Part of the "A World of Hurt" series – an ongoing, only slightly AU series of whumpy tag fics to the each of the Season 3 episodes. By hook or by crook I will work some Shep whump into every episode.. if TPTB won't do it, then I'll just have to do it myself :) These stories are designed to fit in with the canon of Season 3 – imagine, if you will, that they take place "off-screen" before, during or after the episode, as appropriate.
Please read and review.
SPOILERS FOR IRRESISTIBLE!
John Sheppard awoke feeling awful.
He lay still and took stock of his various aches and pains. His head pounded and his muscles ached, his nerves still jumping and shivering from the sting of the stunner blast. His chest felt tight and his throat raw from coughing and he still couldn't breathe worth a damn through his nose. As he slowly focused on his surroundings he realised with mild disgust that he had been drooling. It took him a moment to identify the cold, unyielding surface under his cheek as the floor of the jumper. Oh yeah, that's right. Jumper, Carson, Ronon, stunner. What a great day this was turning out to be.
He couldn't help but jump slightly when a nearby voice growled, "He's awake." Something – a foot? – nudged him, none-too-gently, and he rocked slightly in place, realising belatedly that his hands were fastened securely behind his back. He chanced cracking open an eye, squinting painfully as even the subdued light of the jumper aggravated his headache, and was met with the sight of a large, battered leather boot. His gaze travelled up along a long - very long - leather-clad leg and up to a swinging mass of dreadlocked hair and sharp brown eyes that regarded him with a distinctly cold and unfriendly look.
He swallowed painfully.
"Hey, Ronon." His voice came out rasping and dry, surprisingly shaky-sounding. There was no answer from the hulking Satedan, Ronon ignoring his attempt at a casual greeting and leaning back silently against the wall of the rear compartment, his coolly appraising gaze still locked on John.
Sheppard grimaced.
"You shouldn't have taken Carson like that, John." Sheppard craned his neck uncomfortably backwards to find Teyla standing in the cockpit doorway, her eyes as cold and unfriendly as Ronon's.
"Lucius was very upset." She said that like it was the worst thing in the world. He guessed maybe to her, it was. He found that thought a little scary and a lot depressing. Ever since that obnoxious, manipulative man had come to Atlantis everything had gone to hell and John had seen every single one of his friends, people he was closer to than anyone else in the world, turn against him. The moment in the gateroom when Ronon had pointed his gun in John's face had been like a punch in the gut. Looking around him, he had become suddenly, inescapably aware of how desperately outnumbered he was, how utterly alone. He was the only person not affected, not in thrall to Lucius' whims. He alone could fix this and save his friends, save the city. There was no help coming; there was no back-up, no safety net. If he didn't find a way out of this, they were all dead.
It had been a bitter realisation, looking around those familiar faces and seeing not friends, not colleagues, not soldiers under his command, but strangers, enemies; people who would harm him if he didn't go along with their plans. He'd struggled to keep his calm as he'd tried to talk his way out of the tense situation, playing the sympathy card, charming Elizabeth, apologising to Lucius, mentally biting down on the words he would really have liked to say to that arrogant, lecherous, weasely sonofa..
He'd tried his best; had thought that if he could get Carson away from Lucius and his pheromones for long enough, the doctor would regain his senses and would be able to help John come up with a way to beat this, to get his friends back.
From his current position, the situation was looking less than positive. Carson was on his way to be joyfully reunited with good old Lucius and John was tied up on the cold, hard floor of the jumper surrounded by cold-faced facsimiles of his closest friends and facing an increasingly uncertain future. He was finding it hard to not dwell on how quickly, without even a second's hesitation, Ronon had shot him. He flexed his hands experimentally and felt the sharp pull of a plastic tie cut into his wrists. He still ached all over and he was beginning to suspect it was not simply the after-effects of Ronon's stunner. He stretched his legs out experimentally and caught his breath at the twinge of pain that travelled up his spine. He had a slight suspicion that his "friends" had been less than careful about transporting him back to the jumper. He wondered how long he'd been out.
"Should we not untie him? It can't be comfortable down there.." Carson's voice. Dammit, it had sounded like the doc was on to something just before the cavalry had arrived.
"He doesn't deserve to be comfortable!" Rodney gave his opinion from the cockpit, his voice muffled as he spoke over his shoulder. McKay must be flying the jumper, Sheppard realised. He was wondering how much time he had before they got back to the city when, "Flight, this is Jumper 1. We are en route for bay landing, ETA 2 minutes." There was an unmistakable note of joyful relief in McKay's voice and John risked a glance upward to see a broad smile across Ronon's face. Crap.
It was Ronon who dragged Sheppard to his feet as the jumper touched down, the Satedan not bothering to be gentle. John grimaced as his bruised and aching muscles protested the rough treatment, Ronon's hands tightening painfully around his arms as John stumbled, his legs refused to bear his weight for a brief moment. When he staggered unevenly down the sloped rear hatch, Ronon keeping a distrustful grip in his shoulder, he found Elizabeth waiting, her eyes hard beneath a determined frown.
