Okay, so, let's see what happens following John's dramatic collapse in front of everyone - and isn't he just going to be thrilled about that? [And here's a quick reminder - I wrote this as McShep. And although there isn't anything at all explicit in Part One, and as you know I haven't written Part Two yet, that's what the intention is, so if you don't like that kind of thing, don't read it. I'm definitely not in a place where I can cope with negative comments!]

Chapter 5 - Sumark

John's head hurt.

The fire was a low orange glow and a thick drape covered the door, but every time someone came in or went out they let in a shaft of bright, piercing daylight that sent shards of ice and fire into his aching skull.

One of the young women had just been and gone - Elfet, or something, her name was. She'd given him a drink and tried to get him to eat some soup and then peered into his eyes as if trying to see whether his brain was still in there, and when she'd left, the light had come in and no, his brain wasn't in there any more. It had dribbled out of his ears sometime last night when a team of strangers had done all kinds of stupid and embarrassing things to him - like take off his filthy clothes, treat all his scrapes and bruises and so on and generally make sure he was approximately clean.

John was, in part, grateful that he had a small hut to himself with minimal noise and light. But it was wrong, being away from his team, being unable to see what was happening to them or if they were being well treated or if they were cold or hungry or hurting - and no, he didn't think they would be, but he didn't know. He couldn't actually see for himself that they were okay.

The cot creaked as he shifted uneasily, grimacing at the pain in his chest and side where the cracked ribs weren't getting any worse, but weren't getting any better. At least he was warm. It had felt like he'd never get warm the previous day and his body had been creaky and stiff, as all his old scar tissue had tightened up until it seemed like there was nothing that didn't hurt.

Stupid of him, to collapse in front of everyone like that. Why couldn't he have held it together just a bit longer? Why couldn't he have made his body keep him upright just until he and his team had some privacy, so that everyone didn't get to see what a wreck he was? John's concussed brain spat out an answer in the form of a Carson/Scotty mash-up: Because she couldna take it any more, Captain!

He huffed a laugh and flinched at the pain the movement brought. Rodney would appreciate- No. Rodney wouldn't. He wouldn't appreciate anything John had to say. And it was just as well John was on his own in the dark, because his shields were at zero percent and he couldn't pretend things didn't hurt when they did. Moisture slid from the corner of one eye and tickled as it ran down the side of his face. Which was just so pathetic, but, hey, if he was alone in the dark with no one to see, what did it matter?

He should probably sleep, but John's wavering mind turned, with relief, away from Rodney and back to his meeting with the Lady of Slate. So, it turned out the old girl was Breesha's Mom. Would he have seen the resemblance, if he'd been able to focus properly on her face? Maybe. She'd certainly passed on her air of authority to her daughter. Nobody would get on the wrong side of Breesha, if they could avoid it.

And Breesha was on her way, assuming she obeyed the Lady's summons, which John hoped she would. He imagined her - blue sky above, purple springy heather below, her brown hair gleaming, her stride firm and sure, reinforcing her authority over the land of her birth with each tread of her sturdy boots.

Her features had faded in his mind since he'd last seen her, standing in the exercise area of the Island fort where everyone had gathered for John and Rodney's departure. But he heard, once again, her words and he remembered the background sound of the seabirds calling and the swish of water against the rocks below.

Retain in your heart the goodwill of those of the Hill and the Island. Remember our homes and our hearths, our heather-clad hills and our shifting seas.

What had it been about the chieftain's wife, more than the chieftain himself that had struck a chord within John? Coll was the warrior, like John - they should have had more in common. Perhaps it was just because Breesha had looked after him when he was hurt and sick. Perhaps he'd just fallen for his nurse.

John sneered and snorted at this idea, then wished he hadn't when a spike of pain flared and rebounded around his skull. He breathed through his nose, his lips pressed together, until the pain subsided.

Anyway, he hadn't fallen for Breesha at all. He just got on with her and she, apparently, liked him, for some reason. She treated him a bit like a brother - but not how Rodney's sister had treated him when she'd arrived on Atlantis - telling stupid stories about him to make him look silly in front of his friends and colleagues.

If John had had an older sister like Breesha, she would have protected him from the worst of his Dad's crushing authority and made sure all Dave's misdemeanours came to light so that he didn't get to be the paragon of all the virtues, while John was constantly in disgrace.

