A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating… again! Busy real life and I rescued a cute kitty from the animal shelter so he's been taking my time as well. ;) Only one more chapter after this! :)
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For those of you that have read some of my other work, you may recognize a few references here, but reading my other stories isn't necessary for understanding this one.
Long before a back story for Sheppard was established with Outcast, I took the MGM/Scifi description of his father being a celebrated Cold War Colonel and ran with it, writing a trilogy of stories surrounding Sheppard and his father. For me, that always has felt 'real'. So forgive me if I continue down my now AU path for John Sheppard's life…
--
The warm darkness was comforting.
"You've been here before."
John turned around, following the voice to the motionless form of his father. "Dad?" he whispered.
Marcus Sheppard walked towards him. "You look good… well as good as you could, considering the circumstances."
John blinked and looked around, his gaze finding only inky darkness. He returned his attention to his father. "Dad, how… where…"
Marcus shook his head. "Don't try to understand," he said quietly. A peculiar look crossed his face; a satirical cross between humor and worry. "But you've done this before… we've done this before."
John just stared at him, but his mind raced, looking back, finding memories his conscious mind had never seen. A planet. Cold... His moment of realization must've shown on his face, because his dad nodded in agreement. "I told you to be strong then, and you were. I'm telling you to do it again."
John turned away. "I'm strong all the time Dad, at least I try to be. But, I'm not sure how many more times I can do this."
"As many times as you have to." Marcus' voice took on a hard edge as he walked closer to his son. "I pushed you hard, John, I know. But there was a reason." He paused.
John slowly turned and looked at a face filled with regret.
"I know it drove a wedge between us and I regret that much, but you've always been strong, son, from the day you were born." He pursed his lips as his gaze narrowed. "Strength like that will drive you to do great things, John… to make a difference."
Again, John turned away, words fleeing him. What could he say to the man that had forged him into what he was today? The man who he'd always loved, even when they nearly came to blows several times over the years. "I don't know if I can do it, Dad…"
"You can," Marcus insisted. "You were strong for them on the planet. Got them out of that hellhole."
Unconvinced, John sighed. "Not everyone."
"By now, you should know that you can't save everyone all the time, John… you did save your team. Accept that." Marcus said quietly. "Son, look at me.", he waited until John turned and faced him before he continued. "It's always been easier for you to be strong for others; that's your mother in you." A wistful smile crossed his face. "I'm telling you now to take that strength for yourself. Be selfish, John. You've earned the right."
John tried to answer, but pain stole his voice and abruptly his father disappeared…
"… unconscious… lost a lot of blood… surgery…"
Disconnected voices reached him as the darkness around John gave way to light. He groaned quietly and was rewarded with a shuffle of feet around him.
"Colonel?"
His mind clearing slightly, he recognized Carson's distinct accent as he forced his eyes open. "Doc?" he whispered.
"Aye," Carson's voice was equally quiet. "Just lie back and relax, son. We're taking you into surgery soon. We'll get ye fixed up in a jiffy."
John drew in a stuttering breath, the air behind his oxygen mask warm and humid. His eyes moved, taking in the room around him; and recognized the pre-op ward. Carson's green surgery scrubs only confirmed his suspicions. "Others?" he managed.
"In beds of their own."
Carson's voice betrayed an edge that, even in his muddled state, John easily recognized as exasperation. He guessed the fight to keep them in bed had been a lulu to watch. "Didn't like it?" John offered, one corner of his mouth turning up in a shadowed imitation of a smile.
"Aye, pigheaded buggers," Carson grumbled, but his tone was affectionate if not entirely patient. "Ronon's the worst off, but of course was the hardest to keep in bed. Had to sedate him to make him stay."
John forced his eyes open wider. "'s okay?" Worry tensed him and John groaned as his body protested. He felt a warm, firm grip on his shoulder.
"Aye, he'll be fine," Carson reassured quietly. "Antibiotics and a week's rest and he'll be back to his charming self. Teyla and Rodney are banged up a little, a bit dehydrated and malnourished, but otherwise fine."
John let out a pent up breath and forced his body to relax.
Carson sighed loudly. "I daresay, Colonel, that you're the worst off of the lot. So, stop fretting about them and think about you. Use some of the pig headed stubbornness on yourself for a change," he chastised lightly.
