Stargate Atlantis: Even in the Distance
by Reyclou

Chapter Three: Sing Thee To Thy Rest

McKay tapped his stylus impatiently while waiting for his stupid—no, moronic—tablet laptop to crunch a few simple trigonometric scenarios. He sat at a lab table in the main science lab, subject to the grating frustrations masquerading as his top notch science team. Several of them milled about the room, apparently trying to see precisely how many annoying habits they could collectively produce before Rodney lost it entirely. Obviously no one had mention to Dr. Zimmer, the young German who just transferred into the program last month, that chewing bubblegum while calculating the long term viability of the Jumper's cloak as used as a shield was not only professionally distasteful, but just plain irritating—especially since Zimmer was one of those open-mouth chewers. The smacking of Zimmer's cheeks drowned out McKay's keystrokes, but that wasn't the least of it. Dr. Kim worked studiously at her bacteria cultures, if 'studiously' meant clinking the Petri dishes like they were wedding glasses. Did the woman know the meaning of the word 'cautious'?

Sighing in aggravation, Rodney would have happily retreated to his own lab, save that an untimely chemical reaction had coated everything in his little alcove with a gooey, frosting-like substance. It was not particularly harmful in any way, at least he was pretty sure it was not harmful, it just made getting around his lab a little difficult. Until he could figure out a compound that could dissolve the icky layer of nasty, he had to make do with economy class. He tried to tell himself he wasn't embarrassed. It had been a simple mistranslation of the Ancient text he referenced, that was all. It wasn't like he was Dr. Jackson or anything. Besides, he would have had it completely under control if Colonel Sheppard hadn't come in at exactly the wrong moment and…

Rodney shook himself away from thoughts of the late colonel. He needed to concentrate on something stable—something logical—and that meant science. If only this good for nothing paperweight would pull some weight around here!

His other foot—his good foot—jittered slightly, idly kicking at the lowest bar on the stool beneath him. He subconsciously timed it with the low chirping sound his computer made when he gave it just a little too much to think about. He groaned as he checked the computation status.

Sure enough, the damn thing had crashed.

Frustrated, Rodney slammed the monitor down over the keyboard with a resounding thwack, but the ferocity of the action did little to settle his nerves. Piece of freaking junk doesn't deserve to live, he hissed to himself. Inspired by that thought, he scooped up the silver Dell and chucked it hard, with reckless abandon as to where it landed. Dr. Zimmer hit the deck to avoid the overdeveloped calculator, cover his head as the plastic smashed against the Lantean architecture, spraying apart in an explosion of circuitry. Zimmer, scrambling back to his feet, stared back at Rodney with fear in his grey eyes. Glass shattered as Dr. Kim dropped a Petri dish. The other inhabitants of the lab suddenly stood shocked still, afraid to move lest they incur a similar wrath. Rodney McKay had a temper, of that they were aware, but never before had he displayed such violence.

Rodney slid off his stool with a grunt. His bandaged foot, clunky and throbbing, caught on the stool as he tried to step away. That trip up cost the science lab another stool. Rodney kicked the offending furniture to the side, where it flipped and tumbled over into a metal shelving unit stocked with scientific instruments. The whole contraption came crashing to the floor, sending down an avalanche of sensitive electronic components. Several blinking hard-drives skittered across the lab floor. Letting out a disgruntled snort, Rodney stepped over the wreckage. "Nothing works around here," he sneered, striding for the door. When the doors shut on his limping figure, no one dared call after him.

oOo

Carson slipped an electronic notepad into the pocket of his lab coat as he glided through the double doors that opened into Elizabeth's office. It neared evening now and he hoped the woman had left for her quarters already, but he knew there was about a snowball's chance in Hell that was going to happen. Elizabeth looked up from her work, quickly blotting hands at reddened eyes as she straightened to a dignified position. She crumpled up her tissue and tossed it into a small waste bin, where it found plenty of company. Carson shot her a sorrowful, but comforting smile. A brave woman sat before him, he knew that to be true, through and through. If the Scotsman saw her smudged eye makeup, he made no mention of it.

"Elizabeth," he greeted softly, coming to a stop before her desk. "I don't mean to disturb you, but I need a decision."

She leaned forward on her elbows, pushing her laptop to the side. "On?"

