AN: I have a lot I want to say, but my computer is wavering on shaky legs, so I'm going to settle for thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think about the story! I appreciate all the feedback and input, you guys are great!

Later that day…

John was drifting. He'd sat in the chair next to the man's bedside, and refused to leave. He didn't know why he wanted to stay. He didn't know why it was important to just sit by this person, even though he wasn't awake. Marie had come and prodded him to return to the house with her a few times, but each time she'd retreated when he barely acknowledged her presence, leaving him alone. The longer he sat, the worse he felt. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and lightheaded. He wanted to lay down, but he didn't want to leave. Why was he so reluctant to go when he couldn't remember anything about this man?

He heard voices approaching. The first one speaking was Doctor Manly. He'd met him earlier, not long after he'd pulled up a chair and sat, watching, and doing nothing else. He'd explained to John that his companion, he assumed, his friend, had suffered from burns, that while not severe, presented a complication of dehydration because of the sheer area of the man's upper body that they affected. As always, with burns, there existed the possibility of infection. He had also suffered a head injury, though the doctor had explained that it was a superficial injury that had bled a lot, but the damage was mostly external, whereas with John, his was internal, and that's why John couldn't remember anything. He'd also explained that the next few days were critical. If he responded to treatment, he'd probably live. If he didn't…there was nothing more they could do.

The next voice he recognized was Yarrow. He was discussing this man's treatment, and as they approached he picked out words related to his medical care. How much medication he should have, and John picked out that they were keeping this guy sedated. For his own good…but John didn't like hearing that. He wanted him awake, why hadn't they told him that the man was sedated? He filed it away to ask later.

The curtain was pulled back, and he was surprised to see Marie was with the two doctors, and the worried expression was back. Yarrow approached his chair, and regarded him patiently. "John, Marie tells me you won't leave."

John thought of a dozen excuses to say, but he didn't. He stared back at the doctor, daring him to say he had to leave.

Yarrow sensed his mood, and waved the others away, pulling up a chair next to John. Manly and Marie excused themselves, leaving Yarrow alone with him. "This isn't going to help."

"It might," John said through tight lips.

Yarrow sat down, and regarded John with more patience then John thought he deserved. "Do you want to talk?"

Now that was funny. He didn't know who he was, he couldn't remember his name, the only person who could help was in danger of dying, and did he want to talk? "That's a stupid question," John said, he knew it wasn't polite, but his impulse was to tell it like it is, and having no memory, he was reduced to his impulses. "I don't know anything, so how would I know what to talk about? How's the weather…oh wait, I don't even know what the weather should be like." He paused for a minute, and a question did come to mind, one that had been bothering him from the beginning. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Yarrow asked, and he was watching John with that concerned look that was starting to wear on his nerves. Everyone was staring at him just like that, and he was getting tired of feeling like a delicate flower that everyone expected to wilt at any moment.

"That…" explained John with the wave of his hand, "caring. You don't know me from Adam, yet you save me and my friend, take us in, and go out of your way to help…why?" He wondered why it seemed wrong to him. He wondered what kind of world he was from, if that basic level of humanity wasn't expected.

He guessed Yarrow was thinking along the same lines because he seemed bothered by John's question. "You were hurt. What else could we do, leave you there to die?" he responded sharply.

A wave of dizziness assailed his senses, and he felt the disorientation that heralded another vision. The man in the bandages was leaning over him, slapping his face, and holding something against his head…pressing, and it hurt. Major, you son of a bitch, wake up! We're in trouble, and even my IQ isn't going to solve this! He pulled his hand back from John's head, and it was stained crimson. The man stared at his hand, mesmerized by the sight. Oh, God, Sheppard, the man said, horrified by what he saw

John's hand flew to the back of his head as the memory ended, and he was stunned to feel the thick metal under his fingers, staples. Only a few, but still, he hadn't realized he was missing a chunk of hair, and skin, on the back of his head. "Wha…?"

Yarrow was staring at him intently, and John didn't like the calculating look. "You remembered something," he stated.

Why hadn't he remembered before? He'd almost died, and he didn't remember having his head split open? "I…" he stumbled for words but he didn't find them, and another bout of lightheadedness rolled across his body, causing him to waver in the chair.

