John descended the darkened stairwell, feeling his heart lighten and his adrenaline surge with pleasure. He was free. There was no way in hell they were going to get him back. With dark determination, he suddenly realized that he'd rather take a bullet than face the needles and restraints again.
As the floors fell away above him, the halls that opened out from the turns at each floor glowed brightly into the otherwise dim stairs. Apparently the stairs weren't regularly used, but the halls buzzed with the sound of people going about their business and murmuring in mundane conversation. John skulked quietly past each landing, taking the turns sharply and staying out of the line of sight altogether. As he slipped past yet another glowing door, he wondered idly what was going on in each hallway. Bunkers of soldiers cleaning and repairing weapons flicked through his imagination…as did torture chambers and more "examination" rooms. He quickly decided he should stop wondering about what was "going on" down those halls…
When he finally reached the floor that he assumed was ground level, he paused again. The woman had said to go through the East wing, then turn north. He thought back to his journey to the clinic and his cell that first time, and realized that he'd been indoors the entire trip. Perhaps all the buildings in this part of the city were connected? That could really make things harder – it was a lot easier to travel unnoticed outdoors.
John pressed himself beside the door and took a swift look into the ground floor hall. The gleaming marble-like floors and high painted ceilings seemed a stark contrast to the utilitarian concrete block and tile hallways above. There were wide doors that lead off the main hall, and men and women in both casual dress and the familiar long-orange coats moved between them. They seemed unalarmed, but there were two security-thug-types standing alertly further down at the junction of more corridors.
John pulled his head back in and pressed his back into the wall, wondering where to go next. From this angle, his eyes fell on a small square plaque just beside the stairs. He looked around, then stepped closer. It was clearly a fire escape map, and John almost chuckled at the ubiquitous nature of bureaucracy everywhere. The map was quite enlightening and he studied it carefully for some time. Despite its few details, it helpfully indicated orientation and the basic footprint of the building he was currently in. Hospital, my ass, he thought sulkily.
Checking quietly again that the hall was undisturbed, John turned downwards again and skipped down the steps to the basement levels.
Two floors later, he was satisfied with the dank empty nature of the hallway beyond the stairwell door and he turned into its comforting gloominess. The dull orange lights above his head were simple bare bulbs with exposed conduit running between them. Rusty metal doors concealed creaking and groaning machinery that no doubt powered and serviced the building around him.
He limped further into the hall, trying to quicken his pace, his sore hip protesting the many stairs it had been forced to navigate. According to the map, he was in the far West wing and he had only to travel in basically a straight line East until he hit the next building. John met no one and heard no sounds until he had crossed perhaps half the length of the building and reached a wide intersection of halls. He was in the heart of the complex and he slowed, edging to the side. Friendly murmurs and the occasional grunt of laughter echoed through the stone corridors and John stopped altogether, trying to get a bead on the voices. The echoes and background clanking made identifying sounds difficult.
Creeping slowly towards the corner of his hallway, he leaned carefully into the first intersection. The wide cross-hall was more brightly lit and there seemed to be a largish group of men, by the voices, gathered at one end. Blinking in the light, John crouched lower. The voices laughed again and grew rowdily raucous. A sudden grinding rumble filled every inch of the space with nearly deafening sound and John jumped, slapping his hands over his ears.
The group of men began to move slowly closer to him, the rumble moving with them and John scurried back the way he'd come, rattling doorknobs and searching for some place to hide in the otherwise featureless hall. The rumble was nearly at the intersection when a knob finally turned and a door finally grated open, its screaming creak drowned out by the groaning behind him.
John ducked through and crouched again, curiosity getting the better of him. He peeked down the hall to watch the men pass by.
An enormous cart on rusty metal wheels screeched into view, pushed by no fewer than 8 huge, filthy men dressed in common grey overalls. They seemed to be chanting or singing as they pushed the loaded vehicle, but no sound of it reached John's ears over the groaning cart. Coal perhaps, or the local equivalent? Being moved from the stores to the boiler?
