It was the carving that triggered the memory; a small, rounded shape, which of course wasn't an elephant, but fit into his hand in the way that he'd imagined those ebony elephants would have fit, had he dared to pick one up. John held the wooden animal now, and its curving sides were so smoothly polished that he could make it rotate just by the movement of fingers and thumb, over and over, the cool, slippery wood running across his palm, across the calluses on his fingers and the pad of his thumb.

He could buy it. Maybe he would, when Rodney had finished haggling over the collection of might-have-beens and maybes that he'd sorted out from the mass of treasures and junk. Maybe John would buy this little, hand-sized carving so that he could touch it whenever he wanted. He'd been far too scared to pick up one of the elephants; far too sad and confused.

They'd been visiting with his Grandma, who his Dad had taught him to address as Mrs Sheppard, so he did, because he always tried to do what his Dad told him to, even when he didn't understand why. To himself he'd called her Grandma, though, because other people had grandmas and it sounded much nicer.

Her house hadn't been nice. It was big, real big, but John couldn't tell what most of the rooms were for. At home there was a room for eating, for watching TV, for playing games, for sleeping. There was the room where the big piano lived that John played sometimes, sitting on his Mom's knee, pressing the keys she told him to press. And there was a room where you were supposed to sit and be polite and talk to strange people - he didn't like that room. But at Grandma's house, all the rooms were like that. There was a piano, but the lid was always shut and no one ever played it, not even Mom.

Mom was different at Grandma's. She and Dad always said weird stuff beforehand, like 'keep her sweet' and 'for the boys' future' and there was almost always an argument on the way home, where harsh, raised voices would fill the car and then Mom would cry which made John cry, which made Dad angry. Davey would cry too, but then he cried anyway because he was a baby.

John had made up his mind to be good that day, as good as he knew how; because he was almost certain that the car-arguments were his fault. After all, the grown-ups didn't quarrel with Grandma. They were always real polite and nice to each other, even if their smiles didn't ring true. John was the one who was constantly being told to stand up straight, keep his hands out of his pockets, do something with his hair (what? why?) and speak only when he was spoken to, as well as speak up and not mumble. So it must be his fault.

That day, he'd decided to be so good that no one would be able to find fault and then on the way home, they'd listen to music in the car and sing along like they did if they'd been on a day trip somewhere nice.

And to begin with, it had seemed like everything was going to work out fine. Grandma, no Mrs Sheppard, had opened the big, shiny door and led them into the hallway and she'd smiled and looked at Baby Davey, sitting up on Dad's arm and her smile had broadened.

"How big he's getting," she'd said. "And how like his Grandpa! What a fine little man!"

Even John had had to admit Davey looked pretty good, for a baby. He'd had on a tiny little suit and tie and he could sit up straight now, not just slump in a heap in his highchair. His hair had grown in and it was soft and blonde and his Mom had damped it down and parted it with a precise line that ran straight to one temple, the hairs either side staying exactly in place.

Grandma had tickled his rounded cheek and he'd giggled and then she'd actually leant down and kissed him.

And she'd said again, "Just like his Grandpa! This one's definitely a Sheppard!"

There'd been a subtle change in the atmosphere just then and, looking back, John wondered whether it was that as much as her repeated use of the word Grandpa that had led to his mistake. Tension between grown-ups had been nothing new to John and he didn't usually try to do anything about it. But Grandma had kissed Baby Davey and she'd smiled at him and so she must like that kind of thing, even though Mom and Dad said she didn't. And Dad was wrong about what she wanted to be called too - he must be. And also, standing straight and stiff and trying so hard to be good, to be 'a Sheppard man', John had just wanted someone to look at him the way she'd looked at his brother, to approve of him and kiss him and say what a fine young man he was growing up to be. He'd imagined them all smiling down at him the way they smiled at Baby Davey.

So he'd ran forward and opened his arms and said, (without any mumbling, because she didn't like that), "Grandma!" And he'd hugged her, as far up as he could reach.

Or he would have, if she hadn't taken a step back, her smiling face retreating behind a mask of distaste. Anger would've been better, somehow. An angry face and angry words were honest at least. As a small child, he hadn't even had words for her expression, but now, a grown man, standing at a market stall on an alien planet, John could easily name contempt, derision and disappointment.

He remembered his mother's indrawn breath and his father's harsh bark, his name used as a rebuke. "John!"

He'd stopped, his arms falling to his sides, all his vows and wishes to be good shattered. This was bad. He'd been bad. He'd looked around at his Mom's pale face and tight mouth, his Dad's heavily frowning brows and accusing eyes and then back at his Grandma's, no Mrs Sheppard's upturned chin and sneer of condemnation.