"Enough, John. You need to rest." Yarrow stood, and John could see through blurring vision that he was waving the others over to him. The next few moments were hazy, but despite his earlier resolution to not be waited on, he was helped into his jacket, and hat. He felt himself guided to the waiting sleigh, and was helped up by the man he'd met earlier, Ada, he remembered, Ada was his name, and he slid into the seat beside him while Marie sat on his other side. He felt the cold from the bench seep through the fabric of his pants, and he shivered. The last thing he would remember was the horses jumping forward, eager to be off again, and the sleigh slipping forward in the snow.

The next day passed in a blur of hazy dreams. He saw the forest, and a fire; there was a fire…and the man…the man that was always cursing him to not die. He saw a city, it was a glorious city, tall spires rising into the sky, but the faces of the people in that city had no names, and each time he tried to hold onto a memory, it'd disappear into darkness. He tossed, and turned, restless in his bed, and he tried to wake from whatever was keeping him down.

Finally, he shrugged off the slumber, and looked around the room. He saw light filtering through the window and wondered how long he'd been sleeping. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, and he reached for it, leaning on his elbow, feeling the mattress bow under his weight. It was lukewarm, but eased his dried lips and parched throat. He became aware of a heaviness draped over his body…blankets, and realized someone had undressed him, again.

The door creaked, and Marie peeked in, smiling when she saw him in the half-upright position. "You're awake!" she exclaimed. She pushed the door open the remaining way, and rushed in. "You had us worried!"

He didn't know how long he'd slept, senseless to the passage of time, but judging from her actions, it had to have been more than a few hours. "How long?" he rasped, surprised at his voice. He took another drink, trying to ease the discomfort.

Marie hesitated, and John worried. "How long, Marie?" he pressed, knowing now that it was more than hours, maybe more than a day.

"Three days, John. You've been in and out. Doctor Yarrow came to see you yesterday. We were worried you weren't going to make it." Marie seemed truly shaken. She settled on the end of his bed, and he felt it dip under her weight. Her face was pinched, and white, and he felt sorry for putting her through this. She wasn't his mother, or his wife…she was a stranger, and yet…she was obviously drawn to him, and cared.

"Days?" he repeated. "Why?"

"Doctor Yarrow said you overdid it. There's damage inside your head, and he can't fix it," she caught his eyes, and held them with her own, and he saw in her a fear for him. "John, he says you must stay calm, or you won't heal, and you will die."

He didn't feel damaged in his head. Another flash sparked inside, and somehow he knew the man he'd seen lying in that hospital bed would find it funny, and say he always knew John was brain damaged. He could almost see him physically saying those words. If it'd been days… "The man, is he…?"

"He's better," she said, and she was smiling broadly. "He asked for you."

"He's awake?" he asked hopefully. He felt a thrill of regret that he hadn't been there when the man had woken. He should've been there, but he didn't know why he felt that way. He just did.

"He woke up yesterday, briefly, and he wanted to know where you were," she said. "Of course we had to tell him you were resting, and he wasn't too happy about that…"

"I bet," joked John, and he realized there were memories there of this man regarding his behavior that were under the surface, even if he wasn't consciously aware of them. "When can I see him?"

The joy dropped from Marie's face like a ten-pound weight. "John, you can't go, you aren't well enough. He's not well enough." John felt like she'd slapped him. She was fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of the blanket and he wanted to snap at her to stop. She was doing it out of nervous energy, and it was distracting

"You can't be serious…he knows me! I need him, Marie. I need to remember." John was beginning to get angry, and he felt trapped. He woke to find he'd been out for days, and the man… "What's his name?" he asked, as it suddenly occurred to him that he could quit referring to him as the man.

Marie was climbing off his bed, and John was afraid she'd walk out that door, without giving him anything. But she didn't leave, she hesitated at the foot of his bed, and there was pity on her face. "Rodney. He said his name is Rodney."

Rodney…he tried it out silently in his mind, but he had nothing. There weren't any ripples flowing through like a pebble dropped in a pond, and there wasn't any flash of insight brought on by the knowledge of the man's name. "Nothing," he muttered. At her inquiring look, he explained, "It doesn't make me remember anything."

