Author's Note: Hey guys! Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews! I will get time to start answering them soon (though I won't answer backlogged ones, I'll just start replying to new ones) because I've finally finished all my work that I've left to the last minute... for the moment.

Anyways, this chapter's longer than before, so have fun and I'll see you tomorrow night, when I'll hopefully be able to get to bed before 2:30am... for the first night since Thursday...

Chapter 5

"You know, these sessions only help if you actually do some of the talking, John."

Sheppard looked up from where he was busying himself with a frayed area of the couch. The doc was looking at him, half-exasperated, half-annoyed, half-amused. It was a strange combination on her usually still face.

John sighed and shifted on the couch. "It's hard, doc," he told her, rubbing his chin. He hadn't shaved that morning, and it was irritating the hell out of him. "Usually I just forget what's happened and move on with it. No sense in thinking about things you can't change."

"And what's the difference this time?" She knew, of course. She was playing with him. She knew exactly how it was different this time.

He let her know that he knew she knew with a frustrated scowl. "Might have something to do with the broken body a bunch of SOB drug dealers left me with." No, it more than that.

"But you've been hurt before," she reminded him. "In fact, it seems you've had quite the career. Nothing so bad as this, of course. But you've been shot, stabbed... beat up. I know there's something more, John. Something less physical than your body."

Oh, she knew, did she. He scowled deeper, and went back to picking at the frayed patch. "I don't know," he lied, quickly shaking his head at his own words. "Maybe cause this time, my mind doesn't want to forget. Or maybe because it doesn't know what to forget. Or maybe just because there's nothing there to forget, and it's confused."

"You seem to have given this some thought."

"Every damn night," he muttered before he could help himself.

"Before or after you sleep?" the doc asked slowly, sitting more upright.

"After, I guess. And during." He rubbed his face. "I've been having nightmares."

"Which is to be expected," she told him. "You know that. So I'll ask again. What's different this time?"

He gave a hollow laugh and then sighed. "Honestly... It's... my dreams, they're... man, this is hard." He licked his lips and then decided to jump right in. "I can't trust them," he told her. "I have these dreams, and they're so vivid, so real, but they can't have happened. Or if they have, I can't remember them, Dave can't remember them, and I don't have any evidence of them happening."

"Like what?" she asked, throwing her auburn hair over her shoulder. She looked deadly serious.

"Like... flying a helicopter through Antarctica," he told her, leaning forward without leaning on his bad leg. "Except, according to my brother, I'm afraid of flying, and I sure as hell can't remember ever going to the South Pole."

"According to your brother?" she asked, curious at the expression.

John chuckled in exasperation. "Yeah, according to Dave... I... I don't know if it's what happened to me. But ever since I found out I was afraid of flying, I've had the urge to go get my pilot's license anyway."

"Do you feel afraid of flying?"

"Yes." No. "Look, aren't we getting away from the main problem here?" He really didn't want to talk about that just yet. He wanted at least one confusion in his life sorted out before he tackled the others.

"There is no main problem here, John," she told him sternly. "Just you. But, if you wish.... what else do you dream about?"

"Uh... crashing, in a desert. Being tortured..." He paused. "Except that the guys who are torturing me are asking about something that apparently doesn't exist." He rubbed his face again. "I just... I feel as if... if I can't trust my own head, my own mind, to let me know what's real... how can I trust anything else?"

"How so?" the woman asked, frowning. She looked worried. No doubt for his sanity. But he had come this far.

"It's just... the mind controls everything, right? As in, everything. And if it's not okay, if it can't let me know that what I'm dreaming about, what I'm remembering, is real... than what if it's showing me something wrong on the outside as well." He groaned and rubbed his face for a third time. "Am I even making sense?"

Surprisingly, she laughed. "Yes. John, yes, I understand you. But I think you're overcomplicating it. In fact, from what you've told me, about your dreams, I think your mind is perfectly fine. We knew from the beginning that you would suffer memory loss. And it is that which you brain is having a hard time coming to terms with. Thus, it's filling in the blanks with something which it feels is suitable for that jagged memory."

He wasn't convinced, and she knew it. Sighing, she placed her clipboard to the side and leaned forward.

