A/N's. So here we are. The final chapter of Return to Hell. It has been quite a ride, hasn't it? So... tying up some loose ends, and than this trip to hell and back has come to an end. Thank you all for sticking with me for what was it, three months or so... I hope you had a great time reading! I certainly enjoyed writing this little novel.

The poem in this chapter is not written by me. It's written by Mrs. Lyman Hancock, and I found it on the net somewhere. It suited the situation well, that's why I used it.

Certain that her patient was all right, she tucked him in before switching off the light. Walking slowly to the living room, she folded the paper open, her eyes scanning the handwritten text. It started with 'Dear Jack'.

Sighing deeply, Janet sank down into the cushions on the couch, pulled her knees up until she was comfortable and started to read.

Dear Jack,

You didn't expect a letter from me, did you? Well, buddy, it is from me, and you receiving this means I'm dead. Damn. Did I die before you? How did I manage that, huh? Must have screwed up, then.

Crap.

Are you surprised that I've chosen you to write my final words to? Nah. When you think back at everything we've done together, everything we've been through, but most of all, everything we've meant to each other, you'll know why, Jack. Don't you?

I can almost picture you, sitting there, shaking your head in disbelief. Marc dead? No way. Impossible. Not Marc, not if you could help it. Right, Jack? Because that's who you are and what you've always meant to me. Being there, doing everything possible to keep me safe, and sane, too. You made a difference, Jack. A difference for me as well as for my family. That's why I write to you, you know.

You are the only one I trust enough to look after Laura and Trish. Although I hate dying, at least I'm sure that they're going to be all right. That's a relief for me, because leaving them behind sucks the most of the whole dying part.

I'm sorry, Jack. I'm sorry for a lot of things, but most of all for leaving you behind in Iraq. Although I just recently died for real, I can honestly tell you that I already died inside after our return from that fateful mission. That was the most terrible day of my life, losing you, but it got worse, so much worse, after we've been informed that you were still alive, there, slowly dying in that hell.

I know you never blamed me. But I did. I never stopped blaming myself, Jack. Ever. The what-if's and should-have's have been messing with my mind since that very day. I couldn't make that difference to you; I couldn't be there for you, right there, right when you needed me most.

I'm sorry about your kid, too, Jack. I have never dared talking to you about it, knowing you weren't ready, but now you just have to listen to me, okay? Listen to me carefully. Charlie was a good kid. He had the best dad in the world. Sure, you weren't there all the times he needed you. Sure, you have these stupid ideals about what makes a perfect dad. The media shows us, we look at each other, thinking the other is doing a better job... Nonsense, Jack. I'm a dad, too, and believe me: you did great. You've spent more precious time with Charlie than many dads with a regular office-job I know. Remember, it's the quality of attention that counts, not the quantity. And God knows you gave that kid the best. I know you did. So stop blaming yourself, stop beating yourself up over something you can't change. Charlie wouldn't have wanted you to.

I'm sorry about this dying-bit, too. To be honest, I'm scared to death of dying alone. It's part of that unwritten rule of ours, to never leave one behind: I guess we're all afraid of dying alone. Now, having my own team, I know that it's a great responsibility to carry. I've watched you, learned from you, and have been trying to live up to you and your high standards, hoping I could make a difference, too, to my team. It also means that while keeping them safe, I've got a bigger chance of dying alone myself.

Double crap.

I hope that, whatever happened, my team got out safe. I hope they don't blame themselves. I'm sure everybody did everything within their power. I just wish... silly, huh? I just wish you could have been there. Dying would have been a whole lot easier. But I'm being selfish. I should be glad you weren't there. Knowing you, you would blame yourself over my death, forever, as well, and you really don't need another burden like that in your life. Not now, now that you've got everything back under control.

Enough rambling from me. One final apology and I won't bother you anymore. I'm sorry to drop this whole load of shit on your shoulders. I know you. I know you're going to have a rough time dealing with losing another friend. But, Jack, know that I did it because I respect you more than I've ever respected anybody. Not to mention that you're the most stubborn SOB I've ever known. So if anybody can get through this, it is you.

Be safe, Jack. I'm confident that Laura and Trish will be in the best hands I could wish for beside my own.
Thanks. I owe you,

Marc.

Janet dropped the letter to the floor, tears rolling over her cheeks for the second time that night. She sobbed, quietly, one hand in front of her mouth, not wanting to wake the sleeping man in the bedroom.