Marie was standing still, and she was behaving as if she wanted to say more, to do more; there was a hint of action about to happen, but she wasn't sure how, or what to do, or say, so she did nothing. "John, I know…" she started, but broke off. He saw her eyes, and they looked glassy and wet, like she was on the verge of crying. She wiped an impatient hand against one of them, confirming what he suspected. She gave up standing at a distance, and came back to his side, kneeling close to his bed, her dress billowed around her legs, and she had her chest perilously close to his. He didn't pull back. "I wish I could take your pain, and confusion. I wish I could give you your friend right now, but I can't," she was brimming with pain, and it was an emotional hurt that he didn't understand. Where was it coming from?

"Why do you care so much?" whispered John, reaching up, and brushing away a tear that had broken free, as it slid down her cheek. He couldn't force himself to be loud, or confrontational, because she was too close, and she was so alive, breathing and feeling, and she was so very sad. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't the cause of all that sadness.

She turned her face into his hand, and covered it with her own, closing her eyes, and he felt her, smelled her, and for a moment he felt time stop. Everything was heightened, his awareness of touch and sound. A heartbeat was a drumbeat. He was drawn to this woman. Her vulnerability, her love for him…love…he didn't even know her, yet he knew she loved him. Why? Why should she care, love, so much, when he knew so little?

"Because you're you," she answered huskily. She opened her eyes, and he was caught again. "Rest." She took his hand off her face, and laid it on the covers of the bed, her own hand lingering for a moment, reluctant to give up the brief contact. "Rest, and soon you'll see your friend."

John found his eyes closing without his permission. He thought he felt a soft kiss on his forehead, but he was already losing awareness to the hazy dreams. He was losing himself, or maybe he was already lost, and he was beginning to wonder if it even mattered.

Atlantis…

A knock on Elizabeth's door caused her to look up from the report she was studying. Unexpectedly, she saw Doctor Kate Heightmeyer watching her. "May I come in?" she asked.

Elizabeth nodded, giving the woman permission, no matter that it was offered grudgingly. "What can I do for you?" she asked, after Kate had settled into the seat in front of her desk. She could probably guess what this visit was about.

Watching Elizabeth's closed face, Kate knew this wasn't going to be easy. "I'm worried about you," she admitted. Being a psychologist, she knew sometimes the direct approach was the best approach, and with Elizabeth, it was the only approach.

"I'm fine," Weir said. There wasn't any need to pretend she didn't know what this was about. It'd been over a week since her two right hands had been lost in a fiery crash on some distant planet. Over a week since she'd last seen the boyish grin, and the cocky smug smile…over a week since she'd enjoyed their easy bantering at the briefing table.

Kate didn't agree, she knew better. Elizabeth was anything but fine. So, Kate used her training from everything to the tone of her voice, to her position. She had her hands clasped loosely together on her lap, and her legs crossed. It was a position that said, I'm approachable, I'm here to help…but Weir wasn't buying it. "With all due respect, Doctor, I disagree."

Elizabeth found a paper to study, sending a message of unavailability. "You're entitled to disagree, but the fact remains."

Kate decided to try a different technique. "If a member of your expedition was withdrawing from those around them, if this same member was working longer days, and sleeping less…if others were mentioning to you about this person's general decline…what would you tell me to do?" She turned the tables on the negotiator. Put her in the psychologist's shoes, and placed the burden of knowledge with her.

Elizabeth stared, stone-faced, and Kate wondered if she'd break through, when suddenly the woman's face crumpled with grief, and Elizabeth dropped into the back of her chair, raising a shaking hand to her face. "I see them, Kate," her voice trembled. "I see them in my dreams, I see them when I'm walking down the hall…and each time I think maybe their death was only a nightmare, and they're really here, and I want that to be the truth, so very much." Elizabeth's voice broke, and Kate hurt to see the woman struggling for control. "I keep expecting to hear them calling me on the radio, or walking in my office," finished Weir, and the pain was so strong that Kate felt a lump in her throat. She wasn't isolated from the emotional upheaval. She couldn't keep a clinical detachment. The very nature of this expedition denied her that advantage.

