Elizabeth sat vigil over John's sleeping or unconscious form through their second night on the planet. Once she was satisfied the abdominal wound was no longer bleeding, she shook out a fresh pressure bandage and after cleaning away the dried mess from his skin as best she could with alcohol wipes, she tied it around John's waist to cover the first and keep them both in place.

Restless, she frequently found herself checking his pulse, feeling his forehead, or idly tending to his other minor injuries. Well past midnight, around the time she expected the field dose of morphine to be wearing off, John groaned softly once, then stoic even in his dreams, he clamped his jaw and slept on, shivering slightly. The shiver brought Elizabeth's hand to his forehead yet again, this time feeling a slight warmth under her gentle touch. Pulling out the thin thermal sheet from yet another vest pocket she wrapped it over and tucked it under the wounded soldier and scootched up close to provide what heat she could as she sat and watched.

Finally, in the cold quiet time just before dawn, she gently moved John's head into her lap, resting her hand on his neck where she could feel his pulse and occasionally brushing her fingers through the stiff bristles of blood and sweat soaked hair. It was a bit of a liberty she admitted, he would undoubtedly be embarrassed by the intimacy, but she found herself in desperate need of the comfort...of the need to offer comfort.

In an exhausted stupor, she found herself staring at the gun. She couldn't decide what to do in the morning. John had said it would only be another 4 or 5 hours from the bridge to the Stargate. But could he make it that far? Should she leave him in the shelter and try to make it herself then come back with help? The thought of traveling without him terrified her, then left her frustrated by the self-imagined weakness. Dwelling on how much he had gotten her through, missiles on the plain, the desperate cat-and-mouse in the forest, the bridge… she began to experience a slow bubbling swell of hatred for those who had done this to them. To him. She stroked his hair again.

She was still alive because he had kept her alive. His unassuming competence made it easy for her to trust him completely, despite the stubborn part of her that wished she were more in control. She would have to continue to trust him. He would make the call in the morning on his own behalf.

As she finally drifted to sleep, arm still crooked protectively around his shoulders, she couldn't help but fear that her trust would cost him his life…

"Jumper 2, this is Lorne. On your way back to the city, stop by the mainland and pick up Recon 2. They'll be with the Athosians."

"Sir?" the commander of the newly dubbed Recon 1, still hours out from Atlantis seemed perpetually confused. Then again, it was a singularly confusing situation.

"The damn planet dumped them back on the mainland. Took them 4 hours to get close enough to the settlement to radio in by relay."

Lorne had sent one more team on foot through the gate before the last window closed. They had disappeared as quickly and suddenly as the jumper had and Lorne had spent an agonizing 4 hours certain he had ordered the brave men to their deaths.

Once the relief faded at hearing they'd only been transported somehow to the mainland, he'd optimistically ordered more jumpers to search in hopes that maybe Sheppard and the rest were also wandering around in their own back yard. Somehow he didn't think so. He'd been with his CO on field hikes, and the man could cover ground. Sheppard would have made contact by now from the mainland if he'd been dropped anywhere on it. But Lorne was grasping at straws and would try anything at this point.

Sitting quietly in Weir's office for a few minutes, listening to the murmur of the city around him, he came to the conclusion that their only hope to find their missing people might be to send a ship. And that meant flying the Orion, still only partially in service as the eager Atlantis scientists half repaired, half tore it apart in their studies of the Ancient ship. They were getting low on Senior command, but Lorne thought he could leave the city in Zelenka's care for what he hoped would be a short rescue mission. He would command the Orion, hyperdrive jump to Sheppard's planet and find out what was going on.

Not unexpectedly Zelenka was unhappy with the Major's decisions on the matter, growing more excitable as it became clear he would be left in charge for an indeterminate amount of time. Bobbing nervously on the other side of Weir/Lorne's desk he babbled on for a while about orbits and windows and inter-galactic transportation, blah blah blah.

Only half listening, decided on his course, Lorne did at least take a step back to ask the worked up scientist about the remaining open windows.

"Have you figured out a schedule yet?"

"They seem to be random from a stellar point of view, but they're actually progressing mathematically. The next window by that calculation should open in 4 hours, and remain open for 2 hours. Those last two hours at least happen to coincide with our original schedule. The problem for Sheppard and Rodney is that the next window will not open for another 8 hours, rather than only 6. And that last window will only open for one hour before closing permanently…"

Lorne thought for a moment, calculating the time and effort it would take to prep the Orion, evaluating the risk associated with approaching a planet that apparently had the power to transport people across the galaxy, and weighing all that against the lives of the people, his commanders and friends, who needed his help. "We'll give Sheppard and Weir 6 more hours, to the end of the next window. Then I'm going for them on the Orion."
"John. Wake up. We need to go home now. Come on, John. You can do it. Wake up…"

The steady nagging voice and his gently shaking shoulder pulled Sheppard out of the deep unaware of unconsciousness into gray cotton-filled confusion. He was sleeping so nicely, he just wanted to drift off again.