John cursed the delay as another slow, moaning cart was pushed down the hall soon after the first. He considered simply walking past the workers, waving a jaunty "see ya" and going on his way until a pair of security escorts sauntered down the hall between the trainloads, resting long rifle-like weapons against their shoulders. Perhaps they were there to search for him, assuming he might seek the basements for cover. Or perhaps they simply escorted every load of coal. Either way, John sighed and turned further into the room he'd opened instead.
It was a small office of some sort, tucked in between steel pipes and enormous copper plumbing joints. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, John saw an entire wall of blue, red and green garden-faucet-like valve handles and he idly wondered what kind of havoc turning a few of those off or on could cause. The single dented metal desk offered only a simple desk lamp, and some neatly stacked papers lay in front of the scratched wooden chair. Two other doors led off the room and John wandered over to turn the handles. One was a closet, the other was unlocked, but rusted shut.
Returning to the door, he watched yet another cart of coal grind by and another pair of armed escorts shuffle along with it, so he went to the wall of valves, flicked a spider-thing off a green one, then decided to tug on the rusted door a little bit more. He stopped when the rather annoyed tug on the handle tweaked his side, reminding him, again, that the cracked rib was still present and still sore.
He checked the door again, kicking at the chair as he passed. He was fidgety again. Agitated far beyond normal specs. He needed to get moving, he needed to get to the 'gate. He was quite certain he'd find someone to take out his nervous aggression on there. For a moment, he realized he should be thinking about what to do once he did get to the Stargate. The doctor was quite correct that it was heavily guarded. He'd learned that the moment he stepped through into the arms of a dozen or so uniformed guards.
Trying to slow down his thoughts, he tried to concentrate, to remember the layout of the courtyard and think through some plan that would allow him access. He met with limited success, only managing to find ways to pace more efficiently around the small plumber's office. He checked the door again.
And froze.
The first carts were moving away, their noise fading a little as they followed whatever monotonous path they were on. But one cart was stopped dead in the intersection and the bulky coalmen were talking awkwardly to a pair of military soldiers. John recognized the black and tan design of the uniforms as the same as those who had "greeted" him at the Stargate. More people were grouped behind them, partially blocked by the cart, but John ducked quickly back into the office without taking a good look and shut the door into the hallway as quietly and slowly as he could muster with shaking hands and pounding heart.
He paced back and forth just behind the door in the dark room, the strip of light glowing through the crack at the floor providing the only light. They were on to him. Somehow they'd followed him here. No wait, that made no sense. He'd left no trail, he'd seen no one. He could be anywhere as far as they were concerned. Could they have assumed he'd make for the Stargate and just taken a guess at his most obvious path? Had he been that obvious?
He ran his hands through his hair, then leaped to the desk to yank the chair – quietly -- over to the door and prop it under the knob. A simple trick, worth a few seconds of delay should they come knocking. They won't, he thought with forced optimism. They didn't see him. There was no reason on… wherever he was…that anyone would look in this room.
The screeching rumble started up again, and John held his breath, hoping the soldiers had talked to the cart pushers, discovered nothing, and simply left. He was suddenly glad he hadn't walked blithely past those men earlier. Then he heard voices in the hallway, calling out above the shrieking noise and coming closer with every word.
"Sheppard! You can come out, it's us!"
"John, we mean you no harm. We're here to take you home."
John froze, petrified. They were calling to him. They did know he was here. Holy Shit, how did they know he was here?!
John scrambled again to the desk, this time shoving the entire thing against the door and managing to wedge it against a jutting pipe. The noise as the desk slid across the concrete floor was deafening in the small room, but he was counting on the noise outside to mask the ruckus. Panting, he paced again, for the first time understanding McKay's frequent complaints about claustrophobia. He opened the closet door, then dismissed it again as a hiding spot. If they tracked him to the room, he'd be completely vulnerable in the closet.
