Time Immemorial
Chapter 22: Turnabout
July 17th
0335 Hours
Agitated voices, barked orders, the sounds of a scuffle, random gunshots and sharp cries of pain pierced the darkness. More voices, this time more composed. John recognized them. Then nothing.
Suddenly, with a mechanical thunk from overhead, he was back in the world of the living. Before him he saw a similar scene to the one he had left moments ago, only with one very important distinction.
His marines now stood scattered about the mess hall, each holding one of the dozen Lacedami guards at gunpoint. Some had their former captors face down on the tile, one knee planted firmly on their backs. Some, unable to secure the Lacedami pistols from the guards, merely held their perpetrators against the floor in a wrestler's headlock. Those wounded marines still able to move doubled up on the larger intruders, Straton included. Several even benefited from the help of the braver, or perhaps most infuriated, civilians. They were taking no chances.
Several steps away, John witnessed a very buoying sight. Antigonos had been forced to the ground with no less than three marines standing guard. One - Corporal Kirkland, the Aussie sharpshooter - was already binding the commander's hands with the Lacedami's own belt while Sgt. Bates held the man down.
The third, Captain Ford, stood watch. He seemed to be calling the shots, directing marines where needed. He was currently ordering them to lock the mess hall doors. Upon seeing Sheppard's bewildered stare, Ford ran over to his CO.
"Let's get you upright, sir," Aiden said, erecting the toppled chair on which the major was seated.
John continued to watch the scene over the captain's shoulder, befuddled. A head rush exacerbated his already swimming vision. He looked down at himself, wrists and ankles still bound but decidedly still alive. All he could think to ask was, "What happened?"
Ford studied his commanding officer, trying to ascertain how astute he really was in his current state. He noted the slightly slurred speech, probably from a concussion. He decided to keep the explanation simple.
"Well, sir, we figured it was only a matter of time before these guys decided they no longer needed us. Before they killed everyone, I thought it might be a good idea to try and fight back - you know, turn the tables."
As Ford cut the bonds on his wrists John only wished the captain would explain more slowly. His brain was having trouble keeping up.
"Seeing as we didn't have any fire power of our own, I knew we had to somehow secure theirs," Ford continued. "What we did have was superior numbers and the element of surprise - only that was the tricky part, sir. We waited for one of the rolling blackouts to hit this area of the City. Once it did, we sprang into action and took the guards down," he concluded simply.
John rubbed his now-free wrists incredulously. They pained him, but he paid no mind at the moment. "You did all that?"
"Well we did, yes, sir." With his reappropriated combat knife, Ford began to saw through the bonds binding his CO's ankles. He was happy to see his movements becoming more coordinated by the minute.
"How did you coordinate it all?"
The captain shrugged nonchalantly. "Hand signals. It took a while to get everyone on the same page," he admitted. "There isn't exactly a standard issue signal for 'rolling blackout'. We actually missed the first one."
"How did you know where all the guards were in the dark?"
"We didn't. But we each kept a careful watch on the nearest guy at all times so we'd be ready. When the blackout did hit, all we had to do was charge the spot we'd last seen our guy standing at, crash tackle him, and done. I figured they wouldn't move very far in the dark. Oh, plus the lightning helped."
John appraised the young captain. "Ford, if I hadn't just promoted you I'd make you a general. Good work."
Ford beamed. "Oorah." He breathed a sigh of relief. "It's just good to have you back, sir."
John eyed Aiden warily, the first of his teammates he'd have to face. "I'm sorry I came back alone," he muttered, more sullenly than the captain deserved.
Picking up on the tone, Ford realized that all of the pilot's words had been laced with an underlying malaise. He could guess why. Treading carefully, Ford offered, "Major... I'm sorry about Dr. Weir."
It angered Sheppard that he had allowed his emotions to so easily seep into his words, to take him back to thoughts of her. Forcing himself to focus, he ignored the sentiment and changed the subject. "What's our status? How many wounded?"
