Our heroes have dragged themselves out of the sea and are shivering on the shore. Now they have to survive...

Chapter 2 - Shore

There was no shelter to speak of. They were all weak, injured, soaking wet and shivering, and they couldn't carry Ronon even between them. So they dragged him, painfully slowly, up the shingle bank and down the next and then up again, sinking into the fine, loose stones, two steps up and one back, wasting the shattered dregs of their energy.

The shore mirrored the ocean, undulating in great bands, up-and-down waves of worn-smooth pebbles instead of water. And where the beach finally rose to meet solid land there were no comforting, sheltering trees or towering cliffs with caves cracked out of the slow-shifting strata. There was just a flat expanse of dry, twisted heath, its low, stunted growth carrying on and on until the rain and the cloud hid the land from view.

There were dips and troughs in the fall of the land, though - shallow, but just enough that the wind whipped over the top and left small valleys of stillness. They dragged Ronon into one of these and then for a while did nothing but cling to each other, arms and legs wrapping around, fingers grasping, chins digging into shoulders in a tight bundle of cold and ebbing fear and blank exhaustion.

John drifted.

Then someone moved and a rasp of wet fabric against abraded skin made him wince. And then the shattered pieces of his consciousness rallied and formed up in something like their usual ranks.

Ronon's dreads were scratching against his jaw, trembling with his teammate's racking shivers. Teyla's shoulder was shoved up against him awkwardly and she kept slipping away because her arm was trapped limply between them. Rodney's head was turned away. John couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were hunched as his body curled over Ronon's.

They were all alive. They'd made it.

Back on the Wraith ship, where they were supposed to be striking a deal that would lead to peace throughout the Galaxy - peace, after thousands upon thousands of years of horror and pain - back on that ship, he'd thought they were dead.

No chance, he'd thought, even as he'd sprayed bullets above the body of the dead Queen. They'd never make it out of there alive, never make it out to take their revenge on that bastard Todd, who'd betrayed them again. And John really, really wanted a chance to rearrange that smirking asshole's face, once and for all, up-close-and-personal, with his own tightly-clenched knuckles. Todd had actually smiled as he stabbed her - then he'd winked at John and drawn the knife across her throat to make sure. Then he'd stepped back, raised his head and closed his eyes. And the alarms began to wail.

John couldn't hear what Todd was saying into the net of Wraith consciousness. But Teyla could. Teyla had screamed like John had never heard her scream before. She'd leapt at the tall Wraith with her hands curled into claws and Todd had flinched.

But they'd had to run. Teyla would have ripped Todd to shreds and Ronon would have beaten him down until there was nothing left, and even Rodney - he would have obliterated Todd down to the last subatomic particle. But John had made them run. They had to run and hide and keep running and hiding, because Todd had gathered all of the remaining Queens together to strike the deal that should have meant peace. And Todd had arranged a meeting for them, alone with the High Queen-of-all-Queens. And Todd had killed her.

The wind whipped at John's hair, delving into the shallow shelter of their dip. It had stopped raining. He was cold. So cold he wasn't thinking like a leader should. Pull yourself together, John!

"Teyla. Rodney. Have you got your space blankets?"

"What?" Rodney's twitch carried through the tangled bodies to John. "What? Yes. Yes, of course."

Ronon leant more heavily against John as Rodney pulled away. A rustle and a snap were followed by Rodney's cursing as the thin silver blanket flipped and flapped in the wind.

"Teyla?" John nudged her gently. She winced and he recalled her holding her arm, when they were still on the sinking Jumper. Another strike against him - a team member hurt and he'd done nothing. "Teyla, let me see your arm."

"I- I think it may be broken," she said. "Or perhaps it is just my wrist."

She drew in a sharp breath as John edged sideways, letting Ronon slide down into his lap. The ex-runner was still trembling, but his eyes didn't open. Shivering was good, though. His body hadn't given up, even after battling the waves for so long. How had he survived the icy water and the dragging, drowning currents? But then how had he survived seven years a runner? Because he was Ronon. John pressed his cold fingertips to the pulse point on Ronon's neck, but his fingers were still too numb to be of any use. He turned to Teyla.

