fic: All The King's Men - PG-13 [John, team]

[tielan]

TITLE: All The King's Men
SUMMARY: Sanity is a fine line between the scars of the past and the belief in a hopeful future. But after a long captivity, John may no longer be capable of the balancing act.
CATEGORY: gen, hurt/comfort, team
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, making no money, please don't sue.
WARNINGS: a lot of Very Bad Things are implied, but none are described in detail
NOTES: Written for kristen999 in the sheppard_hc Secret Santa 2008. ~11,000 words and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get the damn thing out! Definitely a fascinating prompt to write for, but not an easy one by a long shot.

So much thanks to my alphas and betas: live_brave, mahoni, and aurora_novarum, who were helpful and encouraging and brilliant. I could never have finished this without you!

Prompt: John Sheppard has always been forced to make split second decisions between saving the lives of his friends or the city/ other innocents. This time around either a member of his team or the team collectively makes a choice to save (fill in the blank) over John-resulting with Sheppard seriously hurt.

Would like a giant comfort theme. Emphasis on John's recovery and team emotional healing. Doesn't matter if there is strife between team members, anger, guilt or blame. As long it ends on a positive note.

All The King's Men

When Teyla's jaw gritted as she limped over to roll John over in the mud, Ronon saw the truth of their situation immediately.

They weren't going to make it back to the gate.

Beneath the bronze of her skin, Teyla was already looking pale, but her expression was clear enough, even in the wreathing mist and the steady grey splatter of the downpour that had hidden their tracks so far. "We can find a place to hide," she began.

"And if they find us?" Ronon demanded.

"Then we will fight." She sounded cool enough, but Ronon knew her. He could hear the pain bleeding through her voice. She'd done her ankle good, and if Sheppard had been a burden before, he was a liability now.

"No."

"Ronon."

"They'll kill you."

"We do not leave our people behind!"

"We don't let our people be killed either!" Ronon growled, shifting uncomfortably. He disliked arguing with Teyla, who usually could be rational when needed. He disliked it all the more right now because he was in the midst of a downpour with two unconscious liabilities and one injured liability, the rain was dribbling down his scalp and under the collar of his shirt as well as off his dreads, and they were on the run from a people who wanted them captured and dead.

Plus, Rodney was much heavier than he claimed he was.

"That is not certain."

He muttered an oath at his team-mate's willful blindness. "You didn't see her face during the dinner," he growled. "She wants Sheppard, and she'll kill you to have him."

"I am not what stands in her way."

"You are." Ronon said bluntly. He'd seen jealousy in the faces of enough men and women to recognise it. He knew murderous intent when he saw it, too, even behind the guise of a smile and a welcome. "You're a woman with influence over him; that's all the excuse she'd need."

Of course that would only be after the men had their time at Teyla. If Sheppard had value enough to be kept alive and treated well in the hope that someday he might come around, Teyla didn't. She'd be used as the example; the reminder of the power they had over Sheppard, over Ronon, over McKay. Watch while we take her from you.

Ronon would stun her, dump McKay and take her back before he let her be captured.

He saw her look back along the path they'd come, her expression torn. He knew how she felt - like someone was slicing her guts open with a knife just sharp enough to cut skin, but dull enough to hurt like seventeen kinds of Wraith-feeding. But this wasn't about them all being taken prisoner, maybe being taken care of, being handed over to the Wraith, or possibly bartered for some concession from Atlantis - this was about them being taken prisoner and watching Teyla die.

Ronon wouldn't sacrifice Teyla for Sheppard. And he was pretty skantath certain that Sheppard wouldn't sacrifice Teyla for a useless stand.

Runners picked their battles, and fought with the most effective weapons they had to hand.

And Ronon had a gambit he'd been keeping in reserve if she proved stubborn.

"Teyla." He took one more step towards her. "Think of Torran."

The shot hit her square. Her expression twisted. "That is not fair."

"Life isn't," he said. "Sheppard's got the implant and they want him alive. We can hunt him down and find him, but we have to get moving now."

Whatever lead they had, it had slimmed down, and Ronon was not fool enough to think that the chase had stopped. They wanted Sheppard, and they had trackers.

Teyla knew this, too. She looked down at Sheppard, and her fingers swept his hair back from his forehead. Then she pulled all his weaponry from his holsters, his PDA from his vest, and his earpiece, and stood.

"All right," she said. "Let's go. But we will come back for him."

"Of course." Ronon glanced back at their unconscious team leader and silently apologised. He hoped Sheppard would understand when he woke up; he thought the other man would.

Less than an hour later, mobilised and fully armed, a squadron full of marines returned to the planet, following the implant signal across the woody terrain.

But when they reached the location of the signal, all they found was a pile of sodden clothes, neatly - almost mockingly - folded, his dogtags on top, and, beside the tags, the implant, bloody from where it had been dug from Sheppard's flesh.

A full scan of the planet found no sign of him or his captors; pulling the last-dialled addresses from the DHD got them fifty addresses that led nowhere useful; and all the gossip in Pegasus never returned even a hint of Colonel Sheppard's whereabouts.

Sheppard was gone.

--

His universe was pain.

The long, sliver slashes of it bit deep into his body, aching all the way down to the bone. His thoughts bled scarlet with the agony, a waxy softening of the hard edges that made him up.

They carved him up, like a Thanksgiving turkey. Disjointed his thoughts, dismembered his body, dissolved his surroundings.

He hung in infinite space, spreadeagled on the sacrificial altar, with an impenetrable nutshell clutched in his hands, too small for him to fit into. Salt dripped past his lips, the sweat of his brow tracing delicate droplets down his skin. And amidst the silent screams and panting shame, he clung to one thought.

There was a reason they didn't come.

Why?

Somewhere, amidst the pain that might-might not be there, he remembered a long, cold tunnel, and a long, cold knife digging into his feverish flesh. Before that, there'd been someone under his arm, small and warm, now gone.

Why?

Silver blades cut into him, pristine, sterile, and he bled and wept and screamed. His arms were torn from their sockets, his legs broken and shattered, everything was nerves and senses, an overload of pain, of not-pain, of being.

He no longer knew where pain-that-was began and where pain-that-wasn't ended.

Was there a difference between the two? He didn't know that, either.

Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.

Why?

Amidst the breathless universe of screaming pain, he didn't remember.

--

One thing to be said about working in Atlantis was that it was never boring.

Chuck Campbell, along with his fellow techs in the control room of the city, had this fact thrust in their face every day.

As the Stargate began dialling in, Chuck turned from the stats he'd been reviewing and hit the UOA alarm - pronounced 'yo-ah', and control room speak for saying 'unscheduled offworld activation' - an occurrence that took place often enough to have developed its own acronym.

