Title: Broken Understanding
Rating: T
Summary: One mission. One mission gone wrong, and John Sheppard is shattered forever. WARNING: kinda dark deathfic.
Disclaimer: Don't own, and if this is what I do with them, that's probably a good thing... -is worried-
I have NO idea where this came from. And I'm kinda worried by it, to be honest. I'm not entirely sure how good it is, but I hope its okay.
R&R feeds the Muse and breeds the plot bunnies, and enjoy!
Broken Understanding
He had known before he pressed two trembling fingers to the Satedan's neck that Ronon was dead.
Teyla's anguished half-sob rings in his ears, as poignant as Rodney's stunned, agonized silence. His breath catches in his throat, but that is all the grief he allows himself to feel for the moment. Mourning can come later; now, he needs to get his battered—broken—team to safety.
But still one last office to perform.
He reaches out and, with the gentlest of touches, slides Ronon's stiff-fierce brown eyes closed. A long breath blows from his lips, and with a sharp snap! he yanks Ronon's tags free. The barest hint of a smile graces his features as he remembers the warrior's reluctance and irritation towards those same tags. They slip into his vest pocket, and the smile slides away.
Those were happier times.
He closes his mind and the tramp of advancing soldiers fills his ears. "Back to the 'gate. Now."
---------
He had known before the Stargate snapped off behind he and Teyla that Rodney was dead.
The instant he steps—throws himself—into the event horizon he hears it; an agonized cry of fear and pain and death. His heart stops when, on the other side, in Atlantis, he puts a voice to the cry and comes up with Rodney.
Blue, rippling brilliance scythes off behind him, and he looks up, searching for a rebuttal of what he knows is true. Elizabeth's anguished expression is all the answer he gets.
"No!" he screams. "Open that 'gate right now, you hear me?!"
His words echo around the silent hall. But Elizabeth doesn't give the order; the Stargate doesn't activate.
"Damnit, we need Rodney!" he shouts, impassioned. "We need to go back!"
Teyla's soft, agonized moan is his only answer in the dead silence that follows his words. He looks to her, just as she collapses to her knees, hands clasped over the seeping red stain on her belly. She looks up him. "John…" she whispers. There is fear in her dark gaze.
"Medical team to the 'gate room!" he yells into his radio, and falls to his knees beside her.
---------
He had known before Carson emerged from surgery with tears running down his cheeks that Teyla was dead.
"Colonel, we did everything we could." The Scottish brogue is shaking with grief.
He manages an empty smile, and touches Carson's shoulder. "I know," he answers, and it's all he can say.
The doctor steps aside and he slips through into the grief-ridden still of the operating theatre. Medical aides move slowly around him, stricken by the pain still lingering in the air.
Teyla looks serene as he peels back the sheet covering her face. Eyes closed, hair gently splayed around her peaceful features. But there's no life there – no spark, no bubble.
But it's still Teyla; there's nothing he can do to change the fact that her skin is cold.
He can't take his eyes off her as he rummages through the tray containing her clothes; some ripped, some bloodstained. He doesn't find what he's looking for, but for the moment he's too grief-stricken to care. He abandons the tray and sinks to his knees beside the operating table. His hands find her limp ones, and he presses his forehead to them, eyes screwed shut. Tears carve paths through the dirt and sweat on his cheeks.
"Teyla," he breathes, his voice shaking. "Damnit Teyla, don't do this to me. I can't lose you too…"
And he weeps; for Teyla, for Rodney, for Ronon.
He doesn't hear Carson approach and doesn't feel him slip Teyla's lonely tags into his pocket. He doesn't hear Elizabeth enter; doesn't hear her break down; doesn't hear Carson comfort her through his own tears.
He's lost in his own world of pain, and Teyla's chill hand in his grip just drives that home.
---------
He had known before he saw them, for the last time, that it was going to hurt more than he could imagine.
He hands shake as he unzips the first of the two body-bags Lorne and Carson brought back. Ronon's pale, cold, features are revealed to him as he does – his breath catches in his throat once more. His eyes close and he fights tears. He can't cry – not now.