Her body was hunched over and she cradled her left arm in her right. She had on her tac vest above her jacket and she'd have at least one layer beneath that. John had lost his vest and had only his uniform shirt over his t-shirt - a loss of not just a useful layer, but all the equipment the vest had contained. And his P-90. He'd set that aside, as he always did when piloting the Jumper.

"Is she okay?" Rodney had drawn the blanket tightly around his shoulders. "What can I do?"

His eyes were deeply shadowed. There was a purpling bruise on his jaw and his mouth was a thin, blue-tinged slash.

"See if you can wrap that thing around you and Ronon. And check him for injuries if you can." John began unfastening Teyla's vest and jacket with clumsy fingers. He was still shivering himself. "Are you okay?" he asked Rodney. "Are you injured?"

"I'm okay," said Rodney, shortly. "Bruised and battered and - hey guess what? - thoroughly pissed off with this whole situation. But basically okay."

John braced himself for Rodney's enquiry, not sure that he could make his usual 'fine' that convincing. He wanted to sleep right here. Just lie down and let it all slide away - the cold and the pain and the buzzing in his head and the sickness in his stomach which screamed 'concussion'. And there was the gnawing ache in his chest and side which meant bruised or cracked ribs, as well as all the other bashes he'd got from being flung about.

But Rodney didn't ask.

John eased Teyla out of her vest and jacket. Her arm was swollen around her wrist, but the bones of her forearm didn't look misplaced.

"I need to check," he warned.

"Of course."

She let him run his fingers along the bones all the way down from her elbow and didn't flinch away, although her breaths quickened and she held her lower lip between her teeth.

"Can you move your fingers?"

They moved, wrinkled from the wet and whitened with drying salt.

"I think it's just your wrist. I'll need to find something to splint it with."

He would cut some of the heather. It was all bent and twisted from the wind, but he'd find something. But when he reached for his knife it wasn't there - gone, along with all the kit that was in his vest. Gone the same way as the Jumper, as his P90, as all the other supplies that would have helped them survive.

"McKay, is Ronon -?"

There were two pairs of eyes regarding him when he turned stiffly around - one blue, swiftly looking away, the other brown and dull but with some semblance of awareness. They peered out from the opening in the space blanket, pulled tight around the two figures.

"Chewie. You okay?"

"Will be." His words were barely recognisable. They'd all swallowed water. They'd all fought to stay afloat. How many times had Ronon gone under? How many times had he inhaled the scouring saltiness? How many times had he coughed and choked until air was finally dragged back into his lungs? But he'd won in the end.

"You got a knife?"

A tiny spark of Ronon's usual humour glistened in his eyes and a knife appeared in the opening of the blanket.

"Thanks."

John's legs shook as he stood up. His stomach lurched, his head spun and the wind immediately attacked him, cutting through his thin, wet layers of fabric, stripping away the meagre heat he'd built up from his team's close huddle. He folded his arms around his body and, bending forward, made his unsteady way up the slope to the nearest clump of wizened heather. Then he collapsed to his knees, jolting his ribs and sending a spike of pain through his head.

Had he moaned? Maybe. But the wind had carried it away. John grasped at the woody stalks. If the clump had been a bit bigger he would have pushed his way beneath, like an animal going to ground. But there was barely cover enough for a rabbit. And his team needed him. John hacked at the low branches. They were tough. Anything - plant or animal or bird - would have to be to survive out here. He and his team would have to be tough too.

John cut and twisted the branch, swore at it, took a few deep breaths and hacked through the fibrous growth until it came away. Then he made his unsteady way back to Teyla. And he'd been too long. She was curled in upon herself, shivering violently. He used the knife to tear a strip off the hem of his shirt, splinted her wrist with the fabric and the straightest of the heather stalks and then put her jacket and vest back on, slitting the sleeve of the jacket so that it would go over the splint.