An UOA was usually a team calling up to say that they'd found something of interest - or to call for backup and help of some kind or another, or to say they were coming home with injuries and have the infirmary on standby. Inevitably, the odds favoured the latter two scenarios rather than the former one.

Sometimes Chuck wondered if Atlantis would someday be listed as this series of screw-ups that almost accidentally managed to rid the Pegasus galaxy of the Asurans and the Wraith.

Mr. Woolsey came out of his office, a series of wrinkles building up on his forehead. "Who's off-world?"

Chuck had checked the file the instant the UOA occurred. "Two teams, sir - Chief Impey's supply-and-scrounge, and Captain Vega's. Teyla and Torran are also off-world right now, visiting Kanaan and her people."

"Unlikely to be Teyla." Woolsey murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. While he'd been something of a surprise choice back when he'd first arrived in the city and sent the betting pool crazy on the question of how long he'd last, Woolsey had adjusted well to the situation and, in the process, become another person for whom Atlantis was home.

The gateshield was an automatic function now; it coalesced across the Stargate's frame, like a film of soap on a toy for blowing bubbles. Bringing it down would take the appropriate shield code, or a manual override after a transmission from someone known and trusted.

As the wormhole connected, Chuck checked all his channels were clear. If their people were coming in hot, then they needed to be ready. A delay in bringing down the shield could mean death for one or several of them.

Silence. Then the radio crackled into breathless life. "Atlantis, this is Teyla." She sounded puffed, as though she was winded and running. "I am coming in hot, and I have Colonel Sheppard. Please lower the shield."

For a moment, Chuck stared at the crackling waveform of her voiceprint, not believing what he'd just heard.

She has Colonel Sheppard? From Athos?

Beneath her voice, a green line flashed, indicating that her voiceprint matched the one on file. The variation showed stress patterns but it was Teyla - the 'please lower the shield' was one of her trademarks. Even in the midst of a hot re-entry to the city, she never forgot the courtesies.

And she had Colonel Sheppard.

"Lower the shield, get the infirmary and let them know what's happening," Woolsey said, and leaned over the balcony. "Sergeant, prepare for Teyla, coming in hot with Colonel Sheppard."

Then he hurried down the stairs towards the floor of the gateroom, as Chuck took down the shield.

Over at her station, Banks was already pulling up the video cameras that monitored the gateroom at all hours of the day and night. Above them, the control room video feeds through the city suddenly showed the gateroom in crisp clear outlines as Banks brought up the resolution as much as the system would take.

A moment passed. Then two. Then three. Then...

She half-stumbled through the wormhole, her expression exhausted, her hair and clothes damp with sweat. And the long, lean form who clung to her was someone who hadn't been seen in Atlantis for almost a year.

Nobody knew where the cheer began, but it swelled through the gateroom and control room, a rising tide that broke off on a gasp as Teyla regained her footing for a few steps then slipped on something and collapsed to the floor, bringing Colonel Sheppard down with her.

The smear that ended with Teyla's foot was blood.

--

In the room of beds and cabinets, he waited, tense, for someone to come.

She'd told him they were home, and his bones said home. He trusted her and the hum in his bones. Still, his instincts said run and he'd lived by them so long, it seemed strange to trust again.

His fingers twisted in his lap as he waited for...someone. Something. He wasn't sure what.

Then a man stood before him, talking quietly, comfortably. White coat, gloved hands, and a crease between his brows and his hairline, shining a small light into his eyes, checking his pulse and his blood pressure and taking his bl...

He scrambled back, stumbled back, his throat locked in fear. Sharp silver. Sharp silver and scarlet pain...

Someone grabbed his hands. Not so hard that he couldn't throw them off but not so gentle he could ignore them. Porcelain bone and bronze skin on his wrists, on his knuckles, on his fingers - warm in the room's cold, calm in his panic.

"John. It is okay. It's just Carson." Dark eyes flickered, looking him in the face, holding his gaze. "You are home. I promise it is over. You are home."

Home. I promise. You are home. It is over.

He shivered, swallowed, and watched her eyes, seeking the truth he knew in his bones, in his balls, in his blood.

You are home.

It is over.

Home.

--

It was Rodney who found Sheppard missing one morning in the first week when he dropped by to pick him up for breakfast, only to find an empty room and a set of dragged, tangled sheets on the bed. A pile of clothes was draped over the chair where they'd been left, and at some point, Sheppard had burned a candle on the desk.

He didn't panic. Sure, Carson said there were lingering signs of trauma, but that didn't mean that Sheppard had stripped naked and gotten kinky with the wax. Or maybe it did.

God, now his brain needed a scrub.

After a cursory perusal of the room and the adjoining bathroom, Rodney made a beeline for the dining hall wondering.

Sheppard had been...weird...since he came back. The 'new' Atlantis psychiatrist loftily diagnosed the behavioural issues as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and was scheduling sessions with Sheppard every second day, working through what had happened to him in captivity.

Rodney didn't want to know the details, although there were rumours making the rounds out in the city. Hurrying along, he wondered if there was a medical term for when when someone went running through the corridors of the city, clad only in their sleepwear. Other than 'insane' of course.

"Teyla?" He found her in the mess hall feeding Torran. "Have you seen John?"

"Not since last night," she answered, looking up from her gurgling son. "You were going to bring him to breakfast."

Rodney absently made one of his 'funny faces' at Torran as the boy beamed up at him through a smeared mouthful of Pegasus' blue oatmeal. "Which I would have done if he'd been in his room when I went by. And, before you ask, no, he's not in the bathroom - I checked. And called his earpiece channel."

It wasn't quite a request for help.

"Let me hand Torran off to someone else."

It never ceased to amaze Rodney how many people in this city were perfectly willing to feed and humour an eighteen month-old toddler, who could scream like a banshee when he was displeased. The screaming displeasure was one reason why Rodney never offered to look after Torran unless Jennifer was going to be there too. Actually, she was usually the person who offered to look after Torran and then roped Rodney in, too. It wasn't like he could refuse Jen.

They hurried back to Sheppard's rooms, and Teyla walked in, frowned at the bed, and crossed to the bathroom.

"I already looked there," he told her, irritably.

"Yes," she agreed as she turned. "But you did not check the closet."

"Huh?" Rodney stared at her. "What do you...?"

Teyla lifted one finger for silence, then tapped it lightly on the closet. "John?" There was a thump, a sudden yelp, then tense silence. After a moment, the door pushed open, rather gingerly.

Rodney stared, shocked. He'd never thought to look in the closet. Who slept in a closet, anyway?