But now, still holding the carved wooden animal, John huffed a soft breath of bitter laughter. No wonder he could face down a Wraith queen. No wonder he stayed stiff and straight under the disapproval of superior officers. He'd been trained for it.

And then he'd made it even worse, because he knew he'd disappointed all of them and there'd be an argument - no, a row, a furious ferocious row in the car on the way home, and it would all be his fault because he hadn't been good, because he wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough to be a Sheppard. His chest had tightened and jerked, his throat had closed up so much that it hurt and his face had begun to crumple, no matter how hard he'd tried to keep it straight.

And now, all these long years later, he wondered if the jerk of his father's head had been as much a thing of mercy as the curt dismissal that he'd thought it to be at the time. Because Sheppard men didn't cry. That was a rule he'd learned by heart, even at that age. So he'd walked away. He'd walked, not run and he'd opened the door to the entrance porch and gone through it and shut it behind him, hearing three pairs of feet slowly retreating from the shiny wooden entrance floor into one of the many rooms where people sat and were polite to each other. He'd stay here, because he couldn't be polite. He'd tried and he'd failed.

"You have got to be kidding me! Thirty? For this heap of junk?"

"That is quality merchandise, sir! It is worth fifty easily!"

Rodney should leave the bargaining to Teyla. She'd get him a good deal. But still, if Rodney had a good rant at the stallholder now, maybe he'd get it out of his system for a few days.

A gust of cold wind made the awning above the stall snap. There was rain in the air.

It had been raining that day, the day of the visit; raining and cold, and John, in the square space between outer and inner door, his only company an umbrella stand and its contents, had begun to shiver. The doors rattled in their frames and every time the inner door rattled he'd jumped because he'd thought someone was coming to get him and then the yelling'd start.

But he was cold and they'd gone into one of the big rooms and there were plenty of other places in the house where an unwanted boy could sit and wait - places that might be a bit warmer. So, John had turned the big round handle and eased the door open, slowly, slowly, wincing at the creak of the hinge and then wincing even more as he closed it behind him and the handle turned back into place with a click.

No one had come out, though, so he'd stepped forward, his best, shiniest shoes clicking on the hardwood floor. To his right was the room with the piano, but he wouldn't go in there because then he'd want his Mom to come and sit him on her knee and play the piano around him and that was almost like having a hug, so he wouldn't think about that. Maybe he'd only get hugs if he and his Mom were alone together now. In fact, maybe that was another rule. Maybe it was like the crying thing - you could do it as a baby, but once you got to John's age, that was it, no more hugs.

His eyes had blurred. He'd sniffed, wiped the sleeve of his scratchy jacket across his face, swallowed hard and walked on. Past the dining room, where he had to slowly and carefully eat everything on his plate, even if it was liver and really, really green, bitter vegetables. Past the other sitting room, where you sat after dinner, as if the chairs in the other room could only take so much sitting in one day. He could go in there, but it wasn't after dinner, so that was another rule he'd be breaking.

And there was another door. He didn't know what was behind it. Could it be a games room? Or might there be a TV? He turned the handle and pushed it open and the door brushed softly over a thick, golden carpet. The room was yellow. All golden and yellow, but not the gold and yellow of flowers or sunshine or new, bright things, but the old, faded gold of another place where you had to be polite and respectful. The heavy hangings at the window were thick, shiny fabric with big tassels holding them back, and even the walls were goldy-yellow with a repeating pattern of curly flower-things that looked like they'd be velvety if you dared to touch them. It was a rich, old, be-on-your-best-behaviour room. John went in anyway, because it was smaller than the other rooms and not so forbidding, although it seemed like this room probably didn't want him here either.

He closed the door softly behind himself and trod slowly and carefully across the carpet. Maybe he should've taken his shoes off. They didn't usually do that at Grandma's house, because they were in their best things and he supposed it'd look pretty weird going around in just socks when the rest of you was all fine and neat. And their best shoes only ever went from the car straight into the house anyway. Nevertheless, he picked up one foot and then the other and inspected their soles. But, standing on one leg, he wobbled and flung out a hand for balance. His fingertips brushed over something hard and there was a rattle of a fragile thing about to fall. John's heart pounded hard and his ears fizzed in terror. If he broke something, if he knocked over a precious antique and actually broke it - it was so awful a thought that he couldn't even imagine the consequences. It wouldn't just be yelling. He'd probably be sent away somewhere for bad children that couldn't behave.