"Here in this room we have Sergeant Harris with a broken arm; Corporal Cipollini has something wrong with his eye, it looks pretty bad; Lance Corporal Jorgensen was brought in unconscious and still hasn't woken up; Private Linden and Private Vasquez both got shot in the leg; there's a bunch of other scrapes and cuts, but nothing we can't handle."
John doubted the marines' 'scrapes and cuts' were as minor as Ford was suggesting. Thankfully, the civilians' injuries were relatively minor, though. He had to trust them all to sit tight until he could get the situation fully under control.
Aiden looked to his superior and broached a subject that had been on his mind all night. "Sir... there's still some unaccounted for personnel."
John noted the beseeching look on Aiden's face. He was expecting a hopeful, reassuring answer. John wasn't sure if he could give him one.
Trying not to betray the dark implication of Ford's statement, John looked for a clear path forward. But he fumbled. Ford would be expecting orders from him, but he couldn't think straight. He noticed the sudden still of the room. They would all be expecting a game plan now that Antigonos's plot had been derailed. But he didn't have one. He didn't know what to do. He rubbed his temples, as if a magic genie would waft out of his ear and grant him his wish for clarity.
The captain waited expectantly, an eyebrow raised in question. "Maybe... you'll want your gear back, sir," Ford suggested politely.
Clearing his throat, the major nodded. He ruefully accepted Ford's help getting out of the chair, in which he felt like he'd sat for days. He finally stood, his legs visibly trembling with fatigue. The first step sent a bolt of lightning up his spine. He ached all over. Every muscle in his body protested against the motion, quivering in objection. He tried to hide his frailty as best he could.
Huffing with exertion, he finally reached a group of marines. They had reacquired some of their stolen gear and were rearming themselves. John followed suit, accepting a black combat vest, knife, and radio set from a babyfaced corporal. He shrugged gingerly into his vest, taking care not to further aggravate his injured shoulder.
He saw that the civilians were beginning to mill about as well. Rodney, still emotionally unsettled, had found Teyla. Untrusting of Antigonos, in custody or otherwise, she aided two marines in standing guard over the bound commander.
John stared at Antigonos as he velcroed his vest. The commander just sat there on the floor, hands secured behind his back. John felt his feet moving in his direction. He picked up his pace, burying the physical discomfort underneath the layer of fury beginning to burn.
John limped single-mindedly toward the commander when the rest of his team crossed his line of sight. He felt an overwhelming pang of pride seeing them alive and well. Suddenly conscientious, he made a final adjustment to his uniform and tugged on his arm's bandage to tighten the cloth. The quick movement elicited a sharp inhalation of breath and a grimace he hoped no one saw.
John took his place in the small circle that surrounded Antigonos. The concerned eyes of Teyla, Rodney, and Ford evaluated him, all silently begging the same question: Are you okay?
A barely discernible nod was Sheppard's only greeting – his discrete way of expressing his unbelievable relief at their presence. He quickly diverted his gaze elsewhere, flustered by his own physical and mental condition.
Ford offered John the final piece of his gear: his sidearm. John looked at it curiously for a moment as it sat in the younger man's hand, almost as if it suddenly had new purpose. He then looked to Antigonos, kneeling in the center of the circle.
Teyla's scrutinizing gaze had never wavered from John's eyes. Something did not feel right. While she hadn't entirely bought into his wellbeing, she was willing to let that slide for the moment. But when Ford had presented John's Beretta to him, she had watched the man's expression instantly transform from one of unease to a cold, cunning ambition. He was staring hard at Antigonos, raw contempt on his face, weighing, thinking. Before he could do anything rash, Teyla took a step forward to intervene.
John weighed the gun heavily in his hand. His eyes seemed to lose focus as he stared into its metal surface.
Aiden traded worried glances with Teyla. He suddenly regretted handing the weapon over so freely to his superior, so dangerous was the look in the major's eyes. "Sir..?" he tried.
