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.

AN: I was asked why I chose 38 for John's current age; I agree that it seems a little old for a combat pilot, but all the "character biography" sites I've visited list him as between 35 and 40, so I chose something in the middle. How old is Joe Flanigan himself, anyway? Anybody know?

The Tournament

By Kerr Avon

4. It Comes Down To This

As the days went by, the pool of "Undefeated" players became smaller as more dropped into the tier below. By day four, the "Spectator" class had been firmly established. Teyla had actually managed to win one or two games, but she had never really seen the point and was actually happier watching than playing. Weir managed to beat Simpson, but lost to McKay. Ford, Stackhouse, and Markham were eliminated early. Michaels proudly managed to hang in for about half the tourney before his third loss; the 'thumbs up' Sheppard gave him on his final ranking was all he had wanted out of the competition anyway.

Carson found, to both his immense relief and surprise, that he actually won a game or two at each level before dropping down. By the time he had accumulated three losses, the tournament was well more than half over. Not a bad showing; now he could observe Sheppard without worrying about his own next game.

Sheppard won, game after game, but to the doctor's knowing eyes it was costing him dearly. The few times Beckett actually saw him in the Mess Hall, he was either just picking at his food or had given up the pretense altogether and was sipping a cup of strong, black coffee. The dark circles beneath his eyes told of sleepless nights, and the slight tremor in his directed movements spoke of near complete exhaustion. Doctor/patient confidentiality or no, the day he came across the Major sound asleep at the controls of a Puddle Jumper he was supposed to be doing maintenance on, was the day Beckett headed to Weir's office.

"Come in," came the distracted reply to his determined knock. Weir glanced up from the report she was reading, smile fading into consternation at the grim expression on Carson's face.

"Doctor, what's wrong?" Straight to the point.

He could be direct, too. "I'm here to recommend disqualifying a member of this unit from any further participation in this damn chess competition, on medical grounds."

"I beg you pardon?"

"A blind beggar could see it's killing him!"

Realization dawned in her eyes. "Oh. You're talking about Major Sheppard."

"You bet your sweet..." he exploded initially, then visibly restrained himself. "Yes ma'am, I am. It is my medical opinion that, if he keeps up his present levels of stress, he will collapse from exhaustion before the week is out."

"Why? What's going on?"

Beckett managed to meet her gaze with both clear eyes and a clear conscience. "I cannot discuss the details due to confidentiality issues, but suffice to say: playing chess, particularly in front of an audience, is the equivalent of an emotional pummeling for him. He is essentially suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just because it stems from a childhood event rather than adult warfare makes it no less real. He is experiencing sleeplessness, anorexia, nightmares...all because of a ridiculous game. I strongly recommend that he be removed from competition."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

Here Beckett looked at his shoes, then raised his eyes again to meet hers. "No, Ma'am. I doubt that he'd agree."

"Then I will have to decline as well. It'll all be over in a few days, anyway, one way or another."

Beckett pursed his lips. "That's what I'm afraid of, Dr. Weir."

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As it came down to the final six players, the games had become well attended. People would quietly stop in during their lunch break or in a free moment. Weir reviewed the rules for everyone at this point, so there would be no doubt as to the winner. "The final champion of this competition will be the only person who has not lost three games; he or she could have lost two, but not three. That means that whoever wins the first tier (she gestured towards Sheppard and McKay) will need to be defeated three times to be eliminated, while whoever loses the third tier this round (she indicated Grodin and Simpson) will be out. The loser of the first two tiers drops down a level, and play continues until we have our finalists."

She took a deep breath and smiled; most of her 'troublemakers' had been eliminated, often by some of John's students. The whole base seemed caught up in the spirit of the contest as well. No matter how each match turned out, the winner would be congratulated while the loser got commiseration. "At that point the match-ups will be random, but the same rules apply. The ultimate winner will be the one person without three losses." She smiled at her audience. "Don't worry if you don't understand; the rankings will be announced at the end of the tournament." The audience chuckled at that.

