A/N - This is it! Last chapter. Hope you liked! Oh, apart from that, we fan fic writers are all too well aware that on average only 1 out of 100 readers leaves a review. We don't ask for much. Just maybe even an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot winky emoticon even many moons or eons later. Indulge us. It makes us write. For you as well as for ourselves. It is our ambrosia, our nectar, our soma, our baileys, our chocolate, our potato chips, our pickled onions... ;-D

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They were striping him again. Bruising him. Maiming him. They had to be. He could hear a steady thwacking, whooshing sound, though his body couldn't feel it beyond a repetitive dull thud, and a mild sensation of jerking. He'd been able to detach from his latest punishment after all. Finally. Maybe that was a precursor to either ascension or death. Then, the distant sound seemed to race and intensify. He still couldn't work out where the strikes were falling. It didn't hurt, so he didn't care. He no longer owned his body, so what difference could it make?

"I do believe he's waking up. I'll go fetch our friendly, neighborhood witch doctor then, shall I?"

"No need, McKay. Nurses have the heart monitor monitored. They'll be fluppering around like smobbalugs to naffpoop any miffle now."

"What? Seriously? That Satedan? Neat!"

"Made it up."

"Ah, Gobbledegook. Nice one. Was it brillig, eh? Did the slithy toves mayhaps gire and gimble in the wabe? Eh?"

"I believe what Ronon is trying to say," Teyla raised an eyebrow, "is that it might be better for John to see us all beside his bed, Rodney."

"Yes, well. Like I hadn't thought of that. Ew, that bandage around his right wrist looks nasty. I see Carson performed his voodoo, and actually managed to remove the chain and tags. Looks like he had to sacrifice a whole chicken coop's worth to fix that mess. And several head of buffalo."

"Saray- "

"Shushah, Ronon! He does not yet know that we know it was her!" Shep heard a stage-whisper.

"Samara?"

Shep could pretty much hear a shrug in the voice of the junkyard dog, like he knew him and could read him. He peeked to gauge its size. Get its measure. He looked between his eyelashes at the whiny lap dog, and then at the human female. His owner.

"Sadly, yes. Perhaps we should call her that until John cares to divulge the truth."

Sarayah. The soulless bitch dumped him. Abandoned him like he'd outlived his usefulness. But – he'd behaved! At least he'd tried to. And now this new owner. Kinder, gentler. He could hear her voice. She would claim him. He would be her Shep. Soon…

The thwacking sound was the insistent beat of his own heart.

"I can't believe Sa – Samara tin-punched her name on his dog tags, and then welded the chain on him. That could have taken his hand off."

Ya think?

"I see his eyelids fluttering. He is truly awake. This is a good thing."

Uh oh. They were onto him. Perhaps he should show subservience. He wrenched his eyes fully open, and bared his teeth. He also wanted to show he had no weapons, but it was hard for him to raise his hands more than a fraction of an inch from his bed.

"H-Hey," he croaked in appeasement.

"John! It is good to see you! You… know who we are?"

"Yeah… " M' new owner and a coupla guard dogs.

He'd tell them it was good to be seen just to keep them happy, just to keep them away from him, to give him time to heal or find a way out. He wanted to hide under his stone bench, his comfy chair. He could feel his body rematerializing around him, and that wasn't good either. That meant they could actually see him. Shep willed himself invisible, to no avail. Suddenly his Humane Society cage acquired the dimensions of a microwave oven.

"Teyla has something for you."

He looked across at the dumpy bulldog wannabe. Rodney. For some reason, he was hopping on the spot. The dumpy dog looked elated. He really didn't care to know what this Teyla had for him, but he bent his head in submission all the same.

"Aw. He's overcome."

The junkyard dog, Ronon, clipped the back of Rodney's head, knocking some fur flying. Shep suspected it wasn't the first time. No wonder he was balding.

"Don't think so. At least, not in a good way. Look at him. Sheppard? You okay?"

"S-Sure. I'm good. I'll be good." I promise. You won't need to beat me much.

"John, these are for you. They are new. Your old ones were… irreparably damaged."

Shep looked at the dog tags, draped decoratively over a large, scented candle in her outstretched hands. She was smiling. She was claiming him.

