A/N: Hooray! The first chapter proved a success. But will the second live up to it? Thanks be to all who reviewed. The muses bow in a flourish to you.

Ch. 2

Elizabeth felt a little like an assistant principle. No, make that a parent. Maybe both since a parent was usually sitting beside the child, not standing a little off to the side, waiting for her turn to interrogate.

Caldwell was going to wear a hole in the floor with his rigid pacing, hands clasped behind the back, that made him more the parent than principle. Except he didn't know the two men he was laying into as well as Elizabeth did. Caldwell's voice wasn't loud, but it was strong enough to make the room vibrate as he lectured on the dangers of bringing alien creatures (not given clearance) onto his ship. What Sheppard chose to let enter Atlantis was his own problem, but this was Caldwell's ship, and there were protocols... So on and so forth.

He had yet to let either man explain themselves, which was Elizabeth's intent when she stepped in, cutting the lecture off. "Gentlemen," she said, moving within their line of sight. "What possessed you to bring an alien animal onto a ship heading to earth?" She already had a pretty good idea, she just wanted to hear it from them.

John was the one who replied. "We didn't. He got out of my room and must have followed me aboard. I didn't even notice he was here until two days out when I heard him sniffing around my quarters." He looked at Caldwell. "He's pretty good at hiding, sir."

Caldwell didn't buy it, Elizabeth could tell. Too bad since she knew with a certainty that it was the truth. Number one; John wasn't an idiot, he knew better than to bring anything alien into Atlantis or the Daedalus without clearing it first. Although Sherbet's arrival to Atlantis had been a heat of the moment affair what with John being dangerously ill at the time. Number two; Elizabeth now knew as much about Sherbet as she did the rest of her expedition team. The fox-faced, kitten-sized rodent knew how to get around.

"Look," Rodney jumped in. "It's not like it's that big of a deal. Sherbet's healthy, he's not carrying any diseases or fleas, and the biologists on Atlantis even gave him a rabies and distemper shot just to play it safe. The only reason he escapes is to find either me, John, or sometimes Teyla, and other than that pretty much sticks to one of us like a second shadow. So trust me when I say he won't be a problem on the Daedalus or earth... especially since he doesn't have the opposable thumbs needed to work dead bolts and other thumb-required locks."

"He's harmless, sir, and he's not going to get in anyone's way," John said. It was really hard to feel any sort of irritation toward Sheppard. Sheppard and Rodney but mostly Sheppard. He looked exhausted, wrung out like he sometimes did after an alive-by-skin-of-their-teeth mission, the kind that left the entire team barely able to drag themselves to the infirmary. He wasn't even supposed to be standing with the condition his feet were still in. Elizabeth had offered him a chair, but John had refused. Probably a little foolish giving in to the ego like that, but Elizabeth respected his decision enough not to fight him on it and bash his already slightly battered dignity.

Standing near the healthy, broad shouldered and broad chested Caldwell made John look one pound away from emaciated, which couldn't be good for the self esteem.

Having Sherbet cradled in the Atlantis military commander's good arm like a stuffed animal won at a carnival was... odd, neither adding to nor taking away from John's current state. Actually, it was kind of cute with Sherbet an almost perfect ball in the crook of John's arm, tail swaying contentedly, and little black eyes heavy lidded. John's hold was tight without being crushing according to the tension in the shoulder of that arm. His hold on Sherbet was possessive. Any attempts to take the mir'ka away and there'd be violence, of that Elizabeth was sure.

Caldwell finally stopped pacing. "Why didn't you bring... Uh..." he gestured vaguely at Sherbet. "Its presence to my attention."

John and Rodney exchanged helpless looks.

"Well..." John said.

"It was kind of sudden..." Rodney said.

"We were going to," said John. "Just... When the time felt right."

Caldwell's eyebrows lifted high forming creases in his forehead. "And when was that going to be? When we were on earth?"

"Before then," John replied with a sharp nod. "Definitely before then." He seemed to deflate into himself at Caldwell's penetrating look. The Daedalus commander had gone past berating to baiting in order to drag this little inquisition out for as long as possible. Elizabeth had come to realize that a common theme among all die hard, by the protocol book, high ranking military officers was sticking with protocol to the point of using it for their own vendetta. When they took something personally, they hid behind that protocol while enacting revenge.

