SGA Fic - Say Please
Title: Say Please
Rating: PG-13 for language and some violence.
Spoilers: Possible small one for Remnants, but blink and you'll miss it.
Recepient: sffuzzywriter
Characters: John, Ronon, Rodney, some Teyla
Summary: Sometimes life doesn't play fair. Sometimes it does. Mucho gracias to wildcat88 for the quick beta help. Written for the Sheppard H/C Secret Santa ficathon.
A/N: I wasn't sure of Sheppard's rank while he was in Afghanistan, so guessed. Apologies if my guess was wrong.
Say Please
John was getting sand in his boots; could feel it being absorbed by his sweat-soaked socks, chafing the ever burning blister on his heel. And it was pissing him off. Crashing, shooting, running from insurgents and being forced to lug Holland's heavy ass around, and it was the chafing pissing him off. He swallowed, swallowed harder, tried to work spit into his mouth then swallowed again and the skin of his throat still stuck, making him cough, which was also pissing him off.
He needed a friggin' drink already, and for Holland to stop wheezing Midnight Special in his ear. Except to let Holland sing like a kicked dog saved John from asking Holland every three minutes if he was still alive.
“I hope you appreciate this,” John said instead.
Holland stopped singing, hiccuping a wheeze that John assumed was a chuckle. “No one... no one asked you do to this, Shep.”
John adjusted his hold around Holland's waist. “True. Actually, they kind of ordered me not to.” He spoke between unsteady breaths that were rubbing his throat raw. “At least I assume they did. Radio kind of went out on me.”
“Sure it did,” Holland gasped. “You are such a stubborn bastard, Sheppard.”
“Your wife. Your wife asked me. Not out loud but that look she kept giving me when you had me over for Christmas kind of said as much. I really don't think she liked me, so I know she'd sure as hell kill me if I let you die.”
Holland coughed. “Stupid, stubborn, selfish bastard...” he coughed again, harder, with a wince and whimper, “with the directional sense... of a four year old.”
John chuffed. “That's what your wife said - the four-year old part, not the direction thing. You'd think she'd thought I'd corrupted you or something.”
“You did, Sheppard. You got me into video games. I used to never be into that crap until you came along.”
John chuckled breathlessly. He'd been thinking more along the lines of volunteering for missions no one else would take, but they'd already had that conversation several hours back before Holland had decided to torture John by butchering good music. Holland had said that there was a reason the missions were called “voluntary”, that Holland was a man who made his own bed and slept in it, so on and so forth. But John had been married once, remembered Nancy blaming everyone and everything including herself until she came to her senses and blamed him. “You're too obsessed, John,” she'd said, never elaborating on what, exactly, he was obsessed about.
What had hurt more than anything wasn't the blame - there'd been truth to most of it and he couldn't deny it. It had been the almost sympathetic kindness, tainted by apology. It had been a friendly, clean divorce ending on a “goodbye and take care of yourself” chock full of more sincerity and regret one would think a divorced couple had a right to. But then what had John known? What with it being his first and only divorce thus far.
A rock-face loomed up over the rise of a small dune. John's directional sense might have been skewed (he blamed the crash) but his luck was still hanging on by a thread. If the shallow cliff didn't have caves it should at least have rock piles to hunker down behind. Just in time, too, with Holland gaining weight every five minutes.
John was dragging Holland by the time he reached the cliff, staggering under his weight and the iron coating his own legs. He sliced his hand trying to haul the both of them around and over rock piles where, ten minutes later, low and behold, was a cave. It was small, forcing the both of them on their hands and knees, keeping one arm around the other and hobbling like quadrupeds in a six-legged race. It wasn't deep - seven, maybe eight feet at best - but it opened up at the end and the entrance was mostly concealed by a pile of boulders. It was also cool and would have to do for now. Sheppard wasn't planning on staying long, just long enough to get their strength back up. He pulled his canteen from inside his vest, forcing Holland to drink before taking two swallows for himself. It didn't kill the thirst; it did get his throat to finally unstick.
“I'm thinking it's another ten miles before we run into any friendlies,” John said, tucking the water away.
Holland was silent for a moment, obviously focused on breathing through the pain. Which reminded John - time to change the bandages. He scooted closer to Holland.
Holland's breath stuttered. “Leave me, Shep. You need to leave me.”
--------------------------
“Sheppard!”
Sheppard gasped awake with a start that made his body throb. Musty air filled his lungs, drying the membrane with dust and mold until he coughed. Pain shot through his side, short lived but potent enough to get his lungs to lock briefly. He'd broken his ribs, it seemed, somewhere on his left side, just under the armpit, which was very much a bad place to have a broken rib. He rolled with a moan onto his back to take the pressure off his chest.
“Sheppard!”
John blinked up at what looked like a stone ceiling webbed in cracks.
“Sheppard!”
Then rolled his head toward the incessant voice, where he saw Ronon sitting against a stone wall, one leg bent and the other stretched out in front. Ronon's expression was tight, like a man trying to hold himself together or...
Or a man in excruciating pain and trying not to be. Memory rushed over John like an avalanche - shooting, running, shouting, an explosion, more shouting, then nothing.
John snapped upright the doubled over against another stab of pain. “Son of a bitch! Damn it, stupid...! Gah!”
“You all right?” Ronon gasped.
John sucked air through his teeth. “Give me a moment.” The moment felt like forever before the pain finally ebbed. Even then, he straightened testingly, gritting his teeth against the twinges and pulls of damaged muscles and bones. It felt like hands were inside him, twisting, pushing and pulling. His hand hovered over the source, wanting to press into the wound but knowing better. After that moment, he shifted his attention back to Ronon, taking in their surroundings at the same time. He caught a flash off metal bars to his right, and bodies huddled within the shadows against the wall.
Prison, they were in prison. Which meant they'd lost, spectacularly. Worse than that, John couldn't find Rodney and Teyla.
“McKay's here,” Ronon said, thumping the back of his hand on a body-shaped lump in the shadows next to him. “Think... think Teyla escaped.” He hissed, hands going to his leg, gripping his thigh until his knuckles paled.
Ignoring the pain but still favoring his left side, John scooted closer, gaze bouncing back and forth between Ronon and McKay's unmoving form. “What happened? What's wrong? And please tell me McKay's just sleeping.” He didn't wait for an answer when he pressed his fingers into Rodney's neck, sighing with relief over the vibrating thrum of a pulse. Yet even drenched in shadows, John could see the lack of color in McKay's face, a face that was half-slathered in blood.
“Concussed,” Ronon coughed, yanking John's attention back to him.
John shifted closer. “And you?”
“Busted leg,” Ronon gritted, then hissed. “Below the knee. Really busted.”
Pushing his own pain to the back of his mind, John shifted until he was on his knees. He placed his hand on Ronon's leg just under the knee and, lightly as he could, felt down. He hit a lump in the bone that made Ronon's body jump and jerk, slamming a fist into the floor and cording the neck as the big man fought back a scream.
John sighed. “Of course,” because things weren't so complicated that a misaligned bone couldn't be tossed in. If people had to be injured, he'd take broken bones over gunshot wounds and internal bleeding any day. You knew what you were dealing with broken bones... most of the time. Broken bones could be remedied in the moment... again, most of the time. You also didn't have to worry about those pesky little issues such as bleeding out. At least John didn't think you did. He'd never heard of anyone bleeding out from a broken bone unless the skin had been pierced.
