Chapter 3: Long, long, long

Five hours on the road in complete silence does not allow for the emptying of one's mind. John will brave the airwaves. He turns the dial and is forced to laugh because the Beatles are there to pick the wound again.

But still they lead me back to the long winding road
You left me standing here a long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here, lead me to your door.

He contemplates the straight road ahead. Another hour and he will be at the border. Then it will be three hours up, up, up in the true north strong and free.

He is not ready, and does not think he will ever be. The voice of the midday presenter is bright and cheery. The Long and Winding Road, our Beatles track to start the hour, she says, and reminds him that fifty years ago today the band ceased to play.

April tenth, the presenter says, is a day that will be remembered as one of great loss for the music world.

John cringes.

In his car, with the road and deceased musicians as sole company, Sheppard thinks that April tenth will have a new meaning soon.

He switches off the classic rock station he usually enjoys. The past is alive enough today, he doesn't need it shoved down his ear canal.

O-O-O-O-O

Glad his schedule would be cleared of the night patrol for another two weeks, Sheppard checked his watch and decided on a last circuit. In an hour, he would be relieved and able to get some sleep, enjoy his day off in peace. The colonel had nearly reached the midpoint of his circuit through the section that housed quarters when the lockdown alarms blared through the city. He cursed for the day off that would not be, and activated his radio while running and getting his sidearm out of its holster.

"McKay!" he radioed, having seen the man exit his quarters twenty minutes earlier.

"I know; I'm on it."

"Where are you?"

"Chair room."

"Obviously, where else have you been these past weeks."

Satisfied that the Head Geek was on the case, Sheppard continued to run hoping to make it to the corridor adjacent to the control room before the city shut down completely. He stopped running at the door that separated the section holding his living quarters and the next.

"Damn it," he said, thwarted in his efforts. He ran his hand over the control panel, but the door refused to budge. He retraced his steps to the transporter, trying to raise Elizabeth. She answered the third time he spoke her name.

"John, control room reports the whole city is under lockdown."

"McKay's checking it out; he was working on his new toy, he's in the Chair room. Where are you?"

"In my quarters. His new toy?"

"The index."

"Right, yes, he told me he was exploring the database this week. Where are you?"

"I'm in the corridor of Living Section Three. The doors are shut, transporter's not going anywhere." He left his hand on the control panel and demanded that Atlantis open the door for him. She did not.

"It's the whole city," Elizabeth said, her voice calm.

"I've got patrols out. I'll see what they say."

"I'll contact Rodney."

"Sheppard out."

John spoke with the marines on patrol, and once they all had been contacted, he moved on to the people that were most likely in their quarters. Lorne answered, confirmed his position, as did Zelenka, and many others that were on the other side of the doors lining the hall. Carson was in the infirmary, Teyla in her quarters and Ronon was roaming the walkway, having gone for a run a few minutes before the lockdown. Left without scintillating conversation, John grew restless, and seeking a timeframe for his incarceration, he contacted the scientist in charge. "Hey, McKay, how's it going?"

"It's bad, Sheppard, bad, bad, bad. The city is in lockdown or had you not noticed?"

"So, you got nothing?"

"It's been five minutes!"

Sheppard was comforted by the sound of Rodney's low-level-panicky tone; it was normal, things were under control. "Five minutes! You're slipping there, McKay."

"Shut up and let me work. Don't call me, I'll call you."

Walking up and down the corridor was profoundly tiresome, John later realised, so he began harassing people. He checked in with the no-longer-patrolling marines, with Elizabeth and Rodney. He bothered Teyla, Ronon, Lorne, Carson, and Sergeant Williams in the control room.

Eventually, he settled down, back against the door, and proceeded to pester Lieutenant Cadman who was on the other side and always up for a chat. He regularly felt the pulse of the city's inhabitant through the only marine who did not see him as CO every single minute of every single day. He believed her attitude had to do with her stint in McKay's head – she had seen John through Rodney's eyes – but he would not stake his life on it. It could very well be that she was more discerning than most, or less respectful. Either way, he was glad to have something to do, for his uselessness was intolerable.

He hated not being involved in crises, and checked in with Rodney more often than he should, getting aggravation and insults in return for his concern. At first, the normality of the response was encouraging.