He had no idea what to say, what he could say, to make her see how wrong this was, to make her bring back the other Elizabeth, the Elizabeth who trusted him, who believed in him, but it didn't matter because she didn't wait for him to speak. She simply looked at him, her eyes full of a distaste and disappointment he had thought – hoped – never to see there, and turned her gaze to the patiently-waiting Ronon. "Take him to the holding cell."
Her voice was as cold as her eyes and, without another word, she turned and walked away.
The walk to the holding cell was a little slice of hell. It seemed the entire expedition team had heard of his capture and the "rescue" of Carson and faces at once achingly familiar and coldly distant stopped what they were doing and watched him pass by, their eyes full of the same disgust that he had seen in Elizabeth's gaze. His friends, his family, looked at him as though he were the lowest kind of criminal as Ronon escorted him through the city, hurrying him along with the occasional heavy-handed shove that sent him staggering.
He balked for a moment on arriving at the cell, hit hard by the reality of the situation; they were locking him up, putting him in the cage they'd previously used to contain a vicious Wraith. Things pretty much couldn't get any worse.
As it turns out, he was wrong.
Having an enemy who used to be one of your closest friends was unpleasant in so many ways, not least because Ronon knew Sheppard so well, knew his strengths, his weaknesses and his tactics. Most importantly, Ronon knew how stubborn and tenacious Sheppard could be in the face of adversity and it was apparent that the tall Satedan intended to take no chances with his prisoner.
As soon as the door to the cell swung open, a brutal shove to John's back sent him sprawling onto the cell floor. Unable to keep his balance or to put his hands out to catch himself, he hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs and sending a jarring pain through his right shoulder. An instant later Ronon's knee was jammed into his back, pinning him firmly to the floor. He was too busy trying to suck in air to even try and struggle – exactly Ronon's intention, he was sure - as the runner slipped a sharp blade between his wrists and quickly sliced through the plastic tie.
Ronon stepped back quickly, moving out of Sheppard's reach and John had to smother a disbelieving laugh – they didn't trust him! Dammit, he was the only sane person in this nuthouse and they were acting like he was the crazy one. It was a suddenly sobering thought as he realised that, in the twisted perceptions of his friends and colleagues, he was the dangerous one – he had let them all down, run off and attacked and kidnapped one of the team and held him hostage.
He lay where he had fallen, his breathing still labored, and gingerly flexed his arms, his stiff muscles protesting the sudden movement after an hour or more of being pulled tight behind his back. He heard the cell door close and looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Ronon's back as he strode from the room. The Satedan had not spoken a word to him since putting a gun to his head and stunning him on the mainland. John sighed, the hopelessness of his situation beginning to overwhelm him.
He rolled slowly over onto his back, feeling roughly 100 years old, and gave a low, heartfelt groan. He felt awful; achy and shivery and tired and just beaten down. And compounding his misery was the knowledge that he would eventually start to feel better; his cold would clear up and then he would be as susceptible to Lucius' drug as everyone else and it would be game over. The thought of spending his near future following Lucius around like some lovesick little puppy made him sick with anger, a quiet fury building in the pit of his stomach and flooding his veins with warmth, giving him the energy to clamber, albeit slowly and unsteadily, to his feet. He moved like an old man, his muscles stiff and aching, frequent harsh coughs bending him over, rasping tightly in his chest, leaving him swallowing against the pain in his throat. He tried to keep moving, to stretch and loosen up his muscles; he began to pace the small confines of his cell.
Lucius found him still pacing some few hours later and the resulting conversation did little to calm Sheppard's growing anger. He forced himself to maintain a casual air, the two of them sitting and chatting almost amicably, John determined not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing his fury – and his fear. He wasn't entirely successful though; Lucius' bald statement of his avowed intent to drug Sheppard against his will, to turn him into another mindless slave, as soon as his cold cleared up cut to the heart of John's fears and he couldn't hold back the cold steel in his voice as he told Lucius "Get too close to me and it'll be the last thing you do." He meant every word – and he could see Lucius knew it too. Knew it and didn't care. Lucius thought he had everything under control.
To be honest, Sheppard thought he had too. The situation was looking pretty grim. He remained sitting after Lucius left, his head in his hands as he contemplated the reality of his situation.
When the door into the holding room opened a second time, he was half expecting Lucius again, come back to gloat about his gene therapy. Instead, he looked up to see the last person he would have expected.. and for the first time since waking up in the jumper he felt hope, felt that they might just get out of this one.
His visitor smiled – not a "Lucius happy land" smile but a genuine, "relieved to see you're okay" smile – as he opened the cell door and for one wild moment John felt like he could hug the man right there on the spot. He contented himself with a pleased smile as he rose from his seat to meet his rescuer.
"Hi Carson."
Fin.