"Do you really want to know, John? Do you really want to know what happened?"

"Yes." He replied without hesitation. He had to know.

"Are you sure? What you see... it may not be complete. Or it could be absolutely complete, and in your case, I'm not sure which would be worse."

"I don't care," he told her. "I have to know what's real in this damn head of mine."

"Okay then," she breathed. "I know a technique. It's not fun, and it could cause you some distress."

"What is it?"

"A form of meditation. It will put you under just enough that I may – and I repeat, may – be able to help you see past the curtains and reveal what you mind is trying to both hide and find. We may also need a few attempts before we really get anywhere, but we can begin to do it in sessions. If you wish."

"Okay," he said slowly. "What do I need to do?"

"Relax," she ordered. "Just sit back in the chair and close your eyes. And try not to think how stupid this is."

He forced back a grin. That had been exactly what he was thinking. But he cleared his mind, focusing on his breathing, sinking back into the frayed couch and just completely relaxing. His breathing deepened quickly, and he tried not to let his mind wander onto thoughts like how this was impossible, and how he should just walk out now, before he found out she printed her degree out from online.

"Okay, John. Good. That's good." The doc's voice seemed to come from far away, echoing inside Sheppard's head, resounding and clear. "Breathe, slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. You can feel your whole body going completely still, can feel the weight slowly seeping out through your very pores."

She was right. He did start to feel lighter. But he didn't think about that, just focused on his breathing, on her voice, and on the knowledge that he had to know what his mind was hiding.

"Excellent, John," she soothed. "Now, I want you to imagine a dark lake lapping at your feet. You can't see the far shore, and you can't see the bottom, but it does not scare you. In fact, the lake is peaceful, quiet, serene."

He felt himself smile. The lake wasn't quiet, but he didn't feel afraid. Because the lake sang to him, melody rising and falling in time with the slow waves caressing the shore line. It felt familiar, that song, like a comfortable echo in his very bones.

"You're doing great. Now, I want you to walk forward, into the lake. Keep on walking, John, until you are completely submerged. It will not harm you," she told him as he began to frown. "The lake is the waters of your mind, and the water is like air to your soul."

She had a beautiful way of talking, this shrink. He felt himself smile again, and reached out through the water just to keep a hold of her voice. Strange, but she spoke in time with the song of the water.

"You are deep inside the lake now, John. It's dark, but I need you to remember the dark, John. Any time you feel scared, or hurt, just close your eyes and think of the dark, and you will be safe back within the lake."

He gave the smallest nod, and if he had been aware of anything besides the lake and the psychologist's voice, he would have noticed the tiny surge of nerves deep in his stomach.

"Okay then. I want you to picture a room in front of you. Not just any room. The room you're drug dealers kept you in. Down to the very last details you remember."

He swore his heart skipped a beat, but that didn't mean he could stop himself from obeying her. He pictured the room, complete with the dingy light, the lack of windows, the heat, the chair, the men watching a broken body in that chair, covered in blood and mud and other things he didn't want to think about. So he looked past himself, looked at the men, the walls, the instruments lining the tables. Strange, but the room looked oddly country for New York.

The shrink's voice cut in sharply. "I know you're picturing it wrong, John," she told him. "Think. Not about what you feel was right. But about what was right. Look past the details you know are wrong. Concentrate. Open your mind up to it."

He wasn't sure there was anything wrong with it. But he obeyed, staring blankly at everything, just willing it all to become right.

And after a minute, it did.

The wooden walls turned to concrete. The men cast off their shirts and trousers, and replaced it with jeans and leather. A hum took up its song in the background, almost drowning out the melody of the lake still strumming in the back of his head.

He took a step forward. "Is this right?" he demanded in a whisper.

"What do you think?" the woman asked, and he shook his head.

"I don't know... It looks right." And it did look right. It looked right. He concentrated on the men. "Those men. I remember those men. They were in my dream."

"Well, that's a start. Concentrate on them. And remember the dream."

He didn't really want to, but again, he couldn't disobey her. And like a flash, the images passed across his mind, though this time the sounds drowned out the psychologist's voice with a ferocity and suddenness he had not expected.