When the third hour of lockdown came around, Sheppard found his confidence waning. "McKay."

Silence.

"McKay."

More silence.

"Rodney!"

"Roooooodney."

"WHAT!"

"What's up?"

"I. Am. Working!"

"What's going on?"

"Did you not listen? I. Am. WORKING!"

Sheppard's hope for a quick and painless resolve of the situation was trumped by the aggressiveness of Rodney's tone. Choosing optimism regardless of what reality suggested, John answered, "Yes. How is that going?"

"I can't access Atlantis' main control because, oh, look at that, we're in lockdown, and Atlantis' wonder boy keeps interrupting my work. How do you think it's going?"

"So, check in later?"

"Get off your radio. You're nothing but a nuisance! We have no use for you."

Reeling from the unusual virulence of McKay's retort, Sheppard called Elizabeth, who told him nothing new, a bored Lorne, and Zelenka, who knew even less than he did. He then checked in with Teyla, who was taking the time to stretch, 'as should you, John, this is a perfect opportunity to try those exercises I recommended,' and Ronon, who was lazying at the highest point of the walkway and more than eager to entertain and be entertained.

When the conversation with Ronon had been extended as much as it would sustain, Sheppard rose from the floor and started stretching. This inaction incensed him. The uselessness he felt, the time wasted, sitting here and waiting. He hated that Rodney had to work alone, but was glad most of the population of Atlantis was in their quarters, as any sane person would be in the first hours of morning. Looking at his watch, John realised they were in their fifth hour of lockdown and decided to check-in with the controller of it all.

"Rodney?" he asked, mindful of Rodney's state of mind. Pressure was good for the scientist, but hours into a crisis he had to handle alone would not put him in the sunniest of dispositions.

"What? Sheppard, seriously, WHAT!"

Sheppard was glad he had called, McKay seemed like he was cracking under the pressure. It surprised John, for in an emergency McKay had his moments, but he could generally stay calm as long as he had work on which to concentrate. "How're things?"

"Are the doors open? Hmm? Are the damn doors open?"

"No, they're not open. Yet," he said, trying to infuse some of his confidence in the last word. McKay would have fixed this and be gloating soon enough.

"How perceptive. Good for you. Get off the damn radio."

"What you doing now?"

A short, impatient sigh preceded Rodney's answer. "Eating a powerbar."

"Aaaand?"

"Trying to open up a path from the Chair room to the control room.

"How far you got left to open?"

"From the Chair room to the control room."

"Ah. Listen, you can do it." Sheppard was ashamed of the doubtful tone of his voice. He did not even believe himself.

There was a moment of silence before McKay answered. "Nice. Are we done here? Not that I don't appreciate the pep talk, but I have things to do. Important things, Sheppard, can you understand that? Do you get that the world does not revolve around you and your magic gene, that other people, depsite their artificial key to the city, can contribute!?"

The click in his ear told John an answer was neither needed, nor wanted.

When the seventh hour of lockdown came to be, Sheppard was listening to the chatter on the public channels, growing increasingly annoyed by his inactivity. He allowed the voices to lull him into a semi-resting state, but was disturbed from his rest by the city shutting down completely before surging back to life. A strong pulsation followed the city's return to power. It came from everywhere, like a strong wind, a pulsing wave that engulfed him. He got up and moved through the corridor, trying to pinpoint its provenance. Every door he passed vibrated with an insidious force. He knocked, but no one answered. He returned to stand before the transporter door, hands on hips, a puzzled frown marring his features.

The wave intensified, pressing on him from above, below, right, left. He felt the resistance his skin gave, and moved through his prison in an attempt to evade the heavy pervasiveness that threatened to overwhelm him.

