Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

The Tournament

By Kerr Avon

3. Practice Makes Perfect

Sheppard headed down the corridor after dinner with a slight drag to his step; still, he believed that he might actually survive this whole thing. It had been three days and the roof hadn't fallen on his head, nor had he been struck by lightening. The nightmares, although increasingly frequent, could usually be handled with a brisk run, after which he was too tired to dream and often managed another hour or two in the sack. His 'classes' had actually been well-attended, and not just by active duty troops. After explaining the pieces and demonstrating how they moved, he got the group paired off for practice games. Teyla had done surprisingly well, once she got the hang of the knight's movement, and actually managed to win her third game. He had wandered between the players, giving tips on strategy and bits of encouragement when needed. Everyone who participated was definitely improving. Glancing at his watch, he confirmed that he had time for a quick two miles before he turned in for the night. Engrossed in planning out his route, he almost didn't hear the familiar Scottish brogue calling his name.

"Major Sheppard! Do you have a moment?" Beckett panted as he caught up with the pilot.

"Sure, doc. What can I do for you?" The pair continued walking together towards the living quarters area.

"Well, I understand from some of my techs that you're conducting some chess classes..."

John nodded; he thought he knew where this was headed. "Would you like to swing by and give some pointers of your own? I'm certain people would appreciate the added input."

Dr. Beckett became flustered and a faint embarrassed blush tinted his cheeks. "Ach, my heavens, no! Actually, I was wondering if I could get a little instruction myself."

Sheppard shrugged. "The classes are open to everyone; just drop on by."

"Well...you see...that is..."

Sheppard halted and turned to look Carson straight in the face, and waited. The mortified physician looked at the ground, stammered a few more seconds, then met the Major's gaze. "I'm embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?" Sheppard couldn't believe his ears. "Come on; I have people in that class who've never even heard of the game before!"

Carson looked frantically around, then relaxed slightly when he realized that they were alone. "Shhh...keep it down, will you? It's just that, well, people expect me to be good at games like this, and I never have been." He was almost begging at this point. "If there was anything you could do to, well, keep me from making a complete fool of myself, I'd be forever in your debt. I just don't want my patients to think that their doctor is an idiot."

John stared incredulously. "The two things don't have anything to do with each other. Winning at chess only proves how well you play chess, nothing more."

Beckett hunched his shoulders. "I know that, and you know that, but there are people on this base that think otherwise." He stared at his shoes. "Can you help me?"

'I hope Weir's proud of herself.' He knew he shouldn't be angry, but this was getting out of hand. "Sure, Carson, no problem. My room's just up here; I have a practice set on my desk." 'Besides, I probably ought to play at least ONE game before the contest starts...'

Carson followed the Major into the rather utilitarian room. At this point, only Teyla had anything resembling personalization in her quarters, but then again, she was the only one without a weight restriction on travelling here. John's room looked pretty much like everyone else's; a bed, desk, two chairs, closet, and bathroom. Interestingly enough, it was impeccably neat – bed made, no stray clothing lying about, papers in neatly organized stacks. Sheppard seated himself at his desk, opening the box that rested on one corner, and produced the chessboard. He gestured to the other chair, "Pull up a seat, Doc. Do you prefer white or black?"

"I don't know. Is one better than the other?"

"White makes the first move. Some people think that gives them the advantage of attack, while others think that it has the disadvantage of giving away their strategy too soon."

Carson looked bewildered. "After one move?"

Sheppard spread his hands. "Hey, that's their theory. Personally, I don't think it matters at all."

Beckett considered for a moment. "I'll go first."

Sheppard smiled reassuringly. "White it is."

As John began setting up the board, Carson noticed that his hand was trembling slightly. Surreptitiously glancing at the Major's face, he observed a slight sheen of sweat, as well as an unnatural pallor. His medical instincts kicked into high gear when Sheppard almost dropped one of the rooks. Bluntly, he asked, "Major, are you all right? We could do this another time..."

The Air Force officer managed a wan quirk of his lip. "You're not getting out of this that easily," he teased. Clearly, whatever was going on was not up for discussion. Carson decided to keep an eye on their pilot in the future, but drop the subject for the time being. The board was ready; the game began.