But it was still a cruel way to be injured, because it meant somewhere down the line, the guy who you knew would never hurt you had to hurt you in order to help you.
“I'm going to have to set it,” John said.
Ronon gasped. “I was hoping you'd say that.”
John placed his hands in the proper position - thank goodness for mandatory off-world first aid courses. “You're being sarcastic, right?”
“No.”
“Thought so.” John pulled, twisted, using every muscle in his upper body, and it hurt but not as bad as what Ronon was going through. The tendons and veins bulged in Ronon's neck as he fought the need to scream, lost, and bellowed. Their fellow detainees started in alarm, several shuffling back and pressing themselves into the wall as though afraid they'd be next. Ronon's scream became a howl, his fist grinding into the floor while bones ground beneath John's hand. He felt - heard - them grate, shift, and pop back into place. It was a necessary evil that made John's stomach turn. Finished, he sat back, his hands shaking at his sides, maybe from pain but not entirely. Ronon's howl died down into heaving breaths, sweat dripping off his jaw.
Now came the easy part. Luck must have been feeling benevolent today: John managed to dig up a few sticks within piles of moldy hay and old blankets to use as braces. John's vest had been removed, so he tore up a blanket to bind the sticks in place. Ronon gagged a few times during the process, but never puked, resilient bastard that he was.
With Ronon taken care of as much as possible, John turned his attention to Rodney. Maybe it was the adrenaline born of being in a prison and stress born from Ronon's screams, but John's own pain wasn't so bad, now. His hands, however, wouldn't stop shaking. He blamed it on how damn cold it was in the cell.
John gently rolled Rodney onto his back, checking his head, chest, arms and legs. He found a four-inch gash just below Rodney's hairline and a wicked looking bruise around his wrist which, if it wasn't broken, was badly sprained. Either way, he wrapped it with more blanket. The gash he left alone since it had already stopped bleeding, and no way was he risking Rodney's health or his own ears to germs and a never ending litany about germ-ridden blankets.
“So what happened?” John asked as he worked.
“Explosion knocked us out and we woke up here,” Ronon said between heavy breaths. John smiled. As much as he appreciated Ronon not cluttering a situation with pointless words, it was also, ironically, pointless. If they had any hope of escaping this situation alive, John was going to need details.
“Do you know what their problem is with us?” he asked.
Ronon shook his head and gasped, “No. They haven't... dropped by yet.”
Because Ronon was fighting just to stay conscious, John left it at that.
It was becoming almost a tradition for societies to turn against the expedition at the drop of a hat, and the reasons always varied. Wraith, Replicators, Michael and all out hell breaking loose without an end in sight had forced this galaxy into some serious revamping of their ways. No more cowering in bunkers and in caves waiting for the latest cull to peter out. They were taking action, forming coalitions and militias, giving their fury and frustration a target. And just the expedition's luck, with most worlds, Atlantis was that target.
John got why they were pissed, he did, and couldn't fault them for it. He could fault them for the sin of wasting resources and manpower on an annoyance rather than the real threat. It pissed him off and, damn it, if any of his team ended up worse off than they were now, then they could kiss any pity and understanding from him goodbye.
Speaking of which, “You saw Teyla get away?”
“She was further from the blast,” Ronon said, sounding less pained but utterly exhausted. “I'm pretty sure she got away.”
John, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaking hand, nodded. It was freezing in the cell, and yet he was sweating like a pig. The human body was weird. “Best news I've heard all day.” He swallowed thickly when bile crept into his throat. He felt... strange, kind of floaty, could barely knot Rodney's bandage and could kill for a glass of water. His heart set the tempo for the dull throb in his side and not-so-dull throb in his head.
Crap, he felt sick, getting sicker by the minute.
“Sheppard...”
“It was a half day's walk from the 'gate, but if they're looking for Teyla then that's probably going to tack on a couple of hours.”
“Sheppard...”
“Atlantis will try to contact us when we haven't checked in but if they send a team it'll be right into an ambush. Either that or that chancellor guy has a story ready to pull out of his ass when they do come -”
“Sheppard!”
John looked up. “What?”
“You look like crap.”
John frowned. “You're not exactly a work of art yourself, buddy.”
“I know you're hurt, Sheppard. Probably worse than you think. So get over here so I can see how bad it is.”
“And hope glaring at it'll make it all better?” John said, but complied all the same, scooting closer to Ronon. “If you haven't noticed, we're kind of light on the medical supply - whoa!” Dizziness rushed over him like an undertow, tilting the room and him with it. He probably would have ended up on his side if Ronon hadn't grabbed his arm. He felt a hand touch his side just under the tender spot, and he still winced.
“Damn,” Ronon breath, two parts pissed, one part that sounded remarkably like alarm. John knew he should be worried if Ronon was worried and showing it, but was momentarily distracted by keeping upright and trying not to puke. The hand moved from his side to his face, while Ronon's other hand slid down his arm to squeeze his wrist.
“Sheppard, lie down.”
Sheppard gulped four times before he felt it safe enough to speak. Pithy remarks danced in his head, but what came out was a croaked and pitiful, “W-why?” Crap, how he felt like crap - crap times a thousand and growing.
“Lie down now.” The hand on his face moved to his chest and pushed, the other hand guiding him gently to the floor. The motion was slow, steady, and yet the world tilted away, attempting to pull John's stomach out through his throat. The back of his head touched cool, moist stone and it was heaven - to his head, the rest of his body didn't agree, absorbing cold like a sponge and making him shiver harder.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, but John's head was too light and his body too heavy to react the way it should. He could barely think to string three words together, and it took too long just to gasp up a, “Wh-what the hell?”
“Sheppard, listen to me. I need you to lie perfectly still. You've been injured -”
John nodded weakly. “Yeah... bro-broken ribs...”
“No. It's not that. You have something stuck in your side - shrapnel or something - and you're going into shock.” John heard distantly a pained grunt and the scrape of booted heels over stone. Something warm was spread over his body. Whatever it was smelled distinctly of leather, dirt and old sweat.
“I need you to stay with me, Sheppard. You hear me? You were riding an adrenaline high but it's wearing off. I know you're tired, but you really need to stay with me.”
John nodded, or at least thought he did. He was pretty sure he had. Stay awake, he could do that. His eyes fluttered. “'Kay.”
“Sheppard? No, Sheppard, stay with me. Come on, buddy, stay with me.”
John's eyelids slid shut. He wasn't sleeping, just resting his eyes.
“Sheppard? John? Stay awake. You need to stay awake. Sheppard!”
-----------------------------
“Hey, Shep.”
John jolted awake with a small gasp, seeing only hazy darkness and the misshapen gray circle of the cave entrance. It was getting dark out, the air already starting to cool. A light cough on his other side pulled John's attention to the back of the cave and Holland's vague outline.
“Sheppard,” Holland croaked. “'Bout time you woke up.”
John scooted closer to him, grateful for the poor light that was hiding his blatant concern. “Hey, you're not the one forced to haul someone's heavy ass across a damn desert. I earned a power nap.” He pulled the canteen from his vest and held it out for Holland to take.
“And leave me to take watch? You're too kind.” Holland took the canteen that sloshed hollowly in an obviously shaking hand.
John was really glad it was dark, too dark for Holland to see the shock on his face, but too close a proximity for him not to hear his breathy, “Son of a bitch.”
