you can get away with it!" They were people, John told himself. Just because they were furnishings too. His head began to spin again and he realised he was leaning against the side table. David. "Er… sorry," he muttered.

"Fine! You stay locked in, then! But if you don't eat with me, you don't eat at all!"

John waited.

"You hear me? You can shut yourself in there and starve for all I care!"

There was another furious thump on the door and then angry footsteps strode away.

John slid down the wall and sat on the floor. The bed looked inviting, but it was a long way away. He'd give it a while and then shove the furniture aside, unlock the door and find the kitchen. Escape should be his priority, but without food? No chance. His thoughts drifted.

A numb butt and a crick in his neck woke John up. He groaned, began to stretch and gave the idea up as a bad job. Then he groped for the side table, hauled himself up with a self-conscious, "Thanks," and began sliding the furniture away from the door. The room was in darkness, but the snow had stopped for now and snatches of moonlight flickered in through the window between wind-blown clouds.

He left the furniture well-placed for creating a swift barrier, just in case, and waved his hand over the door controls. The lock clicked open and the doors slid aside.

"Hello!"

John jumped and blinked against the sudden flare of light down by his feet.

"Oh. It's you."

The candelabra was there, but not the clock. And there was a teapot - no, a coffee pot and a little china cup on a saucer.

"Are you my guards? Because, you know, I'm pretty sure I can overcome you." John leant against the wall.

"Really? At the moment I think Ford here would be more than a match," said Zelenka. "But no, we are not your guards. We have been waiting to take you to dinner."

"I told him -"

"You do not have to eat with Dr McKay," said the coffee pot, which just proved how far gone he was - a talking coffee pot, now. John rubbed his eyes.

"Dr M's gone to bed. We don't have to worry about him!" The little cup's chirpiness grated on John's hunger and thirst. Although… No, it was empty.

"I am Teyla Emmagan," said the coffee pot. "And this is Aiden Ford."

A female coffee pot, then. She looked up at John. Her eyes were soft, brown, painted flowers, topped with gilt brows. He slid a little way down the wall and then all the way, which seemed to be a thing with him lately.

A splashing sound and a strong, rich aroma caught John's flagging attention and something nudged his limp hand.

"Hey, Mister!"

John listlessly raised his head. "Huh?"

The little cup nudged him with his saucer.

"Drink, Mr Sheppard. I am not a coffee pot to no purpose."

The cup rattled on the saucer as John picked it up. He took a small sip, and the coffee was just the right temperature and strength, so he tipped back the cup and gulped and then held it out for more and then gulped again, feeling warmth and life flooding back into his body.

"Have some more," chirped the cup.

John held Ford out again and smiled at his bright, winking eyes as the dark, steaming liquid refilled him. He knocked the strong brew back and then returned Ford back to his saucer. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said the cup. "Another?"

The coffee pot shook her spout. "That is enough for now, Ford."

"All that caffeine on an empty stomach," muttered the candelabra. "He will be snapping and sniping like Rodney soon."

John smacked his lips, his stomach rumbling and sloshing. "You're not telling me he's like that just because he's hyped on caffeine, because I don't believe you."

"No," said Zelenka. "But it doesn't help. Now, can you stand?"

"Of course I can stand. I'm fine." John pushed himself up the wall. His head buzzed and spun, which probably wasn't a good thing, but the coffee had certainly made him feel different, if not entirely better.

"Come," said the candelabra. "Let us go to the kitchen! We will provide you with a feast!"

John failed to suppress a coffee-flavoured burp. "Sounds good."

A feast! I love a good feast. But will Rodney show up and spoil the fun? Find out on Friday!