That bag is re-zipped, and he moves onto the second.
This one is harder. His fingers are all over the place as he opens it; he's seen Ronon's still body before. Rodney's is new.
The scientist's face is surprised, almost as if he's just been told that Zelenka has a higher IQ than he does. But there's no pain, no fear. And for that he is grateful.
He unzips the top of Rodney's jacket and shirt and pulls out the tags resting beneath. As he breaks them off he's beginning to wish he hadn't insisted his team wear them – this is too painful.
But it's his duty, and he won't shirk it.
That knowledge doesn't help the incapacitating grief that thunders in his eyes and fills his eyes with tears.
They are gone.
---------
He had known before he did it exactly what he was doing that bright afternoon, despite what the others whispered.
He sits in his room in Atlantis, handgun hanging limply from his fingers. He stares at it, black metal in a sun-lit room. It seems so easy; such a quick way to make the pain end.
But he doesn't want the pain to end.
He failed them – he was their leader, he should have protected them. And he should be punished for that – it's all he deserves.
He flicks off the handgun's safety.
Their faces flash by in his mind – happy, laughing, teasing. A tear works its way free from his hazel eyes.
"I miss you," he whispers to the still air. "All of you."
He presses the gun to his upper arm, careful to avoid arteries. He doesn't want the agony to end; he doesn't want to die.
He wants to make it worse.
He pulls the trigger, and his anguished cry of pain and loss fills the room.
---------
He had known before he woke up in the Infirmary that he was going to get serious flak for what he'd done.
"Damnit John! What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?!" Elizabeth's voice is pained, angry. "We've lost enough people already! Don't add yourself to the list!"
"I'm not trying to kill myself," he murmurs absently.
"What are you trying to do then?"
He looks up, meets her gaze. "I'm making myself hurt."
"John…"
"I killed them," he interrupts, face set. "My team is dead because of me. I let them die. So I have to suffer for it." And he looks down, and doesn't speak again.
---------
He had known before the ceremony that he was going to do it again that night.
The flames flicker in the distance; the Athosian village is still and silent as the three bodies of three fallen heroes burn in the dusk. Everyone is there – solemn around the flames; no eye is dry.
The embers glow long into the night, and most of the mourners stay, watching.
Not him. He moves off a little way, into the fields. He finds a rock outcrop and sits there, watching the stars and the sky.
"I miss you," he whispers, again, as the wind gusts the ashes of his friends into the atmosphere, to forever be with Atlantis. "All of you. So damn much."
He killed them – he knows that. It is his fault.
He picks the thigh this time, and he doesn't scream as the shot rings out in the still night.
---------
He had known, all those years ago, that he would never really heal.
"John…"
"No, Elizabeth. I don't need help."
"You do."
"Then don't try."
He had known, all those years ago, that he would never leave Atlantis.
"John, there are people at home who can help you get through this – your family."
"I've told you before – I don't want help. And I can't leave here. My team is here. My family is here. I can't leave them."
He had known, all those years ago, that he would always carry three extra tags on the chain around his neck.
"Son, you need to let go, to get rid of their tags."
"I killed them Carson. I'm going to carry these until I die."
He had known, all those years ago, that he would never stop punishing himself for his failure.
"John, I hate seeing you like this."
"Well it's not gonna stop, Elizabeth."
And he had known, all those years ago, all these years since, that he would visit the memorial on the mainland every week, and shed bitter tears of loss and grief.
He traces his fingers over those three names, carved into the stone with a tender hand, just three more casualties in the war. He slides to his knees before the memorial and presses his head to the cold stone.
"I miss you," he whispers. "All of you. So much."
Tears transfer from his cheeks to the stone and are blown away by the gusting breeze.
"And I love you all."
---------
He knows that he will never move on, so he doesn't try.
He knows that his remaining friends will never stop trying to help him, but he doesn't let them.
He knows that pain isn't the answer, but he doesn't stop.
John Sheppard knows the he is well and truly broken.
--end--