"I'm telling you now to take that strength for yourself. Be selfish, John. You've earned the right."
John let his father's words sooth him as he nodded slightly, his eyelids drooping. He watched Carson inject something in his IV right before a warm flush raced through his body and he surrendered to oblivion.
--
Elizabeth stood silently at the foot of Ronon's bed, her gaze fixed on his peaceful face. Sweat still lined his brow, and his complexion was pale and far from normal, but not even with his strength was he able to resist the sedation Carson had resorted to administering. Her eyes drifted upwards and fixed on the IV hanging over his head; providing a cocktail of antibiotics to combat the infection from his wound and fluids for dehydration.
"Carson said he should be fine."
Elizabeth turned her head and smiled thinly at Rodney, who was picking at the remnants of food on his dinner tray, but she said nothing. She knew Rodney was trying, in his own way, to reassure her even though she'd been party to Carson's diagnosis of Ronon's condition. Still, seeing the big man so still and weak, bothered her. For while he'd been so standoffish in the beginning, he'd become an integral part of Sheppard's team and of her expedition and she worried for his welfare.
"He is strong," Teyla added, pushing her tray aside.
Elizabeth turned away from Ronon's bed and walked a short distance to stand between Rodney and Teyla's. Both of them were clean and wore fresh scrubs and both had IV bags hanging over their heads, slowly dripping fluids down a long tube leading into each of their arms. Laced into the fluids was a broad spectrum antibiotic being administered as a precaution against the filthy surroundings they'd been forced to live in. When Elizabeth had first seen them, she'd hoped her eyes were being deceived by dirt and grime but, even clean, she could plainly see that they all had lost considerable weight through their ordeal. "Shouldn't the two of you be resting?" She asked, lightly.
"Do I look like I'm running a marathon?" Rodney replied, his tone slightly annoyed.
Elizabeth chose to say nothing. Beyond the normal, snappy attitude of Rodney McKay she knew that, in this case, there was an underlying concern that made his tongue that much sharper. Unconsciously, she looked past him towards the closed doors leading to the OR. A quiet sigh escaped her.
"He will recover, Elizabeth," Teyla stated softly.
The same thin smile from before graced her face for a moment before she looked down at Teyla. "What happened?"
"The Wraith began culling the planet shortly after we arrived." Teyla responded. "We were ambushed by Wraith soldiers while trying to return to the Stargate and were captured."
Elizabeth nodded. "The details we were able to ascertain while we searched for you were sketchy at best, but it's my understanding that you were taken for some sort of… sport fighting?"
"Think of Ancient Rome, Elizabeth," Rodney interjected. "Gladiatorial combat," Rodney's voice wavered slightly, "with a Wraith twist. The fights were to survive. The losers of each bout, more often than not, were fed upon by the queens."
Elizabeth turned her head and stared at him for a moment. "Oh my God…" Her gaze narrowed as she struggled to grasp what he was telling her while, at the same time, noting the guilt that permeated his expression. "Rodney?"
"It was not your fault, Rodney," Teyla interjected.
"What wasn't?" Elizabeth's gaze intensified.
Rodney looked back at her for a moment before dropping his head. "The Wraith male… when we were captured, he could tell, I mean he knew… that I wasn't a fighter. He was going to feed on me." Rodney waved his hand absently. "Sheppard he… he struck a deal with the Wraith," he gestured at Teyla even though he didn't make eye contact with her. "They'd fight. In exchange the Wraith wouldn't outright kill me."
"As I said," Teyla insisted, "you should not feel guilt over this. The alternative was the Wraith feeding upon all of us without hesitation. This way, gave us some time and eventually led to our escape with our lives."
Elizabeth nodded. "Teyla is right, Rodney."
"I know that!" Rodney snapped. "But you didn't have to watch them fight for their lives again and again and be powerless to…." His voice trailed off and he blushed at his outburst; something that revealed more of himself then he was comfortable exposing.
Elizabeth's lips pressed into a thin line before she walked over and squeezed his arm gently. "Rodney," she said quietly. She caught his gaze and held it, letting her reassuring and compassionate expression speak in tones louder than words.