Holland coughed. “Don't. Don't, man. You were exhausted. You just made me a little nervous when you wouldn't wake up after I called your name four damn times.” Something hard bumped into John's knee. “Drink. You're my ride out of here. Can't have you dropping on me.”
“Says the man with the possible internal bleeding,” John said, but took a swallow anyway. “We can't be that far out... I don't think. Another day, maybe two.”
Holland coughed again. “Like I'm gonna... trust your directional sense. Crap, Sheppard, you'd get lost even if you had a GPS. Makes me wonder how you ever became a pilot.”
“Hey!” John said, giving Holland a thump he could only hope had landed somewhere above the man's waist. It was getting too damn hard to see. At least it wasn't hot anymore. “I'll admit it - I get too easily turned around on the ground. But never, never question my direction sense in the air. I found you, didn't I?”
“Yeah,” Holland sighed. “You did. I'd tell you to color me impressed, except I'm not. That was stupid, Sheppard. You're going to die out here.”
“Not if I can help it.” John settled more comfortably against the rock wall, but still couldn't find a position to save his life; the uneven surface digging into his spine even through the vest, the ceiling bumping his head every three seconds. In an attempt to stay positive, John could at least be happy that he wasn't too tired to keep watch.
“You're going to die out here along with me.”
John coughed up a scoff. “Way to think positive, Captain,” he responded dismissively. “We can't die. I want a beer and you're buying, remember?”
“Sheppard -”
“Holland.” John shot him a look, only to remember that it was too dark to be any kind of effective. “Get some sleep. We have a long walk tomorrow.”
Holland snorted in the darkness. “Whatever.” Cloth scraped over rock; Holland attempting to get comfortable. “You know, if you were as smart as everyone says you are, you'd leave me here, go get help and bring it back. You'd move faster without me, I won't have to put up with you making my internal bleeding possibly worse, and we'd both be happy campers - you sucking down a beer, me a protein shake in some forsaken, but still air-conditioned, hospital somewhere. Now doesn't that sound like a better alternative to lugging my heavy ass around?”
John changed his mind about the darkness, because he wanted nothing more than to glare at Holland. “Captain?”
“Yes Captain?”
“Do me a favor?”
“Dare I ask what?”
“Shut up and get some sleep.”
“Thought so.” More scraping, more Holland getting comfortable. “You're a stubborn moron, Sheppard.”
“And you're a pessimistic bastard, Holland.”
Silence settled around them, too thick for John's comfort. He should have been able to hear Holland's breathing, wheezing - something. “Holland?” His heart rate triple-timed. “Holland!”
Sheppard!
-------------------------------------
“Sheppard. Wake up, damn it! Oh, crap, my head! Wake up!”
John flinched at the shrill panic drilling into his ear, yet couldn't find the energy to pry his own eyelids apart. He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him, then on his face patting his cheeks.
“Sheppard, wake up already. I know you're alive but need to make sure you're going to stay alive so I can pass back out into peaceful, painless, blissfully naïve unconsciousness. So wake up! Damn it, damn it damn it, my head's going to explode.”
“Then stop shouting, McKay.”
“I'll stop when he stops playing dead. Sheppard!”
“He's alive, McKay. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have a pulse.”
“I don't care. I'm selfish. I want more. I want signs of life: eye contact, moaning, an insult. Come on, Sheppard, I'm annoying you. Don't you want to insult me?”
John did, actually, because any louder and McKay's shrilling was going to bust an ear drum. It was enough to find the strength to get his eyelids parted a slit, with a little extra to blink away the blur. McKay's face materialized above John, tight and frantic and pale even in the poor light, the blue eyes wide enough to pop out of the sockets. If Rodney didn't calm down he was going to keel back over - it was hard to miss the obvious pain he was in - so John obliged McKay's demands with a low moan.
Rodney visibly relaxed, broad shoulders sagging and breath rushing from his lungs. “Oh, thank goodness.” He winced. “Crap, damn it, crap.” Then he sucked in a breath, holding it as his throat worked convulsively. But he lost the fight, lurching toward the wall out of John's sight where he retched noisily.
“Oh, crap, kill me. Kill me now. No! Stun me. Please. Except you don't have your stunner. Great, just... friggin' great. The one time... I would have let you stun... damn it!” He retched again, slightly less violently than before. John still made a small internal cringe of sympathy. He wouldn't have minded a little puking himself to quiet his recalcitrant stomach, but didn't even seem to have the energy for that much. What the hell was wrong with him?
Shrapnel in the side, right. As if with a mind of his own, his hand inched its way toward his side, only to be intercepted by a clammy, shaky grip.
“Not good,” Rodney gasped. “Stay still.”
“R'dny,” John muttered.
“Yeah. Yeah, I'm here,” Rodney panted.
“You... 'kay?”
“No. No I'm not okay, okay? I am anything but okay. I am in excruciating pain and... oh, crap, I need to lie down. Just for a minute.”
John forced his head to roll to the side for a languid observation of Rodney lowering himself to the ground and curling into a miserable ball. He couldn't see Rodney's face, only the top of his sweat-soaked head, but didn't miss the way McKay was shivering. Every so often, a moan escaped him.
“What about you, Sheppard?” Rodney said after a moment. “You okay?”
John closed his eyes. He tried taking a deep breath and paid for it, exhaling on a pained gasp. “No.” He hadn't meant to be honest, but being in pain was like being drunk - no self-control whatsoever.
“Dumb question. You've got shrapnel in your side, and Ronon thought it a good idea to immobilize it with pieces of germy blanket.”
“Little late for infection,” Ronon said. “The fever started before I wrapped him.”
John opened his eyes, wide. “Fever?”
“Not a bad one,” Ronon assured.
“At least not yet,” Rodney added, then groaned. “Oh, man! Seriously, as soon as help comes and you get your stunner, use it on me. It's killing me just to talk.”
“Then stop talking,” said Ronon.
“Why don't you stop talking!”
“Guys,” John croaked. “Play nice. Help'll come soon.”
“It had better. That shrapnel may have slowed any bleeding but that doesn't rule out internal bleeding.”
“I'll... be fine, M'Kay.”
“I'll believe it once we're back home strapped to hospital beds. Ow! Ow, ow, ow, my head! Okay, okay, I'll shut up now, I promise. Ow. Sheppard? Hey, Sheppard, you need to stay awake. Sheppard!”
-------------------------------
“Sheppard.”
John startled, almost dropping Holland from his back. He'd spaced out again, making that the fifth time since they'd started off, a good reason to worry except John couldn't afford to be worried right now. It was all about putting one foot in front of the other, step after step after step; one more step bringing them closer.
“Holland?”
“Not smart.”
John squinted at distant mirages shimmering across the flats. He would sell his soul for his aviators right about now, and while he was at it, maybe a little more water. He no longer had any spit to unstick his throat, and he was sure he'd stopped sweating. Wasn't that a bad thing, when someone stopped sweating? He couldn't think in this damn heat. The sun was turning his skull into a pressure cooker and his brain was about to pop.
One foot in front of the other. That's all he had to do.
“What?” he wheezed.
“You're not... smrt. Shoulda... left me behind. Shoulda... Hurts, Shep.”
John coughed. “I know. I know, man. I know. We're almost there. We're almost...”
“Bull.”