"Teyla?"

She didn't respond. He tugged one of her vest pouches open, pulled out her emergency blanket and wrapped it around her, tying it like a cape. Her eyes remained half shut, and when he felt her uninjured wrist, her pulse was weak.

"Teyla?" John shook her shoulder. "Teyla, look at me!"

"John?" Her eyes were unfocussed and drooped closed.

John pushed up close to her and wrapped his arms around her. He was still shivering himself, but at least he was thinking clearly now. Was he? His team were freezing cold still, wet through, huddled with the bare minimum of shelter - what had he done to help? Nothing that made any real difference.

They needed dry clothes, warmth, food, shelter. What could he do?

He should get up, cut some more heather, make a fire. John blinked and rubbed his eyes, squinting against the brightness. It was brighter. There were blue patches in the sky and the curls of wind that made their way down into the hollow had lost their arctic chill.

John groaned as he stood up, but there was no reaction from the silver-shrouded forms. The landscape blurred, then steadied.

The ocean still boiled in constant turbulence, but the grey mounded waves were now blue, and the foam was bright white with reflected sunlight. He turned around and blinked his stinging, tearing eyes until he could see the heathland stretching away for a few clicks until it met low, rumpled woodland hills, and then much further there were the vague purple shapes of the high hills, or maybe mountains, if they qualified.

The scene was peaceful and beautiful, the purple-flowering heather flecked with touches of bright yellow flowers and the wind now was blustery but mild.

He'd thought it was winter - a bitter, cold, harsh winter with nothing to eat and nothing much to burn and no shelter and his team would last maybe a few days before exposure killed them. Not that he had admitted those things to himself, but that was a key trick of survival - not to look at the whole picture if it was that daunting, but just to do what you could, one tiny task at a time.

They should move. The best thing for his team would be to get their sluggish circulations moving. Especially because the sun, though now giving off a good deal of warmth, wasn't that high in the sky. And, summer or not, the temperature would drop at night and dying of exposure would be a real risk again.

"McKay. Ronon."

The silver blanket rustled.

"C'mon, guys, up and at 'em."

"No. I'm not coming out until you've lit a fire." Rodney's tone was petulant but steady, from which John deduced he'd thrown off the worst of the cold.

"Don't need a fire. We need to get moving. C'mon. Ronon?"

There was a grunt, a groan and a muffled reply, then the wrapping was pushed aside and Ronon emerged, his dreads crusted with salt, his face grey with exhaustion.

"Ronon? Buddy? You okay there? Ready to roll?"

"Yeah. Yeah, m'fine."

He remained seated, the silver blanket covering his legs.

"Well, that's just ridiculous. Of course we need to light a fire." Rodney shrugged off the blanket and crawled across the hard, dry turf to grasp hold of a gnarled stalk. He gave it a tug. "We'll just pull up some of this… whatever it is and burn it and get dry and warm and - Goddammit, come out! Ow!" The scratchy stems slid through his hands and he fell backward and sat, sucking his fingers. "Ow." He stared at his hand, frowning.

"McKay?" John ignored his protesting ribs and crouched down. Rodney carried on looking at his hand in confusion and John snapped his fingers. "Rodney! Rodney, when did you last eat?"

"Huh? Eat? Oh, what, I don't know. Is it Tuesday today? Because I'm pretty sure I ate already, if it's a Tuesday. But not if it's Wednesday."

"For fuck's sake," muttered John. He slumped to his knees and batted Rodney's hands aside to rifle through the pockets of his vest. He found some C4. And a first aid kit. There were a couple of epi-pens, one with a cracked container and a bent needle. There was a wad of soggy handkerchiefs. There were no power bars.

"Leave me 'lone, Shep-pud!" Rodney jabbed him in the chest. "Let me sleep." He slouched into a curled heap. "Sleep with Jen. She wants me. She wants me bad."