"You would have done the same for any of us, Rodney," Teyla added softly. "As Colonel Sheppard has said, it is part of being a team." Teyla paused for a long moment, and then continued. "Perhaps, we can teach you how to at least defend yourself?"
That much yanked Rodney out of his guilt. "That's what guns are for," he replied sarcastically. "The last thing I want is to be like Conan over there," he gestured at Ronon's bed. "I'll stick with solving things with my brain and leave the brawn up to you three, thank you very much."
Elizabeth looked over at Teyla and shared a knowing smile with her.
"Oh fine, sure, I get it," Rodney added. He shot an accusatory look at Teyla who just shrugged.
"My offer was sincere, Rodney," she answered, her tone just a little too sweet.
"Right! Funny!" Rodney flopped back on his pillow with a huff.
Still holding her smile, this one much broader with relief, Elizabeth pulled up a chair and settled back, content, as they were, to wait for Carson and word on John.
--
Carson swore surgery just wasn't as easy as it used to be.
He rubbed the back of his neck and groaned as he immediately amended his thought. It's never been easy. Six hours after they'd entered the operating room, Colonel Sheppard was in recovery and Carson found himself, aches and all, headed out to talk to the people he knew would be waiting for him. He took a deep breath as the doors parted and he entered the main area of the infirmary.
He looked to his left and met three sets of expectant eyes. Elizabeth sat between Teyla and Rodney's beds and they all were looking at him. Not far beyond Teyla, Ronon, still sedated and definitely sicker then he'd admitted, slept soundly. Carson smiled slightly at Teyla, Rodney and Elizabeth and walked over to them as Elizabeth stood.
"Carson? How is he?" Elizabeth asked immediately, her voice tired but concerned.
"He's in recovery," Carson answered. "It was a lot of work; his arm was a mess, but I think we got things pretty much patched up. We can just be thankful the laceration was to the vein and not the artery. Sympathetic pressure saved him from bleeding to death."
"Then he will be all right?" Teyla asked.
Carson sighed deeply. "It looks promising. The tissue surrounding the wounds took a hell of a beating as well. That thing didn't just bite him, it mangled his arm. He'll carry some scars from this."
"Yeah," Rodney's voice was soft. "Once it got a hold of him, it shook his arm pretty hard before he got free."
"Aye," Carson nodded. "It looked it. I can't be sure but there looks like there could be some trauma to the radial nerve, which isn't unexpected. How extensive the damage is, I won't know until he wakes up and we can take a look at the motor skills in his hand."
"And if it's damaged?" Elizabeth asked.
Carson stared at her a moment, reluctant to be pressed for answers he wasn't sure he had. "It depends on how bad the injury is, Elizabeth," he answered. "If the damage is minor, it should heal on its own with the help of physical therapy. If the damage is more substantial, nerve graphs may be necessary. At this point, I can't tell and I can't make you any promises."
"But, he will recover?" Rodney piped in, all traces of the normal acerbic attitude he carried, gone.
Carson turned his hesitant look on Rodney. "Aye, he should," he answered.
"Should?" Elizabeth's gaze narrowed in concern.
Carson was unwilling to raise her expectations, but was also equally as unwilling to dash them apart. "Yes, should." He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Elizabeth, I can't make you any guarantees, but the injury, while serious, could've been a lot worse. At this point, be thankful for that much." He gave her a small smile, to which she just nodded silently.
--
"See? You're stronger than you think you are, John."
John turned around, again being met with the sight of his father watching him patiently. A small smile turned up one side of his mouth. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess?" Marcus Sheppard replied. "I know." His smile deepened. "Don't ever forget that."
John slowly opened his eyes and looked around. As the fog of unconsciousness faded away, he became more and more aware of his body. He could feel a snug bandage on his right arm and another crossing his abdomen, presumably bandaging the sword gash on his side. His entire body ached and he felt about as strong as newborn. Probably about as helpless too… He turned his head slightly, his check rubbing against soft padding. John groaned quietly as his awareness sharpened. His entire left arm felt restricted and it was only then he realized it was bound from over his shoulder, all the way down to just above his wrist, by a thick, snug bandage. He sucked in a deep breath, memories swarming over him. Patch, Wraith, fighting… Malneks…
"You're awake, I see."
John turned his head left and a corner of his mouth turned up slightly at Carson's smile. "Hey," he rasped against a dry throat.