Between the racks of pressed BDUs and the jeans Sheppard wore when off-duty, a shock of unruly hair emerged, and Sheppard peered out at them, bleary eyed and looking like a man who'd just had a rude awakening. "Hey. Um... 'Morning."

"Sheppard, what the hell are you doing in there?"

"Sleeping." Sheppard sounded grumpy as he began climbing out of the wardrobe, dressed in a t-shirt and sleeping boxers. His hair was rumpled and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

"In the closet?" Rodney looked at Teyla, seeking confirmation of the insanity of Sheppard's choice of bed.

He was surprised to see a sudden flare of comprehension in her expression, quickly masked. "Rodney and I were concerned when we couldn't find you. However, we will leave you to your morning ablutions, John, and see you at breakfast."

Rodney managed to wait until they were in the next corridor before exploding. "What's he doing sleeping in the closet?"

Teyla took a moment to answer, and when she did, her voice was grim. "It is somewhere that he feels safe."

--

He felt like an idiot for not remembering that Rodney had offered to come by to get him for breakfast.

In light of the night he'd just spent, though, he figured he had an excuse.

After saying goodnight to Teyla and Torran, he'd closed the doors of his quarters behind him, stripped off his shirt and BDUs, and climbed into bed. Then he'd tossed and turned for the next few hours, feeling exposed and tense, and unable to sleep, even though his body yearned for the release from the strain of seeming 'normal' again.

Then there'd been the fugue episode during the night. He'd 'woken' to find himself sitting on the edge of the bed with a candle burning on the desk. Waiting.

He started the shower and stepped in beneath the blistering heat, trying to wash away the sleepiness of the night. Dr. Harmon was probably good at what he did. But the sessions...disturbed him. It was more than just the probing of what he'd endured, but something else. He didn't know what.

Reluctance to participate in recovery was a typical reaction, said the psychiatrist, as were nightmares. He shouldn't be afraid to confront his traumas, he was in a safe place, surrounded by people who were supportive and supporting.

Water poured over and around him, down his shoulders, sluicing through his scars. A physical reminder that he'd been brutalised when they realised he wouldn't comply, a visual cue to remember sharp silver, burning flame, and aching tension.

The water switched off with a thought, leaving him dripping and shivering.

--

In the second week Ronon noticed Sheppard picked at his food at mealtimes.

He'd dig the fork into the food, twirl it around, and relocate it to another corner of the plate, then repeat the process until the sun set. The result was inevitably a lot of moved-around food, but not very much eaten.

Over the course of days, Ronon determined that Sheppard was getting his food, he just didn't know how. Beckett confirmed that the man wasn't starving, although he added vitamin supplements. And, at the suggestion of the expedition's Dr. Harmon, they were encouraged to overlook any 'quirky habits' that weren't dangerous to the expedition - like sleeping in the closet.

Still, Ronon worried about the behaviour. He'd seen persistent battlefield displacement before - the Satedan term for what the Lanteans called PTSD. In his experience - which was only two men and which was limited to Satedan fighters - it wasn't helpful to coddle it. Work it out, get him fighting back, give him purpose, make him useful, and treat the man as he was - a fighter, a leader, a person.

Atlantis wasn't Sateda. Sheppard wasn't from Sateda. Dr. Harmon wasn't the Satedan physicians.

In the end, Ronon didn't mind what was done as long as it helped Sheppard deal. The man seemed okay most of the time, but sometimes...

"Not hungry today?"

"Not really," Sheppard sat back in his chair and surveyed Ronon. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You just seem...nervous."

"Nervous," Ronon repeated.

"Yeah. Like you're expecting me to lay into you."

Damn. Ronon had thought this conversation would happen sooner or later - he'd just expected it sooner, and when sooner didn't happen, he figured it wouldn't be for a while yet. Looked like he was wrong. He put down the utensils and took a great long drink, then wished he hadn't. It churned in his stomach, uncomfortably.

Teyla would tell him he was being a fool, among other things; but then, it wasn't Teyla's burden to bear.

"I left you behind."

John watched him for a long moment, quite expressionless. Ronon fought the urge to get up and pace beneath that steady gaze. "Is that it?"

Ronon choked. Nearly a year of captivity, deprivation, and outright torture, and all the man had to say was, 'Is that it?'

This was more dispassionate than he'd expected. even from Sheppard. Ronon had always known the other man had deep abandonment issues; he'd imagined there'd be a lot more anger about Ronon's decision, a lot more resentment and bitterness, even if he understood why the decision had been made.

The question still hung in the air between them. Is that it? "That's it."

John's eyes flickered down then up again and he shrugged, with no apparent stiffness or anger. "If it came down to Teyla's life against mine, I'd have left me behind, too."

That seemed to be the end of the conversation, but as he finished his lunch, Ronon couldn't shake the feeling that there was a storm built up behind Sheppard's quietness. This wasn't like the man he'd known, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. It wasn't his place.

"Meeting with Lorne this afternoon?"

"Yeah." Sheppard shrugged, once again picking at the mash. "He's doing a good job."

"Have the SGC or IOA sent anything back about your status?" As always, there was the bureaucracy to manage. Ronon played what Teyla called 'the ignorant barbarian card' to get out of the worst of it - something that his Satedan superiors would never have accepted from him, because they weren't so naïve - but the paperwork Ronon had to deal with was nothing compared to any of the Earth personnel.

"Woolsey's arguing the case with them. They'd prefer I returned to Earth for rehab." The sour smile on his face made his feelings quite clear about it.

Ronon scraped up the last chunks of the mash and paused. "You belong here."

--

The jar on top of the filing cabinet was missing tonight. He frowned. It was unlike Zelenka to leave things out after he closed up his lab for the night. Rodney would leave everything right where it was at the point he keeled over or walked out of the lab, and if anyone moved his work by an inch, there was trouble when he came back. But Zelenka was careful and fastidious.

A quick study the shadows showed no sign of the jar anywhere else - had it been removed, or just moved? Fine, on to plan B.

Casters rolled with a slight metallic noise as the drawer opened and he reached back into the shadowy depths of the space. A moment later, the light crackle of foil and the smooth coldness under his fingertips told him he'd found what he'd come for.

A minute later, he walked back down the corridor, the drawer replaced, the lab put back to rights and the doors closed behind him.

It wasn't a full meal, but it was a start.

Harmon hadn't yet asked why he didn't eat at regular mealtimes.

Just as well. He didn't like the idea of the psych picking away at yet another part of him.

Those first few meals in the infirmary had been hell; chewing and swallowing every mouthful, while fighting the urge to be sick, and trying to hold back the twitchy feelings inspired by a 'proper' meal. One more reason why he hadn't slept well in the infirmary.

