Help the South Fic: The Cold Lonesome, PG-13, SGA
Title: The Cold Lonesome
Author: Rubygirl29
For: sharpes_hussy
Community: helpthesouth
Characters: John, Ronon, Lorne, McKay, Teyla
Genre: Genfic
Rating: PG13 for language
Words: 5,900.
Also on AO3
Summary: The title kind of says it all ... John's jumper crashes in a fierce and unexpected storm, stranding him without communications. Injured and alone he has to face two deadly enemies: the weather and murderous creatures. Written for the prompts: hypothermia, hunted by alien creatures, Sheppard and Ronon h/c. I hope this makes you happy, dear. It was a joy writing it for you.
The Cold Lonesome
John was running through his pre-flight check on his jumper; supplies, first aid kit, food, ammunition, weapons ... all good. Ronon was slouched against the wall watching him and glowering with annoyance. John tightened a strap and stepped out of the jumper. "Relax, Chewie. It's a quick jaunt to the next gate address -- check it out as a possible alpha site, and then back. I'll be gone two, maybe three hours."
"You shouldn't go alone."
"You're just pouting because you have to go off-world on a trade mission. I know how you love that."
"Teyla can negotiate without me," Ronon grumbled. "She's done it before, and better."
"The Zetrians have been known to trade with the Genii. I don't trust them, and neither should Teyla. I'm thinking a big gun might not be a bad idea. Besides, it's not just the trade agreement. It's McKay's curiosity about some sort of energy reading. I need you to keep him focused."
"Lorne could go."
"He could if he didn't have two cracked ribs. This is a piece of cake, buddy. When I get back, I want to hear that McKay is doing his rocket science thing, Lorne didn't have to do anything but sit around with his feet on his desk, and that you didn't kill anybody who didn't deserve it. Got it?"
Ronon rolled his eyes. "Got it."
"Good."
"So, What's about this alpha site?"
"No life signs. No indication that the Wraith have been there. Climate's a bit rough, but it's livable --"
"So, why are you going?"
John tilted his head. "Because I'm the kind of guy who likes flying helicopters in Antarctica. If I say it's livable, it is. And if I really like it, I might decide to buy real estate."
"What?"
John grinned, "Never mind." He took a breath and looked at the jumper. "I'm on my way." He punched Ronon in the arm. "See you in a few hours."
"Hey."
"Softie. Next time we spar I'll let you beat me up."
Ronon rolled his eyes. "What fun is that?"
"Fine. I'll fight dirty."
"Now you're talking." He gave John a gentle shove towards the jumper. "Come back safe so I can beat you up."
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Sheppard emerged from the familiarity of the Atlantis gateroom to the darkness of space. The planetary gate closed and he was in space orbiting the planet. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, the blue oceans, the green and white of the continents. It was pretty much what he expected. He took another slow turn. There was a spiral of clouds over the pole ... had that been there before? He dropped the jumper closer to the surface. The clouds were thick, swirling, but they didn't look like storm clouds and they were spreading quickly. John had never seen anything like it. He wished Rodney were here -- or at least one of the Atlantis earth scientists; but no, he had come alone, so if he didn't make some note of it there'd be hell to pay from the scientists.
He flew closer, feeling the buffeting effects of wind. Hell of a storm he thought. He wasn't particularly concerned, the jumper's inertial dampeners would compensate for it. There was something almost hypnotic about the swirl of clouds; symmetrical, pale, almost too perfect. John recalled an SG-1 mission report about a planet with a weather-control ancient device. Perhaps this was something like that. Rodney would want a report and readings. John guided the jumper deeper into the storm. The tendrils of clouds wrapped around the jumper as the shuddering became more pronounced. Maybe not such a good idea, John thought as he tried to navigate away from the storm.
The overhead display wavered and shimmered. What the hell was this? John gave more power to the drives, but the controls were dead in his hands. He inertial dampeners were unresponsive. It was like piloting a dead-stick fighter.The jumper plummeted towards the surface of the planet; geographic features flashing by as it gathered speed. This was not how he had imagined he would die.
Just when he thought he'd pancake into the surface, the controls became marginally operational. He was able to slow his descent, but not stop it. He willed the jumper to level, and miraculously, it did. Beneath him, the surface looked hard as ice, unforgiving. The storm had taken him to its heart and had drawn him off-course to the polar ice cap. One way or another, his arctic survival skills might come in handy; not that he had been planning on that.
It was his last thought before the jumper did a belly slide onto what felt like a field of icy gravel. He was aware of speed, of a horrendous scraping and ripping sound, of what looked like a wall of ice looming ahead. He braced for impact, said a Hail Mary, and hit with an explosive jolt. His head banged against the control console, pain tore through his left wrist and he tasted blood in his mouth the last second before everything went black.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Pain. He tried to stay in the deep fog of unconsciousness, to pull it around him like a blanket until help arrived. Life wasn't so kind. Pain intruded insistently, pulling him from the darkness. He moaned and opened his eyes. The view outside was darkness. He flicked on an external light and saw only swirling snow. Night. He checked his chronometer. He had been unconscious for almost an hour. He took a physical inventory one injury at a time. His right eye was gummy with blood from a cut over his eyebrow. It was still oozing and a knot was forming where his head had hit the console. He probably had a minor concussion judging from his headache. He looked at his throbbing left wrist. He didn't have much sensation in the fingers and moving them was painful. There were no bones through the skin, but he was pretty sure it was fractured. His ribs and chest were sore, but he could breathe without screaming. His right knee was feeling tight, swollen. He gritted his teeth and moved it experimentally. He bit back a cry. Damn! There was something torn in there.
He stood up, fighting dizziness and pain and put cautious weight on his knee. He limped to the back of the jumper where the medical kit was kept. He took out a morphine ampule and injected it in his hip. Relief flooded through him. He took out the wrist splint and tugged the straps into place with his teeth, then used an ACE bandage to wrap it. Once that was done, he used the second ACE to wrap his knee. He swabbed his forehead with an antiseptic wipe, wincing at the bite of the alcohol and applied a butterfly bandaid. He drank a bottle of water, took three ibuprofen for inflammation and pulled a thermal blanket from the overhead compartment.
The jumper had been stocked with five MREs. He hoped it wouldn't take longer than a day to find him. He prepared a questionable chicken stew, made coffee, and settled down. The morphine and hot food were making him sleepy. Not such a good thing, he realized. He forced himself to stay awake. He took readings, he tried the controls ... again. He tried not to move too much, and despite his good intentions, he fell asleep.
Silence woke him up. The wind had died down. He switched on the outside illumination. Nothing. The jumper power source was draining quickly. The snow had drifted around the jumper up to the window. John wondered if the jumpers had ever been exposed to the snow. Were the interior lights dimmer than they had been, or was it just that his brain was screwed up from the concussion? It was definitely colder inside. He went to the back storage compartment. He'd had the foresight to pack some winter gear. He managed to pull on coveralls and a jacket.
His knee was still swollen and tender, but the morphine had taken enough edge off the pain that he could put weight on it. He'd been hurt worse. He had to get out and check on the condition of the jumper, on the weather, and figure out a way to communicate with Atlantis. He was leery of the distress beacon. Any Wraith nearby would pick it up as well. He rather take his chances on Atlantis finding him.