"Yeah, that's great. Just great." Where were all Rodney's snacks? John remembered him munching nervously as they waited for the audience with the Wraith High Queen.

Why had Todd done it? What good did it do him to ice her High Wraithness and lay the blame at Atlantis' door? Anyway, it didn't matter. Rodney needed food. And the three energy bars in John's vest had gone down with the Jumper. What a fuck-up.

"I have one," said Teyla. "Here." She held out an energy bar, which looked to have been squashed flat.

"Thanks." He opened it and fed the crumbs to Rodney, posting them into his mouth and waiting until he chewed and swallowed. Rodney's canteen was fastened to his vest. John unhooked it and let Rodney take a couple of mouthfuls and then sipped just a little himself. It was the sweetest water he'd ever tasted, clearing away the taste of salt. He wanted to drink it all, but held the canteen as Teyla took a drink and then also held it to Ronon's lips. And Ronon's continuing stupor was now officially extremely worrying.

John carefully screwed the cap back on the canteen.

He patted Ronon's shoulder. "Hey. Are you in there? We need to get moving."

"Yeah. Yeah. Let's go."

Ronon crumpled up the space blanket and shoved it into his pocket. And his pants were covered in blood.

"Jesus, Ronon - what the hell?" John pulled at the fabric, straightening Ronon's legs. The ex-runner flopped down onto his back. "Why didn't you say anything? Where's this coming from?"

"Uh… didn't know," muttered Ronon. "Couldn't feel it. Then I just felt warm."

John had told Rodney to check Ronon for injuries. But Rodney had been hypothermic. And then hypoglycemic. And John had lost count of his failures as a team leader today.

The right pant leg was bloodier than the left. John pushed it up Ronon's calf to reveal a jagged tear in the flesh just above his ankle, running up and around into the muscle at the back. Blood was welling freely. Had he been losing blood all this time? Or had Ronon's returning circulation begun pumping blood out of the wound?

"I have a bandage, John."

"Thanks." He took the pressure bandage from Teyla. It was wet, like everything else, but it would have to do. He bound it around the wound. If Ronon had lost too much blood he wouldn't be able to walk. They'd have to carry him. John didn't see how they could. But he would anyway, if he had to. "How d'you do this, Chewie?"

"Got stuck. In the Jumper. Had to pull it out."

John winced. How deep had Ronon been dragged before he'd pulled himself free? Better not to think about it. His great heart and strength had got him to the shore. That was what mattered.

He glanced over his shoulder at the low band of wooded hills. A couple of klicks away, he'd thought, but now it looked further - four, maybe five, and rough ground all the way. They'd be lucky to make it by nightfall.

"McKay. Can you help Teyla?"

"Yes."

A short answer, but one grounded in the reality of their situation and a blood sugar level still way too low.

"Okay." There was no question that John himself might not be able to help Ronon. He had to, so he would. "C'mon, big guy. Up you get."

"Yeah. Sure."

If John had told him to run, he would have tried. And Ronon made no complaint as John slid an arm beneath his and helped him to one firm foot and one all but useless. But John could hear the hitching breaths and feel the tension in his muscles.

He leant on John heavily. "Are you okay?"

John huffed a disbelieving breath. "Yeah. I'm fine." He nodded to Rodney to precede them.

"Which way?"

"Aim for that hill - the biggest one."

"We're not walking there? Hang on, is that the Hill? The hillfort, I mean."

"No. I don't think so. You'd be able to see the line of the rampart, even from here. And no, we're not walking there." Not today, anyway. "It's just a point to aim for."

"Fine. Off we go, then."

Rodney began picking his way between the scrubby bushes, guiding Teyla with a hand on the back of her vest. He would do for now, but John would have been happier with more griping, more complaints.

It was slow going - hard to find a path where they could fit through, John's steady, heavy tread and Ronon's hopping lurch. John had to leave the narrow, short-turfed spaces between bushes for Ronon, and tread on the springy, woody growth himself, which meant he had to step higher and lower his weight more carefully.