Caldwell was taking all this personally. Elizabeth wasn't sure how exactly – maybe he saw Sheppard hiding Sherbet as an act to undermine his authority – she just knew, felt, that he was. He wasn't going to let either man go until they'd sweated every drop of moisture from their bodies.

"We were worried," John said, then cleared his throat. "I mean... I'm pretty sure you've heard the horror stories of what happens to animals people tried to smuggle through airports. It kind of made us, you know, hesitant."

"We didn't want him dissected," Rodney rapidly stated. "Or put to sleep. Or stuck in a plastic bag and forced to inhale exhaust fumes."

John's eyes widened in horror. "They do that?"

Rodney shrugged helplessly. "I heard Morrison in biology ranting about it. She sounded pretty pissed, I just thought she was over reacting..."

"Gentlemen," Caldwell snapped. His bearing remained stern while his tone wasn't quite as belligerent as before. "Whatever your reasoning, that doesn't excuse the fact that an alien being managed to stow away on my ship. Should anything go wrong because of that being, both of you will be the ones held responsible."

"That's fine, sir," John said. "And just for the record, this is my fault, not Rodney's. He just found out today. I'm the one who's been hesitating."

Caldwell inclined his head. "Understood. Then you, Colonel, will be the one held responsible. You keep that creature in your room, Colonel. And don't think this matter's resolved. The SGC will know about this and I will be present when they have words with you – and they will have words. You're both dismissed."

Except it was Caldwell who left, with John and Rodney still frozen to the spot, holding their breaths until Caldwell was out of the room. Elizabeth could feel the warm brush of air across her face from their combined exhale of relief. She moved to stand in front of them so she could look them over carefully. Color was returning to Rodney's face. John, however, looked ready to collapse.

"You two all right?" she asked.

Rodney wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "What, no follow up words of reprimand or warning, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth didn't take his verbal bite personally. Instead, she smiled. "I think you've had enough 'words' for one day. And don't worry about Stargate Command. I'll make certain they hear your side of the story before passing judgment."

John balked slightly. "Elizabeth, you don't have to..."

"I want to," Elizabeth interjected. "I'm with you on avoiding Sherbet getting 'dissected.' Besides, this was an accident. I'm not going to let you take the heat over an accident. Although I hope you learned your lesson about holding back when it comes to making us aware of stow aways."

"Completely learned," John said. Elizabeth was a little taken back by his sincerity. Normally he took any sort of lesson learned with less levity and a crooked smile.

"Good. You should also consider investing in a cat cage."

"He was in a cat cage," John said. "Just until the Daedalus left."

"He got out before then," Rodney said.

"A leash, then. Once we get to earth you cannot let him out of your sights, and that's only if the SGC doesn't quarantine him for the duration of our stay."

Rodney frowned severely and jerked his thumb at John. "Oh, yeah, give Sheppard a reason to mope the whole time."

John glared at him. "You're one to talk, Rodney. First two weeks on Atlantis you wouldn't stop pining about your cat."

"Boys," Elizabeth drawled. "Kept with you or kept at the SGC, Sherbet will be fine."

"No, he'll be depressed if locked in a cage under Cheyenne mountain," Rodney argued.

Elizabeth knew he was probably right, but whatever the SGC decided they would have no choice but to go with it. "It's better than the alternative."

That got Rodney to go unnaturally silent. After a moment he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I've got to... Do stuff." he said, and hurried off to go worry in private – either that or formulate a plan to slip Sherbet out of Cheyenne Mountain should the SGC's decision not be to his liking.

Now it was just Elizabeth and John, with John absently stroking Sherbet's fur with the tips of his fingers not covered by his cast. His eyes were bright, but his gaze was turned inward as he stared at some unseen spot on the floor.

"You'll probably be requested to leave him behind at Stargate command," Elizabeth said. "But we'll make sure he's taken care of."

"I know," John said, scratching behind Sherbet's large ears. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

"John, are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said. He pulled his hand away from Sherbet to let it hang at his side. He looked up at Elizabeth, giving her a wan smile. "Kind of spaced out for a minute, sorry."

"Tired?" she said.

"Incredibly tired. I hate it. I'm starting to forget what it's like to have an adrenaline rush, and I just had one five minutes ago."

"Just give it time. It won't last forever."