He opened the rear hatch. It jammed about halfway. His body was narrow enough that he could make it through, closing it again might be a problem, but he'd deal with that when it happened. He pulled up the hood of the jacket and eased his way out the door. He nearly fell, catching himself with his right hand gripping the frame of the hatch. The wind was vicious; sharp and biting, driving bits of ice like needles into his skin. Okay, the wind hadn't stopped. It had just dropped in velocity. It wasn't going to blow him off his feet, and he had to see what the outer damage was.
He braced himself and eased down, putting his weight on his good knee first. The wind had drifted the snow halfway up the side of the jumper. He shuffled around to the leeward side of the jumper where there was some shelter from the wind. The drive pods were covered, and it looked like the rocks had ripped ribbons of the skin away. This was not good. John leaned against the hull of the jumper. His skin was starting to tingle. He had enough experience in hostile environments to know this wasn't a good sign. Were the lights even dimmer? Also not a good sign. McKay would have asked how much worse could things get, but John was perfectly aware how many ways he could be screwed and none of them were pleasant -- like that vague unsettled feeling he had that he was being watched.
"Hey! If anybody's out there, I could use some help," he called.
Silence. "Okay, maybe you don't understand what I'm saying, but if you'd just come out, I promise I won't shoot you." The cold was starting to make his shiver. "You know, I've got hot food ... Fine. Be that way. I'm going back inside."
He started to haul himself into the jumper. A shape charged from the darkness, leaped towards him, and grabbed his ankle. Long claws on disturbingly human hands racked across his leather boots. Sheppard reached for a P-90 from the rack and fired. A long, keening cry of pain from the creature and his ankle was released. One cry was echoed by others in the darkness. Crap! He was being hunted. He prayed the hatch on the jumper would close. He waved his hand over the controls and they slid shut haltingly to the last inch. John grabbed up the extra P-90s, ammo, and a submachine gun. He didn't know how many or how large the creatures were, or even what they were; animal, alien life form, sentient or a hunter by instinct. He was also vaguely certain that he had seen something like that before. His head hurt too much to concentrate on anything but his plan.
He tried to lever the door closed with his good arm and uninjured leg. It wouldn't close. Small flakes of wind-driven snow puffed inside. He shivered. He couldn't stay in the rear compartment and defend the jumper. He would freeze before the creatures would get to him, which might be preferable to not being dead before they did.
He lugged his weapons, grabbing up extra flash-bangs, into the forward hatch of the jumper and closed the entry. It was sluggish, either due to mechanical problems or even his own fatigue and drugs deadening his genetic ATA link. He didn't care as long as the door closed and stayed closed. Maybe he had scared the creatures away from the jumper. All he heard was silence.
He heated up some soup from an MRE pack, took more ibuprofen and tried to ignore his throbbing wrist and knee. He wrapped himself in the reflective thermal blanket and tried not to think about the growing chill in his bones. Every creak of the jumper make his skin crawl. He shut down the lights and closed the screen over the windshield. He cradled a P90 to his chest and kept a grenade at hand.
He was three hours overdue, and it looked like he would have to wait out the storm and the night.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
"He's late!" Ronon growled at Elizabeth Weir, his anger kept a a low simmer only because he didn't want to show his worry about Sheppard to the entire gateroom staff.
"Three hours, in John Sheppard time isn't much," she replied, but there was a frown of worry between her brows. "When was the last communication from Colonel Sheppard?"
"When he left. He said not to expect any calls home unless he discovered something interesting," the radio tech on duty replied.
"He would call us he would be late," Ronon said. "I don't like this."
"I agree," Elizabeth nodded. She spoke into her mike. "Major Lorne, please report to the gateroom. Dr. McKay, to the gateroom."
"Lorne has two cracked ribs," Ronon reminded her.
"He also has the ATA gene. He's the best jumper pilot next to Sheppard that we have."
"I'm going," Ronon said. He wasn't asking for permission. He dared Elizabeth to contradict him, but she didn't.
"I never thought you wouldn't," she gave him a tight smile.
He met Lorne in the jumper bay with several marines. Lorne winced as he fastened his tac vest. He noticed Ronon watching him. "It's nothing. A little sore."
"Hmm." Ronon didn't believe him, but he would have done the same for Sheppard if he had to. Lorne was a good friend. They got into the jumper, Ronon taking the second seat, with Lorne as the pilot.
"We're ready," Lorne informed the control room.
"Good luck, Major. Be careful." Weir was standing at the rail looking at the gate.
"Yes, ma'am," Lorne said crisply. The gate dialed, the jumper went through and they emerged into the darkness of space over the planet Sheppard had been exploring. The world below them was half-hidden by clouds.
"Huh," Rodney said, puzzled. "This doesn't look the same as it did. Our long-range scanners indicated a somewhat temperate climate except for the polar regions. Now ..." he punched in some readings. "Now, the temperature is barely registering zero degrees Celsius. Yes, that's cold. Judgining by the swirl of clouds, I'd say that could be a very low pressure system. It looks like a series of them spiraling off of the poles. Very odd."
"Any life signs, doc?" Lorne asked.
"We need to be closer to the surface. The storms seem to have kicked up some electrostatic interference with the displays."
"You got it." Lorne guided the jumper through a layer of clouds and a buffeting wind that made the jumper quiver. As they dropped below the clouds, the jumper's flight evened out. Lorne scanned the the surface. Nothing. He shook his head. "We might be too far away. Can you pick out any energy signatures from the jumper?"
"No. He could have gone farther than we realized."
"Okay, we'll do a fly around, but I don't like this. It's not like Colonel Sheppard to deviate from a plan and then not contact us." Lorne had known Sheppard for a long time both as a friend and an officer. He could be maddeningly contrary, but he wasn't careless when other lives were at stake, and he was committed to Atlantis more than any mission they had ever shared.
"This is taking too long," Ronon muttered. "Go faster!"
Lorne shook his head. "We could miss his signature. Anything, McKay?"
Rodney was looking desperate as he pulled two crystals. "I'm trying to boost the receptors to expand their range." He rearranged them, tapped on his data pad. "Try again."
Lorne shook his head. "I'll make another grid search of the most likely areas. Keep scanning, doc. Ronon, watch that display. Any blip that shows up --" He didn't have to finish the sentence. Ronon was focused intently on the display, but his fingers were toying with the hilt of his gun, a nervous habit that Lorne had used to his advantage more than once in poker games. His lips twitched slightly.
Another pass, another grid search. Lorne went further south on a hunch. He could hear Rodney objecting before the words left his lips. "If he was caught in that wind, it could have easily blown him further south than we're figuring now. Just keep scanning, Doc."
Two minutes later, Rodney gripped Lorne's shoulder. "Stop!"
Ronon sat up, leaning forward. "Look ..." There it was, the red blinking signal indicating life. "Is it Sheppard?"
"It would have to be. This planet is uninhabited."
"Then what are those?" Ronon pointed to an array of life signs that were surrounding the first signal.
"I don't know, but it doesn't look good," Lorne said. "Doc?"
"Why does everybody look at me? Oh, right. I'm supposed to say they're nothing, but I can't."