"What to do about the…" Carson's voice trailed off. Body was too harsh a word for too noble a man. "About the Colonel? I know it's been less than a day," the medical officer bit his lower lip. He had to ask similar things of countless people in his day, even before coming to Atlantis. Different burial rites required different preparations, he knew that. In fact, he accepted that as part of his job. But somehow, when it came down to someone you knew, the whole process seemed hollow, unreal. "I assumed you'd be wantin' a memorial service or a wake of some kind?"

Elizabeth nodded slowly, rubbing her arms as she sat back. The life support systems kept the city at a moderate room temperature, but this night seemed colder than usual. "Yes, I was just thinking about what we could do for a memorial, though I can't say the thoughts have been entirely pleasant."

Carson leaned a little of his weight against the chairs set opposite Elizabeth's desk, chairs intended for visitors. They hadn't seen much use in the last few hours. "Aye. I don't suppose he has much in the way of family back home?" the doctor questioned.

The dark haired woman shook her head in dissent, tousled curls hanging limply from her head. "No," she answered. "None that we've been able to track down, anyway. I'm sure the military has provisions for his burial."

"I figured as much," Carson sighed. He had known that much before he had even left the infirmary. Most of their deceased were cremated, or sent home in a cold box as per their wishes, but those were men with someone to go home to. Somehow, he did not believe Sheppard would ever return to Earth, even for his own funeral. Even now, he belonged in Atlantis; they just had to find a place to honor him. "All genetic concerns aside," he added. "We can't just leave him lying in the morgue."

"Teyla has already offered a plot of land on behalf of the Athosians," Elizabeth's eyes seemed to soften at the thought. A wistful smile came to her lips. "They have always held him in the highest regard," she paused for a moment, thinking on the people who were so different from her own culture, and yet so much the same. "She says there is a peak with a cool sea breeze and soft green grass that juts out over the ocean. I've been there myself once. On a clear day you can see Atlantis floating on the horizon. It must look positively gorgeous at sunset."

The kindly man smiled at her description, envisioning auburn sunlight fading to cobalt, silver-white stars shining in the night. "It sounds lovely," he replied gently, though her brow still furrowed in concern. He tilted his head to the side. "Is something else wrong, Elizabeth?"

"No, no," she responded quickly, not wanting to cast disdain on the Athosian offer. "It's a gracious gesture, it's just…" she trailed off again, eyes growing distant. She bit her lip and turned her gaze to her hands. "John's a pilot," she confessed after a time. "He belongs in the sky."

Carson looked off as he considered her words. "I think I know where you're going with this," he thought for a moment. "Aye, a space burial seems fitting, after all this."

"We've received pods via Puddle Jumper before," she thought out loud. "It wouldn't take much to launch one, though I'll need to talk to Lorne and Radek, of course."

"Dr. Zelenka?" questioned Carson. "Why not McKay? I'd think he'd like to do one last thing for the colonel, considering they were teammates and all."

"Yes, I know," Elizabeth returned with a light sigh. "I'd ask Rodney, but he seems to be a little… out of sorts. Understandably so, really," she defended. "Still, I think it'd be best to let Radek handle this one. He wasn't as close, but I think he has a clearer head at the moment."

Carson didn't try to argue. Rodney hadn't been himself since the mission. He'd kept quietly to himself, for the most part, but lashed out at anyone who spoke to him—even Teyla and Elizabeth. The doctor knew Rodney had barely eaten a thing since his return—dangerous for anyone, much less a hypoglycemic. The man was liable to catch a coma. "Ye might be right on that one, Lass. You'd have to search pretty far to find someone in this base who hasn't been touched in some way," Carson lowered his voice, leaning in toward the woman. "Though, if a doctor's opinion is worth anything, I'd say ye should take a little of your own advice. Ye shouldn't be working so hard after what ye just went through. Working yourself to death isn't going to bring him back, ye know."

Elizabeth wiped her eyes with ivory hands, trying to stifle an ill-timed yawn. "I don't have the luxury of taking the day off, Carson, and you're as much of a workaholic as any of us," she met his knowing look with another sheepish yawn. "But you're right," she conceded. "I could use a break."

"Just so long as that break keeps you outta this office for a few solid hours."

"All right, Carson," Elizabeth couldn't help but smile a little at how the man looked out for her, tirelessly. "I get your drift. I'll just finish up here," Elizabeth's smile brought a smile to the CMO. She tried to remember the last time she had laughed. It had felt like years, and yet, it had only been a mere day or two since she had seen their lead team off. "Maybe a nice stroll along the pier will help to clear my head."