As he finished the cereal bar, his stomach rumbled. Still not full.

He'd drop by the officer's mess and pick up an MRE on the way. He wouldn't be able to eat the whole entrée but he could manage at least half an MRE. And if he went through the infirmary on his way to the Dr. Who marathon, he might be able to snag the remains of someone else's abandoned dinner.

Maybe it wasn't the kind of behaviour Dr. Harmon wanted to see from him, but the man saw him as damaged goods anyway.

--

Teyla stretched her ears for any noise in the corridors ahead of Evan, even as she watched for movement where none should be.

"Teyla?"

"Carson? How is Jennifer?"

The sigh came clear through the earpiece. "Sore and a bit surprised, and she'll have a lovely shiner for a few days, but otherwise okay. Rodney, on the other hand, is hopping fit to burst and being a pest at the same time. Any luck?"

She glanced at Evan, who had paused in the middle of the corridor, and was signalling the left-hand branch. "Yes."

It was uncertain if John was armed, but he did not need to be armed to be dangerous, as Jennifer had discovered while running some more blood tests on him. He'd panicked, struck her, and fled into the city.

They'd traced him out here, thanks to a life-signs detector and Dr. Zelenka's patch that singled out John's gene.

Evan signalled that John was close, and the hand not holding the detector loosened the gun in his holster. Teyla glanced at him, and he shrugged and mouthed, 'Better safe than sorry.'

From the harsh breathing emanating from the corner where John was wedged, Teyla did not think that such safety would be necessary.

His hands were clenched in his hair, elbows on his knees, his face downturned. As she approached, waving Evan back, he didn't look up.

"John?"

"Is she okay?"

"Yes," she assured him. "Jennifer was surprised, but not badly injured. She was more worried for you."

"I'm sorry." The words fell from his lips, unfamiliar but easy. "Does Rodney want my head?"

"I think he will settle for having your guts for garters," she said. In her earpiece, Evan was softly reporting that they'd found John and that Teyla was talking with him. He knew better than to intrude at this moment, and she was grateful for the tact.

She glanced back at the doorway, then knelt down beside John. "Do you remember what happened?"

He shivered. "They're sending me back to Earth for the IOA to pick over." Bitterness ached in his voice.

Ah. Teyla had heard the rumour, although she had thought it ill-advised, she'd thought it unwise to protest. "Would it not have been temporary?"

The laugh he gave seemed to tear at his throat. "They'd say that at first. Only until I was fit for duty again..." He lifted his head and spread his hands wide. Dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of his weariness and the tension that haunted him.

Teyla grieved for him. She had known that a return to the life he had known would not be easy; she had not imagined it would be so trying on him.

In the weeks since his return, she had seen how the other Lanteans behaved towards him. She had heard the whispers of torture and abuse, of beatings and starvation. She had seen their reactions to his restlessness, the nods and sage murmurs among the military veterans and medical personnel, and even some of the scientists and cultural specialists.

Teyla had not imagined that Atlantis would differentiate him because of his experiences.

The traumas of survival were well-known among the Athosians and their allies, and there were ways to work with the people who were left behind, or who'd seen their loved ones die by the hand of the Wraith. They would never be the same, but they had survived terrible things. Life was not about preserving perfection as the Lanteans seemed to believe, but about living with scars and still forging on.

While an individual might suffer, they were not alone, they were not isolated, and they were always integrated back into the community, which accomodated them as was necessary. Ultimately, the routine of the community would keep them going, and the acceptance of the community would succour them.

Life and all its experience - even that which left scars - was precious in Pegasus.

Would it help to broach this to Mr. Woolsey and Dr. Harmon?

"These problems... John, you must deal with them." His behaviours were not assisting his return to the city; certainly, they would not assist his cause with the IOA.

"What do you think I've been trying to do with Harmon?"

Teyla took his anger, absorbed it, deflected it. "I do not think it would be helpful to send you back to Earth," she said after a moment. "Survivors should feel accepted while facing the memory of their scars."

He stilled, looked at her, all anger gone. "Is that what you call them? Survivors?"

It was a meaningful question to him, and Teyla returned his gaze, steadily. "Should they not be called survivors? Have they not survived what was done to them?"

John looked down and away. She could understand his confusion. The Lanteans tended to see things in very stark shades of meaning. In their parlance, only the perpetrator had power - the victim was seen as passive, without strength.

No wonder John had rebelled against such a definition.

Evan was silent in the corridor outside, and Teyla looked at John and judged him ready to confront what he had done. He was not a weak man, by any standards - just...in a place where he felt himself alone.

He did not need to feel that way.

She stood, and offered him a hand up, his fingers firm and cold in hers. But after he got to his feet, he didn't let her go.

"John?"

His eyes searched her face, their colour like the reflections of the forest in a deep pool. "You've... Your people, Teyla... They've seen this before? Done this...?"

She heard the question beneath his hesitant question, closed her fingers around his and squeezed. "If you want our help, John, you have only to ask for it."

--

He hated not being in control of his life.

He hated being a victim.

Lashing out at the doc had been an accident. He'd never hurt a woman - unless she was a Wraith, of course - but he hadn't been thinking, he'd just been reacting. And when she mentioned that Woolsey had spoken to the IOA about his rehab, the reaction had broadsided him, and the pressure cuff, the tray of needles, and Keller had been too close and claustrophobic for comfort.

Keller's shock at the violence had driven him through the halls of the city, a clattering, clamouring need to get away, go away, hide somewhere that they wouldn't find him, run.

Somewhere inside, he was angry. They'd taught him to be afraid, to hide from others, from himself. He knew he didn't have to, but even when he tried to force his body to obey, it wouldn't.

He saw it in their eyes, all through the city - the look that said he was damaged, wrong, bad, sick. He wasn't whole anymore, he was a mutilated remnant of the man they'd known, and to be that man again, he had to cut that part of him out, avoid mention of it, behave as though it had never happened, had never changed him.

And these were people who knew him, respected him, cared for him.

The thought of going to Earth, to face the IOA and the USAF psychiatrists, their dispassionate gazes regarding him as damaged goods that needed fixing so he could be patched up, sent out, useful again...

As he cowered down in a corner, facing what he'd done, what was about to happen to him, his whole body shook. Slowly, he calmed it, forcing himself to breathe deeply, in and out - relaxation exercises Teyla had taught him years ago but which he'd never used.

He couldn't live like this in Atlantis - or on Earth. He didn't want to live on the edge, given a wide berth because nobody knew what might set him off, because nobody wanted to see what had been done to him, because he was fragile.

They'd tried to fix him, but something was missing from the fix - something that he needed and wasn't getting.

Not until Teyla spoke.