Lorne, who normally would have made a sarcastic comment, could see the worry furrowing McKay's forehead. He wasn't doing it on purpose, he honestly didn't know. Lorne sighed. "Okay, we'll have to go in, then. He looked at Ronon. "Winter gear and plenty of firepower."
"Got it."
"Doc, you've got the pilot seat on this. Try to set her down gently, okay?"
"I'm not Sheppard, but I think I can manage that much."
The wind tugged at the jumper as they descended, and Lorne wondered if the force of the storm had interfered with Sheppard's navigation controls. Inertial dampeners could compensate for a lot on the ground, but were less effective in the air. A sudden downdraft of cold air sinking to the surface like a microburst could have caused the jumper to crash. Not even a pilot with Sheppard's skill and the ATA gene could compensate for that.
Lorne took out two winter jackets. He handed out night vision goggles and looked out at the white world below. "Cloak us and set us down easy, McKay, when we're close to the life signs. Ronon," He handed over the larger jacket and pulled on his own. "Ready?"
"Yeah."
"Hold tight." They braced themselves as Rodney maneuvered the jumper down. The wind caught it just as it settled and Lorne was thrown against the bulkhead, sending pain stabbing across his back. He choked back a cry.
"Lorne, you okay?" Ronon was steadying him.
"Yeah. Check on McKay." The doors to the control room slid open and Rodney stood there, white-faced and wide eyes.
"Are you guys okay?"
"Fine."
"Sorry about the landing."
"Wasn't your fault," Ronon had his gun in his hand. His cheek was bloody where it had hit one of the overhead racks, but he wiped at it and shook his head. "It's nothing."
Lorne took a butterfly bandage out of the first aid kit. "We need to close that up."
"Why?" He brushed Lorne's hand aside. "The cold will stop the bleeding."
Lorne sighed. "I don't want you to leave a blood trail in the snow."
That made sense to Ronon. He pressed the adhesive strip into place. "I'm ready."
"Doc, keep an eye on things. I'm not sure the radios will work outside the jumper."
"We'll find out. Just ..." He didn't finish his sentence. "Go. Find Sheppard."
Lorne and Ronon stepped out of the jumper, letting in a swirl of snow and cold. Rodney shivered and closed the doors. "Major? Can you hear me?"
Lorne's response was crackling with static. "Barely."
"Likewise." McKay's response was too broken to understand. Ronon loomed over his shoulder. A cry, almost but not quite human, rose into the night. "What the fuck is that?" Lorne's emotions overcame his usual reserve.
"Don't know, but it came from that way," Ronon gestured. He peered at Lorne through snowy lashes. "Can you do this?"
"Yes. Go. I'm right behind you."
Ronon gave him a doubtful look, but they started making their way through the snow. They hadn't gone ten paces when they heard a staccato burst of P90 fire followed by a ragged cry of inhuman rage. "Sheppard!" Ronon cried out and took off, with Lorne doing his best to keep up despite feeling like his ribs were about to poke through his skin.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He was awakened by his own shivering. His head ached, his arm was throbbing, his knee felt swollen and hot. At the same time, he was freezing. At some point, the atmospheric controls on the jumper had failed and the temperature had dropped significantly. He risked opening the iris on his maglite. He found the med kit. He wouldn't take morphine, but he tore open a pack of ibuprofen and drank them down with the dregs of his coffee. He listened for any sound from outside the jumper and heard nothing. The wind was rising again, which wasn't helping. The faint hiss of ice hitting the skin of the hull sounded wickedly cold.
He shut down the flashlight. The light from the control panels was so faint it was barely discernible. His watch dial looked brighter. He wasn't afraid of the dark, but he was concerned that it might disorient him, leave him vulnerable. As a pilot, he depended on visual cues. Being without them, without the overhead display, he might as well be a blind man walking a tightrope.
There was a faint scratching at the hull, no more than as if a branch were tapping at a window. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. A faint creaking that might have been the wind, or might have been the rear hatch of the jumper being forced set him upright. He took out the P-90 and tried to open the compartment doors. The response was so weak that they only parted by a few inches. Cold air streamed in and he directed the maglite beam towards the jumper hatch.
Clawed hands gripped and ripped at the hatch. The metal groaned and opened like the lid of a can being pulled back. Jesus, what were these things? This was not how he had imagined himself dying. Shot down, killed in a chopper crash, fed on by the Wraith, assimilated by nanites, not ripped apart by ... whatever. He could still fight.
He braced the P-90 against his broken wrist. He focused the light and began firing at the creatures' hands. Splatters of colorless blood erupted and hit the walls of the jumper. The creatures screamed and drew back, but the hatch was damaged beyond repair. He had a feeling they'd be back. He loaded his last clip into the P-90 and took out the flash bang.
His heart was pounding, sending pain throbbing through his wrist, his head, his knee. His vision was blurring, either with stress or from the concussion. The cold and his pain were beginning to wear him down. He was shaking again as the wind swirled and cut to his bones. Come on, you bastards. I'm ready, he spoke through gritted teeth, angry and waiting.
He didn't know how many there were, but they came in force. The jumper hatch was ripped off its hinges. Writhing shapes crowded the entrance. John lobbed the flash-bang and ducked behind the bulkhead, shielding his eyes and ears from the blast. As soon as the sharp burst of light and sound faded, he started firing at the shadows in the smoke. The inhuman sounds of rage and pain mingled with the near-deafening ricochets of the P-90 fire; John didn't know if he had done significant damage, but as the smoke cleared, at least the rear compartment was clear. The stench of cordite and alien blood was sickening and he bent double, retching. His head felt like it was about to explode and he had done more damage to his wrist. His knee was the only thing the painkillers seemed to have helped.
The jumper was nothing but a metal coffin for him. He dragged the submachine gun over and decided he wouldn't be able to handle it. Better to stick with the lighter P-90 though the firepower would have been welcome. There were two emergency flares stowed in the forward compartment. He grabbed those. Regretfully, he left the thermal blanket behind. He had taken arctic survival training, but he truly hoped Atlantis had sent a rescue team. He wouldn't survive for long: even if he killed all the creatures that were hunting him, the brutal weather would end it just as quickly.
He stepped out into the snow. It wasn't as deep as he had thought, barely over his ankles. The wind was his worse enemy, and the cold was death, but at least he wouldn't die in a snow drift. The ground beneath his feet was level, but he could feel the bumps and irregularities that made the footing treacherous. The snow was beading on his eyelashes but he couldn't wipe it away. He squinted through the rime.
He heard them before he saw them looming through the snow. He broke the seal on the flare and waved the bright light sweeping the shadows. Then wished he hadn't. They looked disturbingly familiar, similar to the hybrids Michael had been breeding in the bunkers below the Tiranian settlement. He wouldn't have thought they could survive these temperatures. They cringed back from the bright phosphorescent light of the flare. John knew when it faded, they would start moving in ... moving in for the kill.
He brought the P-90 to bear, braced it and began firing. They fell back, faded, then returned. He lobbed a grenade, hoping to wreak some carnage -- enough to discourage them from coming closer. It wasn't enough, but it allowed him to load another magazine, his last one, into the P-90. When that was gone, he had his K-bar and his boot knife. Which wouldn't do a damn bit of good, not really. Next time they sparred, he'd make sure Ronon included one-handed knife combat.