"Good, Lass," Carson nodded. "I'm on me way out, too," he rose to his full height, smoothing the white of his coat. He half felt like he would fall over if he didn't crawl in bed soon. "You know who to call if you need something to help you sleep, aye?"

Elizabeth slid her slim laptop to a comfortable position before her, her fingers making only the lightest of sounds as they danced across the keys. "I'll be fine, Carson, thank you," she smiled again, sorrow and weariness in her features.

Carson nodded a final goodbye and turned for the glass doors that led out to the Control Room. He tried to figure out the best way back to his quarters, hoping that sleep would not long elude him.

With a few tired keystrokes, Elizabeth Weir commanded the computer to rest, its screen flickering to an empty black as she flipped it closed. She sat there for a long moment, weighing dark thoughts in her mind. She should go back and get some rest—heaven knows she felt like curling up into the fetal position and crying until sleep swept her away—but she knew her mind too well. As soon as she closed her eyes, she would see him again—running, burning, bubbling, screaming. Or maybe the harder dreams would come to her, the dreams of what they could have changed, what they should have done, or what could have happened in another world. Then she would dream of ways he could have lived on, ways that made her corporeal existence seem like the spark of a fading flame. He had been offered Ascension once, she'd seen that first hand, but he had turned it down. John Sheppard had turned down the chance to rise to a higher plane of existence, to shed his mortal limits, to live millennia—if not forever. He had chosen to remain in his own world, to keep fighting, to experience death.

Sometimes the guy was just too noble for his own good.

As Elizabeth glanced around the darkened office, her eyes fell on the wide urn placed at the corner of her desk. It always reminded her of a big clay beet with its iridescent purple-reddish color. Firm Athosian hands had made it, smoothed its rounded sides, but strong American hands had secretly presented it to her on her birthday almost two years ago—a birthday that was supposed to be top secret. She never found out how he had found out, John had a loyalty among his men that money could not buy, though she figured some inexplicable changes in the duty roster hadn't hurt. Again, Elizabeth smiled, running a hand over the urn's rim. The man definitely lit his own kind of spark.

Rising, Elizabeth decided she would have that walk after all. She found a drawer in which to leave her computer for the night. Brushing down her pants, she rounded the corner of her desk, and then disappeared through the double doors that led back to her transport.

oOo

Heavy clacks echoed though the bright gym studio, composing a tune of anger and desperation as dense wood stave met dense wood stave. Ronon fended off Teyla's every advance, using his own height and weight to press his strength advantage. Supple as a river reed, the woman used her smaller stature to her own advantage, spinning and weaving her way around him, shifting her attack so as to take him from two angles at once. He blocked another stave just before it struck a rib. She had come too close this time; he had to buy some room. Grunting, he flexed his arms, forcing her away. Teyla stumbled backward a few steps, recovered quickly and redoubled her efforts. She came at him again, a flurry of wood and will.

Ronon knew the woman had a passion for fighting. Limber, toned and above all determined, Teyla stood a fierce chance against any who barred her way. Ronon himself had fought Wraith warriors face to face and walked away, but it taxed his resources just to stay one step ahead of the small woman before him. She came at him in bursts of master strategy, pelting away at pressure points, joints and tender spots. The giant's body throbbed with pain and exhilaration. He saw in her eyes the resignation to nothing less that sincere victory. Sweat poured from her brow, soaking hair and cloth alike in the sole drive to take him down, to end the fight with her weapon at his throat.

He liked it.

Fighting was the one stable truth in his life, the one passion he allowed himself in the seven years the Wraith took from him. In hand-to-hand battle, you hit or you get hit, you block or you get hurt, you win or you die. No stalling, just action—pure intent, pure resolve.

Pure truth.

He met Teyla, blow for blow. She still fought like a caged beast, but the moment's respite he had bought himself had renewed his strength. The two had been going at it for over and hour now, but she didn't seem to feel the strain. He knew where her well of energy sprung from this night, and it wasn't going to die away any time soon.

"It wasn't your fault," he stated, simply.

She tried again for his ribs. "He sacrificed himself for me," she gasped back, grunting as he bent with her flow of motion, turning her attack against her.

Ronon's return strike met hers, driving her back. "You did all you could."

