AN: Thanks Livy for the quote fix!

The Next Morning on M4X-578…

John woke slowly to a scratching sound, like the skittering of insects across a hard floor, and he turned his head to the side seeking the source. He saw a window; a long thin tree branch was scraping against the pane of glass, and was to blame for the noise. Now that daylight streamed into the bedroom, he took a good look at his surroundings. There was a bed, chair and nightstand, all that he'd seen in the gloomy light when he'd woken before, but now he could make out another worn rug covering the floorboards, and a faded paper on the walls that matched the pattern in the sitting room; dingy blue flowers on a pale pink background. The door was a dark colored wood, and looked old and overwashed, like everything else he'd seen so far. He stretched in the bed, and the springs squealed with his movement. Old, maybe, but it was comfortable. He felt better than he had last night.

The door was pushed open, creaking as it yielded to the insistent force being exerted on the other side. Marie marched in the room, balancing a tray laden with food. "Good morning, it's nice to see you awake," she said. "And with a smile."

He watched her move towards him. She was wearing a red and brown dress, it reminded him of the clothing from the frontier days on Earth. Her hair had been twisted into a knot, and she had a blush of a brisk morning wash still lingering on her cheeks. "It smells good," he said, and indeed it did. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the smell had hit him. His belly grumbled fiercely.

"It was my mother's recipe," she set the tray on his nightstand, and helped him into a sitting position. She settled the food on his lap once he was ready. "She said that when a person feels poorly, this is certain to get them on the road to mending."

"I'm sure it will," he agreed. He lifted the spoon and dipped it into the thick liquid, and took an eager bite. It was good, the flavor was strong, but it tasted better than any oatmeal he'd ever had. He realized she was watching him expectantly. "It's great," he assured her in between bites.

She had her hands clasped in front of her, and she stood awkwardly for a few moments. "If you need anything…"

"I'll be sure to ask," he said.

Marie smiled self-consciously. "When you're done, just yell. I'll be in the kitchen." She gave him a last tentative smile, and retreated from the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

John finished eating, but decided he was going to bring the dishes to her instead of staying in bed any longer. He set the breakfast tray to the side, and threw off the blankets. It was chilly in the house, so he quickly slid on the pants and shirt he'd worn last night, thankful for their warmth, and was relieved to find a pair of socks and shoes on the floor by the chair.

Once dressed, he picked the tray off the bed, and headed for the kitchen. He knew the way to the sitting room, and from there, he remembered Marie walking through a doorway to get the tea. He pushed against that thin wooden door, and was relieved to find that it opened into a rustic kitchen. A wooden stove reminiscent of early western periods was heating the room comfortably, and Marie stood in front, stirring a pot of what he assumed was the oatmeal like dish he'd had for breakfast. She had an apron tied around her waist, and the steam from the pot was curling tendrils of hair around her face.

Once she noticed his presence, she dropped the spoon into the pot, and turned, flustered. "I told you to give a yell when you were finished," she rebuked, reaching for the tray, and turned to take it to a sink that was under the lone window in the room. "John, you need to rest. You're body hasn't recovered."

She hadn't turned to look at him while she lectured, and he took in her tense shoulders. "Recovered from what?" he asked, wanting to know what exactly was causing him to be considered so weak. The illness he'd felt last night had passed, and he felt normal. Normal, but for the total lack of memories of who he was, and what had happened.

She started scrubbing the bowl, and her movements were harsher than he figured that bowl needed to get clean. "You had a bad injury to your head," she said, her breathing hitched as she attacked another dish in the sink that wasn't his. "The doctor said…"

"I'm sick of hearing what the doctor said." He cut her off, because he truly was, it seemed the only thing he could remember was how many times she'd used that same statement. "You said I could see the other guy that was found next to me. I want to go now." He figured the sooner the better. He was afraid of seeing the man. Afraid that he wouldn't recognize him, and that the face would jar nothing more than his pity, but he had to try.

She twisted away from the sink, dropping the rag into the soapy water. "You're not ready," argued Marie. "The trip could be dangerous for you."

He approached her, narrowing the gap to within a few steps, an arms length away. "Why don't you want me to go?" He saw something in her eyes and it bothered him, but he couldn't pin down what it was.