Those once sitting upon the cafeteria floor had risen to their feet, sensing the tension in the air, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening on the far side of the room.
The most at-ease person in the room was Antigonos himself, who stared complacently up at the major with a thin smile - a dare - on his lips.
McKay shared the worry of the group. He knew that beneath his friend's quiet exterior lied a hell of a lot of pent-up rage. And John had just been presented both an outlet for that rage and a target. He was like a cannon waiting to go off – except that no one knew the length of the fuse.
They didn't have to wait long to find out.
John suddenly broke out of his spell and smoothly brought his gun up, trained the sight on Antigonos's forehead, and squeezed the trigger. The whole motion took less than a second.
"Major, no!" Ford yelled.
Teyla was too quick. Before Sheppard was able to depress the trigger, she reached for the gun - but was only able to clip the major's outstretched arm. Her inertia carried his arm up and away, causing the bullet to miss its mark. It pinged loudly, but harmlessly, off the ceiling.
The crowd of expedition members cried out at the commotion, as most of them half-squatted and covered their ears or heads. Their eyes looked fearfully to the where the bullet had nicked a ceiling tile.
And then there knelt Antigonos, quite to the contrary, amused at the foiled attack.
As he glared at him, John could think of nothing more satisfying than dragging that little prick out by his shirt and just pummeling him into oblivion, just beating him again and again – as Antigonos had done to him – until that smug little look was wiped off his face, until his face was no longer recognizable, until John's knuckles were bleeding from the pounding. And when he couldn't physically continue, John would chain the bastard to a chair, weigh it down, and kick it over the edge of the pier into the ocean. Let him see what it was like to have his lungs fill with water, to feel the cold press against him, to know he was going to die scared and alone –
John broke his gaze with Antigonos, feeling the hatred boil up within him once more. He looked at his quivering hand - was it doing that before? - and noticed it was empty. Someone had already pulled the gun from him and he hadn't even noticed. John looked at the people around him. They were staring at him now, shocked, as scared as when the Lacedami were waving rifles in their faces. He didn't care. They didn't - couldn't - understand. He didn't need to be judged, not by them, not now.
He shouldered through the small circle of people, too mortified at his actions to make eye contact, and strode angrily out into one of the annexes. Teyla followed closely on his heels with McKay shortly behind. Ford remained guarding the Lacedami leader.
As they rounded the corner into the quieter area, Teyla caught up with John. She spun him around by the shoulder and shoved him roughly against the wall, pinning the taller man with her forearm.
"What do you think you are doing?" she demanded heatedly.
John merely glowered back at Teyla, livid – not at her but at himself. He jerked wordlessly out of her grip and walked a few steps away. He stared down silently the length of the empty room, hands on his hips.
McKay took a step towards the major, intending to lend support in some way. He felt Teyla's hand on his shoulder. She stopped him with a small shake of her head, sensing more to come. She was right.
Without warning, Sheppard drove his boot into a stray cafeteria cart. The sound of it crashing to the tile and breaking echoed loudly through the space. He swiped violently at stacks of dishes and glasses laid out atop a table, causing them to shatter against the wall. A plastic chair was dashed against the floor. With no more inanimate objects upon which to exact his frustrations, he rounded on the wall itself, punching the facade without prejudice - once, twice, three times.
Though he showed no outward signs of pain, the action seemed to ground him. He rested his forehead on the wall, covered his face with his forearm and squeezed his eyes shut.
McKay watched his friend, helpless, unsure of what to do. John had barely given any indication that he was aware of their presence, or if he even cared. He looked in terrible shape as he leaned into the wall, gasping for air. Rodney noticed his pallid tone, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the overall look of exhaustion.
As if to emphasize the point, John felt his legs weaken underneath him. He pressed his back against the wall and slid to the cool floor in a heap. It was then that the tears began to flow. Why at that moment out of all the day's goddamn tragedies they chose to come John didn't know, but he could not stop them.