"Crap I hope not." John turned and started limping off, only to stop and toss a look over his shoulder that seemed furtively suspicious. He didn't say anything for a stretched out second, then continued on at a hobbling gait, carrying himself with the rigidity of one trying to hide the fact that they were hurting – or at least psychotically sore.

Elizabeth folded one arm across her stomach, and the other she rested on the first so she could press her hand to her mouth. She hoped it passed for looking thoughtful rather than concerned. She was tired of being asked what was wrong, and knew Sheppard was tired of the pity-parties people had for him. She honestly hoped her smoothing out of the situation had come across as an act of understanding, free of any coddling streaks. She'd been honest in her defense of John and Rodney. Problem was, thanks to recent events, it could easily have been taken the wrong way.

Either that or Elizabeth had let a little worry slip into her expression on seeing John about to fall asleep on his feet. He handled the worry better than he handled the pity, but even worry had the side effect of making him a little less social until he thought the moment of concern had blown over. Pity made him downright anti-social. The first day he was liberated from the infirmary, John had hobbled straight to the mess with his arm in a sling and his body curled to ease the aches and pains. His underweight appearance now was nothing compared to then, when it had been out and out horrific making it painful just to look at him. He'd worn the thickest sweater he had and it had still pressed up against him, sinking into the contours of his ribs and spine as though he had no skin beneath the clothes. People had openly gasped and gaped. The next day, John had locked himself in his room, only opening the door to talk with his team or accept offers of food. So it wasn't that he had alienated himself from the world, just from the looks of commiseration that slapped the reality of his physical condition in his face.

Elizabeth had wanted to see it as an act of stubborn pride, self-pity, and pouting. Heightmeyer, however, had countered her on that attitude. She'd explained in that calm, almost wise way of hers that Sheppard (at the time) was in a semi-state of denial. Semi-state in that he wasn't pretending what happened to him didn't happen. He simply didn't want to think about it, not yet. Having people stare at him like he was the poster boy for genocides in third world countries wouldn't let him have his denial moment. When others stared as he stuffed food into his pocket out of an ingrained need to horde, or when he snarled and pulled his jacket tight around his body because someone had brushed his arm in passing, it brought about awareness of his actions, which led to shame and an intrusion of fresh, unwanted memories.

Heightmeyer, also in that calm, almost wise way of hers as she explained John's situation, had subtly, kindly, in that explanation, told Elizabeth to back off. This was neither a 'get over it' nor 'you will see a psychiatrist whether you like it or not' situation. When Kate told Elizabeth that John, under no circumstances, was to see her because Elizabeth or some other higher up ordered him to, Elizabeth had been a little unnerved by the shrink's slight vehemence.

"This goes beyond routine questions that forces people to talk about feelings," Kate had said, and that had actually scared Elizabeth. Kate wanted to observe before she let anyone confront John about what happened, which was why there has yet to be a mission report of John's side of the matter. Elizabeth recalled Kate having gone the same route after John's kidnapping and torture by Kolya. Everyone else she'd talked with, one on one. John she observed. Ronon too since it was all she could pretty much do for him. John and Kate must have eventually talked, or at least Elizabeth assumed they had. Who knew? Maybe they hadn't.

Still, the clinical psychiatrist knew best. Elizabeth backed off and did her own observing. John coped fine so long as he never encountered looks of blindingly obvious pity. Everyone else in Atlantis eventually caught on as well, and John coped even better.

He was still viciously possessive, off and on.

Elizabeth lowered her arms, and with a cleansing breath, headed out of the private little room. Her destination was communications, and her mind was already formulating the message she was going to send to Stargate Command when within range to send. They would need to know of Sherbet's presence, and the potential harm of separating pet and master.

SGA

"You've been walking around, lad."

John lifted his head from off his pillow. "It's kind of the only way to get from point A to point B Carson." He winced and hissed when Beckett poked a rather tender area of his heel.

"Don't get cheeky. To the mess and to your room was to be the extent of any walking." The Scottish physician was handling John's bare foot like an antique appraiser looking over a vase. He turned it carefully in one hand while shining his penlight using the other for a better view of the persistently lingering bruises.

"There was an unforeseen event that forced me to take a side trip. Seriously, how the hell can you tell I've been walking longer than I'm supposed to? Do the bruises have bruises now or something?"

