AN: Sorry for the longer than usual time between updates, but between the confounding part I was at in this chapter and working on my other fic, this one took a hit. But, resolved the issue with it, and finally got it done. Thanks for hanging in there with me!

Again, thanks to gaffer for being a fantastic and fast beta!

Chapter Four

When Sheppard woke again, they were back in their original room, but slightly remodeled. In the corner was a door, and he figured if you went through it, you'd find the bathroom.

Which was pretty good timing, because he really, really had to take care of some bodily functions.

John pushed himself wearily to his feet, feeling slow and drugged still, and moved to it, finding it was what he suspected, and getting some relief finally. There was a sink, and when he turned the faucets, instant water. How were they doing all of this? Creating things from nothing?

He splashed cold water, and wiped with a towel that was politely hanging to the left. This entire situation was getting freakier and freakier. It was almost like they were the guests from out of town, and their hosts were trying to be accommodating. The big difference was, of course, that guests could leave, and he and Rodney didn't have that luxury.

He left the small room, and headed back to where McKay was still out of it on his bed. The aliens had gone so far as to put a blanket on Rodney, and provide a pillow.

The scientist still seemed flushed, and his breathing was ragged. If the medicine was supposed to cure him, it didn't seem to be the fast-working kind.

"McKay," he called, shaking Rodney gently. "Wake up."

Rodney grunted, and rolled away.

Sheppard regarded McKay's back, before deciding maybe he should let him sleep. But, it was very – lonely – for lack of a better term, and Sheppard would've really liked the company about now.

He looked around the room, and found a new box and what looked like a refrigerator. The other box they'd opened with the disgusting food was gone. Huh. Guess they really were paying attention. And he couldn't see how that was a good thing. If the Protectors were keeping tabs, that meant that escape would be impossible. Or should he say, more impossible. Because the whole 'liquid environment' kind of screwed every escape plan.

His stomach rumbled. Sheppard really didn't feel like braving the food only to find it was inedible, but he might as well face the disappointment now if that were the case.

He opened the refrigerator. There was a jug of what looked suspiciously like milk, and some items that looked like yogurt and cheese. He poked past it, and thought the stuff in the back looked like some kind of lunch meat.

He pulled his head out of the fridge, and grabbed a yogurt. Spoon. Sheppard spun around, searching for something that would indicate they'd given them utensils and cups, plates, that kind of thing. They'd thought of everything so far, why not those items?

There was a stocky cabinet near the fridge, and he bet that was what he was looking for. Pulling open a door, he was rewarded with dishes stacked neatly, and a container with cutlery.

Even as he pulled a spoon free, John was beginning to wonder what kind of learning curve these aliens had. The first attempts at providing for them had been rudimentary at best. A bare room, inedible food, few personal items, and bedding that held as much appeal as a wet blanket.

Now the room had furniture, improved bedding, facilities – a veritable bachelor pad. Wasn't looking good for the temporariness of the situation.

And on that thought, as he cracked the top of the yogurt container, he figured it was time to check on McKay.

Taking a bite, he prodded Rodney's inert frame. "Wake up, sleeping beauty." The loneliness factor wasn't improving with the scientist's impression of Rip Van Winkle.

The yogurt was fruity, and Rodney was even worse than before.

Sheppard set the yogurt on the edge of McKay's bed, and placed a hand on his forehead. With dismay, and a strong bite of panic, he knew that Rodney's fever was worse.

Knowing that he was potentially asking the crocodile to help the hare, he shouted at the general air in the room, "My friend is getting worse! Help him!"

We are aware. Therapy is being prepared.

The FBI could learn surveillance from these guys.

Just in case there was any doubt, "I'm fine, by the way!" Sheppard shouted. As much as the worry over Rodney, and the loneliness that was eating at him, the thought of being submerged in anything right now made him weak at the knees. The experience was terrifying, and though he didn't think they were trying to kill them anymore, he didn't want a repeat of the drowning sensations.

Looking down at McKay again, he could only hope that Rodney would stay unaware for what was to come.

Sheppard took his yogurt from Rodney's bed, and sat down on the floor, his back leaning against the platform bed. He sat and ate, looking the whole time for the robotic vacuum representation of the protectors to shimmer into existence and take Rodney away.

