He didn't know what was real anymore. He didn't know who the enemy was. But there was one constant, one thing he could rely on. Pain. It had become his friend. It was the only thing he could believe in. He wanted to believe in Weir and the others. Wanted to believe they had come for him but he soon realized they were only images in his fragmented dreams. Only maybe those dreams had become his reality. Maybe they were all he had left. Just quicksilver moments of silence that blanketed the screams that echoed in his head...and he wondered at how familiar they sounded...wondered if they were his screams and that was why his throat felt so raw.
Sometimes he remembered home, only it was a sharp moment of happiness that faded too soon. He hadn't been home in forever.
John would curl up in a corner and rock, humming to himself. The pain the twisted in his body played a gruesome melody that looped itself to play again and again and it became his lullaby. Sometimes he would start to pray only he couldn't remember who he was supposed to be praying too...or why. And sometimes he remembered with a clarity that was so sharp it nearly cut through the pain, but only for a moment. And then he would laugh at the devil who had invited him into hell and he would wonder why it was icy cold in hell and not red hot fire and brimstone the way he remembered from all the stories.
The devil had a face and sometimes it scared John and sometimes he would reach out and touch it and that face would smile and the laughing eyes would look through him and he wondered if he might bleed to death and sometimes that would be okay because it would be warmer in the thick slickness than it was wrapped in his wet skin.
Sometimes he wanted to sleep and to dream. Scary dreams of monsters that weren't really dreams at all. Monsters with blue skin and white hair and he knew their name but couldn't remember and he knew it was supposed to matter but most of the time he didn't care why.
Then the devil would come and visit him again and today was different than before. Today John remembered his name.
Kolya.
Rodney stood at the gate, waiting. It had been eleven days since they left Sheppard on the planet. Eleven days. Rodney felt sick just thinking about it. He wondered if the major was alive and prayed that he would be. But would he feel abandoned by them? Rodney would have felt that way, only he knew that had their positions been reversed, Sheppard would have found a way to bring him home long before eleven days.
"Ready?" Weir asked the team.
"Ready, ma'am," Ford replied
Rodney could only nod, he couldn't meet her eyes. He knew that she cared whether Sheppard lived or died, maybe even cared too much. But she had made them wait eleven days and he wasn't ready to forgive her for that yet, even though it wasn't her fault. Not really. He just needed someone to blame and he knew that she understood.
Weir touched his arm then said to the group at large, "Be safe."
They all assured her that they would.
"Dial it up," Weir ordered.
The puddle formed and there was no hesitation. Sheppard's team stepped through.
When they were gone, Weir whispered, "Bring him home." Then she turned and walked away.
He was free.
It had been so easy. It made him feel almost giddy at how easy it had been. So easy to make the devil believe he was ready to worship him. So easy to make the tears flow down his face and his body to shake as he begged for sweet relief. The devil's hands had been almost gentle as they held him and he had choked on a laugh as he curled his fingers around warm metal. It should have been cold and unfamiliar, but it felt like a part of him, an extension of his soul. He hadn't jumped at the sound, even though it made his head hurt, pounding a staccato beat in his temples when he fired again, this time at the devil's minions. He had paused to admire the hazy scarlett petals that bloomed, like crushed red roses, on their chests, and they had fallen soft and silent as shadows so he had stepped carefully around them so as not to waken them from their sleep.
And then he was out in sunshine that was so bright he felt blinded by it, and the pain in his head was almost sweet and too familiar as he ran towards the blue sky.
He was free...but he couldn't remember how to get home.
They found him. Rodney felt light-headed with relief, but it didn't last. Sheppard wasn't...Sheppard. He was this curled up figure, huddled against a tree. He was rocking and muttering and covered in dirt and blood and Rodney was almost afraid to find out how much blood was his. And he had a gun, and Rodney held his breath when the major pointed it at Teyla, who was trying to get through to him that they were there to save him.