When his ammunition ran out, there was a circle of dead creatures around him. He dropped to his knees, gasping, done in, worn out. Two creatures loomed over him. He drove his knife into the unprotected groin of one of them. The other loomed over him, claws reaching to pierce his throat.
Dizzy, sick because this was not the death he had ever imagined for himself, he looked up. A red flare of lights burst through the darkness, a warrior's berserker cry, the creature screamed, turned away from him. Another burst of light and sound and John saw the glint of a blade being swung, cleaving the creatures head from its body.
Ronon?
He heard and saw nothing more.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Ronon dropped to his knees in the snow. "Sheppard!" He laid a palm against his cheek. Cold, so cold, but his breath left puffs of condensation in the cold hair. He was alive. Ronon didn't see any bleeding wounds on him. He was just unconscious and pale. His lips looked blue in the odd light from the flare. "Lorne!"
The major staggered into the circle of light. "Is he ...?"
"He's alive. We have to get out of here. Looks like the jumper is dead."
"That's not all." He looked at the shapes lay in the snow, dark pools of black blood melting the snow beneath the corpses. "Christ, what are those things?"
"Dunno. Looks like those hybrids of Michael's he was breeding on New Tiranan."
"Michael?" Lorne spat out the name. "Let's get Sheppard back to the jumper and get out of here." His earpiece crackled. "What is it, doc?"
"Did you find Sheppard?"
"We did. He's in rough shape. If you can get closer to this area ..."
"Umm ... not to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like a Wraith cruiser is on the way here."
"I'm surprised. It's probably Michael."
"What? How can you know that?"
"Just stop talking, McKay, and get over here. We'll explain on the way out. Just come to the light."
"What light?"
"You'll see it."
Lorne stood over Ronon. John was still unconscious, but starting to move. "Ronon, we have to get out of here. I'm setting C4. We've got to destroy that jumper." He hated to say it, but they didn't want to risk losing it to the Wraith.
Ronon had wrapped John in his coat. Lorne noted the makeshift splint on his wrist, the bruise on his forehead. Ronon was cradling him gently. He waved off Lorne's offer of assistance and stood up. The snow puffed gently as McKay landed the cloaked jumper and it wavered into focus. The rear hatch descended and as they stepped inside, McKay cloaked it again. Lorne pulled him out of the pilot's seat.
"Help Ronon. I'll take care of flying this crate."
"The cruiser --"
"Doc, I got it." He took the jumper into orbit as easily as a thought, keeping an eye on the Wraith signature. Still too far away to fire any weapons, but it would be close getting to the orbital gate. He piloted the course, engaged the sublight drive. The cruiser was closing within striking range. Lorne powered up the weapons. The stargate was dead ahead. Michael would try to keep them from reaching it. He had one chance at this. The cruiser fired, Lorne wheeled the jumper to face the cruiser and targeted the drive pods. Even with the shields up, the impact shook the cruiser off its axis. Lorne pivoted the jumper and shot through the gate.
They emerged into the familiar stars of the 'Lantean night. They were home.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He felt like ice water had filled his veins, replacing blood with a numbing chill. He was past shivering, so cold that he wondered if the touch of a hand would skate across his skin like it was coated with ice. Why was he this cold?
He heard voices, not words. He felt warmth settle over him, heat at his armpits and groin, a needle stick and then a slow warmth in his veins that melted the ice. He took a breath, gasped and opened his eyes. He recognized Dr. Cole's gentle face, Marie's smile. "I'm back?" he whispered.
"Yes."
"Ronon?"
"He's fine. So are Dr. McKay and Major Lorne."
Something unclenched in John's stomach. "Good. What happened?"
"Later, Colonel. Let's focus on getting you warmed up. Then we'll deal with your injuries, which are amazingly minor, considering all you've been through."
He could live with that.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Dr. Kohl finally let Ronon in to see John. He was propped up with several pillows. There were too many tubes and machines surrounding him, but he looked alive. The cold, blue pallor was gone from his lips and cheeks, his wrist had been placed in a proper cast and his knee was wrapped in elastic bandages and a brace and was supported by a rolled-up blanket.
Ronon thought he was asleep, but when he turned to leave, John's eyes slitted open. "Going somewhere?"
"To let you sleep."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah," Ronon folded his arms. "You look like it."
John tried to grin and failed. "What happened?" he asked. "I was kind of out of it."
"The creatures on that planet, they remind you of anything?"
"Michael's hybrids." That much he remembered.
"That's what I thought, too."
John closed his eyes. "Crap."
"Yeah, but there's nothing we can do about that now. Can't see us going back there."
"I guess we can cross that off our list of Alpha sites," John sighed. He closed his eyes. "I think I will sleep now."
"Good." He sat down, ignoring the trickle of blood that leaked from under the bandage on his forehead.
"I didn't think you'd find me," John murmured. "Thanks."
Ronon nodded, but John had fallen off the cliff of sleep. Ronon moved the chair closer. "You'd have found me," he whispered. "I know that to be true."
A nurse carrying a suture tray came into the treatment area, followed by Lorne. Ronon rose quickly and blocked them with an arm. "I don't need stitches," he hissed.
"Yes, you do, as much as Colonel Sheppard needs his rest. Go with the nice nurse and let her take care of that cut." Ronon raised a brow at Lorne, who was nearly as pale as Sheppard and suspiciously hunched over. Lorne glared at him. "Don't make me order you, I'm too tired."
Ronon glared back at him, but there was no real heat behind it. He left with the nurse. He know Lorne wouldn't wake Sheppard, but Ronon understood the need to make sure he was all right. Sheppard was the heartbeat of the city, and not just because he carried the gene.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Three Days Later
Ronon found John sitting on the pier, his face tipped to the warmth of the sun. Despite the flush on his cheeks, there was still something fragile about the skin under his eyes. He tilted his head, shaded his eyes and looked up at Ronon. "What?"
Ronon sank down cross-legged next to Sheppard. "Hey."
John smiled. "Hey."
"It's nice out here. Warm."
"It feels good," John said. "I can't seem to get enough heat and light, which is stupid since I really wasn't out there that long."
"It was cold. You were hurt."
"I must be getting old." Ronon laughed. "What? Did I say something funny?"
"The way we live, we'll never grow old." He stood, held out his hand. "You need a beer."
"I shouldn't."
"I won't tell."
"I knew I could count on you, buddy."
He grasped Ronon's hand. Ronon took John's weight easily, too easily, really. He held on briefly. "You're sure you're okay?"
John gave him a wry smile. "I'm alive. I'm warm. I've got friends. Things could be worse."
Ronon knew that. He also knew that if Sheppard had died on that cold and lonely planet he would have never forgiven himself. He would have lost his leader, his best friend, the very heart of him. Sheppard had made him believe that there could be life after Sateda, life after running. He had made him believe in Atlantis. He had made him believe in his own humanity.
"Glad you're better," he said, his voice hoarse. He shrugged off Sheppard's curious glance. "Thirsty."
"Beer will fix that," John grinned. Ronon draped an affectionate arm over his shoulder, and they went inside. As he stepped inside, John felt the city's welcoming hum, almost as welcome as the warmth of friends waiting for him.