OoO

Either he fell asleep, or they drugged him again, because when he woke up he was in another room, with only a chair, and McKay was gone and so was the cup of yogurt. At least they'd listened to him about his health status – or at least, he assumed they had. What if they'd already done the therapy on him and he just didn't remember it?

We did not!

The voice, indignant again. Well, they could be indignant. That's what you get when you kidnap people, distrust and suspicion. What did they expect? Undying gratitude?

Let's see, 'Thanks for kidnapping us, we didn't want to return home to our friends, and our lives!'

Is this the irony we see in your thoughts?

"Not so much irony, as sarcasm," said Sheppard. He was giving aliens lessons in the subtleties of language usage.

We see.

And now the voice wasn't indignant. More along the lines of – irritable.

"McKay?"

He refused to use CB2.

The body is healing. The infection was persistent. He is in no discomfort.

Sheppard was torn between relief, and anger over the aliens complete disregard for privacy. These aliens had no compunction against invading his thoughts.

"Is there a reason I'm in this room?" he asked, instead of saying what he wanted to about how he felt with the reading his mind thing. What was the point, anyway, they knew what he was thinking.

We wish to...talk with you. Learn about the others.

Sheppard frowned, others? Did the protectors refer to – stop it, John! He couldn't think things, couldn't let himself picture places and people. Purposefully, he imagined dolphins jumping in the ocean, and bears wading into cool mountain streams to catch salmon for dinner. Night skies, and wooded forests, football and fast planes.

You've already given us glimpses of – Earth. Atlantis. Beings named Elizabeth, and Teyla, Ronon, and many others. When you sleep, your thoughts are unguarded. We mean no harm. Only to learn.

"What you're doing is wrong." Sheppard's knees were beginning to ache. He shifted his weight, leaning to his left.

Sit.

It was petty, and pointless, but he stayed standing. "I only have your word that you won't take the information and do something with it. If the situation was reversed, would you be willing to trust me?"

Does the dog trust the master?

"Is that what we are to you? Dogs, to be trained to be loyal and happy? Is that why you're keeping us alive?"

We…protect…Colonel Sheppard. Where we are from, we are protectors. It is our job. The ones we protect look to us with that devotion, and trust us in that manner. Perhaps it was a bad analogy.

Everything about this was a bad analogy. Sheppard sighed, and rubbed his hand through his hair. He still wasn't feeling recovered, and the suspicion that he'd been drugged was almost a certainty, because he felt sluggish and stupid.

"We aren't dogs. We have the ability to make our own decisions." He was groping for what to say. He wasn't Elizabeth, or Teyla. He didn't know how to handle other races with diplomacy, and make them see what he wanted them to see.

But you make poor decisions. I can see it in your thoughts.

Unbidden, the image of a solar system exploding flashed in his mind before he squashed it away. Poor decisions. Another quicksilver flash, and he saw himself bullying his way out of voluntary quarantine. Poor decisions.

"But they're still our decisions to make," insisted Sheppard. "Good, bad, ugly – it's a thing called freedom."

Dying Free is still dying.

Something finally caught up in his thoughts. They'd used his name. And it surprised him how much it meant. How inhuman CB1 felt, now that they gave him something back, something so simple as calling him Colonel Sheppard.

Your request has been allowed. Please, sit. The discomfort in your legs will only worsen if you continue to be stubborn. We are not your enemy.

Sheppard was beginning to feel confused. They'd disabled his ship, effectively imprisoned them both, but they were caring for their human subject's needs, and helping McKay with medicine. Caring for them, protecting them.

He kept standing.

You've not responded to our earlier statement. Dying free is still dying.

He hadn't. That was because he didn't know how to respond. "We believe it is the right thing to do. That some beliefs are more important than one man's life. We give our lives so that others can live free."

But you don't want to die.

"Nobody wants to die." His thoughts fell back to his suicide run on the Jumper. He hadn't wanted to die, but the thought of his friends dying spurred his actions. If he could save them, it'd be worth it. He'd never considered himself a hero, but he'd known then what he needed to do, and he hadn't been afraid or reluctant. So long, Rodney – that'd hurt. Because he hadn't had the time to say everything he wanted to.

We can protect, so that none of you must die.

His back ached, his knees ached, and all he wanted to do was sit, but it'd be a cold day in hell before he took them up on the chair. It was almost as if sitting in the chair signified giving in. Taking them up on their offer of care and safety. He slunk to the wall, and dropped to the floor instead, bringing up his knees against his chest because the extra support felt good on his aching back.