"Hey yourself." Carson walked over to his bed, picked up a cup and held the straw to his mouth. "Slowly now. I didn't just put ye back together only to have you choke."
John's smile deepened slightly around the straw as he sucked up a mouthful of ice cold water. He swallowed and settled his head back against the pillow. "Good."
"Aye, I'll bet. All of you came in here dehydrated and malnourished."
At the mention of his team, John tensed. "Teyla, Ronon, Rodney?" He started to lift himself off the bed, only to run, chest first, in to Carson's firm hand.
"None of that now," Carson admonished gently. "Teyla and Rodney are fine. Nothing some IV's and a few hot meals won't cure. Ronon isn't far behind. He's responding well to the antibiotics."
John relaxed under Carson's strong hand and allowed himself to be pushed back down onto the bed. Not that he'd managed to rise far, but the few inches he'd gained seemed like a mile to his battered body. He turned his head left. "Arm?"
Carson sighed. "It was a mess. Those beasties did a number on ye, lad."
John closed his eyes momentarily against the memory of hot carrion breath, growls and searing pain. "Yeah." He drew in a deep breath. "Is it okay?"
"'Tis patched up, but I want to check a couple of things," Carson responded. "Close your eyes and tell me when you feel me touch the back of your hand."
John nodded slightly and closed his eyes. Mentally, he focused on his left hand and waited. Just when he was about to open them and ask Carson what was taking him so long, he felt the brush of what he thought was the point of a pen across his middle finger and first knuckle. "Now."
"Keep them closed and tell me again when you feel the pen on your hand," Carson's tone was neutral.
John sighed and again focused on his hand. Once again, it seemed ages before he felt Carson's pen trace across his middle finger onto his index finger. "Now," The touch continued up his hand towards his wrist before abruptly the sensation disappeared. John opened his eyes. "I felt…" his voice trailed off as his gaze focused on the pen, still touching his hand, it's tip grazing cross his pinkie. His heart thudded in his chest as he realized he couldn't feel it. His whole body tensed. "Doc," his whisper was strangled by his tight throat.
"It's all right," Carson reassured immediately. "I thought this might happen."
"I can't feel it." The words tumbled out of John's mouth; though judging by Carson's expression, this wasn't unexpected.
"I know," Carson answered. He fixed John with a strong and reassuring gaze. "I know its unsettling son, but it's okay."
"Like hell it is," John hissed back before he took a deep breath, forcing iron control over his surge of emotion. He watched as Carson slid his hands under his bandaged arm.
"Relax your whole arm and don't do any work. Let me do all the lifting." Carson instructed.
John nodded, wincing slightly at dull spikes of pain shooting up from his protesting bicep. But as quickly as they hit, they dulled against what John was sure was a nifty cocktail of happy juice. "Thanks for the drugs," he commented, trying to hold a light tone.
One side of Carson's mouth quirked. "Aye." His smile faded as he stared at John's limp wrist. "Lift your hand slowly, Colonel."
John internally shrugged at the easy request, but his emotions surged again as, no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn't lift his hand. Pathetically limp under his gaze, his fingers twitched slightly, but that was all the response he could muster. "What the hell…" his voice trailed off as he felt a bitter stab of fear. "Doc," he whispered as Carson slowly lowered his arm to the bed, "what's wrong?" He gasped slightly, his breaths resembling something of a pant as he waited for Carson's answer.
"Looks like radial nerve damage," Carson answered. "I'm not surprised, given the extensive trauma to the entire area surrounding your humerus."
John's racing mind suddenly zeroed in on one thought. Words like 'disability' and 'honorable discharge' flashed across his mind. "Tell me I can recover from this," he insisted quietly.
Carson's expression turned reassuring. "Aye. 'Tis unsettling, I know, but the prognosis on an injury like this is very good. There's no reason to believe you won't recover fully with therapy and hard work."
John took a deep, calming breath. "Unsettling is an understatement, Carson."
Carson nodded in response.
John drew in another breath, pushing away the thoughts of his own injuries. "I need to talk to Elizabeth."
Carson shook his head. "No, you need your rest…"
"Carson," John interrupted, "this is important." He stared hard at Carson. "Please," his voice was quiet but intense.