“Yeah, probably.” But it didn't change the fact that Sheppard had no regrets about taking Holland with him. Holland had said it best - John Sheppard was a selfish, selfish bastard. He could no more leave a man behind than he could cut off his own arm. You just don't do that. It was wrong and just... wrong. Logical, maybe, in their current situation, but wrong. Insurgents could have stumbled onto the cave while John was gone, and Holland could barely string two words together. They might not be able to find the caves once John found help. Insurgents could move in, making the area too hostile for a rescue attempt.
This was better, because at least John wouldn't have to wonder.
Yeah, definitely selfish. Not that he cared.
“How 'bout a song, Captain,” John said. “You were so hell bent on singing yesterday. Or maybe I should sing, let you know what it feels like. Because if you recall, I can't carry a tune. You said so yourself.”
No answer.
“Holland? Come on, man. Either I sing and stop every two minutes to check your pulse or you sing and spare us all half the agony. Holland?”
Still no answer.
“Come on, Holland, say something.”
Nothing.
“Holland, damn it, don't make me beg. Holland!”
Still nothing.
“Holland!”
Still nothing.
“Holland, you son of a bitch, wake up!”
And still more nothing.
“Holland!”
Then hands grabbed him, lightening the load as they removed Holland, making him feel capable of floating away. But the hands kept him grounded, parting him and Holland like the Red Sea.
“Holland!”
-----------------------------
“Leave him alone you, sons of bitches! Leave him alone!”
“No, no, Sheppard, it's all right! Stop struggling, you need to stop!”
Except it wasn't all right. Hands were everywhere, grabbing his arms, legs, ankles and gripping a wad of his shirt-front as he was hauled upward. John's eyes flew wide open to men in soot-gray uniforms surrounding Ronon and Rodney and manhandling them out of the cell. John kicked, squirmed, arched and all-out exploded into feral fury, fighting with everything he had. They were taking his team, taking them away. He couldn't let that happen. They couldn't be separated. Bad things happened when they were separated.
So he fought, ignoring the unseen knife shredding the muscles between two ribs.
“Leave them alone, you bastards! You leave them the hell alone! I'll kill you. I'll friggin' kill all of you!”
“Sheppard!” Rodney cried out, pale, shaking and struggling just as hard. “Damn it, stop. You're hurting him. Sheppard! Stop struggling; it's all right. It's -” Rodney was cut off when he was yanked from the cell, then lost to sight behind a wall of gray-clad bodies. John was pinned to the ground - arms, legs, chest - by too many hands. One hand slipped, pressing against his tender side, driving the knife in deeper, making John scream.
“You're hurting him!” He heard Rodney call on the heels of Ronon's incoherent bellowing. Somewhere within the rubble of pain was a cold pinch. Sounds faded as though John were being submerged underwater. Darkness followed, but no matter how hard John fought, he couldn't push it back. Hands gripped him and carried him away.
------------------------------------
They gently lowered him to his knees, pressing the cold lip of a canteen to his mouth until he drank, taking it away prematurely.
“Not too much, buddy, you'll just make yourself sick,” the soldier said. John could only nod dumbly, even though he begged to differ.
“Th-thanks.”
The soldier, his face featureless under the shadow of his helmet, clasped John's shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. “No problem. We'll get you into the nice cool truck soon enough. Just be patient.”
“Waited this long,” John said. What's a little longer? but wasn't sure if he'd said that out loud. He searched around aimlessly. Hadn't he been carrying something? Something heavy?
No, not something. Someone?
He found that someone only a few yards away partially obscured by a small crowd of soldiers. All John could see of Holland was his legs.
Hands gripped his arms, lifting him to his feet. “Come on, man. Time to board. This boat's heading out and heading out now.”
“Holland?”
“We got him, sir. Come on, into the truck.” Not that he had a choice when more hands joined the first, hoisting him into the shade of a covered truck-bed. He saw the men around Holland, saw them doing nothing except stare, talk and shake their heads as though everything were futile. John's entire body seemed to buck and he felt himself falling forward, except the hands wouldn't let him, pulling him back.
So he fought. “Holland! Holland, answer me, damn it, Holland!”
Then his stomach heaved, making him double up and puke himself inside out.
-----------------------------------
When he felt only two hands on him - one gripping his bicep, the other resting on his back - there was no thinking involved, only reacting. Anger and fear filled John with adrenaline, enough for him to lunge forward, grabbing whoever was touching him and pulling them flush against his chest while twisting their arm around their back. Whoever his hostage was, she was female according to her yelp of surprise and pain.
John blinked wildly at his surroundings. A hospital, only old, simple: walls of white cinder-block, beds on plain metal frames with hand-cranks to raise or lower the heads, his hostage a brown-haired woman in a sky-blue robe. John had his arm pressed against her throat, not so hard that she couldn't breathe, but hard enough for him to feel her frenetic pulse. He was that hyper-aware, knowing without having to look that he was shirtless with a bandage wrapped tightly around his chest.
His attention went from his surroundings to the men in sky-blue shirts and pants attempting to surround him. John tightened his hold.
“Where is he -” John blinked. Not he, not one. Them, two of them. “Where are they? My team, where are they? What did you do with them!”
“Please, sir, if you'll just calm down and let her go, we'll tell you,” said a blond male nurse, a kid who couldn't be any older than twenty. “Just, please, don't hurt her.”
John had no intentions of hurting her. Neither was he going to comply and let her go, not until he got some answers.
“Not until you tell me where my team is!”
“Sheppard?”
John looked up, over the shoulders of the closing orderlies to Rodney - a bandage around his head - shuffling slowly, cautiously, toward them with hands held palm out.
“John, just relax. We're all right. We're here and we're safe, so just let her go.”
But John couldn't comply. The moment he did, they would rush him, pin him down, drug him, and he couldn't let that happen, not until he got some answers. So instead, he backed up.
Rodney increased the speed of his shuffling, shouldering his way through the wall of orderlies, practically shoving them aside. “Will you people back off! You're scaring the hell out of him. You don't ask a soldier to release someone when you have him cornered.” He looked at John, calm but imploring. “You can let her go, John. I promise that nothing will happen to you... or us.” He glared over his shoulder at the orderlies. “Right?”
And that was the Rodney John knew. A calm, rational Rodney. A Rodney who wasn't panicking because there was no reason to panic. John released the woman, dropping onto the edge of the bed at the same time. He couldn't help a cringe when the orderlies started to surge only to be blocked by a single physicist who looked ready to kill if he wasn't obeyed.
“Didn't I just say to back the hell off? Huh? Well, allow me to repeat myself uselessly - Back. Off. I have everything under control and I swear if you lay one finger on him, I'll tell the guy with the broken leg. And believe me, a busted leg has yet to make a difference for him when he has a need to kick ass.”
Whether they believed him or not, John couldn't tell (He'd have had a hard time believing it himself had he been in their shoes. Unless they'd already had the misfortune of meeting a Ronon with the need to kick-ass). All the same, they backed off, looking uncertain and a trite nervous. Rodney dropped down on the bed beside John, never taking his eyes off the orderlies until they'd dispersed, the nurse following at a fast walk as though trying not to run.
“Looks like no more pretty nurses for you until we get home,” Rodney said. He finally tore his gaze away to look at John, studying him, annoyance shifting into worry. “Hey, you okay? I mean, apart from having a piece of shrapnel pulled out of your side, losing a lot of blood and all that crap. The quack here said you were lucky. It went in at an angle and got caught between your ribs. He said any deeper and it would have punctured your heart. You are one oddly lucky bastard, you know that?” He narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “John?”