"We don't want to be protected. Isn't there an option out clause? This isn't your galaxy, anyway. What are you doing – branching out? Bored? Needed to find more races to stifle into sheltered oblivion?"

That was pretty aggressive, and it almost surprised him, but this entire room had a feel of an interrogation cell. Shades of the candy coated razor blade.

The recent disturbance drew us close to investigate.

Disturbance? "What one would that be?" The only thing he could come up with was the debacle over the Ancients superweapon.

It is as you believe. The explosion and loss of so much space called to us. Rodney McKay made a poor decision, and caused great destruction. It is why you must be protected.

Sheppard felt himself grow cold. The intentions were spelled out, in plain English, because he couldn't read minds and wouldn't know it if he recognized theirs anyway.

This city – Atlantis. Your people did not begin there, why go, and risk the danger?

John fought to picture pixies and Peter Pan, and Winnie the Pooh. Disney characters. To infinity and beyond. Because if they knew the location of Atlantis, they'd already be there.

"Did you know that the meaning of life is forty-two?"

Colonel Sheppard, we read minds, do you really think we do not know the information you seek to protect?

The voice sounded impatient, parental, annoyed – and that was exactly what he thought.

The Great Space Coaster, sing a song of sixpence, pocket full of rye, four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie – "When will Rodney be out of this therapy, anyway?"

Soon. When will you stop trying to block us?

Not so soon, he thought grumpily. Ferris wheels. "I like fast things," he said inanely.

You've let enough through before that this really is unnecessary. How can we convince you we mean no harm?

"You want to protect us? Like children from the scary world outside?" asked John.

Yes.

"Then never. Read my mind." And Sheppard thought loudly, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Figure that out.

And he started singing Christmas songs, and ignoring the voice directed at him to stop being stubborn.

OoO

John wasn't sure how much time had passed, but they left him singing to himself. Soon, he grew stiff and tired, and let his head drop to his knees. He was cold, and he found himself wishing to return to the other room, with the bed and blankets, and pillows – and Rodney.

And suddenly the chill running through him wasn't from the temperature. These aliens were good. Very good. He wrapped his arms tighter together and rocked a little trying to generate some body heat.

If you would simply cooperate, we will return you. The other, Rodney McKay, is back in your rooms and awake. He wishes you to return.

Nice touch, thought Sheppard. "But no dice," he finished out loud.

We mean no –

"Then take me back to McKay."

No. You must learn cooperation. In order for you to accept your situation, and understand your new position, this lesson must be learned.

Sheppard grew angry again. "So, what, this is some kind of obedience training – you not only wish to protect, but have us heel and sit on command?" The dog references seemed to be what they liked, so he'd stick with that, bad analogy notwithstanding, but he wanted to be clear how he viewed their actions.

You do not like that comparison – parent to child, perhaps?

"You're not my mother."

McKay, please don't be going through this – not only did he fear for Rodney's health, but Rodney's ability to keep his mouth shut.

Rodney McKay converses with us. He is not harmed. He is doing well. He warned us of your stubbornness. We regretted telling him that he will continue to be alone, until you cooperate. This lesson must be learned. We will allow you to return if you merely sit in the chair, would that be fair? Simply sit, and you will have done well enough to return to your other. It is a small thing, to sit in a chair, yet we know small steps are required in the beginning.

It was a small thing to sit in a chair. But it was also everything.

Sheppard stood up, and walked over to stand next to it. It was a simple wooden chair. No cushions, no carving, no elaboration except it looked like it was stained. And all he had to do was sit, and they said he'd get to go back to the room with Rodney.

He sat.

If all that was at stake was his life, he would've resisted. If the only thing at risk was who he was, the core of John Sheppard, he would've resisted for that man. But it wasn't the only thing. Rodney McKay was somewhere in this ship, waiting for him, and being told god knows what about Sheppard, and if the aliens thought he was naïve enough to believe what they said about McKay, they needed to try and go protect a few more species before attempting humans – because a big mouth McKay might be, but he was also incredibly smart.

And he knew they were listening.

John's eyes grew heavy, and he knew they were doing it again, getting him ready to be moved about. They'd said the drugs were for their benefit, but the doubt that it was more for control sneaked into his thoughts before he was completely dragged under into dreamless unconsciousness.

TBC