"I don't want you to get worse," trembled Marie.

John realized that her hands were shaking, and he chastised himself. He reached out and took them in his own, steadying her. "I won't." The problem was, he wasn't sure who he was reassuring – Marie, or himself.

She stared at him for a moment, her hands were warm in his grasp, and he could see in her eyes when she reached a decision. She removed her hands, and absently rubbed them against one another. "I'll get the horses," she said. "But first, you need warmer clothing for the trip, Mister." Marie pulled the pot off the stove, and started banking the fire.

John stood awkwardly, uncertain of where this warmer clothing was, and if he was supposed to go get it right now. Horses? He hoped it was the same animal as on Earth. He figured it was. For whatever reason, there was a thing with the languages being the same, or at least what they heard was the same, so either it'd been translated as, or, they were, horses. Whatever it was, he was fast coming to the conclusion that this planet, like all the others, was in a stunted technological state. After that thought had run through his mind he tried to figure out what it meant. Planet? English…his language, but why would he wonder if they spoke something other than English? Was he from somewhere else? Somewhere named Earth?

Marie had finished what she had to do, and was waiting at the doorway. "Well? You were in such a rush…"

"I don't know where the warmer clothes are," he reminded her snippily; the process of understanding even his basic thoughts was giving him an irritable edge. He felt like he was Alice fallen down the rabbit hole, and then he wondered who the heck was Alice and why did she fall in a rabbit hole?

She blushed, and he experienced a flash of guilt. It wasn't her fault he was in this condition. "I'm sorry…" he started to apologize.

"No, it's okay. I keep forgetting…" she fussed with the hem of the apron she had untied and now held in her hands. She stopped herself, and a painful smile flickered for a moment before she replaced it with a kind, genuine one. "Follow me."

John couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on underneath the surface than he could possibly imagine, but he followed her without asking anything else. She took him out a door on the opposite side of the sitting room, and pulled open a closet, taking out a thick overcoat, hat and gloves, handing them to him in rapid succession. "These should fit you, you're about his..."

John fumbled with the articles of clothing, trying to keep them in his arms. "His what?" he asked.

Marie looked abjectly uncomfortable. "Size…my father's size," she clarified, but John didn't think she was being truthful. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

Before he had a chance to question her, another unbidden flash flew across the movie projector inside his head, and he saw another dark haired girl, talking about her father telling stories to her as a child. My Father told me stories of such a creature when I was a child; he shook his head, trying to clear the hazy images.

A gentle touch on his arm, and he looked up to find Marie watching him. "John?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Can I help with the horses?" He wanted something to focus on other than the gaps in his mind, and the flashes he was experiencing.

She reached in, and pulled out a dusty chocolate brown coat as thick as the one she'd handed to him. "You most certainly may not," scolded Marie, she continued more gently, "John, I know you don't believe me, but you must rest. I don't think this trip is a good idea, but I'll take you…however, hitching horses? You will get worse."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how much worse could things get, but she'd already slipped on her coat, and was out the door before he could formulate a response. He sighed, and slid his own bulky coat over his shirt, and noticed a mirror on the wall behind him. He turned and studied the reflection. Short, dark hair that needed to be brushed, and he needed a shave. He was startled to realize that he didn't recognize his own face. Shouldn't a person know his or her own face? He grumpily turned his back on the mirror, and shut the closet door. He prayed the man he was going to see would live, because otherwise, he wondered if he'd ever get the answers he was beginning to crave so desperately.

He left through the door, and found himself in a bright white snowscape. It was breathtaking, and the cold air hurt his lungs, but in a way that made him feel alive. He looked back at the house and saw the dilapidated tan shakes on the one story home, and then he turned around three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in a gray weathered timber fence encircling the yard. There was a track broken in the new fallen snow towards another building; a barn, he guessed, from its shape. He could hear murmurs and the neighing of horses. There were tall trees, the same kind as in his dreams, and everything around him had a crystallized hibernating feel. He exhaled, and watched the puff of smoky breath wither away, and it seemed familiar. He'd been in a cold environment before. Another stray picture played in his mind. He was standing beside a mammoth machine, Well, that was different, he'd said, and he was talking to another man, whose name he couldn't recall.

