This is a request fic written for the very wonderful Kodiak Bear Country (if you haven't read her fics, go check em out!). I asked her to suggest a subject matter and she said she'd like to see Sheppy in restraints! So... here he is... as requested:)

All comments and feedback welcome. This fic should end up being 3 to 4 chappies long at most.

Sheppard has woken up in an infirmary bed far too many times. He's starting to get used to it. But this time was different; he realised that almost as soon as he woke up, feeling stiff and bruised and achy. He returned to consciousness with a groan, tried to stretch out his aching muscles and was brought up short. His eyes snapped open at that. The ceiling above was bland and white, featureless. Definitely not the delicate tones and colours of Atlantis. He rolled his head on the pillow and looked down at his arms. The other main difference between wherever this was and Atlantis was that in the Atlantis infirmary he's not usually restrained.

The straps around his wrists were thick leather. He jerked his arms, hard, but only succeeded in jarring his shoulders. The straps looked new and the leather felt stiff, the edges sharp against his skin. They were pulled tight, pinning his arms to the metal rails along the side of the bed; there was almost no give, no room to manoeuvre. He twisted futilely, pulling against the restraints enough to be able to raise his torso a little from the bed and look around him. The room was small and plain, bare of furniture other than his infirmary-style bed. The walls were as bland and white as the ceiling, the smooth uniformity of the walls broken only by a single door – painted white, but of course.

Sheppard fell back to the bed with a grunt of exertion, his arms trembling from the strain of holding his bodyweight up from the mattress. This was really not a good situation. He was alone, separated from his team, tied to a bed and – a glance down at himself confirmed his assumption – without any of his weapons. In fact, his tac vest and his uniform were gone and he had been dressed in something not too different from Atlantis' infirmary scrubs. The plain white fabric was slightly coarse and scratchy. Even his feet were bare, his boots and socks missing. He sighed. It was a better than fair guess that whoever had put him in this situation did not have his best interests at heart. At least he had the consolation of knowing that his team had gotten clear. His recollection of recent events was admittedly a bit fuzzy but his last clear memory was of screaming at his team to get clear, to go through the gate, and seeing them do just that, reluctantly, before something slammed into him, a sharp pain spreading quickly through his entire body, almost like an electrical shock, leaving numbness in its wake.

He'd awoken here, in this white room.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, where he'd been taken – heck, if he was even on the same planet. He really hoped he was. He knew his team would not give up on him; they'd have been organising a rescue party as soon as they stepped out of the event horizon in Atlantis. Problem was, they'd gotta find him first. His mind raced, looking for options and strategies. He couldn't afford to just wait and hope that his team would find him, he needed to be doing something to get himself out of this situation, something proactive. Lying around waiting for the inevitable was not his style. Aside from that, he really wasn't too keen on finding out what his captors had in store for him.. suffice to say the hospital-style setting did not bode well. Unfortunately his options were really pretty limited right now. Getting out of these restraints would have to be a priority.

He pulled at the restraints again and grimaced as the stiff edges of the leather dug into his flesh. He still felt kinda weak, his body aching as though he'd been thoroughly pummelled, and he wondered what the hell kind of a weapon they'd hit him with. Whatever it was, it had hurt like hell and had pretty much knocked him out in an instant. They hadn't even had a chance to find out who they were up against; they'd been ambushed almost as soon as they stepped through the gate. Sheppard fumed helplessly, the muscles in his arms bulging as he tried to force a little give out of the wrist restraints. There'd been an almighty fuck-up somewhere along the line – their arrival on PT7-85N had been expected and the welcoming party had left a lot to be desired.

As was their custom, Sheppard had taken the lead, the team slipping easily into a loose formation as they'd exited the wormhole. They'd been cautious, as was always the case when visiting a new world, but not really expecting trouble. They'd moved barely 20 feet from the gate when he'd caught movement out of the corner of his eye and, even as Ronon had shouted a warning, had felt a sharp pain in his neck, looking down in surprise to find a tassled dart protruding from the juncture of his neck and left shoulder. His legs had buckled under him even as he'd shouted for the others to retreat. Shots had begun to fire from the treeline as he'd collapsed to the ground, whining, sizzling noises crackling over his head as his team returned fire. Their attackers didn't seem to be great shots but they kept up enough of a barrage of fire to keep his team pinned down near the gate. Sheppard had been left exposed, crumpled on the mossy earth, his team unable to reach him. Whatever drug that dart had been tipped with had been fast-acting, producing a spreading paralysis that had left him still able to feel, to process sensation, but had rendered him almost completely immobile within moments. He'd done the only thing he could, ordered his team to get the hell out of there before they too got hit.

It occurred to John now that no-one was that bad a shot – certainly not when they could hit exposed skin with a small dart at a distance of 30 feet. So that meant their attackers hadn't even tried to take the rest of his team – just him. The question was, had they been after him specifically, or had they just taken the man in front, the one they presumed to be the leader? He pulled harder at the restraints, growling in a mixture of frustration and growing pain as he jerked his wrists back and forth, hoping for some kind of give in the tight bindings, just a glimmer of hope.

The skin on his wrists was beginning to burn under the chafing of the stiff, unyielding leather. The bed rattled and shook slightly as he gritted his teeth and jerked and pulled harder and harder at the restraints, his breath coming in harsh pants as he tensed and strained. The throbbing at his wrists had become so constant that at first he didn't notice when the abraded skin began to bleed, only slowly becoming aware of the damp, hot sensation against his skin.

"Dammit!" He slumped back against the firm mattress breathlessly, letting his arms go limp, feeling the muscles tremble from exertion. He muttered a couple more choice swearwords as he tried to catch his breath. Raising his head to peer down his body, he took a look another look at the thick leather straps, noting the bright red blood slowly oozing out from under the restraints, smearing across the skin of his arms, staining the pristine white sheets. He allowed himself a slightly twisted grin as an idea came to mind: lubrication. Changing tack, he started twisting his wrists around inside the restraints, his lips thinning as he ignored the burning, scraping pain, smearing the blood around as much as he could, trying to work it into the leather, making his skin slippery.

It felt like his wrists were on fire but we kept turning his arms inside the leather straps, rubbing and rubbing, the motion becoming easier as more and more blood seeped out to slide between his wrists and the thick straps. After a few moments, he stopped, breathing heavily as he lay back on the bed, stifling a groan at the throbbing pain in his arms. He was starting to feel somewhat groggy, whether from the exertion, blood loss or a combination of the drugged dart and stunner weapon they'd used to take him down, he couldn't be sure. His head swam for a moment and he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly as he waited for the sensation to pass.

When he felt less dizzy, he lifted his head up and glared at the restraints. Blood stained the white sheets covering the mattress and had spattered across the pants of his infirmary scrubs. The leather straps were slick with it. Gritting his teeth, John curled his right hand inwards, pushing his thumb and little finger towards each other, trying to reduce the width of his hand as much as possible, and began to slowly pull against the restraint, putting steady pressure on the thick strap, working his hand from side to side slightly as he tried to slide it through the narrow opening. His face twisted into a grimace, a growl rumbling from his chest as he fought to keep up the pressure, ignoring the trembling muscles in his arm, the sharp fiery pain in his wrist.

He could have sworn he felt the leather give just a little, his hand slide just a fraction up into the restraint, when suddenly the door opened.

TBC...