Carson set down one foot and lifted the other. "In a way. Actually Dr. Andrews saw you and thought that I should be informed."

John scowled. "Nark."

Carson just smirked and shook his head. John dropped his own head back against the pillow. He felt vulnerable having to lay back as Carson tormented his feet. It wasn't that John was ticklish, they just freakin' hurt more than the norm at the moment. And the last time he'd been laid out on his back for his feet to be manhandled was because his boots were being stolen. He hated making connections like that, and hated the rise in both his anxiety and heart rate the longer this dragged out. Sherbet seemed to sense this, and began rubbing up and down along his uninjured right arm.

"Well," Carson said, lowering John's foot back to the bed, "no damage done. You're just bloody lucky there's not much in the way of scabs left to break open." A pressure bandaged was wrapped tight around both feet before being covered by prescription socks with extra padding at the bottom. Carson then moved to the bedside and helped John to sit up by placing his hand against his upper back. John swung his legs around planting his aching feet on the smooth floor.

"Luck has nothing to do with it, Doc, you should know that."

"Your feet might beg to differ. There was that nightmare you had that sent you bolting from the infirmary. And how did we find you again?"

John lifted his arms letting Carson do all the work in removing the heavy black sweater. "Blood trail," was his muffled, grumbling reply.

"Aye. You hadn't even gone that far, just down the hall, leaving bloody footprints like something out of a bloody horror movie." Carson set the sweater aside, then looked up, suddenly contrite. "Not that it was your fault son. You were a bit too out of it to know up from down. But you've no excuses now if you set the healing back."

The pressure bandages around John's chest were loosened and allowed to drop to his waist. X-rays would have been more telling but took too long (the Ancient scanners had spoiled Carson in that way), and Beckett preferred John off his feet for as much as possible. So John raised his arms to get them out of the way and steeled himself for the rather violating feel-up of his discernible ribcage. He wasn't touchy-feely even on the good days. The bad days made him either want to bolt or break fingers, depending on his mood.

Carson poked, prodded, and pressed each curved bone feeling out which ones had a little more give than the others. It wasn't just about finding left-over cracks or breaks, Carson had one day said. It was also about keeping an eye on bone density. Combining illness with a self-cannibalizing body made for one brittle skeleton, which was why John's bones were taking their sweet time about fusing together and staying fused.

Carson transferred from the ribs to John's right collarbone and resumed prodding. "Any problems here?"

"It gets a little sore if I use my arm too much, but other than that not really." His collarbone hadn't been damaged enough for long term use of a sling. "Hurt like crazy after sparring with Ronon."

Carson snapped his head up in horror until he saw John's lazy grin. The Scot glowered at him before resuming his poking, muttering a "Bloody bugger," under his breath. "If you're quite done being a wee snot, could you tell me honestly how your appetite's been?"

John fought back the need to grimace. "The same. On one day, off on others." Then he quickly added, "but I am eating."

"Good to hear it. If it's any motivation for you, it is showing."

John couldn't hold back a skeptical snort. He lifted his arms again when Carson gathered the bandages to reapply them.

"It is, lad. I know you may not think it but your body now is a far cry from your body when we got you back." Carson's voice drifted off into uncomfortable silence. His eyes were on John's chest and the bandages gradually hiding it, but his gaze was elsewhere. "You couldn't bloody well move," he whispered. John didn't remember much of those days. That had been dreamy haze time.

John felt like he was being cold-hearted about all this, even though it was his own body he was being cold hearted about. He was frustrated, and tired of being tired all of the time. Any marked improvement was mostly noticed by Carson, so John could only take his word for it. Although John was finding it less difficult to lift things. Carson had devised a way for John to start regaining muscle while his arm was still in the cast. One arm lifted weights, the other arm lifted a lighter weight tied to his arm below the break. It wasn't exactly an even workout, just a start. Building muscle also strengthened the bones.

John's door opened without warning and Rodney waltzed in carrying a blue nylon strap in his hand. "Caldwell's a freakin' paranoid. Lucky for Sherbet and too bad for him, no one thought keeping a cat cage around would come in handy." He came to stand at the foot of the bed, snapping his fingers that elicited Sherbet to bound happily over to him. Rodney let the strap unravel revealing an initially complex looking harness that he proceeded to place around Sherbet's body. "I would have gone with a collar, but determined long ago that they're useless. Oh, and two words, Sheppard – beach and tan."