He pictured a show-down between Breesha and his Dad. It wouldn't have been pretty. Sparks would definitely have flown. And if Breesha had been their sister, she would have made Dave own up that time when he'd dunked one of the barn cats' tails in paint and let it loose in the house. And she would have put a stop to all the other shit Dave had cooked up and then dumped John slap bang in the middle of. Serve the little creep right.

Although, Dave wasn't as bad as all that now. He and John could just about have a conversation without wanting to kill each other, which was a start. Or they could have, if John wasn't stranded here.

He sighed and the pain in his ribs was unrelenting. Didn't these people have herbs which would help with pain? Hadn't anyone even found the Tylenol? Maybe Teyla and Ronon had used it all, though, in which case that was okay - he could do without.

John turned his head in a vain attempt to find comfort, his thoughts swam and he slept.

Red light on his eyelids. Here and then gone, black and red and then black and red again. And along with the subtle changes in light there was a soft sweep and rustle, a muted scrape of wood against wood - and a warm savoury scent of grains and meat, cooked long and slow.

The spikes through his temples had gone. He just felt very, very tired.

John's lips met and then parted, and a breath made its way out between them in a confused mumble which, he felt, accurately expressed the vagueness of his awareness and minimal interest in anything which was going on.

The sweep and rustle approached and coolness kissed his forehead, lingered for too brief a time and then went away.

A moan of protest seemed appropriate and he turned his head to follow the trail of the touch.

"Lie still, John."

He opened his eyes and blinked and, though the figure was only a dark silhouette against the faint redness from the fire, he knew who it was.

"Breesha."

His hand made its way out from under the blankets and she took it and held it.

"Yes, I am here." Her voice was soft yet firm, clear and deep. She tucked his hand back beneath the blankets. "You must drink," she said. "And, when the broth has cooked a little longer, I will help you to eat."

There was no doubt in John's wandering mind that this was an order - eating was not optional.

"Don't need help," he said. "'M fine."

She held a wooden cup to his lips and helped him to drink - a bitter, lukewarm liquid that he hoped might contain painkilling herbs.

"If you are, as you say, 'fine', perhaps I should return to the Hill and resume my duties."

John growled. "I'm not sick," he said. She held another cup to his lips - the thin light beer, that everyone drank because it was safer than the water. It washed away the taste of the herbs.

He sagged back onto the pillow and the cool hand returned to his forehead. "You have no fever," she agreed. "But Elfet counted three lumps on your head, and I make it four. You are much bruised, especially on your chest and side, and I suspect that past injuries have been troubling you - it is often so with our older warriors."

"I'm not old," he growled.

She ignored him. "And so you will need dark and quiet for a while, and no more wandering across the land in the mistaken belief that your body can and should go on long past the point at which most people's would certainly fail."

Her voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the fact that he was being rebuked.

"Tanna said we had to move." She wouldn't accept any excuses, but it was worth a try.

"Tanna is a foolish man who should have seen that you were injured. Although he said, and I believe him, that you appeared able enough and were more concerned for your companions than yourself."

"Are they-"

"They are well," said Breesha. "I stitched Ronon's leg and it will heal very soon, because he is young and strong and he will sit down while playing at knife-throwing with other over-eager young men, so that I am confident he will not hinder its healing."

"Teyla?"

Breesha paused.

"Teyla's okay, isn't she?"

"As I said, all of your companions are well. And Teyla is resting her arm sensibly and spending her time wisely in learning our speech."

"Good. That's good."

He chewed his lower lip. She would expect him to ask about Rodney. Breesha had known him and Rodney as the closest of close friends - companions that relied on each other absolutely, that saved each other's lives, that laughed and joked together. John's eyes strayed to the dark shadows of the hut. He didn't know what to say.

Breesha sighed. The cot creaked as she leant against the frame, settling herself, cross-legged next to the low bed. She didn't speak for a moment, but lifted the edge of the blanket, found his hand again and took it between both of hers. He let her. She could do what she wanted with it. He was too tired to be embarrassed.

"Rodney is well too," she said.

John's hand twitched of its own accord.

"But it seems to me that he is not happy."