John started despite the fact that he'd been aware and listening the whole time. “Huh?” He felt strange, kind of light, shaky. Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were trembling.
“Seriously, are you all right? You don't look all right.” Rodney blanched. “Actually, you look like you're about to keel over. I should probably get a nurse... well, maybe not a nurse. Someone, I need to get someone. You're obviously going into shock again...” He rose and was about to leave when John's hand shot out, grabbing the sleeve of the white hospital shirt he was wearing.
Wait was what he meant to say. What came out was a rather pathetic sounding, “Stay, please.”
Rodney paused, caught in the proverbial headlights of indecision. He searched around, then looked back at John, panic tangling with concern.
“Just adrenaline,” John assured.
Rodney sighed. “Well, at least lie back down in case you're going into shock again.” He helped John ease onto his back, then covered him to his collar bones with a sheet and knit blanket. Taking a pillow from an unoccupied bed on the right, he used it to prop John's feet up.
“Better?” he asked.
John nodded. He still felt shaky, but no longer unsteady.
“Good.” Rodney plopped back down on the bed's edge. “Because they might not have killed you taking the shrapnel out but I still don't trust them as far as I can throw them. They claim the whole thing was a misunderstanding. Supposedly they've been having a lot of uprisings lately. Not so much against the government, just different things: the Wraith, evil merchants gouging people with sky-high prices, even us. They swear that the assholes that attacked us aren't affiliated with them. Oh, and they didn't mean to arrest us; that was an accident. Oh, oh! And Teyla managed to get back to the 'gate. Took her longer than she'd anticipated but she managed it and brought back reinforcements about the time you came out of surgery. Woolsey's here, too, clearing things up or something. Anyway, we should be going home soon but Keller wanted to wait until you were awake to see what kind of mental state you were in. I, uh... kind of let it out that you freaked in the cell. Guess she doesn't like the idea of you freaking out in a 'jumper full of armed marines. Anyway -”
“Where's Ronon?” John cut in. Again, he'd been aware, he'd been listening, but the adrenaline was wearing off, shoved aside by lethargy that was about to bring him down at any minute. The news of rescue seemed to have sucked the energy right out of him. Not that he was complaining.
Rodney stuttered to a halt. “Uh, what? Ronon? Oh, he's,” Rodney gestured vaguely in various directions, “somewhere with Keller and another doctor having his leg checked. He should be back soon. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Woolsey's doing the peace treaty thing...”
Ronon arrived five minutes later being pushed in a wooden wheelchair by Keller. After she and an orderly got him settled, she turned her henning on John, listening to his heart and lungs, checking his blood pressure and temperature (he still had a fever, thankfully not a high one) then the stitches on his side running parallel between two ribs. She then told him to rest, that they were safe and it was going to be a while before they headed out. Woolsey was still negotiating. Apparently the meeting had gone from “please let us stay friends” to “we're friends so let's trade.” Also apparently, this world was yet another in a long line that included anal ceremonies to finalize trade agreements.
“It's possible Mr. Woolsey may have to wear a grass skirt,” Keller said. She pulled a small camera from her pants pocket. “Which is why I always come prepared.”
“Just don't circulate it on the city's net,” Rodney said. “It's not like he can take civil action, but the lectures are torture enough.” He aimed a scowl at John. It had been his fault; John wouldn't deny it.
John just shrugged, too tired to attempt to deny it even if he wanted to. His body felt like it had walked days through a desert, carrying someone on his back. He shuddered, pulling the blankets up higher.
After ushering Rodney back to his bed on the other side of Ronon's, Keller left with the redundant parting instruction to rest. John was too happy to oblige and let his eyes slide closed.
-------------------------------
Holland's funeral was nice: the day warm, the grass green, the sky clear - perfect flying weather. He would have loved it. John watched as the flag was folded off the coffin, followed it as it was handed to Holland's wife. When she stepped back, her eyes met his and she frowned.
She blamed him. Of course she did, and John let her because it was her complete right to. He pulled his gaze away to look at the coffin as it was lowered into the ground.
Sorry you couldn't buy me that beer, buddy.
“Sheppard?”
----------------------------
John opened his eyes, blinked, then exhaled in utter relief on seeing Ronon, a bruised and battered Teyla sitting at the foot of Ronon's bed, and on the other side Rodney snoring away. He didn't know why he was relieved; it wasn't like they'd gone anywhere when he'd fallen asleep.
“You all right?” Ronon asked. “You were kind of muttering in your sleep.”
John nodded, licking his lips. “Yeah. Just dreaming.”
Teyla rose from Ronon's bed, limping slightly to John's where she poured him water from a glass pitcher. “Mr. Woolsey is nearly finished,” she said. “So we will be going home soon.” She handed him the glass that he drank empty. Setting it aside for him, Teyla then adjusted the blankets around him. “Rest some more.”
John didn't comply. He stayed awake, watching as Teyla and Ronon talked, watching Rodney sleep.
The End
Prompt: I would like a story involving Sheppard, Ronon and
McKay trapped together, with the other two the most obviously hurt and then
Sheppard becoming a victim of shock, etc.
Rating: PG-13 for language and some violence.
Spoilers: Possible small one for Remnants, but blink and you'll miss it.
Recepient: sffuzzywriter
Characters: John, Ronon, Rodney, some Teyla
Summary: Sometimes life doesn't play fair. Sometimes it does. Mucho gracias to wildcat88 for the quick beta help. Written for the Sheppard H/C Secret Santa ficathon.
A/N: I wasn't sure of Sheppard's rank while he was in Afghanistan, so guessed. Apologies if my guess was wrong.
Say Please
John was getting sand in his boots; could feel it being absorbed by his sweat-soaked socks, chafing the ever burning blister on his heel. And it was pissing him off. Crashing, shooting, running from insurgents and being forced to lug Holland's heavy ass around, and it was the chafing pissing him off. He swallowed, swallowed harder, tried to work spit into his mouth then swallowed again and the skin of his throat still stuck, making him cough, which was also pissing him off.
He needed a friggin' drink already, and for Holland to stop wheezing Midnight Special in his ear. Except to let Holland sing like a kicked dog saved John from asking Holland every three minutes if he was still alive.
“I hope you appreciate this,” John said instead.
Holland stopped singing, hiccuping a wheeze that John assumed was a chuckle. “No one... no one asked you do to this, Shep.”
John adjusted his hold around Holland's waist. “True. Actually, they kind of ordered me not to.” He spoke between unsteady breaths that were rubbing his throat raw. “At least I assume they did. Radio kind of went out on me.”
“Sure it did,” Holland gasped. “You are such a stubborn bastard, Sheppard.”
“Your wife. Your wife asked me. Not out loud but that look she kept giving me when you had me over for Christmas kind of said as much. I really don't think she liked me, so I know she'd sure as hell kill me if I let you die.”
Holland coughed. “Stupid, stubborn, selfish bastard...” he coughed again, harder, with a wince and whimper, “with the directional sense... of a four year old.”
John chuffed. “That's what your wife said - the four-year old part, not the direction thing. You'd think she'd thought I'd corrupted you or something.”
“You did, Sheppard. You got me into video games. I used to never be into that crap until you came along.”
