Title: Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About
Summary: John Sheppard isn't proud of the life he had with Nancy.
Characters: John Sheppard, Nancy Sheppard & James McGinley
Pairing: John/Nancy
Rating: PG-15; there are some gross images of war in this one.

Thirty-Two Years Old

With his head resting on his arms, John looked up from the bowl to Nancy who stood in the doorway watching him. He hated the look of pity in her eyes so he turned away, leaning back against the wall. His stomach still felt weak and he knew that any sudden movements, any unbidden thoughts would ignite that same rolling motion that had him fleeing his bed and kneeling over the bowl.

"I told you that you wouldn't be able to do this, John," she said quietly.

He opened his eyes to stare at her, emotionless. She tucked her thin robe tighter around her, folding her arms low across her stomach. He said nothing and looked away again, staring up to the ceiling as he bounced his head off the wall. He saw her shake her head and turn away, flicking out the hallway light as she went.

He sighed and screwed his eyes tight. He didn't want to block her out; he hoped that she understood that. The life he'd had in Afghanistan was something he didn't ever want to share with anyone, especially not one of the few people he cared about. He didn't want her to know about that side of him, didn't want her to know what he'd done. He rubbed his hand over his shoulder, hoping to ease the pain there. The bullet had shredded the muscle and shattered the bone. Three months later, it was still healing and the Air Force still hadn't come to a decision.

Shifting, his stomach rolled but when he gagged, nothing came. Acrid bile rose instead and he spit it out, reaching blindly to flush the evidence of his weakness away.

Down the hallway he heard the door creak, a few murmured words and he frowned. He tried to stand but his legs gave way and he slid down the wall. The door shut, louder than he knew Nancy meant and the images rose unbidden.

Flesh, charred to the inside of the helicopter. Muscle bubbled in the heat and he gagged at the putrid stench. Holding an arm to his sleeve, he stepped into the downed chopper, reaching around for any kind of weapon. Noise on the other side of the dune alerted him to the presence of the Taliban and he was half tempted to crawl into the helicopter and play dead. A quick glance around the cramped interior of the chopper and he knew he couldn't do it.

He held his breath, pausing slightly as he reached for the P-90 in the half attached arms of his team mate. He gagged again, his reflexes protesting against the concoction of death and fiery metal. Behind him, the cockpit crackled but he didn't turn; didn't dare to see what he was leaving behind. He pivoted, leaning on his injured leg and he had to bite his hand to stop the scream of pain escaping. Crumpling, he didn't want to think about what he was landing on as he sat, panting, waiting for the pain to subside. Scrabbling with a box that had been under the seat, he flipped the lid and pulled out two extra clips and pocketed them, reaching for the machine gun that lay half hidden beneath a body.

He didn't know how he'd survived.

He looked up when the light spilled into the bathroom. The silhouette was not Nancy but it was familiar none the less. He grunted and turned away from the light, using the toilet bowl as leverage as he hauled himself up, his legs shaking under his own weight. His shoulder screamed in protest and he rolled it, wincing as he felt something pop.

"You're a mess."

Heavily, he leaned against the sink lifting his eyes only long enough to glare at James in the mirror. He splashed water on his face, cupping his hand and scooped some cool liquid into his mouth to try and rinse the taste away.

"What do you want?"

James slid into the room, glancing out of the door with an almost imperceptible nod before it slid shut. John pretended he didn't see.

"Nancy called me when you started puking your guts up." John levelled him with a stare, which James returned.

"She shouldn't have."

James shrugged even as he nodded.

"She did and I'm here." James manoeuvred around the room, sliding the lid of the toilet down before sitting there, his suit impeccable. John rolled his eyes behind his hand. He could feel James' eyes staring at him, assessing and he leaned with his hip against the sink, arms folded over his chest. "What the hell happened out there?"

John spun away at that, avoiding his reflection.

"Nothing," he said quietly, his tone far from convincing.

"Grant says he wants to represent you if it goes to court marshal."

John tilted his head towards his friend, half smirking.

"If?" James conceded with a nod, not meeting John's eyes. "I don't need my father's help."

James looked up, the frown evident on his face even in the half darkness. He let out a bark of laughter and John turned to him, his own frown creeping across his features.

"You think it's your father that sent me here?"

John let out his own laugh and turned away, shaking his head as he sneered; "It's been the whole reason for our friendship, hasn't it? You urging me to do what my father wants, acting the friend when it suits my father."

His anger bubbled over as he thought of the friends he did have, the ones he'd left behind, the ones he'd killed. Survivor's guilt, they'd told him, could kick in at any time. Survivor's guilt, he'd been warned, manifested itself in anger to those closest. Survivor's, they'd prophesised, wished they hadn't made it back. He wasn't there yet, but he was quickly spiralling towards it he knew. He didn't wish he'd died back then, but he certainly didn't believe he deserved to be the one who survived.

"Your father," James spat, his own anger rivalling that of John's, "was sitting in his office laughing with glee when he got the news you had been court-martialled, pending further action. Your father has nothing to do with this." He stood, his face inches from the side of John's and John turned on him, their noses brushing with their proximity. John narrowed his eyes, his anger far from deflating. "We want to help you John."

The pity John sensed in both James' voice and eyes sparked the kindling flame and he lashed out, grabbing him by his silk lapels and shoved him against the wall. There was a crack but John didn't care who it came from. James' eyes were wide but he didn't try to fight John off, which only served to stoke the fire. He pushed and pushed, ignoring his leg's burning protest, ignoring the pleas of Nancy as she fought with his shoulder, her fingers digging into his scar.

His knees buckled and he fell to the ground in a heap, his stomach heaving and he vomited on the floor, near James' shiny shoes.

"Get out," he murmured quietly, the words lost in his racking breaths. Neither of the two moved, hovering over him, afraid to touch but more afraid to leave. "Get. Out," He reiterated, growling, his tone unwavering. He sensed their hesitation then saw James' shoes move out of his line of vision. He felt Nancy touch his back but he flinched from her touch, his stomach retching again. Her touch lingered for a moment longer then she was gone.

His arms gave way and he fell, his head colliding sharply with the tiles on the floor. He felt a sob rise in his throat but he pushed it down, lashing out at the ground instead. His hand would hurt in the morning, he knew, but he didn't care. Anything was better than the pain of the wounds even he couldn't see.

Minutes turned to hours and it was only when he heard the rushing of water from the faucet in the kitchen that he attempted to stand. Stiff and sore from laying huddled up on the floor, he unfolded himself slowly, fumbling through the cabinet above the sink for the Vicodin bottle the Air Force doctor had prescribed. He downed two without water and stood, staring at himself in the reflection.

He had to get over this.

In the kitchen, Nancy stood at the sink, rinsing dishes under the faucet. She turned to him as he slouched in the doorway. His Princeton sweatshirt hung low on her legs and he closed his eyes against the sight of her wearing his past. He took a step back into the hallway, ignoring her calling her name.

In the hallway, he picked up his keys and slung a jacket around his shoulders.

"I'm going for a drive," he murmured over his shoulder to her and he saw her nod. He turned back to her, swallowing the guilt that rose from his chest and took a few steps towards her. He kissed her chastely on the lips, swallowing the taste of her the brief connection offered. "I'm sorry..." he murmured quietly when he pulled back, his fingers brushing down the side of her face.

At the threshold, she called his name again and he stopped, tilting his head back to look at her.

"Be careful."

He nodded. She'd said the same thing when he'd left for Afghanistan. The Princeton shirt caught his eyes. He needed to be away; away from his past, away from those reminders, away from her.

He slipped out of the door, leaving her standing alone in the hall.