But nothing was broken. It was an elephant, in fact a row of elephants on a small, round side table. It hadn't even fallen. All was as it should be, the three elephants arranged in order of decreasing size, traversing the tabletop in organised, trunk-to-tail dignity.

John was jerked out of his memory by a jostle to his shoulder and an arm reaching in front of him to sort through a stack of fabric. He needed to focus. Just because Ronon and Teyla were circling the stall, infiltrating the crowd, didn't mean he could afford to daydream.

But the carved alien animal was warm and heavy in John's hand, pulling him back into his past. Were those long-ago elephants as heavy for their size? They had probably been made from ebony, or some other endangered hardwood. And their tiny white tusks had certainly been real ivory, stolen from some poor elephants killed on the distant African savannah.

He'd wanted to touch them. He'd wanted to so badly, to see if holding their rounded wooden bodies in his hands would go any way toward taking away the ache in his chest, the emptiness in his arms and heart. He'd wanted to pick up the big Daddy elephant and turn it toward the Mommy and put the baby elephant in between them, guarded by both of their long, dangling trunks. And then he could've made them roam over the golden carpet like real elephants across the sandy grassland, and the two big ones would've made sure the baby was safe and helped him up if he fell, curling their trunks around his body and setting him back on his feet.

But even though he'd wanted to, he hadn't touched them. John had kept his arms by his sides, his hands empty, dangling quietly, not in his pockets, not doing anything that anyone could say was bad or wrong. He just stood on the carpet, not even sitting down on the low, padded chair that was the same colour as the walls and the curtains, not even moving closer to the little round table that was the elephants' domain. He just stood, wondering if he was like the elephants - just someone small and not real. He wasn't a real Sheppard. He couldn't be, because he wanted to be hugged and sometimes he needed to cry, and Sheppard men didn't do either of those things.

"Are you buying that?"

He didn't remember how the day had ended. He didn't remember if anyone came to find him or if he'd made his way back through the hallway and waited until they went home. He certainly didn't remember the inevitable row in the car.

"Sheppard, are you buying that? Hey, you! You can have forty if you throw in this elephant thing!"

John shivered. There was water running down his neck and the awning was snapping and flapping in sharp gusts of wind. Rodney was handing over some trading tokens, his wet hair plastered to his head, his cheeks tinged pink with cold. He nodded to the trader and began packing a slew of items into a wooden crate.

"D'you want to put that in here or are you still bonding?"

"Huh?"

"You've been playing with it for ages. Who is it? Dumbo? Nelly?"

"It's not an elephant."

"As good as." Rodney paused in his packing. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"John?" Rodney, hand on hip, eyes narrowed, communicating through body language and willpower alone. They'd had an agreement about this - honesty, about feelings as well as physical stuff. "I repeat, are you okay?"

"Uh, well. This thing reminded me of something."

"Oh. Something good or something bad? We don't have to take it if it's something bad! I can renegotiate. Hey, you!"

The stallholder kept his back deliberately turned.

"No, it's okay, Rodney." John tucked the elephant-thing in a pouch in his vest. "It's kind of not good. But I think… maybe I can make it better?"

"Oh. Right. So, I can expect the full story when we get home?"

"Yeah. The full story."

Rodney nodded in satisfaction. "Right, where's the muscle when you need him. Ronon? I bet he's found a bar to prop up. Ronon!"

John smiled and picked up the crate. And as they made their way back to the Gate, the four of them together, he almost didn't mind the thought of pouring out his childhood memory to Rodney. He almost didn't want to run away and hide and stamp everything down until he could reappear, blank-faced and stoic. Because with Rodney, there were hugs every day. With Rodney, you could cry if you needed to. And with Ronon and with Teyla. And maybe he didn't make a habit of hugging his Marines and crying on their shoulders, but if they came to him with issues that needed that kind of thing he didn't tell them to man up or expect them to stamp it all down, to bury their feelings.

He was learning. Slowly, gradually, he was learning that this Sheppard man could hug and he could cry and he could do all those things that he'd been taught were so wrong.

And when he got home, back to Atlantis, back to the rooms he shared with Rodney, he'd set the elephant-thing on the nightstand; the thing which wasn't an elephant. It would glow golden-brown when he turned on the bedside light and he'd pick it up whenever he wanted and hold it in his hands until it grew warm from his touch - just like he'd grown warm from the touch of his friends.

He'd tell Rodney his story about the yellow room and the elephants, and then he'd be held, wrapped in warmth, and if he needed to he could cry all those tears that he'd kept inside himself when he was just a boy, just a little boy who wanted to be loved.