He shivered in his coat, and it wasn't from the cold air. He followed the footprints to the barn, and pushed open one of the two large double doors. Marie was fitting a horse with a harness. She looked up when he entered.

"John, do you ever listen?" she asked despairingly, but there was a smile, and he knew she wasn't angry.

He guessed it wasn't in his nature to sit back and take orders, because it hadn't even occurred to him to do what she kept telling him. It was the opposite, he felt a need to constantly pursue his instincts, and they were telling him to move, and to seek out that which might help him. "I guess not," shrugged John. "Can I help?" He tried again, figuring if he was here he might as well be useful.

"No, you may not," she replied sternly. "Besides, I'm finished. I only need to hook them to the sleigh."

Sleigh? He looked around, and didn't see anything that resembled a sleigh. "How far is this hospital?" asked John, wondering how long the trip was, and the thought occurred to him that it might be more than he could handle. He'd only been on his feet for less than an hour, and he was beginning to long for the soft comfort of the chair, and the warmth of the fire.

"The sleigh is out back," informed Marie, "and the hospital is too far to walk." She gathered the tether and started towards him. "Why don't you wait here, I'll be just a minute." She didn't give him a chance to protest, as she led the team out the door he'd come in. He had to step to the side to avoid the bulk of the large animals.

He stared at the horses as they stepped energetically into the outside. At least someone was happy this morning. They were practically prancing, and he did admire their beauty. Maybe the trip wouldn't be so bad. It'd been years since he'd had a sleigh ride. As soon as that thought had passed he tried to recall when he'd ever been on a sleigh, but all he got for his trouble was a growing headache. These short unbidden thoughts were driving him crazy. They were tantalizing glimpses of who he was, and his past, and they appeared without conscious effort, only to disappear and leave nothing more than a vague discontent when he could recall nothing beyond.

"John?"

He looked up, realizing he'd been staring at a bale of hay to the right of the door. Marie was sitting in the sleigh, the reigns clasped tight in her hands, and the horses were nickering and tossing their heads impatiently.

He stepped out, closing the doors behind him. "What are their names?" he asked, as he climbed into the seat and sat beside her. She had a blanket that she slid over his lap, and he was surprised at how warm it felt. She must have had it in the house and got it when she hooked them to the sleigh. How long had he been daydreaming?

Marie seemed pleased he'd asked about the horses. "That one on the right is Darling and the left is Jack."

John grinned at the horses. He felt comfortable around the animals, but like everything else, he didn't know why. "Nice to meet you,Darling and Jack," he said. "Do me a favor guys, don't dump us in the snow."

Marie slapped the reigns, and tsked at the team, which must have been their instructions to go, because they started walking, before sliding into a steady trot. The sleigh glided over the path, and he felt for the first time a sense of happiness. It was hard to let worries bother you when you were flying across the land, and sitting beside a lovely woman.

"So tell me, you live alone?" John realized he knew nothing about this woman Marie, only that she was apparently willing to take him into her home, and nurse him back to health.

He must have said something wrong, because he felt her stiffen against him. "Yes," answered Marie.

When she didn't elaborate he tried another angle. "Where am I, exactly?"

"Eladee."

John pulled his attention off the path ahead and looked at her. She was definitely nervous, and the abrupt one-word answers weren't the only signs. "What's wrong?" he confronted; the elusive lighter mood he'd experienced was already fading in light of her behavior.

She twisted the leather straps, and added a forced smile on her face. "Nothings wrong," she insisted.

John continued to stare at her. Something was bothering her, but he guessed he couldn't make her admit to anything if she didn't want to. He finally turned his attention back on the road, and realized they were nearing the outskirts of what must be their city, this Eladee. "We're here."

She nodded, and chirruped louder to the team, and they increased their pace. As they slid down the main street, John was aware of the stares focusing on him, and he hunched lower into his coat, trying to avoid the looks. Marie pulled up to a building that was taller than the others he'd seen, and she hopped down. A middle aged man appeared, "Mornin' Marie," he said, and he looked pointedly at John. "A bit early for him to be about, don't you think?"