"Huh," John snorted. "He's happy enough." His throat tightened with hurt but he forced a sneer into his voice so that she'd think he was just angry. "Missing his girlfriend, but finding other things to do, if you get what I mean." Pain built up in John's chest as all his muscles tightened. He gasped and turned his head completely away.

One of Breesha's hands slid from his and rested on his shoulder and then she transferred it to his head and softly brushed through his hair. There were words hanging in the air between them - mostly hers, John thought, and he didn't know what any of them would be, whether to rebuke him or to explain Rodney's behaviour or some other mystery.

He hoped she would be able to explain Rodney to him, because John couldn't. He hoped she'd plunge right in and drag the whole sorry mess into the open. But, no, actually he didn't, really didn't want to talk about it at all. Ever.

"I am glad to see you again, John," she said softly. "More glad than I can express to you. But I am sorry for the manner of your coming, pursued by enemies and forced to flee. I am sorry."

He grunted, indeterminately.

She sat for a moment, in silence. And one moment John was watching the play of the firelight on the even pattern of her braids and the next his eyes were closed again. She still held his hand.

"Didn't forget," he said drowsily.

"Forget?"

"Didn't forget what you said. Homes and hearths, hills and seas," he misquoted."I 'membered them. 'Membered you."

There was a soft chuckle. "And yet you do not seem to have remembered the most important part of my bidding wish," said Breesha. "You found peace amongst us, when you were here last, John Sheppard. I told you not to lose it when you returned to your own world. But you do not have the appearance of a man at peace."

He squirmed and his ribs twinged. "'S hard to be peaceful," he said. "With Wraith on your tail."

"I am sorry, John," she said again. "Sorry that you have been hurt."

Was she talking about his physical hurts, or was she guessing at more?

He yawned. "I'm okay."

She didn't contradict him this time. "You will be. And tomorrow your head will feel much better and you will see your friends."

"Feels better now."

"But it is late and you still need to rest or the pain will return."

"Don't want that."

"No. We don't."

She patted his hair once more and then released his hand. "The broth will be ready," she said.

The next time John woke it was to bright light and the sound of vigorous flapping. He blinked and grumbled, but the white light awoke no stabbing pains and the fresh air coming through the open door was welcome.

Breesha entered, giving the unhooked door curtain a last flap before folding it and setting it on the floor. "A fine, bright morning," she commented. She poked the fire and put some more logs on to burn and then set up the pot to hang above it. "How do you feel this morning, John?"

She gave him a penetrating look and he took the time to assess himself. The knives jabbing his skull had given up, to be replaced with a weird floatiness that would demand care when he got up or he'd fall on his ass. He skipped on checking the pain in his ribs. Ribs were total bastards. There was nothing you could do but wait. And as long as there weren't any sharp ends digging into places like lungs and so on, then you were usually fine. His old injuries - the rebar on one side, the Wraith tendril on the other, the axe wound in his shoulder, all the other places bullets or shrapnel had caught him - they were okay at the moment. They'd need careful stretching out or he'd have them yelling at him again - yelling at him to slow down, like he was an old guy ready to be pensioned off. Which he wasn't. He'd just seen a lot of action, was all.

Breesha smiled. "I am glad to see you giving the matter some consideration, John. And I can see that you are well enough. Here, let me help."

She banked up the furs and blankets behind him so that he could sit up and then presented him with a bowl of broth, thicker and more bulky with grain than the previous night's.

John ate and Breesha sat down and took out some mending, which he recognised as his shirt. Her needle flashed in the light from the door.

"You've still got my sewing kit?"

"Yes! Of course." She held up the needle. "It has been a constant pleasure to work with such a fine tool. Do you remember the crowd that gathered when you gave me this?"

"Yeah." He'd sat next to her, on a bench outside his and Rodney's hut. He'd been recovering then, too. Breesha had brought out his shirt, the shoulder slashed from the raider's axe. She'd only had coarse bone needles and thick brown thread and she'd been delighted with the little sewing kit that he'd kept stowed in his tac vest.

"Although," she continued, the needle flashing rapidly, "I suspect many of the women and girls of the Hill were at least as admiring of you as of your sewing kit."

"Huh. Hmm." John took several large spoonfuls of his broth and chewed busily at the spongy grains.