No…

A tiny spark of him deep in the pit of his stomach knew without a doubt that this was wrong. All wrong. No-one should own him. No-one. He belonged to himself. Always did. Always would.

"No."

"What? What do you mean, 'No!'? We're trying to replace your mangled, misappropriated belongings here. Ronon has a new macho-looking wristband for you, though admittedly it's black leather and not cheapo dollar store terry cloth, and I bought you a spanking new knocked-off Roll- "

"No!"

Shep leaped from the gurney, landing on his banged-up knee. He realized he was pretty much buck-naked. He scrambled around, frantically searching for his stone bench, his comfy chair, or some semblance of it.

"No!"

Spying nothing but the gurney they'd plunked him on, he grabbed the sheet, and yanked. He ended up in a tug-of-war with the junkyard dog. He either won, or the other dog let go. No matter. Shep took home the prize.

"No!"

They were coming for him. Surrounding him like a zombified pack of mutants. They were lumbering in for the kill. Shep did the only thing he could think of. He scuttled under the gurney, curled up under it, and pulled the sheet over his exposed body. If he couldn't see them, maybe they couldn't see him. Judging by the silence, he'd shaken them off. They would pass him by, not knowing he was under there, and they would pick out another so-called rescue animal for their nefarious purposes. He wouldn't draw attention to himself. He, too, fell silent, hardly daring to breathe.

He heard footfall. The rustle of his sheet. If he stayed still, maybe they'd lose interest. Then, three objects appeared under the sheet right by his head. A wristband. A wrist watch. Those dog tags. Anchoring his sheet under feet and knees and elbows, he freed his hands, and peeled off the bandages. His right wrist was badly burned all around, like a shiny crimson bracelet.

He remembered covering up a scar there once. This was far worse. He cast the bandages aside, and covered this strange, new dotted, pitted scar with the newly-proffered wristband, even though it hurt him. It fit. Then he looked at the watch. A knock-off? Trust Rodney!

Trust Rodney...

"I bought this last time I went to visit my cat. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but you might as well have it now. Especially as I was thinking of hanging onto it. I might not have felt quite as sorry for you by then, and you'd most likely have ended up with a plastic travel chess set or a pack of playing cards from the dollar store, of which there are many."

"Thanks."

These people were being nice to him. And that Rodney made him laugh. Maybe it was genuine. Shep looked at the tags. He reached out, and gingerly pulled them towards him using his pinkie. When they didn't burn his fingers, he looked them over. And read them.

Sheppard, John

163-23-4111 AF

AB POS

RC

That was him. His name. His birthstate. His social security number followed by his area of service in the armed forces. His blood type. The religion he was born into. This was the sum of his identity. Teyla was relinquishing ownership of him. She was giving him back to himself. He was Sheppard, John. 163 - 23 -

He was John Sheppard.

"May I come in, Colonel Sheppard? John?"

Teyla slipped under the sheet, and stayed low, slinking against the floor, on his level. Slowly, she pulled the sheet down from over both their faces. He felt panic, and backed up against the cold steel legs of the gurney. He reached up, but his wrists were no longer restrained. He held onto the frame anyways, anchoring himself. Dangling. Waiting. For either care or abuse.

Next thing he knew, the entire gurney had been draped with two huge sheets, like a bivouac. It looked like the sheets were systematically being clipped together with hemostats zipper-fashion, leaving two entrance flaps. The wannabe tent was taped down at four corners, allowing just the one flap. He spun around frantically, to see the sheets taped at five points in total. A shaggy head appeared in the entrance. Ronon. He tossed over a small, black furry thing. He let go of the frame with one hand, and almost reached for it.

"Found a black one in your underwear drawer, Sheppard. There was a pink one under your pillow, but I left it there. Smells nice." He grinned. "Made that other one myself. Even chewed the leather to make it soft. It's dyed with Wraith blood. Only way to get deep, dark, no fucking shit black."

"Ronon?"

"Yep?"

"Did you maybe chew the leather after you dyed it?"

"Nope. Before."

"That's good. That's good, buddy."

"I'm still John Sheppard," he stated flatly. It was a lot to take in. He let go the frame, and dropped both hands in his lap.

Yes! John Sheppard! That is you. I am Teyla. My baby son is Torren John Emmagan. He was named for you and for my father."