Bayfield had brought it to him in the morning, he'd said. No wonder he'd been agitated all day, no wonder he'd needed to be alone. Knowing O'Neill, Janet realized he must have had a hard time controlling his emotions being locked up in the infirmary, unable to give in to the disastrous feelings with an audience.

Slowly, Janet regained control over her breathing as the trembling stilled and the tears dried. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand she bent forward to pick up the fallen letter, folding it neatly before placing it on the table.

She looked at it, wondering why the Colonel had asked her to read it. This was so private, so personal, opening up so many deep wounds; yet he'd let her in. God, he trusted her. This man, who trusted no-one but his team and a few select others. It had been plain luck that she'd allowed him to go home that afternoon. She didn't know why she'd done it in the first place, had it been gut feeling? Or had it been trust? Trust in him? Knowing he realized what he'd been asking, but wouldn't have unless he had an absolutely good reason?

Probably the latter, Janet realized now. She'd trusted him and he'd returned the favor by letting her in into the reason why he needed to be away, alone, by himself. Now she just had to figure out what to do with it. How to continue helping him. What had he said to her? Accepting, that was the first step. Here she was, the doctor, and he had been helping her instead of the other way around.

If he could do it, so could she, she told herself. She was no good to him when she was unable to deal with her own demons. The Colonel was right. Things happened the way they happened and there was nothing she could do about it anymore. She just had to accept that.

Janet lay back on the couch, pulled a blanket over herself and closed her eyes, confident that she would be able to sleep without bad dreams this time.

It was nearly noon before she heard some commotion coming from the bedroom, telling her the Colonel was awake. She'd already prepared his breakfast and carried it inside. "Morning, Colonel," Janet said cheerfully, placing the plate on the bed, rushing forward to assist him in sitting up.

O'Neill blinked a couple of times, then rubbed his eyes. "Morning. What time is it?"

"Ten to twelve, Sir. I'm glad you slept well," Fraiser informed him all while taking his pulse.

He stared at her. "You look better, Doc. Slept some more?"

"I did, as a matter of fact. Are you hungry?"

Nodding, he accepted the plate Fraiser handed him and started eating.

Fraiser pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. "I've read the letter from Major Crook, Colonel. Thank you. I can now understand why you needed to be alone."

"Mmm," he said, briefly looking at her before lowering his eyes again. He took another bite of bread.

"I..." Fraiser hesitated. "I also overheard your conversation with General Carter..."

"I know," he nodded.

Fraiser looked up, stunned. "You know?"

"Of course, I know," he said, a little bit irritated. "What did you think, that I didn't hear you? I'm supposed to hear somebody approaching me, Doc."

Embarrassed, Fraiser sighed. She should have realized that. "I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you, but..."

"It's okay." All irritation gone, his voice was softer now.

She stared at him.

"Actually, I was glad you overheard us," O'Neill explained. "Now I don't have to tell it again..."

"Oh," Fraiser said, understanding. "I was wondering, Sir..." She hesitated, staring down at the blankets, wondering if she could ask him this now. She looked up and searched his eyes. "What was going through your mind when you had to pull the trigger?"

He dropped his bread, staring at the wall. One hand clenched to a fist and he bit on his lip. "I..." He fell silent, his hands trembling as he continued staring at the wall.

Fraiser didn't break the silence, but waited patiently, carefully examining his face.

"I gave up, Doc. I wanted to die..." O'Neill finally said so soft that she barely heard him.

Lifting her brows in surprise she tried to think of what he'd said. "Knowing you, that's hard to believe, Sir."

"I wanted to die," he repeated, his voice rough from emotion. "I was hoping to be reunited with my son... I gave up, just like that..."

Studying him closely, she tried to comprehend what he'd been through. "You didn't give up Sir. You think you did, but you didn't." Taking in the way he glanced at her, she tried to explain. "Colonel, you are trained to deal with almost every situation. The fact that you accepted the possibility that you might not get out of this one alive has nothing to do with giving up in my book. You knew the game you were forced to play, there was no way out and you realized that there was a pretty fair chance that you'd be killed. The fact you wanted to be with Charlie was just to make the acceptance easier, don't you see? It's only logical that you found something positive for yourself, something to cling onto..."

He silently thought it over without dropping his eyes. "You think so?"

"I know..." Janet said, gently patting his leg. "You are well trained, Sir. I think sometimes you tend to forget... It's what you do."

He still doubted. "It feels..." he started.

Fraiser firmly raised one finger and waved it in front of his face. "Uh! You did not give up. You'd keep butting your head against a brick wall if you can't accept that, Sir."

That brought a smile on his face. "Yes, ma'am."

