Another chapter… finally! Honestly, this is the first time I've ever taken so long to update a current story. I'm so sorry for the delays. I started this story right before losing my job and got caught up in job hunting, getting a new job, getting settled into that job, and VancouverCon in March (which was a blast)
Job has changed my life. I'm very busy with it and am going through a period of adjustment to work out when I can write, which I have no intention of giving up:D
Anyway…. New chapter! Hope you enjoy it and thanks for the reviews and support:)
My thanks to Josie for giving the chapter a look-see and once over with a fresh perspective. Thank you:D
---------------------------------
"McMurdo, this is flight six. We're inbound with a medical emergency. Please respond!" John fought to keep control of the stick as relentless, sheer winds pounded the chopper. "McMurdo! Respond!" John braced his feet as a strong gust jarred the helicopter.
"Less bumps would be better," Edwards warned.
John risked a look over his shoulder at Edwards, knelt intently over Martinez. "Doin' my best."
"Sheppard… Stiles… back…?"
John shook his head at the static filled reply, but he still recognized the voice of his CO. "Colonel, you're breaking up. We're inbound with Lieutenant Martinez in critical condition. ETA 10 minutes."
"Sheppard… about… others…?"
John pursed his lips for a moment, fighting the frustrated anger within him. 'Damn I hate losing men…' "Negative, sir."
"Sheppard… copy?"
"Damn it," Edwards cussed softly but intensely. "He's got severe frostbite. I don't think they're going to be able to save his foot."
John pushed away the frustration he felt at the news. "Just keep him alive, we're almost there." He brought his left hand up to reinforce his right hand and pushed the chopper for more speed… well beyond the recommended parameters for these conditions. Not that rules ever stopped him before. 'Hell, the recommended parameters for these conditions is to land the damn thing and stay grounded…'
"Aw damn it! Cardiac arrest!" Edwards shouted.
He pushed the chopper harder…
"John?"
John pulled in a deep breath and slowly turned his head. He found a small smile for Elizabeth who stood just inside the privacy curtain.
She held up a book. "Came for your writing lesson." Elizabeth walked further in and stopped. She silently regarded him with a friendly but tense gaze. "You're looking better every day, John."
John subconsciously touched the light bandage on his head and scratched the short but growing hair on his crown. A fleeting thought about how much he hated buzz cuts and how he couldn't wait for his hair to grow out again, dashed across his mind before he narrowed his gaze slightly at the tense lines he saw on her face and the touch of worry in her eyes. In spite of the month that had passed since his injury, he still saw worry in her every time she visited him. But this time there was something more. He waited a long moment before speaking. "I am getting better you know."
Her smile widened slightly. "Yes you are. Carson tells me he has to keep you on a firm rein during your walks these days. That's the John Sheppard I know…" her voice trailed off and she looked away. "Sorry."
John took a deep breath. "It's okay." He reached up and lightly tapped his temple. "He's in there, somewhere."
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Right." She walked up to his bed and sat down in the chair next to him before opening the writing book, which she handed to him, along with a pencil.
John took them and arched an eyebrow at her. "I still don't believe that you don't have better things to be doing."
She leveled a determined gaze at him. "I don't. Right now, nothing is more important then you getting better, John." She drew in a deep breath and again looked away.
Frowning, John watched her for a moment. "What's wrong?"
A forced smile popped up on her face. "Nothing." She shrugged. "Well, nothing outside the usual things," she added, trying to sound light.
John didn't buy it. Not for a second.
"We… we've worked pretty closely for a while, haven't we?" He asked.
Elizabeth's smile was bittersweet. "Yes," she answered softly. "We've been through a lot in the last couple years…"
"Try again," he insisted quietly.
"What?" She questioned.
"What's wrong? And, tell me the truth this time," John's voice was quiet but firm.
She leaned back in her chair. "You've always been more curious than what's good for you." She arched a mischievous brow at him before her smile faded. "The IOA is concerned about your fitness to command, even once you've physically recovered. They're talking about having you relieved."
John looked away. He'd read enough Atlantis mission briefings during his recovery to know all about the IOA and the politics surrounding the Atlantis expedition. He pursed his lips. "I see."
