Disclaimer- see chapter 1

Wearily, John dragged himself out from under the water that had been cascading over him for the past thirty minutes, turning his bathroom into a passable sauna. Wearily toweling of his reddened skin, he ambled out of the bathroom, picked up a pair of cleanish sweatpants of this floor and shrugged the fabric lazily up over his hips.

There was nothing quite like a hot shower after a hard mission and, even though his team was physically in one piece, this has still been one of the harder missions.

Ambling slowly across the room, John collapsed heavily into his bed, allowing himself a sigh of relief, a sigh of welcome to himself at coming home. Stretching his arms out and folding them behind his head, John settled in to the thoughts that had barely been kept at bay since the mission had started.

Of all the messed up galaxies he could have chosen to get stranded in, he mentally grumbled to himself.

Seriously, what kind of place had real-life vampires who ate years instead of blood? What kind of place was he in where societies of children sacrificed themselves willingly and unnecessarily? Unconsciously, John began scratching at his wristband. The slight movement shifted the black fabric ever so slightly off center, revealing pale flesh littered with deceptively soft, silver scars. Without realizing it, habit forced the wristband back down as John mindlessly tugged the accessory down into its usual place.

Letting out a soft sigh, John flipped himself onto his side, fighting the nervous energy which bubbled up inside him. Considering how he was doing he couldn't blame his team for acting strangely on the way home. Teyla and Rodney's hushed conversation, Ford's boisterous participation in Keras' birthday song, everything has seemed just off enough, at least, it would if you knew the team life he did. John paused. He did know his team, right?

Upon arriving back in the gate room he had been unsurprised when Teyla veered off from the group requesting time in the gym followed by meditation in order to prepare her report. To be honest, if she hadn't requested it, he had been ready to suggest a similar course of action. Ford had disappeared shortly after in the direction of a pier the two of them had discovered the week before on a training run. Thinking back, John remembered the kid mentioning how this would be a good place for someone to get their head straight. Hopefully, that's just what the kid was doing.

As promised, Rodney had retreated to his lab, sandwich in one hand, reasonably brewed coffee in the other. John knew Rodney was attempting to cope as he'd had a report just prior to entering his shower about the good doctor terrorizing his staff. Rodney really needed a better way to cope, John thought ruefully, like I'm one to talk.

He knew his team. That was part of his job, part of his privilege. How, then, was he supposed to help them when he couldn't help himself?

What kind of leader was he? Hiding in his room, indulging in self something, not that he actually knew what he was doing exactly. He did know that wasn't what any authority figure he'd had would have done in this situation. It wasn't what his father . . .

John rubbed his wristband distractedly as his thoughts spiralled.

How was anybody supposed to process the magnitude of that many unnecessary deaths? Sure, he had been in wars before, he'd killed before. Never had he experienced a situation where all involved were children, innocents compared to the galaxy around them. Even the reality that they had made a difference for the child society, the plan that Atlantis would continue to send teams to help the children as they transitioned their society, all of that rang hollow amidst the should have's, could have's, and needlessness of the deaths they had uncovered.

With a strangled cry, John launched himself toward the walk beside him, his fist connected fully with the solid structure before him.

Looking up from his outburst, John sagged as he saw small flecks of blood on the wall. Turning his hand around, he saw the broken skin now gracing his knuckles and carefully flexed his fist. Thankfully, experience told him the hand was only bruised. A randomly bruised limb was hard enough to explain to Carson as it was. Attributing it to the mission would only reflect poorly on the kids, he would simply have to come up with some plausible excuse before he saw Carson next.

Grabbing a clean cloth from his bedside table, John ambled back into the bathroom to clean his wounded hand. Grabbing a small, discreet bottle of antiseptic he kept on hand for cases just like these, he dabbed the medicine onto his broken knuckles, allowing himself the rare privilege of hissing gently as the liquid made contact with his bleeding hand.

Taking a bandage from the same kit, methodically sterilized and startling in its white contrast with his tanned flesh he deftly wrapped his injured hand with a practised ease.

Leaning against the counter, he slowly looked up and met his own haggard gaze in the mirror. Maybe he was the one who needed a better way to cope? Pushing the thought away, John returned to his bed to rest, indulging in the time he had before he once again had to don his mask and face the world.