Survivors should feel accepted while facing the memory of their scars.

And suddenly John had options again.

--

Richard Woolsey wasn't entirely convinced. After all, John Sheppard was from Earth; wouldn't it be best if he had people from Earth dealing with him?

He saw the look Teyla and Ronon exchanged.

"We of Pegasus are more accustomed to loss and grief," Teyla said after a moment. "We have ways of dealing with such personal difficulties."

"You Lanteans behave like they're damaged," said Ronon. "Sheppard's tougher than that. He's not going to shatter."

"And what exactly would you call the incident with Dr. Keller in the infirmary the other day?"

Ronon shrugged. He had a lot of shoulder to shrug with. "Consequences of ignoring what was done to him."

Richard was becoming a little annoyed by this exchange. He had the feeling he wasn't getting it. "I thought you said not to treat him differently."

He knew he wasn't getting it when Teyla and Ronon exchanged another look between them.

"Treating's not the same as ignoring."

"Our societies are more communal than yours, Mr. Woolsey," Teyla explained. "When one individual is traumatised, everyone is in support, not merely a few. There is a support group - family or clan or warrior troop - who views the survivor as strong for having come through the trauma and returning to their life. What they experienced is a part of them, now, and the community must accept that, as much as the survivor."

His eyebrows rose. "Teyla, you're talking about getting the entire city involved in this!"

"Yes," she said. "Both our peoples define the individual by the community, although in differing ways. Your culture values perfection as defined by youth, Mr. Woolsey. Pristine, untouched innocence is the ideal and even idealised."

"So?"

"So how's he supposed to be part of a people who think he's damaged goods?" Ronon demanded, his voice rough with anger.

Richard grimaced and looked down at his desk, a little ashamed of the truths in the question. Still, he knew his duty to Earth, to the IOA, and to Sheppard.

"How can you be sure this will even work? Maybe these things work for your people, but Colonel Sheppard's not from Pegasus."

This time, Ronon looked over at Teyla, who hesitated before answering. "Mr. Woolsey, if you will trust us--"

"And McKay."

"If you will trust us and Dr. McKay to work with Colonel Sheppard, then all you need do is encourage your people to treat the Colonel as though he was never absent. He is not damaged goods, nor a victim, he should not be treated as though he were an explosive charge about to be detonated."

"Responsibilities," said Ronon gruffly. "Give him something to do other than follow Lorne around all day."

Richard frowned a little. They were moving fast - his instincts said too fast. Was this bulldozering on the part of their two allies, or just very good tag-teaming? Even after eighteen months in this role, he still didn't know. Teyla and Ronon had a tendency to surprise.

"I'm afraid he isn't fully authorised to work in his former role."

"Then find something he's authorised to do or give him authorisation!" Ronon made it sound simple.

"It is probably best to involve the Colonel back in the running of the city," said Teyla, more conciliatory than Ronon. "Perhaps not as strenuous a role as he held before, but some shared responsibilities with Colonel Lorne?"

He sighed. While Teyla and Ronon were not the unstoppable force that Dr. McKay and Colonel Sheppard were - or had been, before the Colonel was lost - they were very good at being immovable objects when they chose.

And, he had to admit, Dr. Harmon's reports were not encouraging. The Colonel was resistant to all attempts to rehabilitate him, and refusing to co-operate. Dr. Harmon's methods of dealing with PTSD were tried and proven in the US armed forces, but only where the invalid was willing to change.

There were times when Richard sincerely missed his job with the IOA. Things had been so simple then.

"And you'll be working with Colonel Sheppard in the meantime?"

"Yep."

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I have to ask: have you considered the consequences if this doesn't work?"

Another look was exchanged between the two of them. This one had the distinct flavour of 'they're being stupid Lanteans again' but Richard had no time to bristle as Teyla spoke. "Yes, we have."

"It'll work," said Ronon, and the tone of his voice left no room for argument.

Richard held back his sigh until after they'd left. All things considered, he would have preferred to follow established procedure on this. Send Colonel Sheppard back to Earth and have the IOA manage the situation.

A little voice, however, was plaintively pointing out that the Pegasus galaxy had a lot more experience with the trauma of loss and survival as a part of everyday life. And there was no arguing that for what they'd been through and who they'd lost over the years, Teyla and Ronon were among the best-adjusted people out of the entire expedition. The proof, as it was said, was in the pudding.

All right. He would authorise them to work through the Colonel's PTSD.

Even if it was going to be a headache with the city personnel.

I'll give them their opportunity, he thought to himself. If they succeed, then we won't have to bother the IOA, and Colonel Sheppard gets to stay in the city. And if they fail...

Well, they'd deal with that if it happened.

--

To say Rodney had misgivings about joining in with Sheppard's therapy was an understatement.

Yes, he was relieved that Sheppard was back and mostly whole, and he'd do what he could to help his friend but...

John had been gone for nearly a year, and a lot had changed since then.

Plus, Rodney wasn't sure he could do this. He didn't want to look at John and see the damaged man he'd become. The John Sheppard he'd met all those years ago had his hurts, yeah, but Rodney hadn't had to deal with them.

He didn't want to deal with them now. Especially not on the shooting range, when Sheppard had a gun in his hand and was firing at the paper target with all the intensity of Ronon.

"So," he said, striving for casual. "Got issues?"

John snorted. "Didn't you get the memo, Rodney?"

"I never pay attention to memos," Rodney said as he loaded the magazine into the Beretta. He only came down once a week to practise his shooting, and he'd been lax about it lately. Ronon had stopped hassling him, and without Sheppard or Ronon pushing him...

He had other things to do.

"So you missed the one where I'm unstable and need to be sent back to Earth?" The tone was light and easy, but there was bitterness beneath it.

"You hit my girlfriend!"

Sheppard's brows creased in a frown. "It was an accident!"

"She's still got a bruise!"

"I apologised! Besides," Sheppard said, ejecting the magazine and replacing it with a new one, "I wasn't myself." And John spun around, aiming for the target again. The bullets stitched a circle in the paper with an accuracy that gave Rodney palpitations just to watch.

"And that would be why they think you're unstable and need to be sent back to Earth," said Rodney. In his sweaty palms, the gun felt slippery as he lifted it. He adjusted his grip, stepped up to the firing line, and took the shots at the target, focused and slow.

He could feel Sheppard's gaze on him, refused to flinch at it. Teyla said the Athosian twelve-step plan involved not walking on tippy-toes around John, treating him like he could manage his anger and the emotions inside him, trusting him.

"What?" John's tone was dangerous when Rodney finished the magazine.

"I said--"

"So you think I'm crazy, too."

"Did I say that? Because in case you didn't listen to my words, I said 'That would be why they think...'"