Kate hadn't expected Elizabeth to open up so suddenly, and she realized she'd underestimated the emotional upheaval being experienced. They'd lost personnel before, but with the exception of Sumner, who was lost early into the mission, they'd never lost someone so prominent in the daily running of the expedition, and to lose two - two men so close to Doctor Weir, it was eating her up, as everyone had told Kate, in confidence, as Kate had walked the halls trying to offer support to anyone in need. "Sudden death has that affect, Elizabeth, it's nothing to be ashamed of." Kate explained gently. "Many people who have lost loved ones without warning experience similar feelings."

Elizabeth wanted to refute Kate's statement. She wasn't other people; she was Elizabeth Weir, an accomplished woman who wasn't prone to wallowing in her emotions. She was learning to make life and death decisions in a way she'd never thought she'd have to, but this was different. She couldn't accept their death. They didn't feel gone. "What if they didn't die?" she voiced her feelings.

"Don't," Kate said. "If you allow yourself to believe a fantasy, it'll only prolong the grieving process."

"But what if it's true?" pressed Elizabeth. "What if Ford missed them. What if we left them, out there, on that mountain, and they are waiting for help?"

Kate's next words chilled her to the bone. "If that were true, then it's already too late. They couldn't survive those conditions without help."

Elizabeth realized she still held a pen in her right hand. She set it down on the desk with measured calm that she didn't feel. "I thought you were here to help," she said. The idea that they may have left them to die of exposure on a mountainside chilled her already cold soul. Why did this have to hurt so much?

"Doctor…Elizabeth," Kate leaned forward, "I said that because the Lieutenant didn't miss finding them. They burned to death, and the thought of that is so painful that you would wish almost any other fate upon them." She stopped, and waited for her words to sink in. "I understand that you were close. I know that this is hard to accept, especially so because you have no bodies to bury, but the memorial service is tomorrow. You need to attend, and put this behind you. We need you, and you know Major Sheppard would tell you the same thing."

Weir didn't reply, but she didn't deny Kate's words, and that was more than Kate had hoped for at this point. She waited, giving Weir time to say more, but Elizabeth didn't take up the offer her silence provided. Kate stood, and placed her hands on the desk, again forcing Weir's attention onto her, whether she wanted to or not. "I know this is trite, but it's true. This will pass. The pain and grief, it'll get better…but you've got to take care of yourself before you can get past this." She saw that Elizabeth heard her. She continued, "Get some sleep, okay?"

Elizabeth nodded, still emotional and not wanting to talk further. Kate waited again, for a beat of time, a tick of a second, and left, letting Weir turn over in her mind their conversation. She knew the woman in that office had the strength to get past this, but she also knew it would take time, and maybe more than a few talks. That's what she was here for. She would talk however much Elizabeth needed…and just maybe, those talks would help her, also.

Back on M4X–578…

Major, you're bleeding everywhere…it won't stop, the man he now knew as Rodney was hanging over him, fallen to his knees on the icy wet ground beside John, and he felt so cold. Rodney was angry, he could tell, by the look on his face, and John wondered if he'd ever seen him so angry. You've got no right to die and leave me here - without your help, I'm dead meat…you hear me! The man was railing at him, and John knew it was only because Rodney was afraid. He smelled something burning in the distance, and he felt his head roll, only to watch the flames eat away at his ship.

John bolted upright in bed, a ship! He remembered there was a ship, and it burned. Why was it burning? They crashed…but why? As the dream faded, he realized it was dark in his room. The moonlight cast shadows on the bed, eerie long shadows from the branch outside the window. He was breathing hard, and his head ached, again. He raised his hand carefully, and fingered the staples. They felt ugly, and he was thankful he couldn't see what it looked like.

The irony of his flashback wasn't lost on him. Rodney had been afraid of John dying, and leaving him alone in this place. Now, John worried that Rodney might die, and leave him, without his memories. He forced himself to settle back, lying on the bed, and keeping his head to the side to alleviate pressure on his healing wound.