"That sounds more like three," Carson murmured.

"Whatever. It's supposed to be summer in the North American region, so expect – at some point – to have your pasty, skinny butt dragged to some lake-side for a thorough toasting of that skin of yours. I will not have you glowing in the dark scaring the hell out of the local urchins into thinking my place is haunted. I've had enough problems with them assuming I'm a mad scientist."

John couldn't help himself. "But Rodney..."

McKay's head shot up, along with a single rigid finger. "Don't!"

"I was just going to say," although he really hadn't been, "That it's been a few years. They probably think you've blown yourself up."

"No, they'll be there, running up to my door, ringing the bell, then running away. Actually forget going to any lakes. Stay pasty, scare the hell out of them, they deserve it. Ah! There." He lifted Sherbet to survey his work. The small harness was strapped comfortably to Sherbet's body – a strap around the neck, another the torso, and two straps above and below connecting them. "There is no way he's wriggling himself out of that."

As soon as he set Sherbet down, the mir'ka pounced on the end of the strap, taking it into his mouth then plopping onto his side to kick at it with his hind legs.

"All done Colonel," Carson said. He helped John get back into his sweater. "You need anything? Like food?"

John adjusted the bottom of his sweater one-handed. "I ate."

"Eat again."

"How about I take a rain check. I still owe myself a nap."

Carson smiled and patted John's knee. "Now that's an excuse I'll buy. I'll leave you to it then, Colonel. Rodney?"

Rodney pointed at Sherbet. "Leave the harness on. I had a hell of a time making it and a hell of a time putting in on."

John eased himself back and slipped his legs beneath the covers. "I know better than to ruin any of your handy work, Rodney." He reached out and snagged a part of the leash just as Sherbet was making a break for the now open door. "Especially the useful stuff."

Carson did John the courtesy of slapping off the lights before leaving. John squirmed deeper beneath the covers, keeping hold of Sherbet's leash. He felt the mir'ka snuffle and scurry all over the bed before huddling up against John's right side. John finally released the leash so he could flop his hand over the round ball of fur.

"You're really pushing in, Sherb," he said. He arched his back in a careful stretch stopping just under the point of discomfort. "You're just lucky you're cute."

Sherbet's body jerked in a responding 'whuff.'

SGA

When John was twelve and living in California, he'd woken up to his father ripping him from his bed and thrusting him into the door frame as the world shuddered around him. John had thought the world was ending. He'd felt claustrophobic and suffocating beneath the protective curve of both his mother's and father's bodies. Every crash and every rattle had made his body jolt as though electrocuted. John had never been so terrified in his life.

He woke up to the world shuddering around him, but no one pulling him to safety.

"What the hell?"

The world shuddered again, harder. John bolted from his bed to the door, and crumpled from the pain shooting from his feet up his legs.

"Damn it!" He scrambled back to his feet. The ship lurched throwing him against the wall beside the door. John had sense enough to get his arms up before his chest impacted, but the jarring sent pain oscillating up his already injured left arm. John gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain, and lurched to the door. He both stumbled and limped out into the hall where people were dashing left and right either to the safety of their quarters or to their stations.

The ship rocked again. Someone lost their footing, slamming into John, driving him into the wall. This time he hadn't been able to get on the defensive, leaving his flank open to take the brunt. Pain ripped through John making it impossible not to cry out, but the cacophony covered it up, and the body that had plowed into him was already moving on. John slid to the floor of the hallway trying to breathe through the pain when a strong hand gripped his arm and hauled him to his feet. John whipped his head around to see Ronon standing between him and the other bodies rushing through the corridors.

"What the crap is going on!" John shouted. Another jolt, another rock that had several stumbling into the walls. Ronon shielded John from being ram-rodded a second time when he still had yet to get over the first assault.

"We're under attack," Ronon stated.

"No kidding. Do you know by who?"

"Nope. Just heard someone shout about us being attacked."

John nodded. "Okay then. What say we find out?"

Ronon stayed close to the limping, hunched over Sheppard as they made their arduous way down the Daedalus corridors, trying not to get pummeled by the walls.

------------------------

TBC...

A/N: Gasp! Seems a naughty cliffhanger has managed to wriggle it's way in. Curses be to it! Oh well, Cliffhangers happen. Hold on tight until the next installment.