"And you think it, too."

"Don't go putting words into my mouth!"

"Don't go around telling me that I should just get over what happened to me!" John snarled.

"Have I even said that?"

"You implied it," John said, and this time when he spoke, his voice was soft and vicious, which was far worse than loud and angry. "You and everyone else in this goddamned city."

Rodney saw Sheppard's knuckles whiten around the grip of the gun and wondered if he should reload his weapon. Not that it would do much good if John decided to shoot... He shook that thought away. Focus, Rodney. "Yeah? Well, maybe you shouldn't get over it," he said harshly and saw the other man's head come up, eyes afire. "Maybe you should start working through it instead of avoiding it."

"You're my psychologist, then?"

"Thank God, no. But anyone can see you're screwed up. And, might I remind you, I've known just how screwed up you were since about, oh, day five of this expedition. So, yeah, I think you should start facing what happened to you and dealing with it."

John's knuckles were really white around his half-lifted gun, and there was a pinched look to his face.

"Unless, of course, you want to sleep in the closet for the rest of your life," Rodney said, hoping his accelerated heartrate wasn't showing on his face. God, after this, he'd need aspirin for his blood pressure. He was terrified, but whatever he was saying was affecting Sheppard and it was more than they'd gotten so far, so he pressed on, and hoped that Teyla was justified in her belief that John still had control of himself. "Did you know that Zelenka got so suspicious of his stashes being raided that he put in a videocamera to find out who was scavenging from his lab?"

Sheppard looked at Rodney for a moment, then looked away.

"And then there's Jen," Rodney said, figuring he might as well get all his known variables up on the board before John threw him an unknown. "Do you want to leave a trail of bodies behind you every time you get a panic attack?"

The man looked like he was having a panic attack now.

Rodney wasn't too far from having a panic attack himself. But he held his ground, even though he really felt like cringing away from the look in John's eyes.

"No."

He was so focused on expecting a physical answer - namely, a bullet in his chest - that Rodney almost missed John's reply. "Huh?"

Sheppard looked up, and if his hand was still firmly gripping the gun, at least he didn't have the wild look in his eyes. "No," he said. "I don't want to be like this for the rest of my life."

The words hung in the air between them, pregnant, poignant.

"First step in the journey," said Rodney. Then, he added, "Now would you stop holding that gun like you're going to shoot me?"

--

The firing range was too closed in - and not in a good way. He could feel everything pressing down on him, crushing him beneath the weight of its expectation, the old terror of what his physical memory insisted was about to happen, even as his reason beat futile fists against the closed door of his panic.

Fear had a stench, and he'd learned the aroma of it, knew the pulse of it in his veins as his breathing came short and fast, his body tensing in adrenalised reaction to the situation.

He knew what was coming. He'd felt this just before Keller had tried to stick him with a needle...

He wanted to strike out - to shut Rodney up. He wanted to lift the gun his bloodless hand was gripping and make Rodney go quiet, make it all go away. That was the only way to make it all...go...away...

Maybe you shouldn't get over it.

Rodney's words were like a slap in the face. He stared at the other man, not quite believing that Rodney had just said that. Then the other guy continued.

Do you want to leave a trail of bodies behind every time you get a panic attack?

John's shoulders were in knots. He could feel himself on the edge of the precipice, listening to the questions beneath the question. It would be easy to let himself go, let himself fall - an ending to it all; peace at last.

No. No.

You are a survivor, John. Do not doubt it. Teyla had said that to him on the way back to the central city.

He didn't have to be a victim - not anymore.

--

Ronon watched the tide turn.

The two figures dodged back and forth in fighters' crouches. Sweat sheened off their skin, gleaming beneath the overhead lights, and filling the room with the pungent scent of effort and exhaustion. Ronon followed them around the room, staying out of their way, but watching every movement with a critical eye.

Sheppard was making progress in his recovery. More progress than he'd made under Harmon. The base psychiatrist was a little miffed, and more than a few personnel had expressed surprise that the Satedan and Athosian ways were working.

It was a different mindset, borne of a very different upbringing. Atlantis was home to Ronon now; its people his people. But he was very aware that a ravine gaped between them when it came to some perspectives, with no bridge of understanding with which to cross.

Simply put, they lacked the ability to comprehend how broadly the spectrum of life encompassed Pegasus, on a thousand different worlds with a thousand different suns.

As Sheppard retreated under the blows of the slenderer figure, his gloved hands blocking the punches she swung at his head, Ronon narrowed his eyes. "Sheppard!"

"Ronon!" The tone of voice was an exact mimicry. "I'm kinda busy right now, buddy."

"Not busy enough," he rumbled. "You're leaving openings. Don't. Amelia?"

"Yes, I'm letting them pass," she retorted, her smooth voice annoyed. "This isn't life or death, Ronon."

He grunted at them both and kept watching. Lanteans!

Over the last few weeks, while Teyla worked with Sheppard, delicately making their way through the things that had been done to him, Ronon had taken Sheppard through a physical regime. A little more rigourous than the occasional sparring session or run through the city, the object was to restore Sheppard's confidence in his physical skills. The man was a fighter in body and spirit; the familiarity of his body was integral to his capabilities as a soldier.

He could guess what had been done to the man - he'd seen such abuses before. Not commonly on Sateda, but elsewhere, on other planets to other survivors. Not always the Wraith, either. Sometimes monsters came in human form.

It was easier to think of these people as survivors. It made them strong. A man wouldn't want to go through what Sheppard had been through, but he could respect that the man had made it out the other side, whether the survivor wanted to stand up and fight again, or crouch down to tend his wounds and take stock.

Right now, Sheppard wasn't as aggressive as he could be. It was probably more to do with facing a woman instead of a man. Amelia had been training against Ronon for months now, and although she'd never take him out without a significant advantage, she was solid - good enough to go up against Sheppard.

Amelia turned a little, deflecting a blow to her body. She moved back as Sheppard advanced, her eyes narrow behind the protection of her gloves. Then she lashed out in a series of kicking attacks, channelling aggressive instincts into the fray.

Surprised by the pressure, Sheppard danced back, then circled, his eyes narrow.

Ronon's eyes were also narrow.

He'd discussed this with Teyla, with Amelia; argued it with both of them. They'd been willing to take the risk, he hadn't wanted to.

He would not believe he could overpower me, said Teyla. And he could not. I am not comfortable with using Amelia, but...

I am, Amelia had said firmly. And she'd looked directly at Ronon. I trust you. And him.

Amelia was putting her heart into the attack, and Ronon watched without betraying one iota of his concern. She believed she could pull this off, Teyla believed she could pull this off; he'd trust them both.