"John," Elizabeth leaned forward, "I'm going to do everything I can to prevent that." Her expression turned slightly challenging. "The IOA may be in control, but I have some pretty influential contacts, I'm not done fighting yet. I'm not alone either. General O'Neill is putting some pressure on them as well." She stood and paced. "Even Colonel Caldwell seems to be open minded… for now. He's reserving judgment and stalling the IOA." She smiled slightly at him. "Guess you've managed to make an impression with him."
John tapped the pencil on the open book and frowned as he let the silence linger for a long moment. Forcing himself to look at things objectively he found a realization he didn't like but couldn't turn away from. "Not sure you should be fighting this, Elizabeth," he said quietly.
"What?" Her voice held a disbelieving tone as she walked back to his bed. "You can't be serious."
He looked up at her. "Like it or not, I'm the least experienced soldier on Atlantis now." He dropped his head. "Not exactly what you want in a commanding officer."
"John, you're getting better every day. The memories will come." Her gaze narrowed in blunt determination. "I'm not ready to give up on you just yet."
Slowly, John smiled. "Nice to know."
Elizabeth nodded. "Don't let this worry you, John, please. Just focus on getting better. The rest will take care of itself."
John sighed quietly. How could he not think about it? "Okay."
"Now," Elizabeth nodded at the book in his lap. "Where were we?"
----------------------------
Rodney resisted the urge to kick the scanner. "Piece of crap," he muttered, "I know you're hiding something from me." He knelt and stared at the control crystals again. He'd been inside this panel so many times he swore he had the lay out memorized. Rodney sat back and sighed. For close to two weeks, this damn scanner had been his life. He'd relentlessly shoved all his other projects of on Radek Zelenka and surprisingly the Czech doctor had taken it all in without a word. Rodney had no doubt Zelenka knew exactly what he was devoting his time too. "Everybody likes you, Sheppard," he sighed before reaching for a control crystal.
Rodney stopped mid-reach and stared, his eyes widening. He looked down at his pad and typed a few keys before looking back up at the crystals. "Is it that easy?" he whispered. He pulled one crystal and scooted to the next panel before inserting the crystal in an open control slot. He sat back for a moment. "McKay you are a genius," he smiled. Grabbing his pad, Rodney started hastily typing commands.
-----------------------------------
The mission report on M32-846 was not doing a good job of keeping John's attention. He looked up, his gaze wandering over the Ancient architecture. Elizabeth's words stuck with him and he felt the urgency in them. He couldn't remember much about the IOA, beyond what he'd recently read, but he'd tangled with pencil pushing bureaucrats before. They were all the same. He sighed quietly. This time though, while he chafed at their interference, he also saw their point. The military side of him saw the need for a strong, experienced officer commanding this outpost. Right now, he was far from that and there were no guarantees he'd ever be able to fill that role again. John grimaced and pushed the analytical, military part of himself aside. Memories or not, he knew, in his gut, that he belonged here and wanted… needed to stay. A rustling of the privacy curtain captured his attention and he looked up and straight into the face of Colonel Caldwell.
"Am I interrupting, Colonel?" Caldwell asked his face an impartial mask.
"No," John took a deep breath. "Just thinking. Come in, sir."
Caldwell walked in and stood at the foot of John's bed. "You look better, Sheppard."
John smiled faintly. "Thank you, sir."
Caldwell gazed at him a moment longer, before looking away. He inhaled deeply before letting his breath out noisily. "Dr. Weir informed me that she told you about the situation with the IOA." He looked back and stared impassively at John.
John licked his lips and nodded. "Yes, sir, she did."
Caldwell's gaze narrowed. "I'm going to be frank with you, Sheppard. I'm not convinced that you should remain in command of Atlantis, given your condition."
John's lips tightened as he clenched his jaw, but he said nothing.
"But," Caldwell crossed his arms across his chest, "I'm not convinced that you should be relieved yet either."
John's gaze narrowed. "With all due respect, sir, what exactly are you saying?"
Caldwell's expression turned bemused. "That I'm not ready to pass judgment on you, Colonel, and I thought you should know that." Caldwell stared at him a moment longer before turning away to leave.
John's mind raced. He knew that he and Caldwell'd had their run-ins, and it wasn't just from reading past mission reports. Somehow, Caldwell's statement felt unexpected. He looked up. "Sir?"
Caldwell turned back. "Colonel?"
John found a small smile and nodded slightly. "Thank you, sir."
