Thanks for SlayersGrl for letting me borrow her story Ghosts as a kind of prequel to this and to pennydreadful for the beta.
Part 3 – The lost Sheppard
He hurt and he was thirsty and at first that was all he was aware of. Pain and thirst. Thirst and pain.
Then, after a while, the pain receded and he became of bright white light when he… when he did what? He thought hard about it. When he opened his eyes, that was it, bright light when he opened his eyes. He was pleased with himself for working it out and for a while that was enough. However, after some more time had passed (it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour, it could have been a week he couldn't tell) he wanted more, but what was it he wanted? He wanted to know what was going on. Yes, that's what he wanted, to know what was going on because even in his befuddled state he knew something was wrong.
He forced himself to concentrate, to try to remember what had happened. If only he could remember… Suddenly, as if a flood gate had been opened, memories surged over him. Images came and went so quickly that it was impossible to get more than a fleeting impression of what they were. His senses were bombarded by a shifting kaleidoscope of images and sounds.
"Is he going be alright, Doctor?" the voice was familiar, so familiar. He struggled and struggled to place it and then triumphantly labelled it 'Mom'.
"He's had a bad experience but there is no reason why he won't recover fully, Mrs Sheppard. Just give him time." This time there was no label to attach to the voice just a category, 'Doctor'. "Just to speak to him as if he can hear you." It was calming listening to the voice of his mother just like the time when he had nearly drowned as a teenager and she had sat next to his bed for hours until he woke up in the hospital.
His breath hitched suddenly. He hated hospitals. He hated the hospital where he sat next to Amy's bed and watched her lose her fight against the cancer she had battled so valiantly. He hated the field hospital in Afghanistan where he'd visited his men before they were shipped out, crippled and broken. He hated being a patient.
A patient. He was a patient. Why?
Then he remembered the attack. Remembered Ford being hit, Teyla too and McKay's pale, worried face as he had helped them both back to the gate. He remembered hearing McKay's voice over the radio calling Atlantis just before they entered the event horizon. He remembered circling back to the gate trying to evade the enemy. He'd been close to the gate when he'd been hit, low in the back. He remembered the explosion of pain and being thrown forward to the ground but after that, nothing.
"Are you OK, son?" he forced his eyes open and saw Beckett's concerned face peering down at him.
Suddenly he was back in the jumper and the Iratus bug was fixed on his neck sucking out his life, feeding on him. He screamed. "It just made it worse, Doc!" Ford's voice was getting higher with panic.
He was back at McMurdo prepping his helicopter to fly a General out to the top secret scientific research facility out in the middle of nowhere.
Then he was sitting in a control chair. "Did I do that?" he asked as the star chart above him began to spin.
He was standing in the tent in the hunter's encampment on Athos. Teyla stood to greet them and then she was speaking in a serious and urgent voice, "If your world has never been visited by the Wraith then I suggest you return there."
He was on the hive ship looking into Sumner's defeated and pain-filled eyes and in them saw the tacit permission to shoot. He took a steadying breath and raised his gun.
His head began to pound and he closed his eyes to ward off the visions in front of him but it didn't work. She was there, in front of him, fighting for every breath, holding on to life with everything she had. "It's alright, honey, you don't have to fight anymore," he whispered.
He shied away from the pain triggered by the memory and suddenly heard McKay saying, "Well, if only people would learn to lock their secret underground bunkers…" and he was in the Genii base, sitting, waiting to know what was going to happen to them.
He began to panic. Memories were flooding over him but out of his control. He was surrounded by faces, spinning, swirling, a babble of voices, his abused senses overloading. He felt as if he was being pushed from one memory to the next, his thoughts picked over; some examined in detail, others discarded instantly.
"Wake up, John," he told himself. He just had to wake up from this nightmare, it was driving him insane.
…."I even brought a turkey sandwich"
"We have a man down, I repeat, we have a man down,"….