Two hours later, Carson was a little shaky himself. The normally gregarious Major had been completely focussed on the game, remaining silent unless pointing out the risks and benefits of the moves they each made, and the long-term advantages as well. There was absolutely no extraneous small talk involved, but Carson noted that the mild hesitancy disappeared as the evening wore on, and some of the color crept back into the man's face. By the time Beckett tipped over his king, he felt like a wrung-out sponge that had been intensely immersed in strategies and possibilities of battle, then squeezed dry.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, staring at the pieces, then wiped his forehead. "Whew. That...was like...no game I've ever played. What an experience!" He grinned up from the board at Major Sheppard, and became instantly alarmed.

The man had blanched completely, throwing his dark hair into stark relief against the paleness of his face. His eyes were hollow and fixed on the fallen king, and his breath came in shallow pants. He looked close to passing out; Doctor Beckett had seen it enough to recognize the symptoms instantly.

"Major!" he cried, knocking over his own seat as he jumped up and headed for the opposite side of the desk.

As Carson's hand closed on his shoulder, Sheppard swayed slightly, then blinked. His gaze shifted from the game he had just won, to the hand on his shoulder, up to the physician's concerned face. The eyes were uncomprehending as Beckett quietly instructed, "Come on, John, you need to lie down for a few minutes."

That seemed to bring him around. "No, no, I'm all right." To prove his point, he stood up and reached for the box to put away the chess set. Unfortunately, he moved too quickly and almost toppled over in the process. He leaned forward on both arms as he took several deep breaths. Once he had recovered his equilibrium somewhat, he shot Beckett a crooked grin. "I don't suppose there's any way you didn't just notice that."

Beckett crossed his arms over his chest, and in his best no-nonsense voice replied, "No, Major. I saw it. One of the healthiest men I know just about fainted after winning a game of chess. Now, are you going to tell me what's going on, or are we taking a stroll to the medical unit?"

Sheppard picked up his king and stared at it as if it held the answers to all the questions in the universe. Beckett decided that he could outwait the most stubborn flyboy. Ultimately, Sheppard muttered, "It's a long story."

Beckett spread his arms as he uprighted his chair and sat back down. "I have all night."

Sheppard met his eyes, then sighed and resumed his seat on the other side of the desk. He then meticulously began putting away the board and pieces as he spoke. Carson carefully schooled his own face to be both neutral and open.

"When I was a child, I was quite a bit different than I am now. The 'John Sheppard' known to the Stargate project, and to the Air Force as far as that goes, is a carefully-cultivated persona: an all-around good guy who likes to meet people, make friends, and fly fast and hard. He's tough, honest, decisive, and loyal to his command; the men are the most important part of any mission. He's sarcastic, hates hypocrisy, and pretty much speaks his mind. Most importantly, while not stupid, the military's 'John Sheppard' is just enough smarter-than-average to assure that he qualifies for the short list for the fastest new chopper out there, but nothing more. If you're too clever you get promoted to a desk job, or sent to the research labs for the rest of your career." He fixed Beckett with a glare. "I'm trusting you here; I don't know how it is in Scotland, but that's the way the USAF works."

Carson nodded in understanding. "Nothing you say will leave this room, Major."

John held his gaze for a moment, then dropped it to study his clasped hands on the desk. "All right. Well, the real John Sheppard actually understands quite a bit more than the researchers around here think. For instance, when McKay launches into a diatribe about his latest findings, or space-time theory, or wormhole physics, I usually grasp it the first time through." He shot Beckett an embarrassed glance, then look back down. "When I was a kid, I was what you might call an uber-geek. Not the run-of-the-mill, pocket-protector, calculator-on-belt nerd, but what most adults I knew kept referring to as a 'prodigy'." He looked up again and shrugged. "I was good at math."

Beckett said nothing. Sheppard squirmed a little, then rolled a pencil across the desk. "I was very good at math."

When Carson just raised an eyebrow, John rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "At age five I was solving differential equations; by eight, I had written a thirty-seven page proof of a theorem that had previously eluded professional mathematicians." He smiled with some fondness at the memory, then sobered and returned to his story.

