Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness3
"You know, I once met another version of you..."
John sat at his desk, trying to write up a report about recent events that did not include the words space aliens, alien technology, alien pathogen, or anything else that would surely get him committed. Except McKay's offer, McKay's words were flitting through his mind. A second chance. Redemption. Was it even possible? Was he even worth it? He rubbed his chin. McKay wanted a hero. Someone to rush in and save the day, like that other John Sheppard, impossible as that was to believe.
He tried to imagine another version of himself. Another life that hadn't included such terrible tragedy. Such terrible guilt. He tried to envision a life devoid of all of that. How different a person would he be without it? But he couldn't imagine it. Couldn't see himself as some sort of intergalactic hero saving the day over and over on a weekly basis.
John wasn't a hero. He stared at nothing, the past overtaking him. A crash of a helicopter he had been flying in Afghanistan, on a foolish and foolhardy rescue mission that had ended in disaster. He had gone against direct orders, and not only he but twelve other people had paid the price for that. He hadn't gotten so much as a scratch. While twelve people lay dead all around him. Shot to pieces, butchered by the crash. He had been nearly court-martialed. Had been discharged from the service, all documents sealed. A permanent black mark on his record.
He could still hear the whine of the rotors as the helicopter was shot down. He could still hear the screams of his comrades, his friends. Even of her. He tried to picture her differently, in happier times. Camo scrubs and always a smile for him. Only for him. But he could only remember her the last way he had seen her. Dead. Bloody. Almost decapitated. His stomach lurched and he shut it all down, buried it deep.
These memories were all too accessible. Unlike the ones from six months ago. He hadn't been able to remember anything else. In fact his mind seemed to be shutting down, refusing to give him even fragments of that time now. It was frustrating. Maddening. He wondered if he would ever recover those memories, or whether that part of his life was lost to him forever.
He fingered his phone. Thinking. Middlegate Hills. Where Moira had had a similar horrible experience. Four dead. He didn't know if she had been injured. The details were scant in the police records. If anyone would understand it would be her. Understand the darkness. The guilt. The grim necessity of burying it all in order to continue living. He sighed, withdrew his hand from his phone. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about anything. He hated talking.
God he wished he had a drink. He glanced down at the drawer where he kept a secret bottle of Scotch. But he shook his head. Accessed his computer. So far there were no leads on the whereabouts of Ford. He wondered if the kid was already dead. Another death due to his negligence, his stupidity. The culpability would eat him alive if he let it. He leaned, about to open the drawer. About to reach for that bottle, that escape.
"Sheppard!"
He scowled, hearing the merriment in the man's voice. Looked up to see a tall, black-haired man peering round the open doorway. "What?" he snapped. "What is it, Cole?"
"You've got to see this, Shep! You won't believe it!"
"Won't believe what?" But Coles gestured, grinned and entered the main precinct room. John softly swore. Irritated. He stood, exited his office. Men were arrayed around a desk, all leaning towards a computer. Gales of laughter filled the room. "What the hell is this?" John snapped.
"You! You made quite the impression, Shep! I thought it was just your yearly harem, those round table girls, but this, this is new. Got your own fan sites now. I'm impressed!"
"What?" John neared, pained expression on his face. Men parted for him to see, grins and amusement grating. A few patted him on the back, as if he had somehow accomplished some milestone without even knowing it. "I don't believe this," he muttered.
"Look!" A man seated at the desk pointed. He was still wearing his bulletproof vest, too excited to remove it yet. "I googled you on a dare and look what came up! It's called thunking! I learned a new word!"
"Well, good for you, Danville. Lord knows you need 'em," John noted sourly. Laughter.
"Who says the internet isn't educational!" Danville jested. "Look at this, Shep! It's mostly posts about you. Some about your job and such, about various cases you've worked on and stuff like that, but mostly about how hot you are. One is obsessed with your hands. There's a whole thread about your hair! There's another one here, who has quite the thing for your mouth." He scrolled down across the postings. "And quite a lot are rather graphic about other, er, parts of your anatomy. I never knew women talked that way," he marveled.
"Only to other women," one noted. Laughter filled the room.
"Look! They post pics too...wow! You really shouldn't have leaned over like that." Danville snorted as the men guffawed. "Forget your undies that day, Shep? And in jeans? Didn't that chafe at all? In the desert heat? Ouch!"
"Enough!" John declared as uproarious hilarity erupted. He stared at the pictures, shaking his head. Embarrassed and flattered all at once as he skimmed the comments.
"I bet they even write fics about you, stories about the detective and his adventures, and of course rather naughty stories about you and your–"
"Shut up!"
"Hey, what about this one? ShepScoop? Says they have your ear. Is that true?"
"Hell no!"
"This one's not so bad. JFJST something something see? Even has a detective theme going which ties into your work. Pretty cool, huh? They seem nicer than that ShepScoop place. Not as pushy or as demanding."
"Maybe you should get on Twitter next, Shep, and then you can auction off your wristband on Ebay!"
"And how would they know it was mine?" John retorted. "Fuck this!" He switched off the computer. A chorus of disappointment filled the room. "I'm certain you clowns have other things to do than to google me! Like actual work, for instance? Solving actual crimes? Get to work, damn it! God I hate the internet!"
"What about Twitter, Shep?"
"No one cares what I had for breakfast, Cole!" John fumed. "They wouldn't get my sense of humor anyway," he muttered. "I'm sure there's a dead body somewhere in Vegas! If not the next one will be yours!" He stalked back to his office, slamming the door shut. He sat at his desk, fuming. Glaring at his computer. As if the machine was guilty somehow.
He wasn't a stranger to the media or to the press. He'd been in newspaper articles, been photographed at crime scenes or attended press conferences he couldn't get out of attending. It was part of the job and he accepted it, however unhappily. But this odd adulation was something new. Unexpected. Flattering to be sure but surreal all the same. His fingers tapped the keyboard, tempted to google himself, or at least check out that one site that sounded rather interesting. The JFJST whatever whatever. He refrained, smirking at his own vanity.
Instead he looked round the office. Anger cooling. He eyed the Johnny Cash poster on the wall. It was slightly askew, as if it had been hastily restored. He stood. Moved to it. Touched the corner of the poster that was curling up, the tape not sticking to the wall. Suddenly he remembered taking it down. Rolling it up and putting it into a box of his stuff. Exiting the office and handing the box to his boss Hendricks. Retrieving the poster and only taking that with him.
Quitting. But why? John frowned. Stared at the poster but it yielded no answers. He could imagine quitting easily enough. Sometimes he absolutely hated his job. It had taken four tries just to make detective. He was a loner. No one wanted to work with him. He was standoffish, rude. Deliberately to keep everyone at arm's length. At least he had been before whatever had happened to him. He touched his chest. Felt the scabs. Shook his head.
There was no way he could have quit. There wasn't enough money in the bank, certainly there wasn't back then to even think of quitting cold turkey like that. Not with the gambling debts lining up. Not with the bills piling up. Not with the rent past due. He stared round the office, trying to remember. But he hit a blank. A wall. Another gap in his memory.
He fingered his white wristband. Wondered how much he would get for it if he did in fact auction it on Ebay. He snorted at the thought. Who would want it? He shook his head at his own foolishness. Turned in the chair to look at a filing cabinet. Old case files might sell better. Especially if he signed them. Again he snorted, finding the notion silly. Comical.
He was a Las Vegas detective, not some famous Hollywood actor.