There was blood. So much blood. Everywhere. Blood soaking his skin, staining it like permanent ink. He could feel its slickness, cooling down and gelling into his flesh. He could smell it, stinging his nostrils, and taste it like copper on his tongue, too sweet and gagging him.
"NO!"
John jerked awake, wincing at the pain that stabbed through the base of his skull and up into his temples. He felt cold and aching, body sprawled on the hard floor. Without opening his eyes he knew where he was. Back in his box. He blinked his eyes open, willing the image of Ford's butchered body to fade from his mind. But he could still see it so clearly; still hear the echoes of Ford's screams ringing in his ears.
Moving slowly, John managed to sit up without vomiting the bile that was pooled in his throat. He felt sick and shaky and it was more than a physical reaction, it was soul-deep. He felt as if he were trapped in some horrific nightmare. He wanted this to be nothing more than a bad dream he would eventually wake up from, but he knew it was all too real. Ford was dead. John prayed to god that Ford was dead.
In the beginning, when he'd first set foot on Atlantis, John had gotten the chance to get to know Ford better. They had sort of "hung out" for want of a better definition. Ford had almost been under his feet at times, but John had understood why. Nothing had prepared any of them for encountering the Wraith and everything that had happened since that moment. Like the death of Colonel Sumner. To John's surprise, Ford had been the first one to congratulate him on being named the head of the military contingent on Atlantis. John had half expected him to be pissed off by the fact John had killed his CO. But Ford had understood what John had done, perhaps even better than John had. At least in the beginning.
Ford had been the one constant on Atlantis. The one person whom John felt had never really changed since coming there. He was earnest and levelheaded and high on life. John closed his eyes at that thought. Ford was better off dead. He would hate existing without hands and feet. Without the ability to be mobile on his own. Ford had been a body in motion and it was John's fault he was no longer the man he used to be.
Swiping the back of one hand over his burning eyes, John once again prayed that Ford was dead.
But that left Rodney and Teyla. He managed to rise to his feet and stumble over to the door. He had to find out about Rodney and Teyla. He needed to know that they were all right or, at least, that they were alive. Raising one hand, John pounded on the door. After a moment he stopped and shouted, "HEY! ANYBODY OUT THERE? I WANT TO TALK TO YOU?"
Falling into silence, John waited. The seconds stretched into minutes then he was pounding again, then shouting. Finally screaming. But no one came. After a time his knees buckled and John collapsed to the floor, pressing his forehead to the coolness, willing it to ease the thudding ache in his head. Images danced in his head. Images of Rodney and Teyla and all the horrible things that that women...creature...might do to them. Things worse than what had been done to Ford. John knew that worse could be done. Panic spiked through him, cold and sharp, and John couldn't stop the whimper that escaped him. He couldn't stop the fear.
He didn't remember crawling over to the corner and stuffing himself into it, but suddenly he was curling up as tight as he could, arms gripping his knees as he tried to stop shaking. Eventually it subsided, as did the roiling in his stomach. Eventually his eyes drifted closed.
John hadn't expected to fall asleep. He was rather sorry he did. Awake or asleep, he couldn't shake the image of Ford strapped to the table. He couldn't ignore the screams that echoed in his head. Pushing out of the corner, John winced as stiff muscles protested his movement and his head was still pounding. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble against his palm. Not thicker than he remember so he wondered how much time had passed.
Rising to his feet, John began to walk in a circle only to stop when he spotted a cup near the door. Someone had been there while he was sleeping. John walked over to the cup and knelt down to pick it up. He stared at the contents. It looked like water. He sniffed it. No odor or scent. Stabbed a finger in it and studied it. Wet. A cautious lick and it tasted like water. His throat felt like it had been rubbed raw by sandpaper, after all his shouting, so John took a chance. He took a few sips then set the cup back down. Then he rose to his feet and began walking again, needing to be in motion. Wishing he could run away from his own thoughts.