Unable to hide her astonishment, Teyla looked on. Never before had she seen the major in such a fragile state. She pitied him, unable to fathom the agony he was experiencing, never before having lost one so near to her heart herself. She guessed that with all of the day's chaos, with his continual attempts to save the City, Sheppard had not yet allowed himself to grieve.
Teyla wanted to give him that chance, to grant him a reprieve from cataclysm-spawned responsibility, if only for five minutes. He needed it, deserved it. Sensing that John needed to be alone for a few moments, she turned to leave. She motioned for McKay to follow before returning to the mess hall.
But Rodney didn't budge. His feet stuck to the floor, uncertain. The physicist didn't consider himself socially tactful or emotionally perceptive by any stretch of the imagination. He did consider himself a friend, though, to one of the few he had ever had himself. All he knew was that his friend was suffering, and he didn't think it right to abandon him to solitude. If Sheppard was going to slog through the throes of misery, Rodney was going to do it with him.
His mind made up, McKay realized he didn't know the first thing about comforting a friend in need. He wasn't a people person - that's why he had kept himself behind a computer his whole life. He also realized he was staring awkwardly at Sheppard crying as he tried to figure out what to do.
The Canadian forced himself forward. He timidly approached John's position. Stopping several feet short, Rodney sat down on the floor next to Sheppard and propped himself against the same wall.
If John noticed McKay's presence he gave no indication. He continued to weep, forehead buried in his hands, elbows propped on his bent knees. His face contorted in all manners of grief and despair. His fists clenched with frustration. Sobs racked his body.
Rodney realized that John had bottled up and carried around this grief all day, because he had had to, for the sake of the rest of them. It was only now that he unable to do so any longer.
Whether they lived or died rested with him. McKay didn't envy him and his responsibility. He sat silently and let the major cry, little else that he could do.
After ten minutes, when the tears had subsided, McKay noticed his breathing was returning to normal. Still his face remained buried, almost as if from shame. He still did not acknowledge McKay's presence, leaving the scientist to wonder if he was doing more harm than good. He moved to leave.
Then, suddenly, after twenty minutes of silence, John was ready to speak. "I'm sorry," he said softly. His words were muffled by his arm.
Rodney wasn't sure if he was indeed being addressed or if the statement had been rhetorical. Nevertheless he sat back down. He cleared his throat uneasily.
"You have nothing to apologize for," McKay answered, matching his low volume.
John snuffed a derisive laugh. "I think I have everything to apologize for." He picked his head up finally, letting it rest against the wall, and stared ahead into oblivion.
McKay didn't bother arguing, as he knew no amount of reasoning would ever convince his friend that he hadn't been responsible for the day's misfortunes. And so the two sat, each unknowingly mimicking the other's posture. Each stared at the opposite wall in silence.
John let out a long sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his broken nose. "God, this situation is seriously screwed up."
The statement, despite its message, brought a slight smile to McKay's lips. The nonchalant tone with which it was delivered indicated that the John Sheppard he knew was down there somewhere, buried beneath the guilt and shame.
The pair sat there several minutes more in silence. Rodney was content in letting the conversation unfold at a pace comfortable to John.
What a goddamned idiot, the major thought of himself, slamming his back into the wall in frustration. As he replayed in his mind's eye the horrors that had occurred in the cafeteria, he grew more and more furious with himself. In a moment of weakness, he had allowed Antigonos to get under his skin, something the Lacedami leader had been trying to do since they had met. On top of that, John had just given the bastard his sought after prize: Atlantis on a silver platter. His mistakes had almost cost them all. It had already cost Elizabeth everything.
"I'm gonna kill him," John said simply, abruptly. His tone was detached, oddly calm. He spoke slowly, as if he found peace in the certainty of his statement.
"We need him," Rodney countered delicately, anticipating the statement.
"I don't care."
"There are still a lot of bad guys roaming the halls. We need him to tell them all to surrender, preferably without any more wild west shootouts."
John seemed to begrudgingly accept the logic of the statement. But he didn't relent. "And when that's done, I'm going to make that bastard pay for everything he's done."