The End
Author: Rubygirl29
For: sharpes_hussy
Community: helpthesouth
Characters: John, Ronon, Lorne, McKay, Teyla
Genre: Genfic
Rating: PG13 for language
Words: 5,900.
Also on AO3
Summary: The title kind of says it all ... John's jumper crashes in a fierce and unexpected storm, stranding him without communications. Injured and alone he has to face two deadly enemies: the weather and murderous creatures. Written for the prompts: hypothermia, hunted by alien creatures, Sheppard and Ronon h/c. I hope this makes you happy, dear. It was a joy writing it for you.
The Cold Lonesome
John was running through his pre-flight check on his jumper; supplies, first aid kit, food, ammunition, weapons ... all good. Ronon was slouched against the wall watching him and glowering with annoyance. John tightened a strap and stepped out of the jumper. "Relax, Chewie. It's a quick jaunt to the next gate address -- check it out as a possible alpha site, and then back. I'll be gone two, maybe three hours."
"You shouldn't go alone."
"You're just pouting because you have to go off-world on a trade mission. I know how you love that."
"Teyla can negotiate without me," Ronon grumbled. "She's done it before, and better."
"The Zetrians have been known to trade with the Genii. I don't trust them, and neither should Teyla. I'm thinking a big gun might not be a bad idea. Besides, it's not just the trade agreement. It's McKay's curiosity about some sort of energy reading. I need you to keep him focused."
"Lorne could go."
"He could if he didn't have two cracked ribs. This is a piece of cake, buddy. When I get back, I want to hear that McKay is doing his rocket science thing, Lorne didn't have to do anything but sit around with his feet on his desk, and that you didn't kill anybody who didn't deserve it. Got it?"
Ronon rolled his eyes. "Got it."
"Good."
"So, What's about this alpha site?"
"No life signs. No indication that the Wraith have been there. Climate's a bit rough, but it's livable --"
"So, why are you going?"
John tilted his head. "Because I'm the kind of guy who likes flying helicopters in Antarctica. If I say it's livable, it is. And if I really like it, I might decide to buy real estate."
"What?"
John grinned, "Never mind." He took a breath and looked at the jumper. "I'm on my way." He punched Ronon in the arm. "See you in a few hours."
"Hey."
"Softie. Next time we spar I'll let you beat me up."
Ronon rolled his eyes. "What fun is that?"
"Fine. I'll fight dirty."
"Now you're talking." He gave John a gentle shove towards the jumper. "Come back safe so I can beat you up."
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Sheppard emerged from the familiarity of the Atlantis gateroom to the darkness of space. The planetary gate closed and he was in space orbiting the planet. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, the blue oceans, the green and white of the continents. It was pretty much what he expected. He took another slow turn. There was a spiral of clouds over the pole ... had that been there before? He dropped the jumper closer to the surface. The clouds were thick, swirling, but they didn't look like storm clouds and they were spreading quickly. John had never seen anything like it. He wished Rodney were here -- or at least one of the Atlantis earth scientists; but no, he had come alone, so if he didn't make some note of it there'd be hell to pay from the scientists.
He flew closer, feeling the buffeting effects of wind. Hell of a storm he thought. He wasn't particularly concerned, the jumper's inertial dampeners would compensate for it. There was something almost hypnotic about the swirl of clouds; symmetrical, pale, almost too perfect. John recalled an SG-1 mission report about a planet with a weather-control ancient device. Perhaps this was something like that. Rodney would want a report and readings. John guided the jumper deeper into the storm. The tendrils of clouds wrapped around the jumper as the shuddering became more pronounced. Maybe not such a good idea, John thought as he tried to navigate away from the storm.
The overhead display wavered and shimmered. What the hell was this? John gave more power to the drives, but the controls were dead in his hands. He inertial dampeners were unresponsive. It was like piloting a dead-stick fighter.The jumper plummeted towards the surface of the planet; geographic features flashing by as it gathered speed. This was not how he had imagined he would die.
Just when he thought he'd pancake into the surface, the controls became marginally operational. He was able to slow his descent, but not stop it. He willed the jumper to level, and miraculously, it did. Beneath him, the surface looked hard as ice, unforgiving. The storm had taken him to its heart and had drawn him off-course to the polar ice cap. One way or another, his arctic survival skills might come in handy; not that he had been planning on that.
It was his last thought before the jumper did a belly slide onto what felt like a field of icy gravel. He was aware of speed, of a horrendous scraping and ripping sound, of what looked like a wall of ice looming ahead. He braced for impact, said a Hail Mary, and hit with an explosive jolt. His head banged against the control console, pain tore through his left wrist and he tasted blood in his mouth the last second before everything went black.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Pain. He tried to stay in the deep fog of unconsciousness, to pull it around him like a blanket until help arrived. Life wasn't so kind. Pain intruded insistently, pulling him from the darkness. He moaned and opened his eyes. The view outside was darkness. He flicked on an external light and saw only swirling snow. Night. He checked his chronometer. He had been unconscious for almost an hour. He took a physical inventory one injury at a time. His right eye was gummy with blood from a cut over his eyebrow. It was still oozing and a knot was forming where his head had hit the console. He probably had a minor concussion judging from his headache. He looked at his throbbing left wrist. He didn't have much sensation in the fingers and moving them was painful. There were no bones through the skin, but he was pretty sure it was fractured. His ribs and chest were sore, but he could breathe without screaming. His right knee was feeling tight, swollen. He gritted his teeth and moved it experimentally. He bit back a cry. Damn! There was something torn in there.
He stood up, fighting dizziness and pain and put cautious weight on his knee. He limped to the back of the jumper where the medical kit was kept. He took out a morphine ampule and injected it in his hip. Relief flooded through him. He took out the wrist splint and tugged the straps into place with his teeth, then used an ACE bandage to wrap it. Once that was done, he used the second ACE to wrap his knee. He swabbed his forehead with an antiseptic wipe, wincing at the bite of the alcohol and applied a butterfly bandaid. He drank a bottle of water, took three ibuprofen for inflammation and pulled a thermal blanket from the overhead compartment.
The jumper had been stocked with five MREs. He hoped it wouldn't take longer than a day to find him. He prepared a questionable chicken stew, made coffee, and settled down. The morphine and hot food were making him sleepy. Not such a good thing, he realized. He forced himself to stay awake. He took readings, he tried the controls ... again. He tried not to move too much, and despite his good intentions, he fell asleep.
Silence woke him up. The wind had died down. He switched on the outside illumination. Nothing. The jumper power source was draining quickly. The snow had drifted around the jumper up to the window. John wondered if the jumpers had ever been exposed to the snow. Were the interior lights dimmer than they had been, or was it just that his brain was screwed up from the concussion? It was definitely colder inside. He went to the back storage compartment. He'd had the foresight to pack some winter gear. He managed to pull on coveralls and a jacket.
His knee was still swollen and tender, but the morphine had taken enough edge off the pain that he could put weight on it. He'd been hurt worse. He had to get out and check on the condition of the jumper, on the weather, and figure out a way to communicate with Atlantis. He was leery of the distress beacon. Any Wraith nearby would pick it up as well. He rather take his chances on Atlantis finding him.