It was a sober morning, the sky looking depressingly grey because of the soft rain pouring down. The chapel where the memorial service for Major Marc Crook was being held was overloaded with people. In front of the altar, they'd placed a casket, containing one of Marc's military outfits and some personnel belongings. The American flag was draped over it and on top of it stood a simple bouquet of white lilies.

The closest family members of Marc Crook and his wife occupied the front row in the church, Laura and her daughter Trish seated in the middle.

The girl was sobbing uncontrollably with her mother holding her close, one arm draped around Trish's shoulders, offering comfort. Although Laura desperately tried to regain control over herself, tears continuously rolled down her cheeks, tremors shaking her body as she sucked in air between the sobbing.

Colonel Bayfield, the members of Crook's team and other colleagues from Special Forces were seated on the left side behind the family and personnel friends. A small delegation of the SGC was located on the right. Besides SG-1, General Hammond and Dr. Fraiser also attended the memorial.

After the Homily and the prayers the chaplain signaled Colonel Bayfield, who rose and walked up to the front. "Every day, I have to send my people on dangerous missions throughout the world. It's what we do, it's what we chose to be and it's what we're trained for. We do this to protect the most valuable possession of this country. Freedom. Every day we face the possibility that we might not come back alive, and pray that we do. Sometimes, as in this case, our prayers just aren't enough. Major Marc Crook died out in the field. He died, doing his job, serving his country. Now all there is left for us is to pray for his soul."

The first sounds of the hymn Amazing Grace started and soon everybody was softly joining in on the song, humming along with the slow melody. The song ebbed away, and Colonel Bayfield unfolded a piece of paper.

"Major Crook was one who never failed to look at the bright side. His thoughts were always positive and his spirit will forever live on in our unit. In is memory, I'd like to read a poem to you. It's a poem, by Mrs. Lyman Hancock, called, When I'm gone...

When I come to the end of my journey
And I travel my last weary mile,

Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned
And remember only the smile.

Forget unkind words I have spoken;
Remember some good I have done.

Forget that I ever had heartache
And remember I've had loads of fun.

Forget that I've stumbled and blundered
And sometimes fell by the way.

Remember I have fought some hard battles
And won, ere the close of the day.

Then forget to grieve for my going,
I would not have you sad for a day,

But in summer just gather some flowers
And remember the place where I lay,

And come in the shade of evening
When the sun paints the sky in the west

Stand for a few moments beside me
And remember only my best."

Colonel Bayfield stepped back while the crowd brushed away a tear or two. Then, the recessional song was played and everybody stood, military personnel saluting and civilians holding their right hand across their heart as the pallbearers carried the casket outside. The chaplain directed everybody slowly out of the chapel, to the gravesite, for the interment.

As soon as everybody had found a spot around the grave, Colonel O'Neill, still moving stiffly, stepped forward. He stood straight, fiercely, swallowed a couple of times, then briefly searched the eyes of Laura before locking his gaze on the casket.

"Dear Marc," he started. "You and I have gone a long way back. We've worked together, pulled each other out of trouble on more than one occasion. You were there to save my sorry ass in South America. I got you out from that stinkin' Asian prison. We returned from a trip to paradise after two weeks when nobody believed we were still alive... remember that? We've managed to pull off the impossible, as if luck was on our side forever. We counted on each other, relied on each other with our lives. We lived by an unspoken code, a silent promise. We would never leave anyone behind, no matter what. It was the only certainty we had."

O'Neill paused to catch his breath, then continued. "So when Colonel Bayfield came to me with the news that you were in trouble, I didn't hesitate. I went after you, my friend, to keep that promise... But luck ran out on us. And although I wasn't able to save you, I'm glad I could at least get your team out, something that I know was very important to you. I couldn't give you your life, I couldn't even bring you back to your family and I'm sorry for that. My only consolation is that you didn't die alone. Although I should have known, I never realized that that was one of your biggest fears, Marc, to die alone. So if that was the only thing I could give you out there, then so be it. You didn't die alone, buddy. And by God, giving you that much was worth everything. We played the game and we lost, but at the same time we won. You did great out there, my friend. Now go on and rest in peace. No regrets, no IOUs. You are and will always be... my friend..."

By then O'Neill's voice was trembling, so he gave a slight nod to the chaplain to indicate that he was finished. Slowly, O'Neill stepped back in line, completely unaware of the tears his speech had caused many people. The seven riflemen fired their salute before the bugler played Taps and the honor guard folded the flag. The chaplain handed it to a sobbing Laura, and then at last, everybody gave her their condolences before returning to their cars and homes.