"Killing him won't change anything."
"It might change my mood."
"Don't become like him. Don't stoop to his level. Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted that."
"I... I don't know if I can do this without her, McKay."
Rodney noticed how John was careful not to meet his gaze, out of humiliation he was sure. The weight of the major's words suggested he had been referring to something more than their dire predicament, as if he simply couldn't do a day – couldn't do life – without her. They struck a chord. Rodney wondered if he would ever find himself caring for someone as deeply as John had for Elizabeth.
As he squirmed awkwardly on the floor, McKay suddenly wished that Teyla had stayed. He had never been good at pep talks. So he said the one thing he knew to be true.
"Elizabeth may be gone, but you won't have to do this alone."
Noting the subtle shift in eye direction, Rodney knew he had gotten through. He charged forward, emboldened by the breakthrough.
"I'd like to think that over the past year I've gotten to know you pretty well. What I've learned in that year is that I can count on you. And there are dozens of people in that room who are all counting on you right now, who need you more than ever. Teyla, Ford, Carson - myself, for whatever that's worth - we will be right there with you every step of the way, but we can't do this without you. And if you are the man I think you are, you won't let us.
And he meant his words in the same way John had meant his. But still, the major failed to meet his gaze.
"John. Please."
It was those words that finally brought the pilot's head round. Maybe it was the Canadian's use of his first name. Though close friends, he had never heard the man call him anything but his last name, his rank, or some colorfully insulting expression. Maybe it was his friend's uncharacteristic use of the word 'please.' Or maybe it was the genuine terror laced in his voice and, as John could now see, evident on his face. He had seen the timid physicist afraid in many situations, but never like this, never to the core.
And then he knew what it was that had caught his attention. He had been asked. Rodney had asked for his help. That was a first for the major. Back on Earth, his superiors had never asked. They had simply ordered him on the kamikaze missions, the top secret milk runs, the gritty shitstorms behind enemy lines they wouldn't dare risk their poster child pilots on.
Atlantis had been different. He'd always found himself on the frontline standing between the expedition and the enemy, without orders and without request. He found himself needing to be there, as much as Atlantis needed him to be there. The responsibility felt right. And he would never stop. It wasn't just because it was his job or his duty, it was a simple state of being. Just like the sky was blue or grass was green, John was always where he needed to be, where he wanted to be, where he was meant to be: defending his home and his family.
The fact that McKay was forced to ask for his help did not sit well with John. It was shameful. Here he was, slumped in a darkened room, while his City and his people were being overrun.
He needed them as much they needed him. He thought of Teyla, Ford, and Carson attending to their duties, and Rodney with him now.
He wouldn't lose them, not without a fight.
Pushing to one knee, John used the wall behind him to gain his feet. With a little help from McKay, he managed to stay upright as a dizzy spell passed. Now that the surge of adrenaline had long passed, all of the pain flooded back full-force as his wounds protested the motion.
"I miss her already, McKay."
"Me, too," Rodney said genuinely, clapping John once on the back. "Me, too. Now if I'm done playing Dr. Heightmeyer, I'd like to go back playing astrophysicist, if you don't mind."
John nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, about that. You don't have to tell anyone about the whole... crying thing, okay?" He couldn't remember a time he'd cried so hard. He wasn't being vain, but with all of his weaknesses that had been so grandly displayed to his people already, he didn't need his compromised emotions added to the list, not if he was going to successfully steer them through the storm.
"Oh, right," Rodney answered, understanding. "No problem. Your secret's safe with me. You know, I find that crying really helps day-to-day living. If I don't cry at least once I day, I am a mess - I mean, a real mess. I get cranky, I get headaches, and my foot starts to do this weird thing where it..."
He trailed off as he noticed John staring, brow arched in befuddlement.
Despite his grouchy façade, McKay allowed himself a small smile. How familiar the routine was: Sheppard saying something legitimate, McKay chiming in with some absurdity - usually of a highly personal, unsolicited nature that would scare off most strangers in any sort of social situation, and Sheppard merely looking confounded. It was good to get back to normal.