He didn't seem to want to listen, or maybe he couldn't hear them. He looked liked he was scared and in pain and lost and it made Rodney's eyes burn to look at him. He glanced over at Ford who just looked stunned. Rodney didn't know what to say to help, so he just stood there and watched as Teyla crept closer.
He saw her approach him slowly and she was pretty with her copper hair and soft smile. And he thought she might be real but he didn't remember what real felt like so when she tried to touch him he jerked back and raised the gun. He felt safe with it in his hand, so warm and solid even when he was shaking. "Who...who are you?" He asks but he's not sure he says it right or that it makes any sense and it hurts his throat to say it.
"I am Teyla," she replied.
"Teyla." That doesn't hurt to say. She's still smiling at him and not moving so he's not afraid of her, but he's still confused. "Do you...I can't find where it is." The pain is back and it takes him by surprise. He bites his lip, biting too hard and tastes blood and he won't cry out...he can't make a sound because that would shatter him. He curls into himself, still clutching the gun, feeling it digging into his ribs and he digs harder, wanting to create his own pain to hang on too but he can't feel anything but the pressure and the lights are too bright and they won't turn them off. "Please...please..." and it's not begging so much as asking and he feels a hand on his face and it's cool and soothing and he whimpers. But the devil is dead and the face that looms over him looks real yet faded and he finds the strength to ask, "Do you...do you know where it is? I can't...I can't..find it." And he's pleased that he could say it, that the pain can't make him break.
She's still touching his face and whispers, "I know where home is. I will take you there."
He believes her and the pain isn't gone but it fades around the edges and he wants to go home so he stands up but his legs won't hold him and he wants to cry but he can't and then hands are holding him and he doesn't care anymore. She can take him home. So he looks at the faces that are blurred yet familiar and doesn't mind that they can't be real. She said she would take him home.
Rodney felt himself shaking as he draped Sheppard's arm over his shoulder. Ford was on the other side of the major and they supported him for the walk to the gate. Rodney had an arm wrapped around Sheppard's waist and it shook him all the more to feel how thin the major was. He looked so damn fragile, as if he might break if Rodney held on too hard, but he wasn't about to let go.
So they made the trek back to the gate, stopping a few times when Sheppard would whimper and try to curl into himself and Rodney would sit there, feeling helpless, as Teyla tried to soothe the major through the pain that wracked the thin body. She said that the blood wasn't his but the Cold sweat that slicked Sheppard's skin, that didn't ease the fever, that was scary and Rodney knew that this was bad. He didn't even want to imagine what had happened. He didn't want to look at the abrasions on the major's wrists. He just prayed to himself that Sheppard was as strong as Rodney knew him to be.
Another episode passed and this time they made it to the gate. Teyla dialed it up while contacting Atlantis and telling them to have Beckett standing by. Then they were guiding the major up the ramp and he was almost walking now, and then they were through the gate and Rodney prayed they weren't too late.
He was shaking but it wasn't the pain this time. He felt a tingle deep inside, not the itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch. This felt soothing and he embraced it. Then he saw her and she looked hard and soft at the same time and he saw that she was shocked. He eyes went wide as she approached him and he wondered at the glimmer of sadness in them. He whispered softly, "Are you real?"
She nodded.
He knew he should believe her and he pulled away from the ones who held him, stumbling forward to inhale her scent and it reminded him of something but he couldn't remember and he wasn't sure it mattered. His knees buckled but he caught himself and then she was in front of him and he looked at her and wondered if he was smiling. He watched her reach out and was startled when she took his hand. As she raised it he saw it was dirty and red and she shouldn't let herself get dirty because she was always like something shiny, even though she's wasn't new. She was worn in and familiar but not exactly comfortable, and then he couldn't think about those things because he felt smooth softness under his gritty palm as she held his hand to her cheek.
"I'm real, John," she whispered.
"I'm home?" He thought he knew but he had to be sure the devil was really dead.
She nodded. "You're home."
He let darkness claim him.