Major Carter looked around, nodding at Teal'c, standing vigil at the campsite, watching as Daniel made preparations to start their meal. She threw a quick glance in the direction of her Commanding Officer. Colonel O'Neill tiredly sank to the ground, drawing his knees up, and wrapped his arms around them, staring absentmindedly at the fire.

"We're all set for spending the night here, Sir," Carter reported. Startled, O'Neill lifted his head to look at her. "Good, Major."

SG-1 had set up camp to spend their first night on PX4-375, a planet with two suns and that, according to the observations made by the MALP, never knew darkness. Daniel had lit the fire, not only to heat dinner, but to provide them with additional warmth during the night as well. Nights weren't dark, they had discovered, but they would be cold.

It was the team's first mission after the rescue operation in Tyberia nearly two months ago. The determination and devotion the Colonel had shown during therapy and work outs to regain his strength had contributed a great deal to his recovery and he'd recently been declared fit for active duty by Doctor Fraiser. General Hammond had sent them on a routine exploration mission to get them into the swing of things.

The hike from the Stargate to their current location had been long, rough and difficult, and Carter had secretly kept a close eye on the Colonel. She was pleased to see that he'd managed well during the day. Now, he just sat there, quietly, which worried Sam. "Are you all right, Sir?"

"I'm fine, Major. Thank you. Just tired, I guess."

"It was a long hike, Sir," the Major offered.

"Yes, it was," he agreed, reaching to take the proffered plate from Daniel. "I'm starving... Let's eat."

They all sat down, eating their meal, while Sam and Daniel discussed the structures they'd seen during their hike across the planet. They were almost done when Carter glanced at her CO again. He hadn't finished his meal, but, with the plate resting on his knees, was picking at it with his fork, while he drew lines in the sand next to him with his other hand. Carter frowned, then exchanged looks of wonder with her other teammates.

"Jack?" Daniel inquired.

"Hmmm," O'Neill shook his head wearily to look up at the linguist. "What?"

"Are you sure you are all right? You look so distant," Daniel asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jack replied, sounding a bit annoyed. "Stop worrying, okay? I'm fine... It's just that I realized how good it feels to be back..."

"We're glad to have you back, Sir," Carter responded.

O'Neill placed his plate on the ground, looked around at each of his team members separately, and then stared at his hands. "I..." he hesitated, "...I guess I've never actually thanked you guys for coming after me..."

"You are welcome, O'Neill," Teal'c said.

"You would have done the same for us," Daniel reasoned.

O'Neill still didn't look up. "I know it must have been hard on you guys as well. You did good out there. I know you were worried. And I'm sorry... for being a bit... difficult... lately..."

"It's okay, Sir. We understand," Carter reassured him.

O'Neill dug up a handful of sand and let it softly flow through his fingers, repeating the procedure over and over. "It's just that talking about what happened is hard for me, okay?"

"We know that. And if you ever do want to talk, you know we're here for you, right?" Daniel said.

O'Neill nodded, then, in one fluid motion, slipped out of his shirt.

Carter's eyes widened in surprise. Teal'c lifted his brows. "Err... Jack?" asked Daniel.

Moving slowly, Jack pointed at the still reddish marks at the back of his now bare arms. "See? It's all healed nicely. The scars won't go away anymore, but Doc has assured me that they will fade in time." He stopped to bend and stretch his arms a couple of times. "See? The remaining shrapnel is not bothering me in my movements. The elbow is still a bit stiff, but otherwise I'm fine. Really. And if you don't mind I won't drop my pants, but I can assure you that the scars at the back of my thighs look similar to this."

Teal'c frowned. Carter stifled a grin.

O'Neill lifted one finger at her. "No giggling, Major," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"I think we've seen enough," Daniel said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Hey, just wanted to show you guys that I'm all right. Although I've got some scars left, everything is healed. So you can all stop worrying about me. Besides..." O'Neill pulled a face. "I still look good, right?"

Daniel grinned. Teal'c wisely refrained from commenting.

Carter, preparing to pick up the empty plates to clean up before turning in for the night, chuckled. "Yes, you do, Sir," she said. She collected everything, rose to her feet and headed off, whispering to herself, "Better than ever, Sir... Better than ever."

THE END

And there you are! Maybe you shed a tear or two reading this last chapter but hopefully that last bit made you smile again... Leave it to Jack to do something silly in order to assure his team that he is all right...

Thanks again for reading, for reviewing and for favoring.

All that is left for me to say is Merry Christmas to all of you and wishing you all the best for 2015.

big hugs.

Corine