"I'm fine," said John. Was everyone that bored that his health was the talk of the town?

Marie gave the man an exuberant hug. "I told him that, more than once, but he's stubborn, Ada…more stubborn than…" she drifted off into a painful silence.

Ada, if that was his name, or title, covered for her by taking the reins. "You go on in, Marie. No sense in exposing him more than necessary." He addressed John, "Mister, you take it easy, no need to push hard and fall sick, you hear." And with a kind smile, Ada guided the team towards the rear of the building.

John scratched a hand against the base of his hairline, where the hat was rubbing, and it itched. He looked at the man as he walked away, then realized Marie was already leading the way into a door that was up on a porch, and the sign read Hospital. This was it. He swallowed down a lump of nervousness, and followed her.

The building was warm, and he was led into a foyer where there were racks to hang their jackets. Marie took his things, and he was getting annoyed at always seeming to be slower at everything. He handed them over without complaint, but vowed he'd be first dressed in the outergarments when they were leaving, and nobody was going to wait on him like a valet again.

Just as he was shaking off the clinging slush from his shoes, a man in a white coat walked in. John knew this was one of the doctors. "Nice to see you up, John," greeted the man. "My name is Doctor Yarrow. I met you before, but I doubt you remember. How are you feeling?"

"I don't remember," replied John. "I don't remember anything. Was I here, before?"

Doctor Yarrow had a chart in his hand, and he tucked it against his chest. "You were," he answered evenly. "But you weren't aware of much at the time."

John felt like a bacterium under a microscope, aware that the Doctor was scrutinizing him intensely. "I gathered that." He didn't know what else to say. He couldn't remember this man, the building…none of it, and he didn't even know where to start with the questions.

Yarrow touched Marie on her elbow, a gentle touch, showing more of how the townspeople seemed very concerned for one another. "Marie, why don't you take John to room three, we'll talk more there. I've got to check in on Robert, but I'll be there shortly."

"Thank you," Marie smiled warmly, returning his affection. "We'll be there."

The Doctor gave a short nod, and left the foyer. John waited for Marie to tell him what to do, knowing he had no other recourse at this time. He was fast growing tired of the helpless confused feeling, and he prayed again that the man in this building would be the key to his past.

Marie led him down a busy corridor. Nurses bustled about, and he could see what had to be other patients, based upon their state of dress and appearance, meandering back and forth. Marie came to a stop outside a door, and John looked up to see a painted black number three above the entrance. This would be it. He let out the lungful of air he'd been unconsciously holding, and walked in, stopping abruptly when all he saw was an empty bed. "Is he…"

Marie's face paled as she realized what he thought. "No, no…the doctor wanted to do a check-up on you first. I'm sorry, I didn't think to explain." She rushed to explain, and ease his fears.

He was abashed at how easily she read him. He struggled to gain control of his emotions, and still he felt like a mouse on a string, being toyed with by the cat. These people, these Eladeans, they seemed genuinely nice, but he kept feeling constantly off-kilter. "I don't want to wait, and I don't need a check-up," John argued, his voice low and controlled. He was fighting to hold it together.

Marie got up close, standing toe to toe with John, and gave him the angriest look he'd seen yet, which was enough to surprise him, but then she spoke. "You listen to me, John Sheppard, we rescued you, and we've been fighting to keep you, and your friend, alive!" He saw her take a steadying breath. "I realize," she continued more calmly, "That you are upset, and worried, and even though you won't admit it, your body is not as strong as you are used to, and you don't have the memories of the accident to account for it's condition. But, you need to trust me, and trust the doctors. We are only trying to help you."

He lifted a weary hand, and rubbed it through his hair, and down his neck, trying to scrub away the growing tension. He was beginning to feel the weakness nibbling at his mind, and simple thoughts were becoming difficult, and this bothered him, a lot. He didn't want to be here, yet he wanted answers. He was becoming confused again, and he was afraid he was going to lose what little he'd managed to glean from them. "I just want to remember," he told her.

"I know," she said. She guided him to the table, and taking his arm with little effort on her part, he complied. "Sit, before you fall down. Once Doctor Yarrow checks you, you can see your friend, I promise."