He opened the rear hatch. It jammed about halfway. His body was narrow enough that he could make it through, closing it again might be a problem, but he'd deal with that when it happened. He pulled up the hood of the jacket and eased his way out the door. He nearly fell, catching himself with his right hand gripping the frame of the hatch. The wind was vicious; sharp and biting, driving bits of ice like needles into his skin. Okay, the wind hadn't stopped. It had just dropped in velocity. It wasn't going to blow him off his feet, and he had to see what the outer damage was.
He braced himself and eased down, putting his weight on his good knee first. The wind had drifted the snow halfway up the side of the jumper. He shuffled around to the leeward side of the jumper where there was some shelter from the wind. The drive pods were covered, and it looked like the rocks had ripped ribbons of the skin away. This was not good. John leaned against the hull of the jumper. His skin was starting to tingle. He had enough experience in hostile environments to know this wasn't a good sign. Were the lights even dimmer? Also not a good sign. McKay would have asked how much worse could things get, but John was perfectly aware how many ways he could be screwed and none of them were pleasant -- like that vague unsettled feeling he had that he was being watched.
"Hey! If anybody's out there, I could use some help," he called.
Silence. "Okay, maybe you don't understand what I'm saying, but if you'd just come out, I promise I won't shoot you." The cold was starting to make his shiver. "You know, I've got hot food ... Fine. Be that way. I'm going back inside."
He started to haul himself into the jumper. A shape charged from the darkness, leaped towards him, and grabbed his ankle. Long claws on disturbingly human hands racked across his leather boots. Sheppard reached for a P-90 from the rack and fired. A long, keening cry of pain from the creature and his ankle was released. One cry was echoed by others in the darkness. Crap! He was being hunted. He prayed the hatch on the jumper would close. He waved his hand over the controls and they slid shut haltingly to the last inch. John grabbed up the extra P-90s, ammo, and a submachine gun. He didn't know how many or how large the creatures were, or even what they were; animal, alien life form, sentient or a hunter by instinct. He was also vaguely certain that he had seen something like that before. His head hurt too much to concentrate on anything but his plan.
He tried to lever the door closed with his good arm and uninjured leg. It wouldn't close. Small flakes of wind-driven snow puffed inside. He shivered. He couldn't stay in the rear compartment and defend the jumper. He would freeze before the creatures would get to him, which might be preferable to not being dead before they did.
He lugged his weapons, grabbing up extra flash-bangs, into the forward hatch of the jumper and closed the entry. It was sluggish, either due to mechanical problems or even his own fatigue and drugs deadening his genetic ATA link. He didn't care as long as the door closed and stayed closed. Maybe he had scared the creatures away from the jumper. All he heard was silence.
He heated up some soup from an MRE pack, took more ibuprofen and tried to ignore his throbbing wrist and knee. He wrapped himself in the reflective thermal blanket and tried not to think about the growing chill in his bones. Every creak of the jumper make his skin crawl. He shut down the lights and closed the screen over the windshield. He cradled a P90 to his chest and kept a grenade at hand.
He was three hours overdue, and it looked like he would have to wait out the storm and the night.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
"He's late!" Ronon growled at Elizabeth Weir, his anger kept a a low simmer only because he didn't want to show his worry about Sheppard to the entire gateroom staff.
"Three hours, in John Sheppard time isn't much," she replied, but there was a frown of worry between her brows. "When was the last communication from Colonel Sheppard?"
"When he left. He said not to expect any calls home unless he discovered something interesting," the radio tech on duty replied.
"He would call us he would be late," Ronon said. "I don't like this."
"I agree," Elizabeth nodded. She spoke into her mike. "Major Lorne, please report to the gateroom. Dr. McKay, to the gateroom."
"Lorne has two cracked ribs," Ronon reminded her.
"He also has the ATA gene. He's the best jumper pilot next to Sheppard that we have."
"I'm going," Ronon said. He wasn't asking for permission. He dared Elizabeth to contradict him, but she didn't.
"I never thought you wouldn't," she gave him a tight smile.
He met Lorne in the jumper bay with several marines. Lorne winced as he fastened his tac vest. He noticed Ronon watching him. "It's nothing. A little sore."
"Hmm." Ronon didn't believe him, but he would have done the same for Sheppard if he had to. Lorne was a good friend. They got into the jumper, Ronon taking the second seat, with Lorne as the pilot.
"We're ready," Lorne informed the control room.
"Good luck, Major. Be careful." Weir was standing at the rail looking at the gate.
"Yes, ma'am," Lorne said crisply. The gate dialed, the jumper went through and they emerged into the darkness of space over the planet Sheppard had been exploring. The world below them was half-hidden by clouds.
"Huh," Rodney said, puzzled. "This doesn't look the same as it did. Our long-range scanners indicated a somewhat temperate climate except for the polar regions. Now ..." he punched in some readings. "Now, the temperature is barely registering zero degrees Celsius. Yes, that's cold. Judgining by the swirl of clouds, I'd say that could be a very low pressure system. It looks like a series of them spiraling off of the poles. Very odd."
"Any life signs, doc?" Lorne asked.
"We need to be closer to the surface. The storms seem to have kicked up some electrostatic interference with the displays."
"You got it." Lorne guided the jumper through a layer of clouds and a buffeting wind that made the jumper quiver. As they dropped below the clouds, the jumper's flight evened out. Lorne scanned the the surface. Nothing. He shook his head. "We might be too far away. Can you pick out any energy signatures from the jumper?"
"No. He could have gone farther than we realized."
"Okay, we'll do a fly around, but I don't like this. It's not like Colonel Sheppard to deviate from a plan and then not contact us." Lorne had known Sheppard for a long time both as a friend and an officer. He could be maddeningly contrary, but he wasn't careless when other lives were at stake, and he was committed to Atlantis more than any mission they had ever shared.
"This is taking too long," Ronon muttered. "Go faster!"
Lorne shook his head. "We could miss his signature. Anything, McKay?"
Rodney was looking desperate as he pulled two crystals. "I'm trying to boost the receptors to expand their range." He rearranged them, tapped on his data pad. "Try again."
Lorne shook his head. "I'll make another grid search of the most likely areas. Keep scanning, doc. Ronon, watch that display. Any blip that shows up --" He didn't have to finish the sentence. Ronon was focused intently on the display, but his fingers were toying with the hilt of his gun, a nervous habit that Lorne had used to his advantage more than once in poker games. His lips twitched slightly.
Another pass, another grid search. Lorne went further south on a hunch. He could hear Rodney objecting before the words left his lips. "If he was caught in that wind, it could have easily blown him further south than we're figuring now. Just keep scanning, Doc."
Two minutes later, Rodney gripped Lorne's shoulder. "Stop!"
Ronon sat up, leaning forward. "Look ..." There it was, the red blinking signal indicating life. "Is it Sheppard?"
"It would have to be. This planet is uninhabited."
"Then what are those?" Ronon pointed to an array of life signs that were surrounding the first signal.
"I don't know, but it doesn't look good," Lorne said. "Doc?"
"Why does everybody look at me? Oh, right. I'm supposed to say they're nothing, but I can't."