"Do you have someone now?" asked Breesha. "A wife? Someone who is special to you?"

"No," he said, bluntly and continued chewing.

"Oh. And Rodney? He has found a partner that sees through his bluster to the qualities within?"

"Huh." What did Keller see when she looked at Rodney? The whole man? Or the bits she wanted to see? Lately John had only been treated to a view of the sharp-tongued, arrogant asshole. "Yeah, McKay's all fixed up. They're gonna get married." And the less said about that the better. "Teyla's still with Kanaan. Her little boy, Torren's growing up fast. Ronon's been on and off with his girl, Amelia, but they're pretty solid now."

Breesha snipped her thread, cut another length and rethreaded the needle. She'd want to know more about Jennifer, about the wedding. Well, she could damn well ask Rodney about that.

"How's Vorra?" asked John, to head her off.

"My daughter is very well," said Breesha. "She and Kerron are the proud parents of twins. A boy, Tarvan, and a girl, Rhionna."

"Good," said John. "That's good." Vorra had saved Rodney's life, snatching up his sidearm and shooting one of the raiders. And before that, before Orrin, Lord of the Island, had trusted John, he'd had to go up against Vorra's intended in one-on-one combat. He'd taken Kerron down, too, as well as some other huge guy, just to prove the point.

John scraped up the last of the broth and licked the spoon.

"You have finished." She took the bowl from him. "And with a good appetite, I see."

"Yeah. Got a few missed meals to make up."

She set the bowl down next to the fireplace and looked at him critically. "I would say it is more than a few days that you have been missing meals." She wagged a finger at him. "You have not been looking after yourself, John Sheppard. And now that you are under my eye once again, such foolishness will stop." She smiled, but she wasn't really joking.

Breesha squatted down and untied a rolled up bundle of cloth. "Here are clothes for you," she said. "Just as you wore when you were here before."

She held up a light brown tunic and a darker brown pair of leggings.

"Thanks." The fabric, he recalled, was sturdy and a bit scratchy, but he liked the loose, bagginess and the feeling of freedom.

"And this, I made for you." She smiled - a small, almost shy curl of her lips as she looked down at the soft, blue-grey fabric, smoothing and stroking it.

"You made it for me?"

"Yes," she said. "Or at least, for your memory. I took the softest wool of the loghtan and spun it fine as spindrift. Then I dyed it with crushed flitter shells and heather flowers and wove it so that it would drape and fall like water from the rocks." Her cheeks were red. She cleared her throat and continued more briskly. "I made one for Rodney too, dyed a rich red with hips and haws from the autumn gathering. And if neither of you had returned, perhaps I would have given them to Tarvan and Rhionna, for their first winters as adults."

"Thank you," said John. "I'm honoured. I mean, uh, I…"

"Your coming was a defining event in my life," she said. "In the lives of many of my people. You were - are - men out of myth. You told me of such things that I had never known were possible - starships, cities of metal and glass, worlds where there are fields of ice or storms of sand, or where the rain is warm, and bright flowers and birds live in forests of giant trees. I wanted to remember you, John, both of you - for you always to be remembered by my people, for your stories to be told, for your songs to be sung, and for our halls and huts to be brighter and more… alive with the knowledge that there are wonders somewhere, out there."

Breesha's eyes shone, both with the wonders that she saw in her mind's eye and with tears. John bit his lip and said nothing.

"But now you have returned," she said matter-of-factly. "And I have but two cloak-lengths where I need four." She laughed. "And it is time I stopped talking and let you dress, or you will fall asleep again before you have had a chance to get up." She stood up. "I will send Rodney to help you."

"No. Thanks. I don't need help."

Her silhouette, against the bright doorway, was unreadable. "You do need help, John Sheppard," she said. And then she was gone.

John found underwear amongst the pile, made of thinner fabric than the woollen outer clothes, but still sturdy. He managed to pull on the baggy underpants and tie the drawstring waist, but then paused, sitting on the edge of the cot, not exactly dizzy, but strangely light-headed, as if there was not enough or perhaps too much air in the dim interior.

The low doorway was suddenly blocked by a ducking figure who huffed and puffed his way in before standing up and tugging his clothes straight.