"Well, as you probably know, there seems to be a genetic link between certain abilities when they are exceptional; people that good at math also excel in art and...chess."

The light dawned in Carson's eyes. "So you are a good chess player?" he hazarded.

John didn't appear particularly proud of the ability. Matter-of-fact, he stated, "When I was fourteen, I won the World Junior Chess Championship."

Beckett's jaw dropped. "Did...did you say 'World'...?"

"Yeah. My parents had always been proud of my chess ability." The Major himself appeared anything but arrogant. "What I didn't know at the time was that organized crime will gamble on anything, even a kid's chess competition. In the final round, they wanted my opponent to win; they kidnapped my parents and threatened to kill them if I didn't lose."

Beckett was confused. "But...I thought you said that you won the Championship?"

Sheppard fixed him with steel-clad eyes. "I did. The police had assured me that they would find my parents and protect them, and I shouldn't worry." His voice dropped to a whisper, "They told me to 'do my best' because that's what my parents would want. I trusted them."

Carson blinked, at a complete loss for anything to say. He finally managed to choke out, "Did they...?"
John's face stayed frighteningly expressionless. "Their bodies were found in the alley next to our hotel less than an hour after I won. I identified them in the morgue later."

This sounded like a bad movie. "So you were orphaned at fourteen? Because of a chess game?" Beckett asked incredulously. 'No wonder he damn near fainted just now!'

"I had relatives. I made the rounds until I graduated high school. As soon as I turned eighteen, I joined the Air Force. They put me through college; afterwards I flew anything I could get my hands on." He looked up again with his dead eyes. "This was the first game I've played since that day."

Carson was aghast. "Oh, God, John, I'm sorry. I had no idea...I mean, with you organizing those classes...I just assumed...."

Sheppard let a ghost of a smile play about his lips. "It's all right. In fact, it's better this way. I promised Weir that I'd participate, but until tonight I couldn't make myself go looking for an opponent." His smile became more genuine. "You just forced the issue."

He wiped the sweat from his face and sat up straighter. "Besides, considering my physiologic reaction to just a simple, private, instructional match, I suspect I would have fainted if it had been a competition in front of spectators." His brow creased in concern as a thought crossed his mind. "You know, I still might."

"We could have training games nightly between now and then, and the first several rounds aren't likely to attract many onlookers." Dr. Beckett suggested. "I could certainly do with the practice, and I really did enjoy the game."

Sheppard thoughtfully picked up the black knight. "Yeah, it was fun, wasn't it?" He met the doctor's eyes once again. "You've got yourself a date. Tomorrow night at seven?"

Beckett pushed back his chair. Seriously, he inquired, "Are you going to be all right?"

Sheppard stared into his concerned eyes, then slowly nodded. "Yeah. Yes, I am."

The next game was again in the privacy of his quarters; the third was more public, down in the medical unit, but attracted only passing glances. The next day, Wednesday, the pairings were posted. Each combo had 24 hours to agree upon, arrange, and conduct their game. The winner would write his name on the line in the next tier; the loser would write his on the "One-down" tourney chart. If he lost a second time, he hit the "Two-down" tree. When there was a third loss, he got to be a spectator. Excitement was palpable as people crowded around the chart, examining their first match-ups.

Sheppard leaned against the room's far wall, a smirk plastered on his face, waiting for the crowd to thin out so he could check out the listings without appearing eager. Beckett spied him upon entering the room, and made his way over. "Are you going to be OK with this?" he inquired quietly.

Sheppard's nonchalant smile never wavered as he managed to force through gritted teeth, "My heart is racing, my palms are sweaty, and my knees are weak. I'm not sure."

"Well, if you feel like you're going to faint, I can help you get to a table to sit down." Beckett made certain that no one could hear their low-key conversation.

"No, I'll be all right." He flashed a quick smile, then turned serious. "Thanks, Carson."

"You're welcome." He glanced at the board. "How about I try to make it over there and see who we're up against?"

John smiled and nodded. Beckett was up in a flash to examine Rodney's chart, and returned after jotting down the names.

"I've got Sgt. Metre as my first opponent. You're up against Lt. Riley."

John nodded and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to.