He helped the major out of the annex and back into the main mess hall.
"My hand is killing me," John muttered absentmindedly as they walked.
"Well you did punch the wall."
"Oh."
"I think the wall won."
"I think you're right."
They rejoined the group. To their credit, the team said nothing about Sheppard's earlier outburst, eager to move on. They did, however, monitor him closely.
"You locked the doors to the outside already, right?" Sheppard asked of Ford.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Let's get these bastards in here properly detained. Then send four teams out to grab some ammo, life signs detectors, and NVGs and tell them to get into place to take down the remaining Lacedami patrols. There's still a lot of them roaming around out there and I want them neutralized, one way or another. I'm hoping I can convince Antigonos to radio them and order a peaceful surrender, but just in case he continues to be his usual charming self we need to be prepared for some resistance."
Ford and Teyla both nodded. The Athosian marveled at how easily the major had slipped back into a leadership role. It came naturally.
"Ford, why don't you see if you can check on Dr. Beckett and the rest of the infirmary. We could use a med team down here."
"On it."
John clapped his subordinate on the shoulder. "As for our unaccounted for people, I haven't forgotten about any one of them. Let's just get a lid on this thing here before we help them, okay?"
The captain found himself nodding, already feeling the relief of having his CO back in command.
"Teyla, once you're done taking care of the patrols, see if you can round up some people to help with clean up. Let's set up a makeshift morgue until we get the situation back to normal."
"It will be done," Teyla answered affirmably.
"And finally, McKay, take two armed escorts to the Control Room. Turn on the scanners and take a look. I need to know if the Lacedami are planning to invite any more friends to the party. But make it quick, and short-range sensors only; we don't have a lot of power to spare."
McKay nodded.
They all were relieved to hear John selecting words that suited his usual character. He delivered directions as if he'd never missed a beat. They noticed, however, that he hadn't yet shaken that underlying layer of anguish that tinged his sentences.
Aiden warily offered John his gun back. As the major tried to reclaim his weapon, though, the captain resisted, arching an eyebrow as if to ask, Are you sure you're okay?
John nodded and holstered the handgun. He wouldn't be repeating the same mistake twice. As a leader, he simply could not afford to let his anger cloud his judgment. He suddenly remembered Elizabeth's words from earlier that day. How it seemed like eons ago. You have to promise to stop using your gun to solve all your problems.
A bittersweet smile grew on his face at the tender memory. You always were a lot smarter than me, Elizabeth. But I may need to bend your rule - just a little.
"There's just one more thing I need to take care of," he informed his team.
Burying the pain inside, John made his way over to where several marines were guarding Antigonos. Ford followed, cautious. He noticed all eyes were on him, waiting to see how he would act after his prior episode.
As John approached, he noticed the Lacedami leader smirking smugly, still kneeling on the floor. John just smiled inwardly. The poor bastard had no idea what he was in for. Major Sheppard unholstered his Beretta once more. Ford took a step forward, but John waved him off with a small shake of his head. He had this one under control.
"Major Sheppard," Antigonos greeted tauntingly as soon as the pilot was within earshot. "I hope you are more responsible with your weapon this time. It would be a shame—"
Antigonos was abruptly cut off as John flipped his sidearm in his hand so that he was now gripping the barrel and swung it viciously into the side of Antigonos' face. The grip struck his jaw, hard. But John never stopped walking, continuing to stride purposefully toward the small annexed room. He reholstered his gun.
"Bring him," he called over his shoulder to the marines. "It's time he has a taste of his own medicine."
No, not every problem could be solved with a gun, but that one sure as hell could.
John allowed himself a small smile as he heard Antigonos wince in pain, the first chink in the armor the man had shown all day. He could picture the look of pain on his face and savored it. He hoped it was the first of many to come.
Maybe they were finally starting to get the upper hand.
TBC