John chuckled breathlessly. He'd been thinking more along the lines of volunteering for missions no one else would take, but they'd already had that conversation several hours back before Holland had decided to torture John by butchering good music. Holland had said that there was a reason the missions were called “voluntary”, that Holland was a man who made his own bed and slept in it, so on and so forth. But John had been married once, remembered Nancy blaming everyone and everything including herself until she came to her senses and blamed him. “You're too obsessed, John,” she'd said, never elaborating on what, exactly, he was obsessed about.
What had hurt more than anything wasn't the blame - there'd been truth to most of it and he couldn't deny it. It had been the almost sympathetic kindness, tainted by apology. It had been a friendly, clean divorce ending on a “goodbye and take care of yourself” chock full of more sincerity and regret one would think a divorced couple had a right to. But then what had John known? What with it being his first and only divorce thus far.
A rock-face loomed up over the rise of a small dune. John's directional sense might have been skewed (he blamed the crash) but his luck was still hanging on by a thread. If the shallow cliff didn't have caves it should at least have rock piles to hunker down behind. Just in time, too, with Holland gaining weight every five minutes.
John was dragging Holland by the time he reached the cliff, staggering under his weight and the iron coating his own legs. He sliced his hand trying to haul the both of them around and over rock piles where, ten minutes later, low and behold, was a cave. It was small, forcing the both of them on their hands and knees, keeping one arm around the other and hobbling like quadrupeds in a six-legged race. It wasn't deep - seven, maybe eight feet at best - but it opened up at the end and the entrance was mostly concealed by a pile of boulders. It was also cool and would have to do for now. Sheppard wasn't planning on staying long, just long enough to get their strength back up. He pulled his canteen from inside his vest, forcing Holland to drink before taking two swallows for himself. It didn't kill the thirst; it did get his throat to finally unstick.
“I'm thinking it's another ten miles before we run into any friendlies,” John said, tucking the water away.
Holland was silent for a moment, obviously focused on breathing through the pain. Which reminded John - time to change the bandages. He scooted closer to Holland.
Holland's breath stuttered. “Leave me, Shep. You need to leave me.”
--------------------------
“Sheppard!”
Sheppard gasped awake with a start that made his body throb. Musty air filled his lungs, drying the membrane with dust and mold until he coughed. Pain shot through his side, short lived but potent enough to get his lungs to lock briefly. He'd broken his ribs, it seemed, somewhere on his left side, just under the armpit, which was very much a bad place to have a broken rib. He rolled with a moan onto his back to take the pressure off his chest.
“Sheppard!”
John blinked up at what looked like a stone ceiling webbed in cracks.
“Sheppard!”
Then rolled his head toward the incessant voice, where he saw Ronon sitting against a stone wall, one leg bent and the other stretched out in front. Ronon's expression was tight, like a man trying to hold himself together or...
Or a man in excruciating pain and trying not to be. Memory rushed over John like an avalanche - shooting, running, shouting, an explosion, more shouting, then nothing.
John snapped upright the doubled over against another stab of pain. “Son of a bitch! Damn it, stupid...! Gah!”
“You all right?” Ronon gasped.
John sucked air through his teeth. “Give me a moment.” The moment felt like forever before the pain finally ebbed. Even then, he straightened testingly, gritting his teeth against the twinges and pulls of damaged muscles and bones. It felt like hands were inside him, twisting, pushing and pulling. His hand hovered over the source, wanting to press into the wound but knowing better. After that moment, he shifted his attention back to Ronon, taking in their surroundings at the same time. He caught a flash off metal bars to his right, and bodies huddled within the shadows against the wall.
Prison, they were in prison. Which meant they'd lost, spectacularly. Worse than that, John couldn't find Rodney and Teyla.
“McKay's here,” Ronon said, thumping the back of his hand on a body-shaped lump in the shadows next to him. “Think... think Teyla escaped.” He hissed, hands going to his leg, gripping his thigh until his knuckles paled.
Ignoring the pain but still favoring his left side, John scooted closer, gaze bouncing back and forth between Ronon and McKay's unmoving form. “What happened? What's wrong? And please tell me McKay's just sleeping.” He didn't wait for an answer when he pressed his fingers into Rodney's neck, sighing with relief over the vibrating thrum of a pulse. Yet even drenched in shadows, John could see the lack of color in McKay's face, a face that was half-slathered in blood.
“Concussed,” Ronon coughed, yanking John's attention back to him.
John shifted closer. “And you?”
“Busted leg,” Ronon gritted, then hissed. “Below the knee. Really busted.”
Pushing his own pain to the back of his mind, John shifted until he was on his knees. He placed his hand on Ronon's leg just under the knee and, lightly as he could, felt down. He hit a lump in the bone that made Ronon's body jump and jerk, slamming a fist into the floor and cording the neck as the big man fought back a scream.
John sighed. “Of course,” because things weren't so complicated that a misaligned bone couldn't be tossed in. If people had to be injured, he'd take broken bones over gunshot wounds and internal bleeding any day. You knew what you were dealing with broken bones... most of the time. Broken bones could be remedied in the moment... again, most of the time. You also didn't have to worry about those pesky little issues such as bleeding out. At least John didn't think you did. He'd never heard of anyone bleeding out from a broken bone unless the skin had been pierced.
But it was still a cruel way to be injured, because it meant somewhere down the line, the guy who you knew would never hurt you had to hurt you in order to help you.
“I'm going to have to set it,” John said.
Ronon gasped. “I was hoping you'd say that.”
John placed his hands in the proper position - thank goodness for mandatory off-world first aid courses. “You're being sarcastic, right?”
“No.”
“Thought so.” John pulled, twisted, using every muscle in his upper body, and it hurt but not as bad as what Ronon was going through. The tendons and veins bulged in Ronon's neck as he fought the need to scream, lost, and bellowed. Their fellow detainees started in alarm, several shuffling back and pressing themselves into the wall as though afraid they'd be next. Ronon's scream became a howl, his fist grinding into the floor while bones ground beneath John's hand. He felt - heard - them grate, shift, and pop back into place. It was a necessary evil that made John's stomach turn. Finished, he sat back, his hands shaking at his sides, maybe from pain but not entirely. Ronon's howl died down into heaving breaths, sweat dripping off his jaw.
Now came the easy part. Luck must have been feeling benevolent today: John managed to dig up a few sticks within piles of moldy hay and old blankets to use as braces. John's vest had been removed, so he tore up a blanket to bind the sticks in place. Ronon gagged a few times during the process, but never puked, resilient bastard that he was.
With Ronon taken care of as much as possible, John turned his attention to Rodney. Maybe it was the adrenaline born of being in a prison and stress born from Ronon's screams, but John's own pain wasn't so bad, now. His hands, however, wouldn't stop shaking. He blamed it on how damn cold it was in the cell.
John gently rolled Rodney onto his back, checking his head, chest, arms and legs. He found a four-inch gash just below Rodney's hairline and a wicked looking bruise around his wrist which, if it wasn't broken, was badly sprained. Either way, he wrapped it with more blanket. The gash he left alone since it had already stopped bleeding, and no way was he risking Rodney's health or his own ears to germs and a never ending litany about germ-ridden blankets.
“So what happened?” John asked as he worked.
“Explosion knocked us out and we woke up here,” Ronon said between heavy breaths. John smiled. As much as he appreciated Ronon not cluttering a situation with pointless words, it was also, ironically, pointless. If they had any hope of escaping this situation alive, John was going to need details.