Caldwell's expression turned slightly mocking, but still held a note of sincerity. "Don't thank me yet, Colonel." Without another word, he left John alone.
------------------------------------
The stillness of night did nothing to soothe John. He should be sleeping and he was sure that everyone in the infirmary believed he was. He glanced at the clock on a nearby table that read half past two. He quietly threw back the sheet, relieved that he'd been allowed to trade a hospital gown for scrubs and that he was finally rid of the bandage, although his head still felt tender and strangely bare. His hair was still short, but growing, the hair on his crown already starting to take a life of its own. Free of an IV for over a week now, there was nothing chaining John to his bed. He slowly sat up, breathing through the brief vertigo that washed over him. It got better every day, but still threw him for a loop whenever he got out of bed. Carson had reassured him it would fade in time, something John was grateful for. He was a pilot and vertigo was something that would ground him without a doubt. He eased off the bed. The cool floor felt refreshing as he slowly walked to the privacy curtain. Pulling it back slightly, he looked around, relieved to see, with the exception of a couple of sleeping patients, a deserted infirmary. After spending over a month here, he'd gotten to know the staff schedule pretty well. Especially since I spent the first few weeks being woke up every damn hour… In another half hour, the night staff would do their rounds and he planned on being gone by then.
John sighed quietly. Its not that he wanted to escape… okay, he really did want out but this was different. In the last week since Elizabeth had told him about the IOA, he'd chafed at the slowness of his recovery. His body felt stronger every day, but his head was still scrambled. Memories weren't coming back to him, and he knew it was because his surroundings never changed. John frowned. Okay, I don't know that… but his mind kept going back to the experience with the defibrillator and how it jarred his memories, if only briefly. Somehow, deep inside, he felt this was what he should do… what he needed to do.
He took a deep breath and walked out into the infirmary, taking a moment to pull the curtain closed behind him. Noiselessly, he walked across the infirmary and exited, wincing at the loud sound of the door opening then closing behind him. First thing's first… clothes. He took a left and headed straight for his quarters, relieved that in one of his previous walks, Carson had actually taken him there. His eyebrow quirked. Wouldn't do to have to stop and ask for directions…
He hoped the late hour would mean the hallways were deserted. Somehow he really didn't want to have to explain why he was walking the corridors of Atlantis in the middle of the night, barefoot and in infirmary scrubs. But, when he rounded a corner and found himself face to face with a female scientist, he just smiled and acted confident, in spite of her puzzled expression. He reached his quarters and entered, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.
Reaching out, John leaned on the doorframe, and took a deep breath. Irritation at his lack of stamina flared within him. Never mind he was only a little over a month out from a critical injury, he was still pissed that a walk from the infirmary to his quarters tired him so much. It was several long minutes before he let go.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, which read a quarter to three. In fifteen minutes, the night staff would discover he was gone. His quarters would be one of the first places they'd check and he planned on being gone by then. John winced slightly as he pushed back the thought of the butt chewing he was destined to get from Carson. In the past month, he'd re-learned that, while Carson was one of the kindest people he'd ever met, the man was downright tyrannical when it came to protecting a patient's health, or enforcing his care instructions even if the patient was the offender. He had a stare that would wither just about any Special Ops guy John had ever met and a tongue that would put his ex drill sergeant to shame.
John found a pair of pants and t-shirt along with socks and his combat boots and quickly got dressed. He turned to the chair next to his bed and picked up his lightweight, gray coat that lay over the back of the chair. He paused, his gaze settling on the holstered Beretta that laid on the seat a surge of hatred flowing through him.
"I'm not screwin' around, Bob! Did you sabotage this base or not?"
"… I don't think we've gone far enough!"
John sucked in a deep breath as adrenaline coursed through him. Wraith… Atlantis…
"Listen, Bob, I have no problem with killing you whatsoever."
Images of a tattooed Wraith, snarling in defiance, flashed across his mind's eye. John struggled to stay calm… to let the memories surface. But for now, his mind was done and the memories faded.
John sucked in a deep breath, determination steeling him. If he wasn't sure this was the right course of action for him before, he damn sure was positive now. Reaching out, he grabbed his sidearm and quickly strapped it around his waist and thigh before he left his quarters.
He strode down the hallway, away from his quarters. He took a deep breath and looked around as he continued walking, waiting for something to spur his memories. As he rounded a corner, he stopped, his gaze fixing on a wide, tall stairwell.