He kept his eyes on his footing, only looking up occasionally to check their progress, to make sure Rodney was leading them toward the distant peak, and Teyla was keeping going. She was tough, but her size was against her when it came to losing body heat. She'd been seriously chilled and injured, and shock was a real concern.

Their guiding peak wasn't the Hill. It was the wrong shape and anyway, you couldn't see this bit of the island from the Hill, even on a clear day.

You couldn't see much of anything sometimes, when the clouds rolled in so that the air was filled with fine rain, dampening your skin until droplets formed and ran down your cheeks, beading on the draped woollen clothes the people wore, and John and Rodney had worn too.

It had been one of those wet, foggy days when John had shown them what his P90 could do, firing down from the rampart upon an innocent vegetable, which had been set up by a grumbling Rodney at about two hundred metres distance. John had shattered the thing to smithereens.

The chieftain, Coll, and his men had been astounded, and Vorra, Coll's daughter, had laughed delightedly.

But Breesha, the chieftain's lady… she was very shrewd, and had no doubt recognised the advantage John's weapon would give them when the raiders from the sea next attacked, but she had not been pleased. John had been recovering from an injury - an axe wound in his shoulder delivered by the feared raiders. He had been sick with blood loss and fever. Breesha had nursed him through his illness and she had not appreciated her patient's attitude, careless of his own health and irritating his healing wound by playing with destructive toys.

John smiled. It would be good to see them all again. But it would be especially good to see Breesha.

The light was failing. He made a mis-step and staggered, barely managing to hold Ronon's weight. The heaviness eased away from his back and shoulders.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," said John. "You're not putting weight on that, are you?"

"I'm pretty good at balancing, Sheppard. Are you okay?"

"I just said I am, didn't I? C'mon, we need to keep up." John glanced up at Teyla and Rodney. They seemed to be doing alright. Rodney would need to eat. Teyla would need some painkillers. Shit. Another thing he'd forgotten. There'd be Tylenol in Teyla's med kit and in Rodney's too. He should have made sure she and Ronon had some.

"You hit your head," said Ronon. "Didn't you?"

"What? Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Anything else?"

John grunted as Ronon leant on him more heavily to hop over a prickly clump. He shot his companion a sidelong look. "Who are you - Carson? I said I'm fine. You should have some Tylenol."

"Don't need it. And I know you said that. It's what you always say."

"So? I'm always fine."

"Yeah, right," said Ronon.

"Well, I am."

They carried on and the land began to rise and the low-growing heather became interspersed with taller scrub and thin, stunted trees, bent by the wind to point fingers toward the distant hills.

John ran through in his mind the things he'd need to do when they found a place that was sheltered enough for a camp: check Ronon's wound, maybe clean it again; make sure he found Rodney something to eat; check Teyla's arm and find something cold to put on it - they'd need water, so they wouldn't make camp until they'd found a stream. John tuned his ears to listen for the sound of water, and studied the lie of the land more carefully - a slope to one side or another might show them where to find a watercourse. He'd need to gather wood and get a fire lit and find some branches he could make into some kind of shelter. Ronon and Teyla were usually the survival experts, but they were both injured and should rest. Rodney would only be of help if he could get something to eat first.

And John supposed that it only made sense that he should give some attention to his own needs - when he'd made sure his team were looked after. Because he wouldn't be able to continue to look after them if he was out of action. So he'd clean the cuts on his head and whatever other ones he found. That would do. And yes, his head ached and he felt sick - but, who knew? Maybe he had a concussion and maybe he didn't. He probably just had those symptoms from swallowing too much salt. And there was nothing he could do about it anyway. There were no darkened rooms here and he had stuff to do for his team. And as for the ache in his side and the spot near his sternum that, if he thought about it, was radiating a sharp, grinding pain a bit like a stab wound… well, the best thing to do was to carry on not thinking about it. There was nothing he could do and he'd already fucked up enough today without wasting more time on his own hurts.