The wind and snow froze and blinded him before the snow turned to sand, the wind to sun, and he was falling, crashing, so quickly, more quickly than it had happened in the dream. At least this time it had that fuzzy quality of a dream. And then he was laying down in front of shimmering blue, and it called to him. Something beyond that blue called to him. He got to one knee, all sense of déjà vu disappearing in that instance.

John, can you hear me?

The voice was faint, unrecognisable, and he dismissed it as he got to his other knee, kneeling in front of the round pool of blue, breathing quickly. Something was through there. Something. Someone? More than one?

John, you need to come back! This isn't real, John!

The voice was sterner this time, and he looked behind him, looking for that voice. And when he turned his head back, ever so slowly, the blue was gone, replaced by the dark walls of the room he had been held prisoner in.

His breath caught, and he tried to stand up. Only he couldn't move, he was tied down, and everything hurt.

And this was real. His head was telling him, this, this was real. Now he just had to get his heart to believe it as well. Maybe then...

John, you're in too deep. Remember the lake John. Remember the darkness.

There was no darkness though, just the man, in denim and leather, approaching him, cracking knuckles.

"I need to know," he whispered, his voice hard, dark, angry. "What have you told your cop friends?"

"Nothing." John's voice moved of its own accord. "I haven't told those pigs a damn thing. I'm no cop."

"Bullshit," the man told him. John, that's it. Come back, John. Come back to the lake. Focus on the dark.

"I know you're lying to me," the man continued, even as Sheppard thought back. It was a struggle. But he remembered the dark. He just couldn't go back yet. He had to know if Atlantis was real. "Tell me, detective. What did you tell?"

"Nothing," John maintained. His heart was beating even faster. "I told you what I know."

The man grinned. "Not yet, you haven't. But you will."

And he drew his fist back, even as that disembodied voice shouted at him, John! And he closed his eyes, waiting. Waiting, even as another, second disembodied voice whispered in the familiar darkness...

Are you even aware?

When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in the shrink's office.

Disorientated, he looked around, quickly realising he was actually in a car. Dave's car to be exact.

"Finally decided to join the land of the living?"

It took John a minute to realise his brother was talking to him. "What?" he demanded, only half listening. He could have sworn he had been sitting down, in that old, hole-ridden couch when he had closed his eyes. And he couldn't remember leaving the office.

"Are you okay?" Dave asked, glancing worriedly over at him. "You've been pretty out of it since I picked you up."

Which he couldn't remember. "Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He looked around, trying to orientate himself. "Where are we headed?"

"Oh, finally decided to notice we weren't heading home?" Dave asked with a grin. His eyes remained worried though. John ignored it. "It's a surprise."

Now John thought he should be worried. "Dave, where are we going? I'm not really in the mood for a surprise."

The older man's face fell, and he sighed, turning his concentration back to the road. "Fine. Whatever. I'm taking you to the mall."

"Why the hell are we going to the mall?" John demanded, recognising the route now. "I'm not really in the mood for that, either."

"That shrink left you with one foul temper," Dave muttered. "What exactly did she say?"

"Nothing," John told him with a little more snap than he intended. "I'm just tired, and I don't really want to be around people." Truthfully, he was a little scared about the sudden loss of an hour or so. "So why are we going?"

"Because you're going insane with boredom at home," Dave snapped back. "I thought you could get a book, or a puzzle or something. Anything to stop you from scrawling through the internet looking for places that only exist in your head."

John bit back the first answer that came to mind: that the places he was searching for did exist. He didn't really want to say that when he wasn't even sure that they did. "You know, puzzles really aren't my thing."

"Yeah, well, I don't really care what you get, as long as my internet usage starts going down. Here we are."

The mall was busy and loud, full of families and little kids that tended to get in the way of his crutches. Determined to be happy for Dave's sake, he trudged along, and heaved a sigh of relief as the older man led the way to the closest book store. "I know you enjoy reading."

Wondering if Dave really did know that, or if he himself even did, he followed anyway, mostly because it seemed a lot quieter than the footpaths outside.

They split up inside, and John headed down a random aisle, deciding to give this a go, and find something to do. Dave was right – he was losing his mind sitting around the house, more literally than figuratively.