"So," he said. "You're still in the land of the living, I see. Although not in the land of the living anywhere sensible, i.e. Atlantis, where we would no doubt have been comfortably established by now if you hadn't-"

"Fuck off, McKay." If his head had been set more firmly on his shoulders right then, John would have got up and punched his so-called friend in the face. Which wouldn't have been the most teamleaderly thing to do, but enough was enough.

"No." Rodney folded his arms and his chin jutted out. "No, I don't think I will fuck off, thank you. Because Breesha's told me to help you get dressed, which presumably means you do actually need help. And I at least intend to carry on fulfilling my role as supportive team member, even if you-"

"I said, fuck off and I meant it." John's chest heaved, reawakening the fiery dragon which had taken up residence in his ribcage.

"Fine. Fine. I will, then! Fucking off right now!" Rodney stepped back to go and the light flooded through the doorway.

John blinked and squinted and bright flares of warning pain danced behind his eyes. He waited for the painful light to be blocked by Rodney's departing bulk, but nothing happened. And then John's eyes adjusted and Rodney was still there, watching him, the illuminated side of his characteristically crooked mouth downturned and unhappy.

Well, if Rodney was unhappy it was just tough - there was nothing John could do about it. He shivered. He'd spent long enough sitting around in nothing but weird underwear, with a chilly draft curling its way in through the door.

Then Rodney moved and the white light disappeared to be replaced with the red firelight glow, which Rodney was stoking to orange and then yellow with careful placement of fresh wood.

He hadn't gone. He'd rehung the door curtain and was tending the fire. John blinked, stupidly.

Rodney flicked a wary up-and-down glance at him and gave the fire a few more unnecessary pokes.

"I thought you were fucking off."

"I changed my mind."

"I don't need help."

"You plainly do." Rodney flapped a hand vaguely in John's direction. "You're all… hunched and… mottled and… wrong."

"I'm fine."

Rodney sat back on his heels. "I feel like it's my turn to tell you to fuck off now," he said. "Fine my woollen-clad ass!"

John nearly smirked, but he'd run out of those weeks ago. He gave some attention to Rodney's clothes - a dark green tunic over brown leggings. And a fine red, woollen cape, pinned at one shoulder. Last time they were here, Rodney had become an expert at arranging his drapes in elegant falls. He'd strode around importantly, turning abruptly to make the fabric swish and swirl around him. John had watched him with amused indulgence, enjoying the sight of his friend preening, wondering whether maybe capes should be added to standard Atlantis uniform.

Rodney snatched up the undershirt from the floor and began gathering up the loose fabric around the neck hole. Then he stood up and, not looking John in the eye, pulled the garment over John's head.

John wriggled his arms through the wide armholes, similarly avoiding Rodney's gaze.

Then Rodney picked up the woollen leggings and held them for John to put his feet into.

"Stand up. I'll pull them up. You can stand, can't you?"

"Of course I can stand." But when John eased himself to his feet, the firelight swirled and if his hands hadn't found Rodney's solid shoulders, he would have fallen.

Rodney huffed. He pulled up the leggings, tucking in the undershirt, pulled the drawstring and tied it. And having Rodney do that for him, having his busy hands around John's waist and shoving the loose fabric down his pants was just too close, too intimate, when they'd been nearly strangers for he didn't know how long. John's chest ached.

His hands were still on Rodney's shoulders. He took them away and didn't fall.

"Now the tunic," said Rodney. He dumped it on John's head and John couldn't get his arms out or find the headhole to pull it over. Rodney was cursing and pulling at the fabric and suddenly John remembered his voice, coming from alongside him, yelling at the great Lady of Sumark, ordering her to give it to them straight. He giggled.

"What's that? Sheppard?"

He was still tangled in the fabric - had Breesha forgotten to make the neckhole? "'Just tell us to fucking well fuck off,'" quoted John. He giggled again, which he was pretty sure was something he only did when concussed, or, apparently, recovering from a concussion. "Dr Rodney McKay meets diplomacy."

There was a scratch of wool against John's face and then there was Rodney, one side of his face lit yellow, a tentative half smile on his lips. Their eyes met for only a split second and John had to look away because he didn't understand what he was seeing in Rodney's eyes and was damn sure he didn't want Rodney looking into his. Although John was an expert at pretending he felt nothing, so maybe Rodney would be oblivious to the depths of hurt and loneliness the loss of their friendship had caused.