After a long moment, Carson pressed his lips together and nodded. "Only for a few minutes, then you rest. Deal?"
John nodded. "Deal." He stared up at the ceiling as Carson left and tried to push through the muddled effects of the waning anesthesia and organize his thoughts. He'd be better prepared to talk to Elizabeth if he took some time to completely get over the anesthetic drugs, but right now that wasn't a luxury he felt he had.
After several minutes, John was starting to doubt that Carson heeded his request but as he thought of ways to get to Elizabeth on his own, the door parted and she quickly walked through, making a beeline for his bed.
"John," she smiled thinly. "Shouldn't you be resting?"
"Probably," John admitted blinking hard, "but this can't wait."
Elizabeth took another step closer to his bed. "What can't wait? What's wrong?"
John took a deep breath. "The planet. All those prisoners." His brow furrowed. "Elizabeth, we can't just leave them there to die." He held onto her gaze until she closed her eyes and turned away. She took a long moment before she responded.
"Two of the queens survived, John."
She spoke softly, but John could hear the resolute tone in her voice. Still, he held his peace. Working with Elizabeth had taught him that his points went over much better if he let her speak without interruption; something it took him a while to learn.
"The planet is surely fortified against further attacks… if they're even still there." She turned back to him. "We can't do this. We can't risk compromising Atlantis."
John's lips tightened and his gaze turned distant as he thought of the helpless slaves, the hopeless fighters. The place had their "Patch" fighters, he was certain of that, but they also had people like Della who, while fighters, still were good people at heart; people that fought because they had to, not because they wanted to. They deserved a life… they deserved to be helped.
"Rodney and Teyla mentioned that one of the prisoners nearly killed you," Elizabeth went on, "yet, you still want to try to help them?"
John heard the hardness in her voice and realized she needed more of a reason for his request. "They didn't tell you about Della, did they?" he asked quietly. He looked up, taking the confusion in her eyes as her answer. "Didn't think so," he added softly.
"Who was Della?" Elizabeth walked back to his bed, her gaze questioning.
John swallowed. "One of the fighters. She helped us when she could with information we needed to survive, until we figured out what was going on."
"Is she still there?" Elizabeth asked.
John's eyes slid shut, the memory of Della being dragged from her cell still haunting him. "She got sick and the Wraith took her away." He looked down and fingered the fringe of his blanket with his good hand. "We found out later that one of the queens fed on her because she was too sick to survive on her own." John shook his head. "We could've helped her." A long silence compelled him to look up and meet Elizabeth's understanding gaze.
"You think there are more prisoners like this Della there?" She asked softly.
"Yeah, and more," John went on. "There were women there that were given to some of the successful male fighters, sort of as an incentive I guess. They were given to them for…" his voice trailed off but by the pallor of Elizabeth's face, he knew she'd jumped to the correct conclusion. "We can't just leave those people there, Elizabeth," John insisted quietly. He looked down at his bandaged arm and again felt, or rather didn't feel, the numbness in his hand. "I know, I'm in no condition to go anywhere for a while," he admitted bitterly, allowing his voice to trail off.
After a moment, Elizabeth sighed deeply. "The Daedalus isn't far. If it's not too dangerous I'll ask Colonel Caldwell to scan the planet for human life signs. At least then we'll know if anyone is left alive."
John nodded silently. He knew as well as her, that after the attack that led to his team's rescue, it was highly possible the surviving queens picked up and left to set up their "game" somewhere else. The remaining humans, most likely, were taken for food or outright killed. Still, he managed to find a small, strained smile. "Thanks."
Elizabeth nodded once. "Get some rest, Colonel." Without another word, she turned and left him alone.
John settled deeper into his pillow as he reflected on his experiences. Against the odds, once again, his team had survived, if barely. A twinge of pain and regret shot through him as his thoughts dwelled on Della. If only we could've brought her to Atlantis… he shook off the thought. They'd done their best to help her and to survive. The blame for her death lay squarely on the shoulders of the Wraith, just as the blame for the deaths of Gaul, Abrams, Sumner and so many others they'd lost since coming to Atlantis, not to mention all the other humans in the galaxy. Mentally, John put one more checkmark in his running tally of deaths the Wraith would atone for, someday.