He froze again. They tracked him. They tracked him...
His right hand drifted to his left arm.
Murmurs and more shouting reached him from directly outside the hall door, and John pressed himself against the far wall, shaking with fury at being hunted and trapped like a wild animal. The door rattled and someone began to shake the knob. The chair shifted slightly, then lodged again.
"John, it's Elizabeth. We know you're not feeling well, but you have to trust us. We just want to take you home."
John blinked. How? How could they know about Elizabeth? Why would they use that name to try to lure him out? He slid further along the wall, further from the voices and his hand bumped into the jammed door he'd been unable to open before. With a snarl of frustration, he turned and yanked furiously in pure desperation. To his surprise and triumph, the door creaked and popped, and he felt a slight wiggle. Bracing himself and holding his breath against the sharp sting in his side, he yanked again. The door slid open one inch, then another.
On the far side of the room, the hall door rattled just as violently and the chair jerked, then fell over. John shot a glance at the sudden 2 inch beam of light that spilled in from the hallway, then choked in relief as the metal desk halted any further advance. His own door creaked open another millimeter and he growled with the effort of pulling it that last measure that would allow him to squeeze through.
"John, dammit! Open the door, and that's an order. Not that you ever follow them!" The desk was beginning to scoot away from the repeated banging against its corner.
For a fraction of an instant, John hesitated as he was turning to wedge his shoulder into the gap he'd forced open, mesmerized by the words that would have seemed so exasperatingly familiar if they had actually come from Elizabeth. The voice even sounded a bit like Elizabeth, he thought. A sudden rush of homesickness constricted his throat, and he cried out a furious, "No!" as he squeezed through the opening, scraping his chest painfully against the rusty metal edge.
Once on the other side, he quickly turned and began pulling the door shut again, inch by grinding inch. Inside the plumber's office, he heard the banging grow more frantic then a screeching crash as the desk gave way.
John pulled with every once of his remaining strength and his door creaked shut. There was a sturdy bolt on this side that he could just make out in the dim-orange lighting of whatever room he was now in, and he threw it.
Arms shaking, side aching, sweat dripping into his eyes, he stumbled away from the door, and sat down heavily on the damp concrete floor. He tried to stand again, then groaned, instead wrapping his arms around his middle to flop over onto his side. He could just make out the high ceiling above him and part of the large dim room around him, so thick with pipes and plumbing and banks of gauges that the walls themselves were obscured. Aside from the quiet shushing and plinking of equipment, the room was quiet and blessedly cool.
John lay for a long moment.
It was all starting to make sense, at least. He'd been right in guessing that Niklas would try to ransom him for more weapons like the ones he'd had with him when he arrived. Somehow, they'd found Atlantis, or someone from Atlantis. They had talked to Elizabeth, who, of course, had refused to bargain. But that was how they'd known her name.
He still hadn't figured out how they knew to scan for his transponder signal, but it hardly mattered. They had it, and they would find another way around the bolted door to keep looking for him. As if on cue, there was muffled banging from the plumber's office, and John startled. The sudden fearful noise propelled him – groaning and cursing – to sit up again in weary determination. He shifted on the floor, trying to find an angle that didn't pinch the protesting ribs, then gave up and lurched to his feet.
He was still looking around the room, trying to decide which way he should go when the banging stopped. John glared at the door and crossed his arms to rub a finger against the small, nearly indistinguishable lump in the skin just behind his bicep. Damn transponder.
Making a sudden decision, he turned East and worked his way through the jumbled pipes and machines. He'd lead them on a merry chase for a while, at least, he thought with evil satisfaction. In the meantime, he had some planning to do. He ducked his head and crawled between a pair of massive, dripping water pipes
When he finally found another set of doors out of the plumbing room, he peeked into the empty, quiet southbound hallway beyond, then closed them again. Turning his back and bracing himself against the doors, he reached once more for his belt buckle and slowly tugged it off.