He sat, and then he wondered at what she'd said. "You called me John Sheppard, is that my last name? Sheppard?"

She pulled a chair closer, and he watched as she settled in, crossing her legs. Marie seemed flustered by his question, and he wondered if she had given away more than what she wanted to, but why would she try to hide his last name from him?

"It is, you mumbled it in your sleep after we got you to the hospital. We tried to ask you your name, and you kept saying John Sheppard and a bunch of numbers, over and over again."

He mulled the new information but it didn't ring a bell. Why would he repeat a bunch of numbers with his name? "You said I arrived with the others from my world, what happened to everyone? The bodies of those that didn't live?" It felt morbid to discuss people that probably meant something to him, but now he was detached, as if he were discussing an item of clothing. It didn't mean anything. He was hoping maybe there would be something on them that would help.

Marie didn't look any happier than before. "I'm sorry, they burned with the ship. We couldn't save them."

A knock at the door distracted him from further thought, and Doctor Yarrow entered not far behind his knock. "I see you're ready for me," he said kindly. He strode over to John's side, and set another chart behind him, on the exam table. Yarrow was an older gentleman, older than Ada, but he seemed to be capable and he didn't give John the willies.

"I suppose," answered John.

The Doctor picked up an instrument and started fumbling with John's sleeve. "I'm just checking your heart, son," he supplied at John's inquiring look. John wanted to say there was nothing wrong with his heart, it was his head that needed examining, but then again, Doctor Yarrow probably already knew that.

It didn't take the doctor long to finish the exam, but he was frowning when he was done. "I don't like what I see." Yarrow picked up the chart and scribbled some notes. John idly wondered if his writing would be as indecipherable as other doctors he knew, and he had no way of knowing what knowledge prompted that thought. Yarrow continued, "I'm going to prescribe some medicine, and you need to take it twice a day, no buts, you hear?"

"What's it for?" asked John. He felt weird at the thought of taking medicine from someone he didn't even know. Marie had said to trust her, and trust the doctors, but she was asking for a lot more than he felt he could give.

"The headaches, weakness, general malaise," Yarrow said. At John's startled look he explained further, "John, it doesn't take a doctor to see you are suffering. Take the pills, they'll help."

John wondered what choice he had. He supposed he could say no, but he could be turning down an opportunity to get better, and right now he needed all the help he could get at clearing his muddled mind. The growing headache was making it hard to stay focused. "Fine," he assented. He'd try it, at least once, and if it didn't help, or if he thought it was doing something it shouldn't, he'd stop taking them. He doubted they were going to try and kill him after all they had done so far.

Yarrow smiled broadly. "That's a good man. I'll send a nurse in with a bottle; take two now, and two tonight. Continue twice a day as needed."

The doctor started leaving. "Doc?" The name came naturally to him, though he didn't know why. "Can I see the other…guy?" he asked.

Yarrow was holding on to the open door, and he didn't seem thrilled at the idea, but he nodded. Before leaving, he added, "Take the medicine first, then you see him. And John?"

"What?"

Yarrow let out a tired sigh, and he seemed saddened by something. "Don't be surprised if seeing him doesn't help. These head injuries can be very difficult, and unpredictable."

John didn't want to believe that would be the outcome, but he answered how he knew they wanted. "I understand."

The doctor had only been gone for a few minutes, not even long enough for John to think of more questions to ask Marie, when a nurse came in holding a tray with two cups. "Here you are, John." She handed him the cup with two large pills and John wondered how he was going to swallow them. He tossed one in his mouth, and swigged a big gulp of water. It barely went down, and he gagged for a moment.

"Don't these come in a smaller size?" he asked when he could breathe again.

Marie's eyes were crinkled with laughter, and she said, "Everyone complains, and still they stay the same size." At John's surprised look, she explained further, "These are a personal concoction of Doctor Yarrow's, a miracle drug, there isn't a body in Eladee who hasn't been forced to take them at one time or another."

She was smiling, but he didn't find it funny. He quickly swallowed the other pill, before handing the empty cup of water back to the nurse, and gave another cough. He hoped the ones that got sent home could be cut in half because he wasn't eager to repeat that, even if it wouldn't be till nighttime.