He walked his limited perimeter once. It did not calm him, or minimize the effect of this wrongness flowing through the city. It pressed down on him with an intensity that hovered on the edge of pain. Each breath was hindered, each heartbeat a painful twinge; John was certain he could feel his blood travel sluggishly through his veins as if carrying the wave through him. He was intensely uncomfortable, as if his skin was suddenly too big and too small, floating on his muscles and tightening agonizingly. "Lieutenant?" he shouted over the white noise that superseded all other sounds. He pounded his fist on the door, but Cadman remained silent so he moved on. One door after the other presented only stubborn muteness and John's discomfort grew. Wrong, this was wrong in a way he could not explain. He felt it all around him, trying to get inside. He felt it inside, trying to get out. It surrounded him, trying to take him apart, and intensified rapidly. A sudden and violent headache made him close his eyes and fight for breath; a strong nausea forced his stomach to empty, and once it had done so, John collapsed to the floor, panting, certain his brain was about to pound its way out of his head. When, finally, the wave washing through the city retreated, he lay on the ground, drained. Forcing himself back from what he had thought was approaching death, John sought one voice.

"Rodney!"

He demanded an answer repeatedly, but there was none. Infuriated by Rodney's inaccessibility, John tried to reach someone who was close, not ignoring him from across the city. Every door received a harsher treatment than its predecessor. John wanted an answer and concentrated all his strenght on obtaining it. He needed for just one voice to be heard, for just one person to acknowledge him. By the last door, John had moved on to violent kicks and body slams; nothing changed, no one moved, no one spoke to him. The rushing sound gave way to another: silence. He raised a hand to his earpiece and appealed for solace.

"Teyla?"

He waited. His heart beat, loudly. He felt it, heard it, pumping blood and fear through his body.

"Teyla. This is Sheppard. Come in, Teyla."

He waited; his pace quickened. His hands formed fists at his side.

"Teyla, are you there?"

When she did not answer, he sought another source of reassurance. "Ronon."

The quiet baritone he wanted so much to hear did not sound out through the radio. He called, again and again, with increasing volume and trepidation, but there was nothing, only silence and cold.

He persistently tried to hail his team before moving on to Lorne, Zelenka, Elizabeth. The patrol teams had fallen quiet, and John was about to call Carson when Sergeant Williams, the gate technician, hailed him.

John answered with feigned confidence, pushing distress away. "Sheppard. What's your progress?"

"Nil. There's just me. All the others, they - I don't know what happened, sir, there was something, like power, and they…they keeled over, sir, and died. Sir. I couldn't reach you."

"It's alright, Sergeant, I felt it too." Click, click, click, pieces fell into place. A pulse, a lack of response, a confirmation. John squeezed his eyes shut, tightly. Images of people, his people, ran through his mind, all accompanied by a glaring neon light pronouncing them dead, as Williams' colleagues were. Elizabeth's amused look, Teyla's calm acceptance, Ronon's reassuring strength, Rodney's vibrancy. Zelenka's sharp mind, Lorne's loyalty, Cadman's smirk. The usual questions, how, why, who, longed to be answered, but Sheppard ignored them, wanting to free those that remained before understanding what had happened to them all.

"Sir,' William said softly, questioningly. His vocabulary was limited; thought-process hindered by the sight of his colleagues - friends - lying by their chairs, frozen in death. He had not been able to reach Doctor Weir. He had thought for a distressing minute that he was alone in this great city.

John understood the plea and chose to unburden the young Sergeant, as was his duty as commander. "Monitor the situation. Contact me if there's any progress, I'll be here. You'll be fine, we'll work this out."

"Yes, sir."

"Sheppard out."

John called Carson and received the same kind of bewildered answer.

"Carson?"

"Dear Lord. They're all - they're all dead," Carson said softly.

"All?"

"What happened?"

"You felt it. The pulse?" John could not believe he and the Sergeant were the only one who had felt the earlier disturbance.

"Yeah. I was taking a moment to rest, it woke me. Pressure, blinding headache one minute, then the next it was gone. What was that?"

"I don't know, haven't been able to reach Rodney."

"This cannot be happening. My nurses, my patients. I'm the only one left."

"Listen, just, do what you can, we'll get this sorted. Williams is in the control room and I'll go citywide, see who answers."

"Williams. He's a gate technician, can he get us out of this? He's no Rodney, we can't expect –"

"We'll get out of this, Carson. Just prepare the infirmary to receive any injured."