"S-sit down," Rodney faltered. "I'll do the sock-things."

John sat and the cot creaked, expressing the state of his body pretty accurately.

"I'd just had enough," Rodney said, conversationally. "She knew who we were, she could see we were no threat." He pulled one of the long woolly socks over John's foot and then put the thick-soled shoe over the top, pulling its leather cords tight and criss-crossing them over the sock and the pants, up John's calf, like the ribbons on ballet shoes. "No doubt Teyla would have handled it differently if she could speak their language," he said. "But you were obviously, er… anyway! That's one done. Now the other."

He pulled the other sock on and began untangling the cords of the shoe.

John's eyes rested on the top of Rodney's head. His hands curled around the edge of the cot, fingers digging into the linen sheets, tightening around the wooden frame beneath. Rodney swore at a knot in the cord. Then he looked up at John and John looked down at one of his own hands, which was still gripping the cot, even though it had tingled with the impulse to reach forward, to touch Rodney's hair.

He swallowed. What the fuck?

"Lift your foot up, Sheppard," said Rodney.

He did, and Rodney pulled on the shoe-boot-thing and tied it up, his hands pulling the cords around John's calf securely, but not too tight. Then he checked the cord of both shoes, running his index finger between the windings and John's stocking-clad calves, first one leg, then the other.

"You have to…" he waved a hand at John's legs. "Or they end up too tight and dig in," he finished.

For a moment Rodney sat on the floor, his head drooping, the fingers of his right hand plucking at his left thumb. Then he sprang up. "Okay, you're done," he said. "Oh. No. I'll do your cape, because you're sure to get tangled in it. Stand up."

John stood and Rodney stepped back, but he held out one arm, ready to support John if he wobbled. John didn't wobble. And he pretended he hadn't seen Rodney's arm. It fell back to Rodney's side. John fiddled with the hem of his tunic, which was hanging sloppily in loose folds.

"There's a belt for that," said Rodney, softly. There was sorrow and regret in the simple words. Would he have come to John anyway, even if Breesha hadn't asked him? Was whatever had gone wrong between them over? Maybe his care wasn't grudging. Maybe his actions were meant for apology.

Rodney picked up the leather belt. He could have handed it to John to put on, but he didn't. He held the end of the belt in one hand and reached around John's waist and, to catch hold of the end with his other hand he had to lean in, right in, so that John felt Rodney's warm breath on the side of his face.

His jaw ached. He closed his eyes.

The belt tightened. Not too tight. A sweeping touch from his stomach around to his side checked that there was room. And then he felt tugging, rearranging the fabric to blouse out just a little over the belt - at the front, at the sides and (warm breath on his face again), at the back.

"Now the cape," said Rodney. "It's blue, isn't it? Grey-blue. Like Atlantis, when you've been up all night and it's one of those dawns where there's full cloud cover and the light's diffused so that…" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'll just…"

John opened his eyes, and pretended not to watch Rodney's hands as they draped the fabric around his shoulders, twitching it here and there, pinning it at his shoulder with an iron circle-brooch and then pushing back the loose fabric from his chest to fall over his shoulder.

"You can, er, you can pull it down if you get cold," he said. "Well - you remember."

Rodney shrugged and his hands twitched.

Was it over? Could they go back to normal now? John dragged his eyes away from Rodney's hands, up to his face. Rodney's lips twitched into a small smile, his eyebrows rose and then relaxed. John felt his lips curl up at one corner in response.

He had no idea what to say. Thank fuck for that, sprang to mind. If it really was over. If he had his friend back.

Rodney's cape was a rich wine-red, fastened in the same way as his own, with an iron circle and a thick pin, carefully worked between the woven fibres so that they weren't damaged. But Rodney had been given a different pin - a delicate circlet of leaves and flowers, made for him by the smith at the Hillfort.

"What happened to your…?" He circled one index finger in the air over Rodney's shoulder.

"Oh." Rodney stiffened. "Oh. Yes. Well." His mouth, which had softened, became a thin, hard slash once more. "I gave it to Jennifer," he said tightly.

Rodney's cape snapped as he turned abruptly, the door curtain let in a brief flash of light, and he was gone.

And John was alone in the dark once more.

And it was going so well...