Lorne, who normally would have made a sarcastic comment, could see the worry furrowing McKay's forehead. He wasn't doing it on purpose, he honestly didn't know. Lorne sighed. "Okay, we'll have to go in, then. He looked at Ronon. "Winter gear and plenty of firepower."
"Got it."
"Doc, you've got the pilot seat on this. Try to set her down gently, okay?"
"I'm not Sheppard, but I think I can manage that much."
The wind tugged at the jumper as they descended, and Lorne wondered if the force of the storm had interfered with Sheppard's navigation controls. Inertial dampeners could compensate for a lot on the ground, but were less effective in the air. A sudden downdraft of cold air sinking to the surface like a microburst could have caused the jumper to crash. Not even a pilot with Sheppard's skill and the ATA gene could compensate for that.
Lorne took out two winter jackets. He handed out night vision goggles and looked out at the white world below. "Cloak us and set us down easy, McKay, when we're close to the life signs. Ronon," He handed over the larger jacket and pulled on his own. "Ready?"
"Yeah."
"Hold tight." They braced themselves as Rodney maneuvered the jumper down. The wind caught it just as it settled and Lorne was thrown against the bulkhead, sending pain stabbing across his back. He choked back a cry.
"Lorne, you okay?" Ronon was steadying him.
"Yeah. Check on McKay." The doors to the control room slid open and Rodney stood there, white-faced and wide eyes.
"Are you guys okay?"
"Fine."
"Sorry about the landing."
"Wasn't your fault," Ronon had his gun in his hand. His cheek was bloody where it had hit one of the overhead racks, but he wiped at it and shook his head. "It's nothing."
Lorne took a butterfly bandage out of the first aid kit. "We need to close that up."
"Why?" He brushed Lorne's hand aside. "The cold will stop the bleeding."
Lorne sighed. "I don't want you to leave a blood trail in the snow."
That made sense to Ronon. He pressed the adhesive strip into place. "I'm ready."
"Doc, keep an eye on things. I'm not sure the radios will work outside the jumper."
"We'll find out. Just ..." He didn't finish his sentence. "Go. Find Sheppard."
Lorne and Ronon stepped out of the jumper, letting in a swirl of snow and cold. Rodney shivered and closed the doors. "Major? Can you hear me?"
Lorne's response was crackling with static. "Barely."
"Likewise." McKay's response was too broken to understand. Ronon loomed over his shoulder. A cry, almost but not quite human, rose into the night. "What the fuck is that?" Lorne's emotions overcame his usual reserve.
"Don't know, but it came from that way," Ronon gestured. He peered at Lorne through snowy lashes. "Can you do this?"
"Yes. Go. I'm right behind you."
Ronon gave him a doubtful look, but they started making their way through the snow. They hadn't gone ten paces when they heard a staccato burst of P90 fire followed by a ragged cry of inhuman rage. "Sheppard!" Ronon cried out and took off, with Lorne doing his best to keep up despite feeling like his ribs were about to poke through his skin.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He was awakened by his own shivering. His head ached, his arm was throbbing, his knee felt swollen and hot. At the same time, he was freezing. At some point, the atmospheric controls on the jumper had failed and the temperature had dropped significantly. He risked opening the iris on his maglite. He found the med kit. He wouldn't take morphine, but he tore open a pack of ibuprofen and drank them down with the dregs of his coffee. He listened for any sound from outside the jumper and heard nothing. The wind was rising again, which wasn't helping. The faint hiss of ice hitting the skin of the hull sounded wickedly cold.
He shut down the flashlight. The light from the control panels was so faint it was barely discernible. His watch dial looked brighter. He wasn't afraid of the dark, but he was concerned that it might disorient him, leave him vulnerable. As a pilot, he depended on visual cues. Being without them, without the overhead display, he might as well be a blind man walking a tightrope.
There was a faint scratching at the hull, no more than as if a branch were tapping at a window. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. A faint creaking that might have been the wind, or might have been the rear hatch of the jumper being forced set him upright. He took out the P-90 and tried to open the compartment doors. The response was so weak that they only parted by a few inches. Cold air streamed in and he directed the maglite beam towards the jumper hatch.
Clawed hands gripped and ripped at the hatch. The metal groaned and opened like the lid of a can being pulled back. Jesus, what were these things? This was not how he had imagined himself dying. Shot down, killed in a chopper crash, fed on by the Wraith, assimilated by nanites, not ripped apart by ... whatever. He could still fight.
He braced the P-90 against his broken wrist. He focused the light and began firing at the creatures' hands. Splatters of colorless blood erupted and hit the walls of the jumper. The creatures screamed and drew back, but the hatch was damaged beyond repair. He had a feeling they'd be back. He loaded his last clip into the P-90 and took out the flash bang.
His heart was pounding, sending pain throbbing through his wrist, his head, his knee. His vision was blurring, either with stress or from the concussion. The cold and his pain were beginning to wear him down. He was shaking again as the wind swirled and cut to his bones. Come on, you bastards. I'm ready, he spoke through gritted teeth, angry and waiting.
He didn't know how many there were, but they came in force. The jumper hatch was ripped off its hinges. Writhing shapes crowded the entrance. John lobbed the flash-bang and ducked behind the bulkhead, shielding his eyes and ears from the blast. As soon as the sharp burst of light and sound faded, he started firing at the shadows in the smoke. The inhuman sounds of rage and pain mingled with the near-deafening ricochets of the P-90 fire; John didn't know if he had done significant damage, but as the smoke cleared, at least the rear compartment was clear. The stench of cordite and alien blood was sickening and he bent double, retching. His head felt like it was about to explode and he had done more damage to his wrist. His knee was the only thing the painkillers seemed to have helped.
The jumper was nothing but a metal coffin for him. He dragged the submachine gun over and decided he wouldn't be able to handle it. Better to stick with the lighter P-90 though the firepower would have been welcome. There were two emergency flares stowed in the forward compartment. He grabbed those. Regretfully, he left the thermal blanket behind. He had taken arctic survival training, but he truly hoped Atlantis had sent a rescue team. He wouldn't survive for long: even if he killed all the creatures that were hunting him, the brutal weather would end it just as quickly.
He stepped out into the snow. It wasn't as deep as he had thought, barely over his ankles. The wind was his worse enemy, and the cold was death, but at least he wouldn't die in a snow drift. The ground beneath his feet was level, but he could feel the bumps and irregularities that made the footing treacherous. The snow was beading on his eyelashes but he couldn't wipe it away. He squinted through the rime.
He heard them before he saw them looming through the snow. He broke the seal on the flare and waved the bright light sweeping the shadows. Then wished he hadn't. They looked disturbingly familiar, similar to the hybrids Michael had been breeding in the bunkers below the Tiranian settlement. He wouldn't have thought they could survive these temperatures. They cringed back from the bright phosphorescent light of the flare. John knew when it faded, they would start moving in ... moving in for the kill.
He brought the P-90 to bear, braced it and began firing. They fell back, faded, then returned. He lobbed a grenade, hoping to wreak some carnage -- enough to discourage them from coming closer. It wasn't enough, but it allowed him to load another magazine, his last one, into the P-90. When that was gone, he had his K-bar and his boot knife. Which wouldn't do a damn bit of good, not really. Next time they sparred, he'd make sure Ronon included one-handed knife combat.