Carson set to a task, John stopped pacing the corridor, rested his forehead against the transporter door and struck the unyielding metal with his fist. He kicked it, slammed himself against it. He attempted to make it bind, to make it move; he wanted to be away from here, to have never come to this forsaken galaxy, this greedy city. He hit, kicked and abused the doors that trapped him. Guttural moans escaped him; a primal fury took over, a basic fear.

He stopped suddenly, breathing heavily, sweating through his shirt. Cold was catching up to him despite his agitation and Sheppard wondered how it was that he had never noticed the chill that resided in the corridors. He had always felt very comfortable strolling in the halls of Atlantis, but had never been trapped in them before. Sweat dried quickly and prickled his skin. He kicked the door once more before turning and resting his back against its solidity. John sank slowly to the cold floor. His knees supported his elbow, his hands received his head too heavy to hold up, and he sat, uncomfortably chilled, for long minutes before the environment cooled his temper. He raised a hand to his earpiece.

His voice broadcasted throughout the city by way of radios. "This is Colonel Sheppard. If you hear this, please contact Sergeant Williams in the control room. Contact the control room, immediately."

Sergeant Williams reported within minutes. Beckett, Levin, Latour, Kusinagi, Miller, Williams and Sheppard were the names he read out to John. There were three scientists, two sergeants, one lieutenant and one doctor left under his command. John hoped there were more, that they did not answer the hails because they had misplaced their radio, or fallen asleep. He hoped, but doubted. In the middle of such a situation, people were alert in their quarters. Quarters through which a wave had rushed, a wind had flown.

Skeleton crew was all that was left. John felt it in his bones.

Sheppard ran both hands over his face. He closed his eyes and sighed. This was killing him. So many, gone, and all he had done was pace and pound the doors.

"Did it!"

Rodney's voice made Sheppard jump. "Rodney! Damn it! Where the hell have you been!?" Anger returned, quickly coating the surge of relief hearing that particular voice had brought.

"Are you kidding me? Where have I been! I've been in the Chair room!"

"Why didn't you answer! Why didn't you call the control room! I told everyone to call Williams! That included you!"

"I took off my radio; you were getting on my last nerve! Now, city's letting me in, control room reports the same. You should be able to activate the transporter."

"How?" The quick change of mood Rodney exhibited was jarring, but not particularly new.

"Just step in and press, Sheppard, you've used them before. Meet you in the control room? I'll let Elizabeth know."

The mention of Elizabeth made Sheppard forget his annoyance at Rodney's evasiveness, and his sharp intake of breath sent Rodney into panic mode. "What? What, what, what? What happened, what have you done?"

"I haven't been able to reach Elizabeth for hours."

"Well, she's probably just fallen asleep. I can't get Zelenka either, lazy quitters!"

"There was a pulse, wind, earlier, you didn't feel that? I sure thought I was done for. I can't confirm, but –"

"What - what are you saying?"

"I'll just check it out, ok? Go to the control room, I'll meet you there." Sheppard refused to voice what he knew to be true until he could verify it.

"Right…"

"Just go, I won't be long. Oh, hey, no, stop by the infirmary, get Carson, then go to the control room. I'll go city-wide, tell everyone at once and meet you there."

"Ok."

"Sheppard out." He keyed his radio and selected the emergency channel that would patch him through every person that carried one. "This is Colonel Sheppard. The city is no longer under lockdown. I repeat, the city is no longer under lockdown. Everyone rendezvous in the gate room immediately. Gate room. Immediately."

He stood in front of his door, hand hovering over the controls. He moved to the left, plastered himself against the wall and activated the controls. The following moment was anti-climatic; John stepped into his room to find it as he had left it before his shift, thought slightly colder. He exited and opened the door next to his, then the next one, the next one, the next one. He did not need to step in after the fourth one, for he knew what he would find. He went to stand before Teyla's quarters, breathed in deeply and triggered the door. The air was cold here too, and Teyla was as most of the others he had found: lying in a heap on the floor, completely still. John walked over, crouched beside her and foolishly felt for a pulse. It was not there. He placed gentle fingers upon her eyelids and hid the lack of intelligent light and life that left only emptiness in her eyes. He lingered a moment, running the back of his fingers over a cold, still cheek.