Sheppard was in retreat - not just in the fight, but in his body language, in the expression on his face. Amelia looked grim as she beat him back and back and back...

Issues with women, Teyla had said. Women in authority, women with power, dominant women.

That, in itself, told Ronon a lot about what Sheppard had endured.

That was why Amelia was taking the lead, now.

Her fist slammed into his jaw, and Sheppard hissed with pain. She followed it up with one in his gut and he half doubled over, but managed to block the next blow. He shook his head. His jaw clenched. And his fist landed firmly in Amelia's abdomen.

Amelia grunted once, but Ronon saw her teeth grit around the mouthguard. As Sheppard struck back, she blocked him, blocked him, blocked him - but her blocks were growing weaker. He bit back the instinctive order to stop, gritted his own teeth around the words he wanted to say, and let it play out.

Something in Sheppard had snapped, and now he was striking back.

Ronon didn't ask how Teyla had known when John would finally retaliate, or how she knew what form it would take. He'd learned there were things he didn't want to know.

Now it was Amelia backing away, trying to dance around the edges, while Sheppard left her no quarter.

Ronon watched, tense, restrained; Amelia was trying - she really was - but grim rage had Sheppard in its grip. He saw the final blow just before Sheppard swung - hard behind the ear. Amelia's eyes rolled up in her head, and she went down, poleaxed. Sheppard stood over her, fists raised, shoulders heaving, the dark hair hanging damp over his forehead, bouncing slightly as he gulped air and stared down at her.

It was a long moment, during which Ronon forced himself to be still.

He must make the choice himself, Teyla had said, and Ronon had agreed. He hadn't anticipated it would be this difficult to just watch, though, not knowing.

Except he did know. This was Sheppard.

Still, when the man lowered his hands and crouched down to shake Amelia's shoulder, Ronon felt a great rush of relief.

--

Everything was a test. He knew that.

Sometimes he forgot, though.

Standing over the woman, he felt adrenaline's rush through his veins, mingled with an old anger. It panted through him, fiercely relieving as sex, vicious as the knives they'd slid down his skin.

He could retaliate further, he knew. It would be easy. He could; but he wouldn't. Because it would be wrong.

Teyla and Ronon - and he could see their fingerprints on this - probably felt that he needed to be tested, needed to be tried as far as his limits would allow, a way of proving to himself that he was still capable of violence and still capable of restraint.

John didn't need that lesson; he knew it in his bones.

Oh, if he had his captors before him, he'd shoot them without hesitation, just as he'd killed Kolya once upon a time.

You shall not suffer the evil to live among you.

But he'd come a long way since those first days in the city, months ago, feeling exposed by the bright light and the open space, violated by the stares and whispers and touches of those around him, uneasy with everyone, no matter how benign they seemed.

He was a survivor, and he knew where he began and where he finished.

Still, he let the temptation flood him like the buzz of a cool beer after a hot workout; just to prove to himself that he could rein it in...and maybe to give Ronon a moment's pause. Because Ronon had left him behind, and while it was forgiveable and even understandable, there was a year of pain etched in his memory and in his skin.

When he lowered his hands, he felt Ronon's relief like a deep draught of water and smiled a bitter smile as he crouched down to wake Banks up.

John Sheppard might have issues still to work out, but this wasn't going to be one of them.

He was stronger than that.

--

Teyla paused outside the door of her quarters, frowning slightly as she listened to the silence.

Silence from her quarters was unusual at any time, but particularly so when her eighteen month-old son was supposed to be inside with whoever was minding him at that time.

Right now, that was supposed to be John.

Since Kanaan's departure from the city, the most difficult thing for Teyla had been finding someone to mind their son at a moment's notice. She almost always managed, although it had occasionally taken some fast talking, and, once, leaving him in Radek's care over the scientist's protests.

Torran had come back from that stint with a whole new set of syllables to imitate. Her son was nothing if not vocal.

She swiped her hand over the sensor, waited a moment for it to recognise her, then stepped into the room as the doors slid open.

And stopped.

Two forms lay stretched out on the bed, man and infant, visible by the candle that burned low in its holder across the room. Torran's toys were put away, although the box itself had been left out.

Teyla navigated around the box and paused at the foot of the bed to regard the sleepers.

Her son slept on his belly, his thumb in his mouth, the other hand half-open against the furs. John slept on his back, his boots shucked off by the bedside - one had tumbled to lean, drunkenly, against the other. One arm was flung out above his head, the other resting by his side and just touching Torran's foot, as though in reassurance that the child was still there. Teyla had no doubt that if her son shifted but a little bit, John would instantly wake.

In sleep, there was a relaxed quality to his face, a restfulness that she had rarely seen in his demeanour. It brought forth a rush of tenderness, an ache in her breast - all the care she had been careful to keep from him, lest it distract him from his development.

She crossed to the side of the bed and touched John on the shoulder, then stepped quickly back as he came awake in a rush. "John."

His eyes fixed on her, blurry with fear for a moment, before she saw recognition and relief in them. "God, you scared me, Teyla." Breath shuddered in his throat as he ran his hands over his face. He glanced over at Torran, who'd shifted but was still sleeping, and sat on the edge of the bed. "He wouldn't lie down unless I did. Guess I was just tired enough to join him. How'd the meeting go?"

"Well enough," she said simply, sitting down at the end of the bed and refusing to feel uncomfortable. It was her bed, after all. "Dr. Harmon is sending off the monthly report to the IOA, and Mr. Woolsey thinks it likely that while you will be required to return to Earth soon, it will be nothing more than a brief assessment."

Teyla was not too worried about the assessment. From all reports, she and Ronon had 'worked wonders' with John. He was confronting many of the fears that had ground him down while he was absent, although the response was mixed.

Dr. Harmon was still slightly stiff when it came to the meetings, but others in the city had begun to thaw once they saw the results. Attitudes were not changed overnight, but even the awareness that 'the Pegasus Trauma Treatment' worked had opened more minds towards the process.

In this, Teyla had been extremely grateful to an unexpected quarter - the military of the city. More than any other group, they had taken up the call to support, showing far more interest than she had expected. Evan had explained to her that many of them had seen trauma before, even experienced it to varying degrees. It was a part of a soldier's life, he said, and any program that worked with the victim - at her raised eyebrow he hastily corrected himself: survivor - was one that fighters in the armed forces would get behind.

In many ways, their acceptance and willingness to make the attempt had been a key part of John's re-integration into the city. John was a soldier, in the end - a fighter. He had connections with many of the non-military people in the city, but his training was as a military man.

"A brief assessment, huh?"

Teyla nodded. "You have little to worry about, John."