Before he'd gotten comfortable, he was lost again, but this time he was soaring in the sky. The ship responded to his simplest thoughts, a perfect synergy with his mind, and desires. Sir, the mountain is ahead, a nameless voice informed him from somewhere behind. He saw barren treetops, and a snowy terrain far below, and it was so far he wondered how anyone had survived a crash. He heard someone shout, and in his mind, his body turned, and he saw Rodney, panicked and pointing out the window. Major, oh my god, we're being shot at! He felt himself turn slowly back to the front, and there were bullets of white coming at them, and before he could act, the ship rocked with the impact, one after another, and he knew with sickening clarity, they were all going to die.

He tossed in bed, and rolled to his other side, feeling the springs against every pressure point on his body. The memories that were surfacing weren't good ones. They'd been shot down. Who was to blame? Was it the Eladeans? The very people who now nursed him back to health, and Rodney? Where was the motive in that? Or, as Rodney would say, where was the logic?

One thing that John was certain of, was that tomorrow he'd insist Marie take him to see Rodney, and this time he wouldn't leave until he spoke to him, regardless if he had to sleep in that chair, or pass out on the floor. John didn't want to close his eyes. He was torn by the desire to know more, but he didn't want to relive those moments again. He forced himself to relax.

The memories took over again. He was sitting in the pilot's chair. He felt the hard surface pushing against his back, and his legs. The ship was shaking, and bucking from the damage. Sir, a young man called him, and he looked back. That man knew they were going to die. He could see the acceptance in those deep brown eyes, and they said everything else. John had only jerked his head, a small nod to say he understood, and that the sentiments were returned. He didn't offer false platitudes. Rodney wasn't as gracious as the other man. We are not going to die, you hear me! This ship was made to take a beating, so knock it off! Rodney was fighting against the rough movements as they lost altitude, and John thought he was also fighting against the mortal coils of death that were trying to reach up and gather them downward. Somehow he knew that Rodney wouldn't ever accept dying with fatalistic resentment. No, that man would go out with a fight, scratching and clawing, to hang on to even that last millisecond.

The ship hit with a thunderous screeching, and he felt it catapult over, nose and then tail, and how many times it flipped before it stopped, he didn't know. He couldn't breathe, or think, and it was the end. He felt his world going dim, and gray. I'm sorry, he whispered. He reached a hand out, grabbing a fistful of blanket, to reassure himself that he was here, in this bed, and not there, in that crash, lying broken and dying. The fabric was smooth, and warm. He realized his jaw was clenched tight, and his entire body was flexed, in a flight or fight preparation, brought about by the flashback. He purposefully relaxed his muscles and wished for a dreamless sleep to end the night. Hadn't he seen enough for now? For someone who wanted to remember, he found himself wanting to forget, just for a little while. Whether God, or exhaustion, heard him, his body relaxed and he fell asleep. And he wasn't bothered by dreams, or memories.

The Day After, on M4X-578…

John was sitting in the sleigh. Marie was guiding the horses, although he knew she was pretending it took more of her attention than it really did. She was angry with him, and he supposed she had a right. When morning had arrived, he'd been out of bed before the last traces of dusk were gone. He wanted to see Rodney, and he'd told Marie if she didn't take him, then he'd walk. He'd bargained that she cared enough to not let him risk the strain that would put on his healing head, and he'd been right.

She'd agreed, but had spent the remaining time fixing him breakfast, and not saying a word. The silent treatment was effective, and as the trip had progressed, his guilt had increased. The guilt wasn't enough to make him retreat, however; he was focused on one mission, and that was to speak to this Rodney.

The flashbacks from last night had left him with more questions than answers, and the questions were bothersome. Who had been that young man in the ship? He'd died, according to Marie. John felt he was doing him a disservice by forgetting his name. And who was behind their ship going down? What weapon, and why? Why did someone shoot them out of the sky? He didn't remember if they were here to fight someone. He hadn't felt any violence in his mind during the initial flight. It was the opposite. In the first memory, when he was flying, he'd felt a sense of peace and contentment. Everything had been going like it should.

And now, his world was gone. He had fragments, and they only left him more unsettled. The silence grew between him and Marie, and finally it bothered him to the point of being the first to concede. "I've got to talk to him," he explained.

"Did you take your medicine this morning?" asked Marie, not acknowledging the topic he tried to discuss with her.