Rodney and Teyla had stopped - two solid grey shapes amongst the broken grey of the sparse woodland. The sun was completely hidden by the curve of the land and the temperature was beginning to fall.

"John, there is a stream here." Teyla pointed to a tiny rill, weaving its way between bunches of reedy grass.

"Yeah." There was a squelching sound as John took a step toward the watercourse. "Ground's boggy," he said. "Better move a bit further up."

He let Teyla choose a spot where a few spindly trees grew together, but there was space for a fire.

John lowered Ronon onto the grass. "Okay, you guys get some rest - I'm gonna have a scout around."

"You should not go on your own, John!" Teyla protested.

"Yeah - you don't have to do everything," Ronon said.

"Well, at the moment I do. I'll be fine." He glared at his team. "Look, I got us into this. It's up to me to make sure you all get out of it okay." He held up a hand to stifle any further comments. "Rest. That's an order." He gave them an extra glare and then turned away, heading into the woodland. "I won't be long."

He wouldn't go far. But as John moved away from his team, letting the wizened trees form a barrier behind him, he was suddenly both glad and sorry to be completely alone. To be alone with his failures was always like that - alone with his self-blame and his bad decisions - he gained a kind of clarity. Alone, he would make no excuses, he would not doubt or deflect - his was the blame and his was the task to make sure that others didn't suffer for his mistakes. Whereas, when he was with other people, especially his team, there were always things to get in the way - sympathy, pity - even kindness could just confuse the issue, rather than giving him the gift of clear, black-and-white failure.

On the other hand, to be alone, completely alone, was hard - to have a sense that others were allowing themselves to be supported by companionship, were allowing themselves forgiveness and softness while he struggled on alone - it had always been hard. But he'd grown up like that. It was what John was used to. It worked for him, mostly. It made him a good leader, mostly.

John shivered as a wave of nausea built up in his throat and sweat broke out on his forehead. And because he was alone, he gave in to it and leant against a tree and emptied his stomach, retching and coughing and then spitting and wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Then he sagged for a moment, pressing one arm against the fiery pain in his chest, breathing through his nose and clamping his jaw to stop the sickness coming back.

He gave himself a minute. Just one minute to lean against a tree and breathe.

Then he stumbled on, through the rough grass and the growing gloom, until something scratched his leg. He tried to step back but was held by a curving, thorny tendril that was hooked fast into the fabric of his pants. John unhooked himself, with difficulty, the thorns latching themselves onto his sleeves and scratching his arm. The thorny creepers were gathered into a great dark mound, which anyone with a grain of common sense would have avoided. How typical that he'd walked right into it.

But there were berries - dark red or purple, like bunches of tiny jewels. John plucked one and held it close to his face, squinting in the dim light and gathering haze of the evening. He blinked against his headache, took a tiny nibble of the berry and tucked the fragment between his teeth and his gum. He'd leave it there for a bit, while he was looking for firewood, and if his mouth didn't erupt in outrage, the berries would most likely be safe.

He stumbled on a bit further, glancing over his shoulder now and again to check his path. He was making a trail through the evening dew which should show him the way back. His clothes were damp again, or just cold which felt like damp. He shivered. Firewood. His team were sitting still - they'd be getting cold again, and they couldn't afford that, especially not Teyla. Or Ronon. Or Rodney, whose body was crying out for energy without having to burn up his reserves for heat.

But this was no tame, managed woodland. There was deadwood lying about, some of it crumbling at John's touch in a shower of fat insects (which they might need to eat), but some of it brittle and easy to snap, so that soon John had an armful of wood. Bending over to snap bits off of the fallen branch hadn't been pleasant - his head had pounded and lights had flared around him in the twilight. But it was worth it.

He carried his prizes back to his team.

Oh dear. They're in a bit of state, aren't they? And John's thoughts are full of guilt as usual. More tomorrow!

And I think I'm going to end this part at chapter 9. I have got 10 and most of 11 too, but 9 makes a good ending.