He was quietly pleased to find himself in the history section, and paused to stare at a shelf. It was mostly on Greece, and islands of the Mediterranean. But that was fine by him. It was just something to pass the time, and if it was something he was interested in, that was even better.

He spent a few minutes just looking at the titles, picking up a few to peruse the contents. But five minutes later, he was getting pretty bored when he spotted it.

Biting his lip and looking around, making sure no one was watching, he grabbed the thin book off the bottom shelf. And for a moment, he just stared at the cover. At the blue and green colours, at the city sinking beneath huge waves, an angry storm... at the golden title: Atlantis.

"I'm an idiot," he breathed to himself, flicking the book open.

The first few pages were everything he had expected. Uniform black writing telling about Plato's mythical city that had sunk beneath the waves, complete with pictures and diagrams. It told how Plato had compared it to Athens, and how it had been a hotbed of all those terrible things that Athens had not liked. John shook his head and looked around again, searching for anyone watching him.

When he looked back again, the page was different.

He blinked, but it didn't change back. Heart suddenly beating fast, he looked closer, at the now picture-less page, the boring print, the typed words. The military style of writing.

Report: P3X-459

Native population met us at the gate with no signs of hostility. They seemed happy to share their lunch with us, and were fascinated by our technology. Suggest going back, to negotiate trading medicines for some of their harvest...

John took a deep breath, but didn't take his eyes off the book, too afraid it would change back to that boring mythical Atlantis he had been reading about. He turned the page.

... The mission turned dramatic when one of our indigenous guides fell down a small mine shaft. Thankfully Dr McKay was able to rig up a stand so we could pull him out...

He knew that name. McKay. "McKay." How did he know it? He shook his head and turned the page again.

...His home world was destroyed. Given that he has nowhere else to go, and given his unique skills and knowledge, I suggest recruiting him as a member of the Atlantis Expedition. He would be a valuable asset to my team.

Atlantis Expedition. Yes. That was it. Something, about those words, about that name. He knew it. Atlantis wasn't just in his mind, it was real, and if he could just stretch his thoughts a little, he would see it, would remember exactly what it –

Something suddenly hit him, interrupting his train of thought. It was hard to think when you were falling over.

John hit the ground hard and couldn't help but cry out as he knocked his hip, sending shooting pains down through his leg. He rolled over, careful not to hit the book shelves, and then just lay there, breathing heavily through his nose.

A hand entered his field of vision, and he looked up at the thing that had bowled him over. And for the second time in thirty seconds, he got a massive shock.

He knew the man standing over him, knew that guilt-ridden face, those wide eyes under that thin, fair hair. Knew that build, that hand still shaking in his face... He knew this man. He just...

"McKay," he breathed without meaning to, and the world shifted slightly.

The dark haired young man frowned and moved his hand back a little. "Um... No. Man, sorry, I must have hit you harder than I thought. I am so sorry! I didn't see you standing there until it was too late, and... I am so -."

"What the hell?" Dave's irate voice interrupted, and a second later John was rolling his eyes as big brother knelt by his side.

"John, are you okay? Jesus, what happened?" He glared up at the young man. John stared up as well, willing him to change back, because he needed a reminder of who McKay was. Because he couldn't remember, even when he had seen it a second ago.

"Did you push him over?" Dave demanded of the kid, who blanched.

"I didn't mean to, I swear. I just... I didn't see him!"

"Well, you're lucky he's okay, because -."

"Dave, give it up," John interrupted with some annoyance. "It happens, get over it. I'm fine. Just help me up."

He got slowly to his feet – or one of them, at least – and pulled his crutches underneath him. He tried not to wince, and managed to hide a little one from Dave, who was still scowling at the guy who had knocked him over. "Come on, Dave," he muttered. "Let's just go. I know what book will keep me not bored."

He pushed Dave forward to get him going, and followed with some difficulty. But even the ache deep in his hip wasn't enough to stop him from turning back and looking down at the book still open, and lying on the ground.

It was back to those boring, meaningless words about a fake city, and John decided he really needed to find out if he was going crazy or not.