“Do you know what their problem is with us?” he asked.
Ronon shook his head and gasped, “No. They haven't... dropped by yet.”
Because Ronon was fighting just to stay conscious, John left it at that.
It was becoming almost a tradition for societies to turn against the expedition at the drop of a hat, and the reasons always varied. Wraith, Replicators, Michael and all out hell breaking loose without an end in sight had forced this galaxy into some serious revamping of their ways. No more cowering in bunkers and in caves waiting for the latest cull to peter out. They were taking action, forming coalitions and militias, giving their fury and frustration a target. And just the expedition's luck, with most worlds, Atlantis was that target.
John got why they were pissed, he did, and couldn't fault them for it. He could fault them for the sin of wasting resources and manpower on an annoyance rather than the real threat. It pissed him off and, damn it, if any of his team ended up worse off than they were now, then they could kiss any pity and understanding from him goodbye.
Speaking of which, “You saw Teyla get away?”
“She was further from the blast,” Ronon said, sounding less pained but utterly exhausted. “I'm pretty sure she got away.”
John, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaking hand, nodded. It was freezing in the cell, and yet he was sweating like a pig. The human body was weird. “Best news I've heard all day.” He swallowed thickly when bile crept into his throat. He felt... strange, kind of floaty, could barely knot Rodney's bandage and could kill for a glass of water. His heart set the tempo for the dull throb in his side and not-so-dull throb in his head.
Crap, he felt sick, getting sicker by the minute.
“Sheppard...”
“It was a half day's walk from the 'gate, but if they're looking for Teyla then that's probably going to tack on a couple of hours.”
“Sheppard...”
“Atlantis will try to contact us when we haven't checked in but if they send a team it'll be right into an ambush. Either that or that chancellor guy has a story ready to pull out of his ass when they do come -”
“Sheppard!”
John looked up. “What?”
“You look like crap.”
John frowned. “You're not exactly a work of art yourself, buddy.”
“I know you're hurt, Sheppard. Probably worse than you think. So get over here so I can see how bad it is.”
“And hope glaring at it'll make it all better?” John said, but complied all the same, scooting closer to Ronon. “If you haven't noticed, we're kind of light on the medical supply - whoa!” Dizziness rushed over him like an undertow, tilting the room and him with it. He probably would have ended up on his side if Ronon hadn't grabbed his arm. He felt a hand touch his side just under the tender spot, and he still winced.
“Damn,” Ronon breath, two parts pissed, one part that sounded remarkably like alarm. John knew he should be worried if Ronon was worried and showing it, but was momentarily distracted by keeping upright and trying not to puke. The hand moved from his side to his face, while Ronon's other hand slid down his arm to squeeze his wrist.
“Sheppard, lie down.”
Sheppard gulped four times before he felt it safe enough to speak. Pithy remarks danced in his head, but what came out was a croaked and pitiful, “W-why?” Crap, how he felt like crap - crap times a thousand and growing.
“Lie down now.” The hand on his face moved to his chest and pushed, the other hand guiding him gently to the floor. The motion was slow, steady, and yet the world tilted away, attempting to pull John's stomach out through his throat. The back of his head touched cool, moist stone and it was heaven - to his head, the rest of his body didn't agree, absorbing cold like a sponge and making him shiver harder.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, but John's head was too light and his body too heavy to react the way it should. He could barely think to string three words together, and it took too long just to gasp up a, “Wh-what the hell?”
“Sheppard, listen to me. I need you to lie perfectly still. You've been injured -”
John nodded weakly. “Yeah... bro-broken ribs...”
“No. It's not that. You have something stuck in your side - shrapnel or something - and you're going into shock.” John heard distantly a pained grunt and the scrape of booted heels over stone. Something warm was spread over his body. Whatever it was smelled distinctly of leather, dirt and old sweat.
“I need you to stay with me, Sheppard. You hear me? You were riding an adrenaline high but it's wearing off. I know you're tired, but you really need to stay with me.”
John nodded, or at least thought he did. He was pretty sure he had. Stay awake, he could do that. His eyes fluttered. “'Kay.”
“Sheppard? No, Sheppard, stay with me. Come on, buddy, stay with me.”
John's eyelids slid shut. He wasn't sleeping, just resting his eyes.
“Sheppard? John? Stay awake. You need to stay awake. Sheppard!”
-----------------------------
“Hey, Shep.”
John jolted awake with a small gasp, seeing only hazy darkness and the misshapen gray circle of the cave entrance. It was getting dark out, the air already starting to cool. A light cough on his other side pulled John's attention to the back of the cave and Holland's vague outline.
“Sheppard,” Holland croaked. “'Bout time you woke up.”
John scooted closer to him, grateful for the poor light that was hiding his blatant concern. “Hey, you're not the one forced to haul someone's heavy ass across a damn desert. I earned a power nap.” He pulled the canteen from his vest and held it out for Holland to take.
“And leave me to take watch? You're too kind.” Holland took the canteen that sloshed hollowly in an obviously shaking hand.
John was really glad it was dark, too dark for Holland to see the shock on his face, but too close a proximity for him not to hear his breathy, “Son of a bitch.”
Holland coughed. “Don't. Don't, man. You were exhausted. You just made me a little nervous when you wouldn't wake up after I called your name four damn times.” Something hard bumped into John's knee. “Drink. You're my ride out of here. Can't have you dropping on me.”
“Says the man with the possible internal bleeding,” John said, but took a swallow anyway. “We can't be that far out... I don't think. Another day, maybe two.”
Holland coughed again. “Like I'm gonna... trust your directional sense. Crap, Sheppard, you'd get lost even if you had a GPS. Makes me wonder how you ever became a pilot.”
“Hey!” John said, giving Holland a thump he could only hope had landed somewhere above the man's waist. It was getting too damn hard to see. At least it wasn't hot anymore. “I'll admit it - I get too easily turned around on the ground. But never, never question my direction sense in the air. I found you, didn't I?”
“Yeah,” Holland sighed. “You did. I'd tell you to color me impressed, except I'm not. That was stupid, Sheppard. You're going to die out here.”
“Not if I can help it.” John settled more comfortably against the rock wall, but still couldn't find a position to save his life; the uneven surface digging into his spine even through the vest, the ceiling bumping his head every three seconds. In an attempt to stay positive, John could at least be happy that he wasn't too tired to keep watch.
“You're going to die out here along with me.”
John coughed up a scoff. “Way to think positive, Captain,” he responded dismissively. “We can't die. I want a beer and you're buying, remember?”
“Sheppard -”
“Holland.” John shot him a look, only to remember that it was too dark to be any kind of effective. “Get some sleep. We have a long walk tomorrow.”
Holland snorted in the darkness. “Whatever.” Cloth scraped over rock; Holland attempting to get comfortable. “You know, if you were as smart as everyone says you are, you'd leave me here, go get help and bring it back. You'd move faster without me, I won't have to put up with you making my internal bleeding possibly worse, and we'd both be happy campers - you sucking down a beer, me a protein shake in some forsaken, but still air-conditioned, hospital somewhere. Now doesn't that sound like a better alternative to lugging my heavy ass around?”
John changed his mind about the darkness, because he wanted nothing more than to glare at Holland. “Captain?”
“Yes Captain?”
“Do me a favor?”