She clutched his still sore forearms, and touched her forehead to his. He struggled not to flinch. It was a gesture of equality. That of a peer. A friend.

"I n-never really got that. You... introduced yourself to me as... Teyla, daughter of Tagan."

She chuckled.

"That was my mother's name. We Athosians are a matriarchal society. Torren will introduce himself one day as Torren John, Son of Teyla. Or Torren John of the Emmagan clan. If the Ancestors grant me a daughter, I might yet name her Tagan, and she shall be Daughter of Teyla. Though I must admit I find my mother's name somewhat harsh to my ear. It is… too 'old fashioned'? As you say?"

He smiled at that. Teyla was ever the diplomat. Her mother's name was way ugly.

"I might yet call a daughter of mine Tagan Elizabeth Emmagan. What say you to that, John Sheppard?"

"It… has a certain ring to it." He scrubbed his face. "I'm in the doghouse." He gulped. " 'S'Why'm here. Under… " he looked about him, rolled two fingers, and for want of a better word, he added, "here."

John bowed his head.

"No, John. You have done nothing wrong."

"So, why do I hurt both inside and out?" He hung his head. It was hard to look her in the eye.

"Because you feel both inside and out. You have great empathy for all."

"Why'm I under here?" He scratched the back of his head.

"To make you feel safe. You were feverish, and more than a little disoriented, for many days."

"A third friendly face appeared at the entrance. "Aye, lad. But you're fine now. Nothing we can't take care of. If you'd rather stay under there for a wee while longer, I can put off your next check-up. I'll have someone fetch some pillows and blankets for you all. Back in a mo."

"All we need now is Torren."

"Why do you say that, Rodney? Torren is on the mainland with his father."

"Pity. This has all the makings of a Nativity scene. Except there's only one wise man. Well, genius, actually, and 'Joseph' here is getting all the cool gifts. A little off, don't you think?"

If he'd had anything in his mouth, he would have sputtered it out by now.

You're a good friend, Arthur. He looked at Rodney long and hard.

"Hey, Rodney?"

"Yes?"

"You can keep the myrrh."

"Funny. Knock, knock?"

"Who's there?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "That wasn't a 'knock, knock' joke, Sheppard. May I come in?"

"Sure."

"Room for me, buddy?" Ronon.

"No. But you can still come in," he quipped, and he managed a fleeting grin.

This was his team. He hung his head once more. He didn't deserve them. Not really. He'd go running with Ronon as soon as his feet were fully healed, and sparring with Teyla as soon as mind and the rest of his body were fully healed, and he prayed he wouldn't make a complete asshole of himself, and bow to her when she wielded those bantos sticks. He'd help McKay with his equations like it was his math homework. They'd go out on missions -

Out... Oh, god…

"She's still out there, and here we are. In here." John kept his head low.

"We will also be out there, John."

"She broke me." He looked up surreptitiously.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Voldemort?"

"Hah! Funny. Old, but funny."

"We know it was Sarayah."

"And Sora. And Shiana."

"What? Kidding, right?"

"No. The three of 'em took it in turns to - " He couldn't go on. He scuffled backwards, as far away from everyone and everything as he could get, and felt his spine hit the infirmary wall. No escape, then. Huh. He could feel the tears well up. Damn! He'd bolted those floodgates shut since he was a kid. Over the years in Pegasus, the bolts had morphed into bandaids. All it would take was one weak one, and he'd shed the tears he should have shed for everyone he'd lost, everyone he'd harmed, everything he'd ever done wrong and couldn't undo.

Just then the floodgates burst open, and tears poured unchecked down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, too embarrassed to face his teammates. He could feel Teyla's tiny hands drawing him to her, wrapping her arms around him, drawing him close. He could feel her soft skin against his own, but this time, he allowed the contact to happen. He was sobbing now. Blubbing. Other arms joined her. He could feel large calloused ones ruffling his hair, and putty-like hands patting him. Then they hugged him tight. As suddenly as the floodgates opened, they slammed shut. He'd shed the tears he should have shed as a little boy. Now it was time to suck it up.

"I'm good," he declared, and he made to move, to get a grip, but they held onto him anyway, until he relaxed, and fell asleep in the arms of people who loved him.

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