"… So long, Rodney…"
"Jumpers," he muttered before starting up the auxiliary staircase that led to the Jumper bay. At the halfway point he had to stop and rest, his irritation once more flaring but he kept it in check. He knew, deep down, that this excursion was doing him good. The last thing he needed was to pass out in some secluded stairwell. Starting again, John made his way up the last flights and stopped, staring at a large, closed door. He reached out, barely touching the control crystal and the door obligingly opened.
As he entered the large bay, he stopped, his eyes passing over several Jumpers patiently docked on different levels. He'd read enough mission reports to have an idea what the little ships were all about, but beyond that…
He knew there was so much more to remember. Feelings… experiences. He closed his eyes, his mind awash with memories…
Discovery…
"I'm thinkin' of a nice turkey sandwich…"
Urgency… his heart pounded…
"See anything that looks like a weapons console?"
Desperate sacrifice…
"Weapon is armed and ready… I'm goin' in."
John inhaled deeply, forcing himself to relax and let whatever memories that wanted to, surface.
"Not one of my better landings…"
"I'll give you a Jumper! I'll fly it out of here myself!"
The barriers that blocked his mind were down. John opened his eyes and slowly approached one of the ships.
"A little puddle jumper like this?"
Slowly, he ran his hand over the smooth surface.
"It's like it reads your mind…"
---------------------------
The Jumper hummed to life, spurred by the harmony it sensed in this one; the one that had awoken it after many millennia of slumber. There was no doubting his presence, the strength of his connection as he ran his hand over smooth metal. Sensors followed him as he stood on the opened back ramp. The link with this one was strong. He touched and it obeyed…
-----------------
John touched the interior wall, resisting the urge to jump as dim cab lights abruptly came on. The gene… He'd read enough mission reports to know about the ATA gene he carried, but what he felt as he walked into the Jumper was so much more than just impartial facts.
"You need me to get off this planet. I'm the only one that can fly that ship!"
He stopped, dead center in the Jumper and stared at the controls.
Okay, now what am I thinking?
---------------
The thoughts were vague, unfocused and always changing, but the ship obeyed, interpreted as best as possible what he wanted and provided it. That's what it was designed for, what the mental bond was all about. This one was it's pilot; the one that made it swoop freely through the skies as it was meant to. It would give him what he wanted… find what he needed…
--------------------
He slowly walked forward to the front of the Jumper. Abruptly, the cockpit lights came on, the control panels lighting up with a quiet hum. "Hello, baby," he muttered as he rested his hand on the back of the pilot's chair. Snapshots of memories still assaulted him. Flying… explosions….
"Hang on!"
John took one deep breath, then another. His memories flashed past him like a slideshow, so many of them too quick for him to recognize. The blackness of space, then the blue darkness of water…
"We're under water! I always wanted to try this…"
John sat down and smiled as he ran his hands over the smooth console. "I love flyin' you…"
It was more than facts. More than what he'd read in mission reports. The words came from deep inside him, their truth relieving him. For the first time in a month something came back to him with stark clarity and for the first time in a month, he felt like he belonged and in spite of the fading memories he felt content; felt like he'd made real progress and he couldn't help but smile because of it.
It was a long time before he moved, but when he stood his hand lingered on the control panel. "Thanks, girl," he muttered. He could've sworn he felt added warmth permeate his fingertips but he dismissed it as he pulled his hand away and the control panel went dark.
Exiting the back of the Jumper, John paused and looked at his watch. Three fifteen, but the adrenaline that flowed thorough him invigorated him and drove away any feelings of fatigue. He knew the med crew would be on the hunt for him now. He knew eventually they'd find him, or he'd make his way back to the infirmary when he was ready, to face the wrath of Carson. But even if he was found now, what just happened and the progress he felt, made it all worth it.
He slowly walked out of the Jumper bay, his mind deep in thought. He tried to pull on each memory; each thought that had run through his mind to find the meaning of them. The snarling, tattooed Wraith stood out above all of them and he unconsciously winced. Bob… He'd read the mission report, knew what that Wraith had stood for, and how they'd barely escaped the siege Bob's kin had unleashed on Atlantis. But the raw hatred had never been there… not until now. His mind jumped from one Wraith to another… a nameless Wraith he faced alone, wounded with only a knife and an empty nine mil to defend himself…
"…Lock onto the biggest life sign signals you can see and fire."