But after a time his knees buckled again and John didn't even try to catch himself. He heard the thud of his own body as he hit the floor, felt the hard coldness of the floor as he lay sprawled on his back. He didn't care. He was pretty sure the water had been drugged and he didn't care. In fact he welcomed the darkness that swirled over him with open arms.
He came awake to hands pulling him to his feet. He felt dizzy and his stomach was coiling into knots and he had to swallow hard not to vomit as his wrists were bound behind his back. John stumbled as he was dragged out of the room and by the time he had blinked away the fuzziness that marred his vision, he was standing in the room with the window. The woman was there, no expression on her face as he was pushed over to her. John turned away from her, looking out the window instead. He couldn't not look.
The first thing he noticed was how clean the room was. Pristine white and gleaming. There was no blood. No sign that Ford had ever been there. Nothing to remind him of the horrific butchery that had been performed. That shook John more than he would have expected. Maybe even more than the sight of Teyla, who was the one now strapped to the table. It shook him because it was as if Ford's very existence had been wiped away.
"Where is Earth?"
John whirled to face the woman, anger burning in his eyes. Anger and frustration and fear, but he tried to hide the latter; he tried to school his expression into something resembling neutral. "I won't tell you that!" he shot back, with much less conviction than he had intended. His voice was too soft and raspy to be sharp and controlled.
The woman simply watched him.
Instinct made John turn back to the window and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he watched a robed man enter the room and move to Teyla's side. The same man who had butchered Ford. He had a different blade in his hand this time. Smaller and more elegant. It reminded John of a stiletto. He felt his gut twist sharply and he twisted his head to glare at the woman. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded. If he understood, if it was something beyond the obvious, then maybe he could deal with it better. Maybe he would be able to figure out how to fix things. How to save his people. To save who was left.
The woman said nothing, she just continued to watch him, and when John turned back to the window he caught his breath. The robed man was cutting patterns in Teyla's face, marring the beautiful visage, cutting deep enough that John knew there would be scars. If she lived. "STOP THIS!" John hadn't meant to scream the words. He wanted it to be a command, and he wanted to be obeyed. But he looked at the woman and he knew his nightmare had just begun. Shoulders slumping in defeat, John made a counter offer. "Torture me...please." He was being a coward but he couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't watch the pain.
"Where is Earth?" the woman asked again.
"No." John shook his head. There was nothing more to say. He closed his eyes, tasting Teyla's death in his mouth when a heavy hand dropped to the back of his neck and he was forced against the window. John kept his eyes shut tight until a hoarse scream pierced through him. Teyla's scream. His eyes flew open and John stared at the blood that was welling up from her perfect belly.
The robed man was cutting into her with the delicate precision of a surgeon. Cutting into deep, laying Teyla open. John bit his lip when Teyla screamed again, the sound of her voice mingling with Ford's in his ears. "What do you want?" John asked the woman, his eyes still locked on Teyla's body. There was so much blood that it was dripping onto the floor. Idly he thought that they would have to scrub it clean again before bringing in McKay.
That was when John turned to her and demanded, "What the fuck do you want?"
The woman's thin lips curved upward. "Where is Earth?"
John wanted to tell her. He ached to tell her. If he didn't tell her then Rodney would die. Ford was dead and Teyla was bleeding out. Already her screams were fading and John wished his hands were free so he could plug his ears. He wished he could tell the woman what she wanted to know. He wished he was the one on the table, bleeding out. It should have been him on the table instead of Ford. Now Teyla. He shook his head. "Can't tell you that."
Suddenly the screams stopped, abruptly, and John turned back to the window and froze. The bastard with the stiletto had slit her throat. So deeply that her head was tilted to the right, despite the strap that was wrapped over her forehead to hold her still. The silence should have been a blessing, but it mocked John. He turned to the woman. "I will fucking kill you!" He snarled, and he was glad he was angry again; it was better than anything else. Stronger. It made him stronger.
"Where is Earth?" She was looking out the window as she spoke.
John reacted without thinking, not caring that he couldn't follow through. He lunged for the woman, managing to slam into her and send her into the window before hardness cracked against his skull. John never felt himself falling.