"Yeah, I know. 'Cept maybe for the sleeping in a closet part. They'll probably have something to say about that." He managed to say it lightly, in spite of the tension that invaded his body.

So far, all attempts to habituate him to sleeping in a bed had failed. Even exhaustion did little more than find him curled up in the closet once again. They had discussed ways of alleviating this, but Teyla did not like Ronon's suggestions in this regard, and Ronon disagreed with Teyla's assessment of the situation.

Still, after finding John sleeping so soundly that she had been required to shake him awake...

"You were sleeping well enough with Torran," Teyla said.

"Yeah," he glanced over at the still-sleeping child. A faint twist coloured the line of his mouth "Can I borrow him for the night?"

She laughed, but soft enough so as not to wake Torran. "You would get little more sleep with him. He is restless in strange beds."

"So can I borrow yours?"

Astonishment was her first reaction, a startled pounding of her heart and a disbelieving stare. He was not serious...was he?

When she expressed her surprise, he shrugged. "Why not? You just woke me from a sound sleep."

Teyla was not sure what to make of this. It was her bed. And this was not a request she would ever have expected from John, who was usually very aware of the proprieties. The ground had shifted beneath her feet, rocking her off balance. She stared at him, trying to formulate an answer. "I..."

His expression closed up as he stood. "Never mind, Teyla. Good night."

She struggled with her own questions and answers for a moment, then, "John."

As he turned at the door controls, there was a question in his face - a question and a burning hope. Teyla steeled herself against the latter, but only indicated the indent where he had been resting before. "I hope you do not snore too loudly."

--

Maybe it had been wrong to push the point.

But in the early dawn shadows, wakeful and relaxed, watching a toddler happily eating his toes while his mom slept with her hand tucked under her cheek, John didn't regret it at all.

Small steps applied to more than just his rehab.

Sometimes he still dreamed of the cramped box they'd kept him in, only to be brought out for their entertainment and pleasure. The box had been hated, but it had been the only safe place to be - somewhere where he knew he couldn't be tormented, couldn't be molested, couldn't be touched. His place.

He hoped, after last night, that would be one dream he'd be having a little less often.

It helped to have someone else in the bed - two someone elses in this case.

But don't get used to this, he reminded himself.

There were supposed to be stages to rehab - at least, that was what Dr. Harmon had said. John doubted he'd ever get as far as the forgiveness stage; although he could imagine resignation. What is done is done, Teyla had said, and John wasn't sure if she was quoting the Bard, or if it was another example of Parallel Thinking In Athosian.

In the end, it didn't matter.

He was making his way out of where he'd been, and if there'd been moments when he would have happily killed Ronon and Teyla just to make it all go away, there were moments when he'd realised that they and Rodney and Lorne and Woolsey and Keller and most of the goddamn city were the only things keeping him sane, too.

Atlantis.

It hummed in his blood, the faint thready undertone of a familiarity the resonated in his bones. And something choked up his throat, searing his lungs like someone had thrust a lump of burning iron into his chest. He blinked away what might almost have been tears, as Torran turned his head unerringly towards John and gave a grin way too conspiratorial for a kid under two. Beyond him, Teyla slept with a fairytale princess' serenity.

It is over.

You are home.

--

John sat back on the pier, let the sunlight bathe him, and thought about taking off his shirt. His scars were still raw pink in pale flesh, and he'd been thinking a tan might help make them less obvious. Of course, he wasn't entirely comfortable displaying them out in the open long enough to get the requisite tan, especially in the mixed company he presently found himself.

When he'd suggested a picnic to Teyla, he'd been expecting her, Rodney, Ronon, and Torran.

That's what it would have been, once upon a time.

Oh, the times they are a-changin'...

"Why do I feel like I'm in the middle of the Atlantis picnic day?" John asked Rodney in an undertone as Amelia Banks scooped Torran up to take him down the stairs to the swimming area where Ronon was already cutting through the water, sleek as a seal.

Rodney glanced back to where Keller was laying out the contents of the picnic basket - the fatuous glance of a man wrapped around a certain woman's finger and surprisingly unbothered by it. "I don't know where you got such an idea from. At all."

He snorted softly, amused to find Rodney so domesticated. But he hid his laugh behind the lip of his beer bottle as Keller demanded Rodney's help to sort through this stuff. "I'm not going to do it myself."

"Can't you get Teyla-- Okay, okay!"

John sat back on the pier as Rodney went to help lay out lunch. The sun was warm on his legs and the breeze was full of salt and sea, a respite and a change from the inside of the city and the recent rainy weather they'd been having. The seasons had turned and they were moving into summer.

He felt whole again - or on his way to it. Maybe not clean, but as clean as he'd ever be after what he'd been through. And they were working with him - not on him, but with him - to sort out any lingering problems that might arise.

He was grateful for that - for them.

There was a flutter of light-coloured material in the corner of his eye, and Teyla dropped down to the pier beside him with a can of soda, the layers of her white skirt bunching around the slim brown of her upper calves. "They are arguing over whether the tzatziki has lemon juice in it."

John shrugged. "Feed some to Rodney and have the epi-pen ready?"

"I heard that!"

Teyla was grinning when he looked back at her, but her eyes were on her son, floating happily out in the water with Amelia coaxing him to swim towards her, and Ronon flicking seawater at them.

"So," John said in conversation. "Woolsey said I'm due to go to Earth so the IOA can run me through their psych evaluations."

"You seem more confident about it than the last time it was mentioned."

"Now, see, the key word in that sentence is seem," John told her. That had been a bad moment, and one which had Woolsey peering anxiously at him and asking if he was all right. And then John had shaken himself out of it. "But I think I'll be okay. See, I've had a couple of friends work some of the issues out with me for the last couple of months..." He glanced at her beneath his lashes, waiting for the answering grin to leap on her lips, broad and wide. "Thanks."

She brushed it off. "We left you behind."

"Don't play the guilt card, Teyla. You came back for me, too." His memories of that night-time slog through rain and mud were blurred, but he remembered the shape of her shoulders under his arm, the feeling that safety was close - that he had a protector who'd die before she let him be taken again.

"You would have done the same for us."

John found it strange to realise that, as much as he hid himself from others through misdirection and projection of a confident shell, in her own way, Teyla hid herself from him by deflecting praise or concern along other lines of reason and practicality.

He'd never noticed that before.

"Thanks," he repeated, looking full into her face.

Teyla looked back, and something of his seriousness communicated itself to her, because she gave a small, almost nervous smile, and simply said, "You are welcome, John."

They sat there on the pier, listening to the laughter of the others, and John contemplated the broad horizon before him - a galaxy of possibilities, with his team beside him, and the city of Atlantis always waiting for him to come home.

- fin -