"Don't make me splash a bucket of water on you, soldier. Get up…"

The persistent words wouldn't let him go, and he rose another step into wakefulness. Enough to hear a racket of morning birds and realize that it was Elizabeth's voice depriving him of the bliss he sought. Bitch, he thought. Can't she see I'm asleep! Leave me alone already.

This time the voice snorted with amusement, retorting with mock severity, "Watch your language, Lt. Colonel John Sheppard. Now get your ass up."

Either the tone or the words themselves finally did the trick and John blinked his eyes open to see Elizabeth kneeling next to him, watching closely. She looked shockingly tired, even to John as he was just waking, but her eyes were twinkling with humor, and he supposed, relief that he'd finally arrived in the land of the conscious. Sort of.

He rolled off his shoulder onto his back yawning, then automatically tried to sit up. Bad idea, John, he thought as white fire lanced through his gut, doubling him over on his side again to bury his face in the dirt. A low moan escaped his throat despite his tightly clenched jaw.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth whispered, and he felt her touch his shoulder in sympathy. He lay for a long moment trying to master the pain, resting for another long while once it faded enough to relax his rigid body. John hated…hated…being incapacitated. He could push through the worst of mere pain with a boyish grin and a snide remark, but when something slowed him down physically he got obnoxiously grumpy. Always had been that way. He'd once skied a 2 hour black diamond run with a broken collarbone after a nasty spill at the top, no problem. But when he'd been grounded with viral meningitis and a 104 fever at the tender age of 20, the nurse at the base infirmary had kicked him out to brood in his own room. His roommate had lasted an hour before mysteriously going AWOL and spending the rest of the illness somewhere else.

Finally with a sigh, and a bit more caution, he used his hands instead of his middle to push himself up to sit against the stone wall of their shelter. He managed with only a wince, and was grateful to see that Elizabeth had stopped hovering over him to pack up her pile of supplies and neatly tuck them back into the pockets. Fishing in his own first-aid pocket for Tylenol and opening the canteen that was set close by (Elizabeth's doing) he idly made a mental note to repack her vest when they got home. She was putting stuff away all wrong. Grumpy.

She looked over and raised a skeptical eyebrow as he threw back the pills and took a gulp of the water. "It doesn't have to work," he told her, acknowledging how ludicrous it must seem to think a couple of Tylenol could help against the raging agony in his belly. "I just have to think it will…"

"Want something to eat?"

He considered for a moment, then as his stomach lurched a bit at the thought, he replied ruefully, "No."

He was lucky, sort of, that one of the small-caliber weapons had hit him. Had a bullet from the larger more powerful automatics found its mark, he would have bled out before reaching the other side of the bridge. As it was, the 22-like slug while less likely to blow a gaping hole had probably bounced around a bit before lodging God knows where. He was sure his insides were doing a lovely Swiss-cheese impression. It would take a lot longer to bleed out instead, slowly from the inside… He just hoped he would have the time to get to the Stargate before he did. To get Elizabeth to the Stargate, he amended.

His own survival was looking somewhat optional, he realized with the distance of professional observation firmly in place. He knew that walking to the gate was potentially making the choice between living and….not. If he laid here quietly waiting for help, he could probably last another day, even two. But he didn't have that choice. Help wasn't coming and she was still his responsibility. He would go with her, foul though his company may be, whatever the cost.

Checking the excellent bandage Elizabeth had tied around him, he was glad to see that the external bleeding had stopped at least and feeling a twinge of guilt in advance for his wretched attitude, he noticed that she had also cleaned him up and tended to his other wounds. Least she could do, he snarked to himself, after slipping me the mickey like that.

He was still grumbling privately as he automatically performed his habitual weapons check. The P-90 was gone. The 9mil and one spare clip in Elizabeth's vest was pretty much all that was left. The low ordinance did nothing to improve his mood. So when Elizabeth turned back to him and asked, "How are you feeling?" as briskly as she could manage, he snapped, "Like someone's been using my guts for target practice and all I've got to fire back with is a damn pea shooter." He tossed the 9 mil aside in disgust.

She narrowed her eyes and looked him steadily in the face until he squirmed a bit. He couldn't stand the sympathy and worry in her haggard expression. Deep down he knew he lashed out to push that look away, that if he pissed people off they'd be too mad to feel sorry for him. But instead of angry or embarrassed, Elizabeth just looked haunted, like she was about to deliver a death sentence. "John. I need to know what to do next. I need to know if you can make it to the gate, or if I need to get there myself and bring back help."

"I can make it to the gate. We'll go together." He answered quickly, willing to say anything to wipe the melancholy off her face and wondering if she had guessed his thoughts. She just nodded and, finished with her packing, stepped close to offer him a hand up. Looking warily at the hand, he took a deep breath and a moment to work up his courage before he reached out and heaved himself standing. He grunted with the renewed stabs of pain, and found Elizabeth's shoulder offered for him to lean on while he steadied his balance and waited for the head rush to pass. Blood pressure's definitely low, he thought without voicing the observation.