"Marie," exasperated, John grabbed her hand that held the reins. "Don't change the subject."

She pulled her hand back. "What's there to talk about? You wanted to see him, despite the danger to your health, and I'm taking you." She clucked at Darling to quit drifting to the right. "Did you take your pills?" She wasn't going to be deterred, but John knew two could play that game.

"Yes, I did, now would you stop pouting?"

She looked like he'd dumped a bucket of cold water over her head. Her mouth opened, and shut, and opened, and still she didn't say anything. John sat back and smiled. If anything, he gave her something else to be annoyed at, and that was something.

She was quiet, and had gone back to staring at the road ahead, when finally she spoke stiffly. "I don't pout."

"Fine, sulk, then."

"John Sheppard, you are insufferable," she snapped. "You won't listen, you won't take no for an answer…ever since you showed up my life has been turned inside out!"

John was startled by her outburst, but her face was comical. He didn't know who it was, but she reminded him of someone else, someone with curly brown hair, and an inner strength that caused him constant frustration. "I didn't ask to show up," he reminded her.

Marie's smile fell, and though she didn't seem angry, she wasn't happy. "No, I don't suppose you did," she said, and her voice was resigned. He kept expecting her to say more, but she clammed up, and he didn't feel like forcing conversation now that he'd managed to get her over her earlier snit.

The rest of the trip was made in silence, and when they arrived at the hospital, Ada was there, again, to take the team from Marie. He smiled at John, but this time it seemed tempered by frustration on Ada's part. He supposed the news that he was being difficult was going around. Small towns like this, there wouldn't be much in the way of secrets.

He got down, and before Marie could beat him to it, he walked in, and slipped out of his coat, and hat, hanging them up with a satisfied feeling. It wasn't much, but it was the start of regaining his independence. He felt deflated when Marie shucked her own coat, and hung it up, looking for all the world like he'd taken her favorite dessert, or something. He knew she enjoyed looking after him. She was lonely, and he'd given her someone to watch after…someone to care for. But he was tired of being taken care of. It wasn't his nature to sit back, and let others do for him.

He grabbed her arm. "I'm sorry," he said, again. He was getting tired of apologizing.

"Sorry for what?"

"For being so stubborn. For being a pain." He didn't know what to say. "Marie, I am who I am. Personalities don't change because you can't remember your name."

She leaned into the cushioned coat of hers that was hanging on the rack, and she slipped her hands across her chest, seeming to cherish this moment for what it was. "You don't have to apologize."

"I don't know why you care so much," remarked John. "I don't even know you." After he said it, the memory of the hushed conversation they'd had in his room the night before came back to him. He'd forgotten it. Lost in the fugue of the flashbacks, it had faded into obscurity in a corner of his mind.

He heard Marie sigh; she didn't like the turn the conversation was taking. Maybe she remembered they'd been there once before, and maybe she regretted saying so much. Whatever it was, she straightened, and now she took John's arm, and steered him into the hall. As John walked, she opened up a little about what she was thinking. "I may not have known you for very long, but I do feel like I know you. I feel like I've known you all my life."

John was startled by her words. He knew Marie was drawn to him, and he had felt a connection to her, but he wondered how much was her, and how much was the brown haired woman in his dreams, the one that smiled, and frowned, and worried over him. He stumbled, as a strong memory assailed his senses. That wasn't really what you were going to say, was it? The woman with the short, brown hair has asked him, and she was smiling kindly. He'd told her he had no idea what she was talking about, and she'd given him a knowing look and said, I didn't think so.

He covered his misstep, and Marie didn't seem overly concerned. She led him to the double doors, and with a sense of déjà vu, she led him through, stopping at the nurse's desk. She told them John was there to see Rodney, and it caused him some trepidation to learn that Rodney was awake.

A nurse he'd seen before gave him a sympathetic smile. "He's in a lot of pain, so don't expect much."

John nodded numbly. He understood, but he hoped…he wanted more than they seemed to think Rodney could deliver. He walked, as if in a dream, hearing his own steps echoing in his mind, and Marie pulled back the curtain, letting him in.

Rodney's eyes were closed, but at the sound of the curtain being pulled back, those eyes shot open, and the man's face transformed from one of misery to utter joy. "Major!"