He straightened, but could not leave. The floor was not the right place for a friend to lie, and he had a request to honour. Crouching down, he slipped his arms under Teyla, lifted her as he straightened once more and gently deposited her on her bed. Rigor Mortis had yet to set in, so he arranged her limbs in what would be a comfortable position, if she was only sleeping. He settled the blanket that lay at the foot of the bed over her cold, lifeless body. Touching his forehead to hers, he closed his eyes and spoke the words she had entrusted to him were she ever to meet her demise away from her people. "Teyla Emmagan, daughter of Tagan, honourable and loved, I, John Sheppard, commend your spirit to eternal peace."

She would be safe, she had said, from all that would seek to take her spirit from its rightful place, was a trusted friend there to commend it. John had grudgingly accepted the responsibility, as Ronon and Rodney had done. Always unwilling to face his people's death, he was pressed against the face of death, warmth from his skin seeping into that of a lost friend. He moved away from her, breathing in deeply, fighting to loosen the tight hold sorrow had over his heart.

Wanting to go and see to Ronon, to Elizabeth, to everyone, but untrusting of the transporters, John instead took the long way to the control room. When he entered the room, he saw that the worst scenario was as horrific as he had imagined. His count had been correct. He looked at the beseeching eyes that stared at him. Some were filled with tears and others with dismay, but all looked to him for guidance. The bodies of the control room crew had been moved out of sight of their position, for which John was grateful. He needed a moment to reintegrate his role of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, commander of the Atlantis base. He needed a moment to chase away misery.

McKay stood at the screen that depicted the city and its life-signs, arms crossed in a solitary hug. All the dots were in the gate room, all eight of them. As John stepped closer, Rodney turned to face him, his blue eyes drowning in horror. He said, "I think the sensors are offline. They must be."

Sheppard could not lie to him, nor would he wish to. "Doubtful. I went to Teyla's room. She's…she's dead." He turned to the rest of the frightened faces, feeling McKay's eyes burn a hole through his back. He wanted to say more, explain to Rodney, and grieve for just a moment, but Beckett, Levin, Miller, Williams, Kusinagi and Latour waited for John to take command. He resisted the urge to offer his usual platitude.

Everything would not be fine.

The infirmary became temporary quarters for them all. It was the practical that grounded Sheppard, thinking of what needed to be done rather than what had happened. Carson took charge, supervising the rearrangement of his domain from infirmary to communal room.

When they were settled, when Sheppard had done his duty, spoken and reassured as Elizabeth would, he returned to the control room, to Rodney.

Hunched over his laptop, Rodney typed and frowned.

"Anything?"

"Everything's on, but the most important systems such as the gate, the database, the Chair, and the shield are inaccessible. They're still locked from us." Rodney reclined, seemingly pleased with himself despite the limited access to major systems.

"Can you make the quarters colder?" Sheppard kept his tone flat.

The satisfied look fell and Rodney looked at John imploringly, as if he could take it back, could make it go away. He could not; asking Rodney to turn the used living sections into a morgue had to be done. No one wanted bodies that had begun to…Sheppard let go of that train of thought quickly. "Rodney. Can you make the quarters cold?"

The scientist nodded, typed a few keys and stilled.

"At least we can still live here," John pointed out, after a lengthy silence, "provided the city doesn't go into lockdown again." His tone was too light, too casual. It was pointless to be bluffing his way through this, but necessary. "Any idea what caused this?"

Rodney stiffened and stopped typing, but did not look at John. "Not sure. The pulse? I think it might've been a conditioned response, the systems are old, a bug, malfunction was inevitable." Rodney paused before asking, his voice rusty, "How many?"

"Eight, total." John did not even try to pretend he had misunderstood the question.

A sharp intake of breath and Rodney nodded. "Right." He stared at his screen, rested his hands on the keyboard.

Sheppard hated Rodney's quiet acceptance. It was just one more unsettling thing in a list that was growing too long.

He breathed in deeply. Things had to be done, right now. Allowing himself a rare moment of vulnerability, John dropped a hand on Rodney's shoulder and squeezed. Warm skin moved under his fingers, under the shirt against his palm, assuring him that life was there to stay. He let go and walked away quickly.

They would get through this, but he could not be assured they would all be unharmed once they did.