She was watching him for a signal and he finally nodded and took a couple of fairly confident steps out of the shelter. Encouraged by the fact that he had not fallen over or passed out again, he looked around to get his bearings and began the trek back to the road, Elizabeth tagging along behind. Finally managing to push the pain aside with sheer will and a fanatical faith in Tylenol, he was soon walking at near their usual pace, an arm tucked into his side the only indicator that anything was amiss.

"You doing OK?" Elizabeth asked after they had found the road, quiet and empty for the moment.

"Yeah, I'm good." He replied with all the truth of self-denial. "I'll be fine." His hearty smile faded as he caught her sober expression just before she answered as heartily as he had.

"Good to hear."

It was then that he understood. She knew. Knew that he was injured more severely than he was letting on and it still didn't matter. That he had to try for the gate because she wouldn't make it without him. That no matter how hard she might argue against it he would still choose to go with her.

And that doing so might just kill him.
It had been a horrible night. One of the worst Rodney could ever remember. Worse than the night he spent building a nuclear bomb during the siege. Worse than… well OK, not worse than the hours he spent in freezing water in the jumper. That was still probably the worst "worse" he could think of. Definitely worse than even the night he had spent as a guest of Ford's hopped up fanatical friends, though. Of course, he was pretty hopped up himself at the time, so it might have been worse if he'd felt worse…

Shaking himself, Rodney tried again to concentrate on the tiny wiring he was trying to connect with the wrong tool while twisted almost upside down inside the guts of the jumper.

Actually, it kind of felt like the night they had sat in the cafeteria together waiting for John to die of the Iratus retro-virus. Rodney couldn't get the image of Sheppard being thrown down by an enemy bullet out of his mind, waking or sleeping…what little of that he'd accidentally managed. Knowing Sheppard's resilience, it wasn't even so much that he was worried for the Colonel's life, at least not yet. It was that they hadn't been able to help, that they were again just waiting around for the end, whatever it would be, frustratingly delayed again and again by the stupid jumper and the stupid old man and…

Click.

Rodney froze at the tiny insignificant sound.

"Yes! YES! YES!" he yelled triumphantly, grabbing at the drone tantalizingly within reach to see it finally pull free of its latch within the firing mechanism. "I got it, I got it!" Squirming madly he hoisted himself back into the jumper proper and held the rubbery, squid-like weapon aloft to the beaming faces of his teammates.

"Excellent, Rodney." Teyla's voice was hoarse with fatigue, but everyone felt a sudden renewal of energy as something finally went right.

In a mindless huddle, everyone followed McKay out of the jumper to stand around and watch as he immediately propped the drone onto a supply box and began dragging his tablet computer over to begin hooking into it. It was still dark, but only just. Dawn was around the corner if the noisy birds in the distant forest were any indicator. In the meantime, Rodney settled for the light spilling out of the jumper's back hatch and his flashlight between his teeth.

He was so immersed in the prospect of taking the next step in his plan that it was several minutes before he looked up and jumped at the group silently watching him. "What are you doing! Go on…put the jumper back together people! We don't have all day, we've already spent all night!" And with that he was back to the drone.

The group's happy enthusiasm rapidly turned into mutinous grumbling until Teyla, managing to master her own annoyance, was able to give them an encouraging smile. "Dr. Weir and Colonel Sheppard need our help, and our persistence," she reminded them of the purpose of their efforts. "I know we are all tired, but time is of the essence. Let's get to work." And she hustled her crew back into the jumper.

Everyone but Ronan who remained standing, balefully staring as Rodney worked.

"What?" McKay finally snapped feeling the large man's gaze bore into the back of his head.

"You said this thing will destroy the satellites that project the holograms?" Ronan had an amazing way of turning simple statements into probing questions.

"Yes," replied Rodney rolling his eyes as though the question were too obvious to answer, then in fairness, feeling the limitations of his progress he went on, "well, at least one satellite, since we only managed to get to one drone, but hopefully they're networked so even disabling one will interfere with their broadcast capabilities."

Ronan waited a few moments before speaking again. "We made an orbital survey the first time we came here…"

"And we saw no satellites, I know. My guess is they weren't powered up, just like the Ziggurat wasn't generating any power before either, so unless we just happened to bump into one, a very unlikely possibility, they'd be nearly impossible to see...they'd just look like debris or meteors to the sensors."

Another pause then, "We don't have a launcher."

Completely exasperated, Rodney stopped working altogether to wave his arms at Ronan, "Which is why I'm sitting here trying to interface with the drone directly. To launch it from here. I've done it before… in that other Atlantis, the one buried underground." His expression then turned thoughtful, "of course that time, the drone didn't have to automatically seek a target…and there was an Ancient interface handy…and…"

"What's to keep the satellite from creating a holographic counter measure and blow our drone up before it damages anything?"

This one left Rodney completely stumped. He hadn't thought of that yet. Flushing a deep purple and opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally sputtering "Well… I suppose…"

"Never mind." Ronan stalked off to the jumper to help Teyla, leaving a thoroughly flustered and annoyed McKay to work on the drone alone.