The Sheppard vs. McKay was easily the most well-attended bout yet, and when Sheppard finally prevailed a triumphant shout went up throughout the room. John sat stock-still and dropped his chin to his chest, while McKay was swept off by a group of his fans to go analyze the play and tactics, as it was likely that the two would have a rematch. Sheppard sat silently for a moment, then stood, smiled wanly at the audience, and shuffled out of the room to the sounds of hearty congratulations. 'Beckett's right; he really doesn't look well.' Weir chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, then shook her head. Only a few more matches...

In tier two, Kavanagh defeated Zelenka, who dropped down a level. In tier three, Grodin defeated Simpson, and was in turn defeated by the Czech. Weir resumed her role as announcer. "All right, our final four competitors are: Major John Sheppard, so far undefeated." A roar went up from the crowd, and the Major shoved his hands in his pockets and blushed. "Doctor Rodney McKay, one loss." Another round of applause, to which Rodney bowed, smiled, and waved. "Doctor Kavanagh, one loss." Kavanagh stood with proud aplomb, as if the cheers were his due. "And Doctor Zelenka, two losses." He, like Sheppard, looked incredibly embarrassed at the attention; he stood up blushing, took a single quick bow, then sat again.

Dr. Weir then turned to the table behind her and picked up a hat. "Now this may seem old-fashioned to most of you, but in this hat are the four names. Who would like to do the honors?"

Teyla stood and walked forward when no one else volunteered. She quickly drew out two pieces of paper and handed them to Elizabeth. Unfolding them, she announced, "Our first game will be between Doctor Kavanagh and Major Sheppard. That means that the other pairing will be Doctors Zelenka and McKay. You may begin."

These contests proceeded at a slower pace than the ones before. However, when McKay ultimately prevailed, Zelenka was the first to shake his hand. "Just remember our bet," he whispered to his rival astrophysicist with a wink as they exited the room.

The two walked off, chatting amiably. "Hey, that's right." McKay shot Zelenka a suspicious glare as they reached the relative privacy of the hallway. "You knew all along that Sheppard was good at chess, didn't you?" When Zelenka only smiled bemusedly in reply, Rodney jumped on it. "You did know! How? Did he tell you? Have you played him before?" This thought disturbed McKay slightly, and a he continued in a slightly offended tone, "Why would he tell you and not me? I thought we were friends."

The Czech could see where this train of thought was going, so he hurriedly derailed it. "No, no, no, McKay. Sheppard has never mentioned his ability, and has certainly never played a game with me." He decided that he'd best just tell Rodney what he knew and get it over with, before the man had an asthma attack. "Let's speak privately." Looking around to make certain they were alone, he pulled McKay into a nearby deserted lab.

"Rodney, I'm not sure I should be telling you this, but you must promise on your honor that it will go no further; you will tell no one, understand? I'm certain that the Major has his reasons for keeping this ability a secret."

McKay looked confused, and considered protesting. However, ultimately his curiosity got the better of him. "Oh, all right. You have my word that I won't tell anyone."

Zelenka studied him carefully for a moment with narrowed eyes; finally deciding that McKay meant it, he nodded. "When I first met Major Sheppard, I felt that he looked familiar. One ability I pride myself on is that I never forget a face. Still, I could not place his."

Rodney rolled his eyes, motioning with his hands to 'get on with it'.

"The day we were discussing the impending tournament over lunch, and the possibility of a non-scientist winning, I suddenly remembered where I had seen Major Sheppard before." He paused, inhaled deeply, and continued. "It was at the World Junior Chess Championship that I accompanied my brother to 24 years ago."

"He was there? That's how you suspected he might know his way around a chessboard? A bit of a stretch, don't you..."

"McKay, please!" Zelenka interrupted the string of babble. "Yes, he was there, but not as an observer; like my brother, he was a contestant."

Rodney's eyes widened. "He competed...on an international level? He was what....14....15?"

Zelenka nodded. "Yes, something like that. It was the World Junior Chess Championship, after all." He smiled reminiscently. "When it was over, my brother took me to the post-tournament party, where I got to shake the winner's hand." His smile faded. "I was one of he few who did. He got called out shortly afterwards and didn't return. We found out the next day that his parents had died while he was playing his final bout. They pulled him out of the party to tell him, I guess."