"If you follow me, I'll take you to see the gentleman you are waiting to see." The nurse told him as she handed him the bottle with the other pills. He pocketed them, and realized that finally, he'd have a chance to learn something new from the only person that could help him.

She led them back into the corridor, and they went down the opposite way they'd initially come, and took a right, before coming to a set of wooden double doors. They had words painted in white saying, No Unauthorized Admittance, but she pushed through them, holding one open for them to follow.

She stopped at a desk, and mumbled something to another nurse, and then directed John to a row of beds along the wall to the right. He realized it was one big open room. This must be where the critically ill patients were kept. There was a curtain pulled, and he followed her, his mind going numb. He was suddenly taken by an overwhelming urge to stop, and leave. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he fought to control his breathing.

"John?"

Marie was ahead of him, and waiting. He'd stopped, and hadn't realized it. He closed his eyes, and fought against a growing sick feeling. He opened his eyes. She was watching him, and looked ready to call for help. "I'm coming," he asserted, for whom, he wasn't sure, but if he were a gambling man, he would bet it was for him.

He forced his feet to carry him forward, and Marie was pulling back the curtain. He hadn't been prepared for what he saw, regardless of how many times he'd thought about this moment. It was a man. He had brown hair, a little thin on top, and a jutting chin. He had a wide bandage wrapped around his head, and his arms and hands were encased in thick gauze. His nose was reddened and the skin was peeling back. It almost looked like his eyebrows were burnt off. He stared, wishing, praying for something, but there wasn't anything. No spark of recognition, no feeling of remembrance or sorrow for this man.

He stared, feeling deadened by the drop of emotions. Marie was by his side, and guided him to a chair. "I know it's a shock, but Doctor Manly will be in shortly to tell you how he's doing." She paused, and cocked her head, just a little, to watch him as he kept watching the figure in the bed. "Do you recognize him?"

John shook his head. Before he could reply, an image, of that man standing next to a console, and repeating, using power, using power, and then it was gone.

"John?"

"No," he replied. "I don't know who this is."

She knelt by his side, and took his limp hand in hers, and grabbed his chin, forcing him to make eye contact. "John, look at me." When he did, she continued. "It'll be okay, I promise. You'll remember. You have to give it time."

He found himself drowning in her eyes. Marie was becoming his lifeline, the man lying in the bed couldn't be there for him, and he had to hold on to someone, or he'd drown in his fear. How could a person lose who they were, and go on? Would he act the same even if he lacked the memories of who he was? What if he never remembered? What if he never got the answers he was so desperate for? There was something…something that was demanding he pay attention, and he was afraid it'd be too late before he could remember what it was.

"I'm trying," he whispered brokenly. He wanted to reach for the man's hand, an impulse that came without reason, but the man's hands were thickly bandaged, and he couldn't do more than touch his shoulder. A flare of pain, and he closed his eyes. He was being dragged, and it was hot. The man was panting, and cursing at him. Don't you die on me, Major! I didn't risk permanent scars for you to die on me…

"What is it?" the soft voice intruded.

He opened his eyes. He didn't know. "Nothing," he said.

He could see she didn't believe him, but she didn't press. He heard the sounds of people talking in the distance, and he wanted to be alone. "Could I have a minute?"

She looked at him, and he thought she was seeing into his mind, and reading his muddled thoughts. "Okay," she finally agreed. "But if you need anything, I'll be at the nurse's desk."

He nodded, not trusting his voice to answer her. She left, and pulled the curtain around the bed, leaving him in privacy. He inched the chair closer to the bed, and looked down dispassionately at the figure. "I should know you," said John. "We almost died together, and that should mean something, but I don't recognize you…I don't recognize myself."

The figure didn't move. The closed eyes, moist by medication they'd applied, he guessed, didn't blink. John reached out and touched a part of the man's head that wasn't swathed in white. "Don't you die on me. Don't you leave me here with no way of finding out who I am, you understand!" he whispered fiercely. Again, the man showed no sign of awareness at his words, or his presence. John slumped in the chair, and let his face fall into his hands. He was tired. He was so very damn tired.