She moved back with his force, bending with it, twirling, and then coming at him from his open side. Teyla struck him in back. Hard. Ronon sucked in a quick breath. "He had importance here. I should have been the one to…" Teyla lost her voice as Ronon spun and drove forward, lifting her aloft and slamming her back down into the athletic mat with all force. He thought he saw her eyes rattle in her head.

"You have a value all your own," he growled in a low voice, "Sheppard saw that." He kept her there a brief moment, letting is words sink in as their breaths raced each other. "And I see it too."

oOo

She knew she had made a mistake even before the doors closed behind her. Carson had warned her as much back in the Jumper bay. True, she did not want to remember him this way, she did not want to tarnish that rugged skin or that damnable devilish smirk, but she could not let him go without seeing him for herself. To see just what they had done to him. She had to see him one last time, even if he was only what he left behind.

Elizabeth took a step into the cool climate of the Atlantis morgue—or rather, a room of it. There had been little speculation as to the purpose of the room when they had first discovered it. Lantean stasis pods lined the walls—oblong glass pods large enough to support a human body. She had seen them before, in other sectors of the city. Each coaxed the body into a stasis that could last for centuries—millennia, even. Carson, wary to utilize technology he did not fully understand, did not care to test the pods on the living, much to McKay's frustration. An incident with the crypt's refrigeration unit, however, forced Carson's hand and the good doctor consented to use of the pods as individual crypts. The pods had performed so well, Carson still used them from time to time to preserve bodies awaiting transport home aboard the Daedalus. Certainly the pod preserved flesh as effectively, if not more effectively, that the cold storage technique, though it mattered little to her at the moment. From what she understood, John's body was so far damaged that preservation had been the least of their issues. Still, Carson's team wasted no time in transferring him to one of the pods while she debated what was to be done with him.

Elizabeth stepped up to an occupied pod. They had been lucky in the last few weeks, so locating the correct pod had not been difficult. She eyed the form inside with an intent interest the felt both mortally disgusting and oddly curious. A hazy fog within the pod obscured the inhabitant's identity, but something about the broad contours of the body had her sniffling even before she located the push button control pad for the humming stasis pod. She pressed a smooth button and the pod lurched out of the wall, sliding gently into a horizontal position. She stood there for an idle minute, studying the loose profile within the Ancient chamber, gathering strength for shat she had to do. Something deep inside warned her to stop now, that she had seen enough, but still she felt the need to press on, to do what she had come to do.

Breathing a deep, determined breath, Elizabeth pressed the button and the glass lid slid back, revealing dark hair, perfect pointed ears and eyes closed as if in perfect slumber. Carson had, apparently, removed the colonel's clothes for the examination. Deep, gagging burns scrawled around his body. Black, searing scorch marks trailed down his neck, slicking across his chest, and on down his trunk. His back, burnt and ashen, resembled more a spent brick of charcoal than human flesh. Bubbles of reddened flesh spotted his once pale chest, dark hairs singed from existence. His arms barely looked human, scarred and discolored as they were.

Yet, by some miracle, a sliver of him remained. She leaned over him, willing thoughts of fire and crippling torture from her mind, her hand tracing the line of his jaw and the bone of his cheek. The fire had taken his back and a portion of his limbs, but his face remained largely untouched. Dirt and grime smeared his features, but did not mar them. Even the pale mask of his final rest had not taken from him the very rugged charms that had caught her attention that monumental day beneath the ice of Antarctica. His eyes, banished hazel, looked ready to pop open at the first loud sound. His dark hair, only a little singed by the fires, swirled about his head in a comely mass of twisted chaos. His lips, pale in death, still looked kissably soft.

He must have covered his head while saving Teyla, Elizabeth mused, brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow. The ripping blast tore apart his back, perhaps his arms too, but the flames had not touched his chiseled features and, for that, she felt thankful. Handsome to the grave, Elizabeth thought before she pressed the lightest of kisses to his forehead. She had fought so hard to keep him in Atlantis, where she thought he belonged—now he would belong to the stars.

Another twitch of her finger sealed the colonel within the glass embrace of his Ancient coffin. Taken by a sudden wave of sorrow and nausea, Elizabeth took a few fumbling steps back. Turning, she stumbled back toward the door, gasping for breath between tight sobs. Tears blinded her vision, so much so that, when the door slid aside to grant her exit, she barely registered the presence of Dr. Rodney McKay on the other side. He was but a blur of pale and grey as she dashed from the cold room.