"Very poignant, but what has this little trip down memory lane have to do with the Major, other than he was at the same competition?"

Zelenka blinked at McKay's lack of comprehension. "Rodney..." he said softly, "The hand I shook that evening was that of a 14-year-old John Sheppard."

McKay was skeptical. "Come on; you expect me to believe that John Sheppard was a World Champion and hasn't mentioned this to anyone? And that you recognized the man a fourteen-year-old boy grew into, 24 years later? A boy you only met once?"

Zelenka shrugged. "Believe what you want; he did beat you yesterday."

Rodney's eyes widened. That was right! Leaning back against a nearby lab table, he squeaked, "Sheppard was really once the World Champion at chess?"

Zelenka nodded. "In the eighteen and under division, yes." He flashed his cat-and-canary smile, "That's why I figured mine was a safe bet."

McKay found a stool and managed to sit down without falling. "I played against a world champion..."

"And lost, yes." Zelenka's grin turned positively smug.

Rodney was confused. "Wait a second. If this is really true, why hasn't the man ever mentioned it before? If it were me..."

"If it were you, everyone you ever met would know, probably within 5 minutes of being introduced." Zelenka snorted. "Even 24 years later." He shrugged. "Not everyone is you, Rodney. It's not like it would come up in casual conversation. 'Isn't the coffee strong and, oh by the way, I was world chess champion when I was a kid'."

"No...no, of course not," replied Rodney distractedly. His eyes narrowed; if Zelenka was right, and Weir knew...He had some research to do. "Well, even if true, it was a long time ago. I'll bet I can still beat him."

"Actually, you already made that bet. You don't have to do it a second time." Zelenka smirked as he left the room.

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Sheppard defeated Kavanagh with less difficulty than his game with McKay, but even Weir had to admit that he looked haggard. Sunken cheeks had joined the dark circles under his eyes, which themselves had a distant look to them, as if seeing something far away. 'Or a long time ago...' thought Beckett bitterly. He begged Elizabeth again to stop this farce, but to no avail. Kavanagh had two losses, McKay one; the most games remaining in any circumstance were three. Surely he could last three more games?

McKay had been busy in the meantime. The conversation with Zelenka had raised a number of questions in his mind. First and foremost, was the Czechoslovakian's memory accurate? If so, what on earth happened at that match to keep Sheppard from bragging about it? Or ever even mentioning it? He couldn't believe that it just his personality; heck, the man never played! Despite having a 'chess club' on base, he'd never shown any interest at all. OK, maybe John's 'natural humility' prevented him from bragging, but what was preventing him from playing? You didn't go from 'World Champion' to 'Sorry, not interested' without a good reason. McKay's innate curiosity demanded an answer.

One thing he knew about chess was that 'experts' analyzed everything about a championship match, down to the color of the contestants' socks. Stargate Command had sent along an almost infinite collection of historical and current event files in case they were needed; they took up very little space on a computer and had proven enormously helpful in combating the Goa'uld in the past. Rodney could certainly use some information now, and he hoped that it had tagged along in some of the more recent files. Sitting in front of his computer, he managed to locate information concerning Sheppard's championship competition almost immediately. If nothing else, it confirmed that Zelenka's memory was correct, and that it was the same 'John Sheppard' that won the contest that year. A picture of a much younger, more trusting, but clearly their Major Sheppard stared back at him out of an archived London Times. Unfortunately, the analyses of the game were scant and overshadowed ten-to-one with accounts of his parents' murder after his final match. 'Huh. Zelenka only knew they died. I wonder what happened?' He read further. Turned out that the killers had never been caught, but the police theorized that it had to do with gambling, organized crime, and a young man who wouldn't throw a game. One article practically blamed the boy for his parents' demise; that same rag showed a John Sheppard who was a mere shadow of himself a few weeks previously – sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, suspicious glare. McKay started; that was the way Sheppard was looking right now. Surely he didn't blame himself for his parent's deaths! He was a fourteen-year-old child, after all. Thoughtfully he turned off the screen.