……"Don't just stand there, you jackass, help me up!"
"Blue leader, you are to return to base immediately, I repeat immediately,"….
…."Just get it off me!"
"You disobeyed a direct order, Major,"….
…."To have and to hold, for as long as you both shall live."
"Tell her I died saving a kid, a whole bunch of kids,"….
….."I think anyone who doesn't want to go through the Stargate is nuts."
"And I shall enjoy the taste of your defiance!"….
…."to demonstrate the strength of my resolve."
Unable to resist, he lay there helplessly as he was driven from one memory to the next.
"She died eight years ago today,"…..
….."Dr McKay has shared with me your plan to save the City."
"I'm invulnerable!"…..
……"Do I need to remind you, Major, who's in charge?"
"Dr Weir is dead,"….
….."Ashes to ashes and dust to dust."
He couldn't take it anymore and began to scream; a scream that came from the deepest core of his being and tore at his throat. Abruptly everything stopped and he fell into blackness.
He woke with a sob and sat up, the miasma of the nightmare clinging to him almost palpably. He lent forward concentrating on calming his panicked breathing. Gradually the fear subsided and he looked up to examine his surroundings.
He was sitting on a bed in a plain room with rough white washed walls. Heavy beams stretched across the ceiling which sloped steeply almost down to the floor on one side of the room. The bed had a simple head rest made of dark wood. The wooden floor was uneven and there were a few worn rugs scattered across it. Patterned curtains in a light material hung either side of the small window through which the weak sunshine of northern latitudes poured. The door was in the corner of the room and was half open. Through it he could see a narrow corridor leading off to the left.
Everything looked strangely familiar but distant, as if he was visiting a place he had known a long time ago.
Although it was by no means warm his forehead was beaded with sweat. He wiped it away with shaking hands and then turned and slid over to the edge of the bed. Where was he and what the hell was wrong with him?
He could see his clothes, worn jeans and his battered old Dallas Cowboys' sweatshirt, piled on a chair in the corner of the room. He stood up somewhat unsteadily and weaved over to the chair bending to avoid hitting his head on the sloping ceiling. He dressed as rapidly as he could, ignoring the pounding in his head and the raging thirst that plagued him. Once dressed, he walked silently to the door.
He could smell the sea.
The sense of familiarity was growing. He knew this place.
He walked down the corridor his feet making hardly any sound. He ignored the doors that opened off to the left and right and headed straight for the stairs and went down. There was no-one there. He began to walk more quickly.
He knew this place!
He was downstairs. He registered the worn furnishings, the floor covered in large red worn tiles, the large open room with a fixed brick stove in the corner. He headed for the door that led outside.
As he stepped outside the smell of the sea grew stronger. He narrowed his eyes and peered around him.
He knew this place… This couldn't be possible. He hadn't been here in years. How the hell had he ended up here?
Still he encountered no-one, but that wasn't unusual here. It wasn't exactly a teeming metropolis which was one of the reasons they'd come here; to escape the claustrophobia of life on the British army base near Hamburg where he'd been posted as part of the US liaison back in '94. Sometimes living in each others' pockets got too much and they would break away to the coast to enjoy the peace and quiet.
He began to walk along the rough track that led away from the house. If he remembered rightly he should follow it for a few hundred metres and then there would be a footpath that branched off and led down to the beach. He increased his pace and pressed on; a sense of urgency driving him forward.
As he reached the loose sand of the dunes his progress slowed. He looked around in wonder; the place hadn't changed at all and the dunes spread for miles. He paused as he reached the top of a dune to listen to the marram grass rustling in the wind and the muted roar of the North Sea breakers on the shore. Breathing deeply he scanned the horizon steadying himself.
"Hey, Shep, how ya doing?" Warm arms wrapped around him from behind. He froze.
Something inside him was screaming that this couldn't be true, there was something wrong but somehow the message didn't get through and he turned around smiling to look into the sparkling brown eyes of his wife.
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