"Rodney," John said. He headed for the chair, and pulled it near the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Lousy," complained Rodney. "I don't know why we had to crash land on this planet of all places, they don't even have morphine."

Now that John was face to face with this man, he didn't know where to start. He sat in the chair, and stared, for too long apparently, because Rodney's eyes narrowed at him. "How are you doing? They told me you weren't so good yesterday…" Rodney's face scrunched, "or was that the day before?"

John felt another spike of pain, and he saw another day, and time play out in his mind. He was lying on his back, and his body burned with numbness. You mean my day just got worse, and he'd addressed the question to Rodney, and Rodney had been standing in front of some type of blue puddle.

"Major?"

He realized Rodney was staring at him. Everyone was always staring at him, ever since he'd woken up in Marie's house that first night. "I don't remember," he admitted softly.

"What, that it was yesterday, or the day before?"

John shook his head impatiently, wanting the man to get it, without him having to spell it out. Rodney blinked, and tried again, "How you're doing? You don't remember how you're doing?"

So much for not having to spell it out. "Everything, Rodney. I don't remember a thing from before I woke up in Marie's house."

"You remember my name," he said, obstinately refusing to believe what John was saying.

"No, I didn't, they told me!" exploded John. "It's all a jumble of mixed images."

Rodney wasn't panicking like John recalled him doing in his flashback during the crash. Instead, he appeared calm, but maybe it was the pain of his injuries causing him to remain subdued. "What's my last name?" he asked John.

John shook his head. He didn't know. He hadn't even known his own last name. Rodney finally let some of his worry seep into his features, and he swore. "It's McKay, Doctor Rodney McKay," he supplied.

McKay…it fit. That was good. John nodded, pleased by having a small piece of his missing mind back. "Doctor Rodney McKay," he repeated, just to hear it spoken out loud by his voice. He centered on McKay, and took in the strain around Rodney's eyes, and the white knuckles peeking out from where the bandages had slipped from him bending his hands. "You don't look so good, Doctor Rodney McKay," he observed, trying to lighten the mood while addressing his fear over Rodney's health.

That elicited a chuckle from the man on the bed. "It's your fault. My Grandmother could fly better than you."

"Your Grandmother wouldn't admit to being related to you," the retort had come out of John's mouth before he could give it a second thought. It felt right, to be talking like this with McKay, but he winced at the snipe all the same. He waited for Rodney to get angry with him, but he was surprised to see him grinning from the bed.

"Oh look, the brain damaged man made a joke," Rodney said, and John knew he wasn't being spiteful, though the wording was enough to make him do a double take, being so close to John's earlier thoughts. Regardless, the situation felt comforting, and normal. He saw the city in his dreams flash into life inside his mind, and he was standing next to Rodney, and John was smiling alongside a grinning McKay, who had something stuck to his chest that glowed green. I shot him, John said, and they'd found it funny. Rodney had bumbled his head about, inordinately pleased with himself, and sung out, invulnerable, to another man, and the brown haired woman.

"Major?"

John fought off the images. He felt like a movie reel that'd been chopped up, and spliced back together, with all the scenes out of order. "I…" John tried to focus. "I keep getting these…flashes…of a city, and other people, and you," he admitted.

Rodney was losing his fight to stay awake, John could tell, because his eyes were drooping, and every now and then they'd jerk open in McKay's effort to stay with him. "You should rest," John said. "We can talk later."

He didn't want to risk McKay's health for his answers. He could wait. Rodney reached one of his bandaged hands out, trying to touch John. "Major, it'll be okay," he assured John, and his voice trembled with the fatigue and effort that John's visit had caused. "Just remember," Rodney coughed and forced his eyes to stay open for a little longer, and his gaze trailed behind John to where Marie was standing, and he lowered it to a level that only the two of them could hear, "you're not Captain Kirk."

John wondered what that meant. Who was Captain Kirk? It seemed important to Rodney, so he was going to ask him what he meant, but he saw that Rodney's eyes had closed, and they weren't going to be open again for a while. He hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. It felt right to be here. It felt right to talk with Rodney, and for the first time, he didn't feel so alone.

end part three