When his ammunition ran out, there was a circle of dead creatures around him. He dropped to his knees, gasping, done in, worn out. Two creatures loomed over him. He drove his knife into the unprotected groin of one of them. The other loomed over him, claws reaching to pierce his throat.
Dizzy, sick because this was not the death he had ever imagined for himself, he looked up. A red flare of lights burst through the darkness, a warrior's berserker cry, the creature screamed, turned away from him. Another burst of light and sound and John saw the glint of a blade being swung, cleaving the creatures head from its body.
Ronon?
He heard and saw nothing more.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Ronon dropped to his knees in the snow. "Sheppard!" He laid a palm against his cheek. Cold, so cold, but his breath left puffs of condensation in the cold hair. He was alive. Ronon didn't see any bleeding wounds on him. He was just unconscious and pale. His lips looked blue in the odd light from the flare. "Lorne!"
The major staggered into the circle of light. "Is he ...?"
"He's alive. We have to get out of here. Looks like the jumper is dead."
"That's not all." He looked at the shapes lay in the snow, dark pools of black blood melting the snow beneath the corpses. "Christ, what are those things?"
"Dunno. Looks like those hybrids of Michael's he was breeding on New Tiranan."
"Michael?" Lorne spat out the name. "Let's get Sheppard back to the jumper and get out of here." His earpiece crackled. "What is it, doc?"
"Did you find Sheppard?"
"We did. He's in rough shape. If you can get closer to this area ..."
"Umm ... not to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like a Wraith cruiser is on the way here."
"I'm surprised. It's probably Michael."
"What? How can you know that?"
"Just stop talking, McKay, and get over here. We'll explain on the way out. Just come to the light."
"What light?"
"You'll see it."
Lorne stood over Ronon. John was still unconscious, but starting to move. "Ronon, we have to get out of here. I'm setting C4. We've got to destroy that jumper." He hated to say it, but they didn't want to risk losing it to the Wraith.
Ronon had wrapped John in his coat. Lorne noted the makeshift splint on his wrist, the bruise on his forehead. Ronon was cradling him gently. He waved off Lorne's offer of assistance and stood up. The snow puffed gently as McKay landed the cloaked jumper and it wavered into focus. The rear hatch descended and as they stepped inside, McKay cloaked it again. Lorne pulled him out of the pilot's seat.
"Help Ronon. I'll take care of flying this crate."
"The cruiser --"
"Doc, I got it." He took the jumper into orbit as easily as a thought, keeping an eye on the Wraith signature. Still too far away to fire any weapons, but it would be close getting to the orbital gate. He piloted the course, engaged the sublight drive. The cruiser was closing within striking range. Lorne powered up the weapons. The stargate was dead ahead. Michael would try to keep them from reaching it. He had one chance at this. The cruiser fired, Lorne wheeled the jumper to face the cruiser and targeted the drive pods. Even with the shields up, the impact shook the cruiser off its axis. Lorne pivoted the jumper and shot through the gate.
They emerged into the familiar stars of the 'Lantean night. They were home.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
He felt like ice water had filled his veins, replacing blood with a numbing chill. He was past shivering, so cold that he wondered if the touch of a hand would skate across his skin like it was coated with ice. Why was he this cold?
He heard voices, not words. He felt warmth settle over him, heat at his armpits and groin, a needle stick and then a slow warmth in his veins that melted the ice. He took a breath, gasped and opened his eyes. He recognized Dr. Cole's gentle face, Marie's smile. "I'm back?" he whispered.
"Yes."
"Ronon?"
"He's fine. So are Dr. McKay and Major Lorne."
Something unclenched in John's stomach. "Good. What happened?"
"Later, Colonel. Let's focus on getting you warmed up. Then we'll deal with your injuries, which are amazingly minor, considering all you've been through."
He could live with that.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Dr. Kohl finally let Ronon in to see John. He was propped up with several pillows. There were too many tubes and machines surrounding him, but he looked alive. The cold, blue pallor was gone from his lips and cheeks, his wrist had been placed in a proper cast and his knee was wrapped in elastic bandages and a brace and was supported by a rolled-up blanket.
Ronon thought he was asleep, but when he turned to leave, John's eyes slitted open. "Going somewhere?"
"To let you sleep."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah," Ronon folded his arms. "You look like it."
John tried to grin and failed. "What happened?" he asked. "I was kind of out of it."
"The creatures on that planet, they remind you of anything?"
"Michael's hybrids." That much he remembered.
"That's what I thought, too."
John closed his eyes. "Crap."
"Yeah, but there's nothing we can do about that now. Can't see us going back there."
"I guess we can cross that off our list of Alpha sites," John sighed. He closed his eyes. "I think I will sleep now."
"Good." He sat down, ignoring the trickle of blood that leaked from under the bandage on his forehead.
"I didn't think you'd find me," John murmured. "Thanks."
Ronon nodded, but John had fallen off the cliff of sleep. Ronon moved the chair closer. "You'd have found me," he whispered. "I know that to be true."
A nurse carrying a suture tray came into the treatment area, followed by Lorne. Ronon rose quickly and blocked them with an arm. "I don't need stitches," he hissed.
"Yes, you do, as much as Colonel Sheppard needs his rest. Go with the nice nurse and let her take care of that cut." Ronon raised a brow at Lorne, who was nearly as pale as Sheppard and suspiciously hunched over. Lorne glared at him. "Don't make me order you, I'm too tired."
Ronon glared back at him, but there was no real heat behind it. He left with the nurse. He know Lorne wouldn't wake Sheppard, but Ronon understood the need to make sure he was all right. Sheppard was the heartbeat of the city, and not just because he carried the gene.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Three Days Later
Ronon found John sitting on the pier, his face tipped to the warmth of the sun. Despite the flush on his cheeks, there was still something fragile about the skin under his eyes. He tilted his head, shaded his eyes and looked up at Ronon. "What?"
Ronon sank down cross-legged next to Sheppard. "Hey."
John smiled. "Hey."
"It's nice out here. Warm."
"It feels good," John said. "I can't seem to get enough heat and light, which is stupid since I really wasn't out there that long."
"It was cold. You were hurt."
"I must be getting old." Ronon laughed. "What? Did I say something funny?"
"The way we live, we'll never grow old." He stood, held out his hand. "You need a beer."
"I shouldn't."
"I won't tell."
"I knew I could count on you, buddy."
He grasped Ronon's hand. Ronon took John's weight easily, too easily, really. He held on briefly. "You're sure you're okay?"
John gave him a wry smile. "I'm alive. I'm warm. I've got friends. Things could be worse."
Ronon knew that. He also knew that if Sheppard had died on that cold and lonely planet he would have never forgiven himself. He would have lost his leader, his best friend, the very heart of him. Sheppard had made him believe that there could be life after Sateda, life after running. He had made him believe in Atlantis. He had made him believe in his own humanity.
"Glad you're better," he said, his voice hoarse. He shrugged off Sheppard's curious glance. "Thirsty."
"Beer will fix that," John grinned. Ronon draped an affectionate arm over his shoulder, and they went inside. As he stepped inside, John felt the city's welcoming hum, almost as welcome as the warmth of friends waiting for him.
The End