"That's an order, Lieutenant! Do it!"
"McKay, run!"
He stopped extending one hand, shaking with anger to steady himself against the wall. He took one breath, then another. That was why he was the CO; why he served here. He'd fought the Wraith and won… more than once. It was more than just defending Atlantis and Earth. For him, it was personal. He'd lost people under his command to the Wraith and he had a score to settle.
John swallowed hard, his anger tempered by the cool, analytical mind of a soldier. He wasn't bent on vengeance or consumed by hatred, but he knew that the fire of those emotions, buried deep down, served only to strengthen his resolve, the same resolve that had gotten him out of more hopeless situations than he cared to admit.
He resumed walking, the cool, deserted corridors of Atlantis soothing him. He stopped in front of a large set of doubled doors and stared at them for a moment, before running his hand over the control crystal. The doors parted and he slowly walked out onto a large, outdoor balcony.
John took a deep breath, the tang of salt water invigorating him. It wasn't that Atlantis was stuffy, the Ancient city was far from that, but nothing could replace the refreshing feeling that ocean air brought to him, the comfort his spirit found in the open air. He was born to be a pilot and wide-open spaces with seemingly endless skies always soothed his soul. Slowly, he walked across the large balcony.
You have earned both my friendship and that of my people. With our help you will make many more friends…
John smiled. Teyla. He hadn't seen much of the Athosian woman in the past few weeks. His brows knitted slightly. That wasn't normal; somehow he just knew it. Instinctively, he realized something with Teyla was wrong.
My team?
For a moment, he berated himself for not realizing it sooner, but quickly dismissed the thought. You know something's wrong now. Better late than never. He put the thought aside; something to rectify in the coming days, and continued walking towards the distant railing.
You do realize I can get us into all sorts of trouble, right?
He reached the railing and stopped, his hands slowly closing over the cool metal as he leaned slightly on it.
-------------------------------
The warmth of his hand was not lost on it. Triggered by his touch the city awaited his command; orders from one it was designed to obey… to serve. It responded with a subtle warmth only he would feel if he was receptive to it…
--------------------------------
His gaze roamed over the city, the tall spires from each pier reflecting the bright moonlight. The majesty humbled him and it wasn't because his injury made it all new. Somehow, John knew, the view of the city would always be far from ordinary.
"We're moving!"
"On the surface without a shield? We're target practice."
"You don't leave people behind!"
His thoughts drifted. His post here was a post of a lifetime. Even with his scant memories, innately John knew there was nowhere else he'd rather be. His loud sigh was tinged with frustration. His position here was endangered. The military part of him understood, although reluctantly. The intel he needed and the experience that he'd carried were vital components of his command. Without them…
John pushed away from the railing and walked slowly across the balcony. He could feel the tension… the scrutiny from Caldwell and through him, the IOA. He was on display, every aspect of his recovery subject to close judgment and it was wearing thin on him. 'course if I'd just remember… He ran a frustrated hand over his stubble of hair. That was the hitting point, wasn't it? If he just had his memories… all of them, not just these snippets that filled in the blanks with the consistency of Swiss cheese. He returned to the railing, his emotions churning and no longer finding peace. Innately, he knew he belonged here and the thought of being sent away… of being denied his post here went against every instinctive fiber in his body. His gaze drifted out across the city again. He could remember barely anything about her, but like an irresistible woman, he knew he couldn't accept losing her… he wouldn't accept it.
McKay… Somehow, John knew deep inside that McKay was the one to turn to for answers. He'd always listened to his gut, and it had gotten him out of trouble more times than it had gotten him into it. Bowing to his instinct, John turned and headed back towards the door, only to stop mid way as he staggered, trying to keep his feet. His vision doubled and knees buckled as his weak and healing body reached the end of its limited endurance. He fell hard, catching himself on his arm and side, somehow keeping his vulnerable head from impacting. He hissed in pain and cradled his left wrist in his right hand. "Damn it!" He moved his fingers experimentally and rolled onto his back, carefully letting his tender head come to rest on the cool deck plating. John settled his injured wrist on his chest and bent his knees before he looked up at the stars, their light dimmed by the full moon. "Carson's gonna kill me…" he muttered.