“Dare I ask what?”
“Shut up and get some sleep.”
“Thought so.” More scraping, more Holland getting comfortable. “You're a stubborn moron, Sheppard.”
“And you're a pessimistic bastard, Holland.”
Silence settled around them, too thick for John's comfort. He should have been able to hear Holland's breathing, wheezing - something. “Holland?” His heart rate triple-timed. “Holland!”
Sheppard!
-------------------------------------
“Sheppard. Wake up, damn it! Oh, crap, my head! Wake up!”
John flinched at the shrill panic drilling into his ear, yet couldn't find the energy to pry his own eyelids apart. He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him, then on his face patting his cheeks.
“Sheppard, wake up already. I know you're alive but need to make sure you're going to stay alive so I can pass back out into peaceful, painless, blissfully naïve unconsciousness. So wake up! Damn it, damn it damn it, my head's going to explode.”
“Then stop shouting, McKay.”
“I'll stop when he stops playing dead. Sheppard!”
“He's alive, McKay. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have a pulse.”
“I don't care. I'm selfish. I want more. I want signs of life: eye contact, moaning, an insult. Come on, Sheppard, I'm annoying you. Don't you want to insult me?”
John did, actually, because any louder and McKay's shrilling was going to bust an ear drum. It was enough to find the strength to get his eyelids parted a slit, with a little extra to blink away the blur. McKay's face materialized above John, tight and frantic and pale even in the poor light, the blue eyes wide enough to pop out of the sockets. If Rodney didn't calm down he was going to keel back over - it was hard to miss the obvious pain he was in - so John obliged McKay's demands with a low moan.
Rodney visibly relaxed, broad shoulders sagging and breath rushing from his lungs. “Oh, thank goodness.” He winced. “Crap, damn it, crap.” Then he sucked in a breath, holding it as his throat worked convulsively. But he lost the fight, lurching toward the wall out of John's sight where he retched noisily.
“Oh, crap, kill me. Kill me now. No! Stun me. Please. Except you don't have your stunner. Great, just... friggin' great. The one time... I would have let you stun... damn it!” He retched again, slightly less violently than before. John still made a small internal cringe of sympathy. He wouldn't have minded a little puking himself to quiet his recalcitrant stomach, but didn't even seem to have the energy for that much. What the hell was wrong with him?
Shrapnel in the side, right. As if with a mind of his own, his hand inched its way toward his side, only to be intercepted by a clammy, shaky grip.
“Not good,” Rodney gasped. “Stay still.”
“R'dny,” John muttered.
“Yeah. Yeah, I'm here,” Rodney panted.
“You... 'kay?”
“No. No I'm not okay, okay? I am anything but okay. I am in excruciating pain and... oh, crap, I need to lie down. Just for a minute.”
John forced his head to roll to the side for a languid observation of Rodney lowering himself to the ground and curling into a miserable ball. He couldn't see Rodney's face, only the top of his sweat-soaked head, but didn't miss the way McKay was shivering. Every so often, a moan escaped him.
“What about you, Sheppard?” Rodney said after a moment. “You okay?”
John closed his eyes. He tried taking a deep breath and paid for it, exhaling on a pained gasp. “No.” He hadn't meant to be honest, but being in pain was like being drunk - no self-control whatsoever.
“Dumb question. You've got shrapnel in your side, and Ronon thought it a good idea to immobilize it with pieces of germy blanket.”
“Little late for infection,” Ronon said. “The fever started before I wrapped him.”
John opened his eyes, wide. “Fever?”
“Not a bad one,” Ronon assured.
“At least not yet,” Rodney added, then groaned. “Oh, man! Seriously, as soon as help comes and you get your stunner, use it on me. It's killing me just to talk.”
“Then stop talking,” said Ronon.
“Why don't you stop talking!”
“Guys,” John croaked. “Play nice. Help'll come soon.”
“It had better. That shrapnel may have slowed any bleeding but that doesn't rule out internal bleeding.”
“I'll... be fine, M'Kay.”
“I'll believe it once we're back home strapped to hospital beds. Ow! Ow, ow, ow, my head! Okay, okay, I'll shut up now, I promise. Ow. Sheppard? Hey, Sheppard, you need to stay awake. Sheppard!”
-------------------------------
“Sheppard.”
John startled, almost dropping Holland from his back. He'd spaced out again, making that the fifth time since they'd started off, a good reason to worry except John couldn't afford to be worried right now. It was all about putting one foot in front of the other, step after step after step; one more step bringing them closer.
“Holland?”
“Not smart.”
John squinted at distant mirages shimmering across the flats. He would sell his soul for his aviators right about now, and while he was at it, maybe a little more water. He no longer had any spit to unstick his throat, and he was sure he'd stopped sweating. Wasn't that a bad thing, when someone stopped sweating? He couldn't think in this damn heat. The sun was turning his skull into a pressure cooker and his brain was about to pop.
One foot in front of the other. That's all he had to do.
“What?” he wheezed.
“You're not... smrt. Shoulda... left me behind. Shoulda... Hurts, Shep.”
John coughed. “I know. I know, man. I know. We're almost there. We're almost...”
“Bull.”
“Yeah, probably.” But it didn't change the fact that Sheppard had no regrets about taking Holland with him. Holland had said it best - John Sheppard was a selfish, selfish bastard. He could no more leave a man behind than he could cut off his own arm. You just don't do that. It was wrong and just... wrong. Logical, maybe, in their current situation, but wrong. Insurgents could have stumbled onto the cave while John was gone, and Holland could barely string two words together. They might not be able to find the caves once John found help. Insurgents could move in, making the area too hostile for a rescue attempt.
This was better, because at least John wouldn't have to wonder.
Yeah, definitely selfish. Not that he cared.
“How 'bout a song, Captain,” John said. “You were so hell bent on singing yesterday. Or maybe I should sing, let you know what it feels like. Because if you recall, I can't carry a tune. You said so yourself.”
No answer.
“Holland? Come on, man. Either I sing and stop every two minutes to check your pulse or you sing and spare us all half the agony. Holland?”
Still no answer.
“Come on, Holland, say something.”
Nothing.
“Holland, damn it, don't make me beg. Holland!”
Still nothing.
“Holland!”
Still nothing.
“Holland, you son of a bitch, wake up!”
And still more nothing.
“Holland!”
Then hands grabbed him, lightening the load as they removed Holland, making him feel capable of floating away. But the hands kept him grounded, parting him and Holland like the Red Sea.
“Holland!”
-----------------------------
“Leave him alone you, sons of bitches! Leave him alone!”
“No, no, Sheppard, it's all right! Stop struggling, you need to stop!”
Except it wasn't all right. Hands were everywhere, grabbing his arms, legs, ankles and gripping a wad of his shirt-front as he was hauled upward. John's eyes flew wide open to men in soot-gray uniforms surrounding Ronon and Rodney and manhandling them out of the cell. John kicked, squirmed, arched and all-out exploded into feral fury, fighting with everything he had. They were taking his team, taking them away. He couldn't let that happen. They couldn't be separated. Bad things happened when they were separated.
So he fought, ignoring the unseen knife shredding the muscles between two ribs.
“Leave them alone, you bastards! You leave them the hell alone! I'll kill you. I'll friggin' kill all of you!”
“Sheppard!” Rodney cried out, pale, shaking and struggling just as hard. “Damn it, stop. You're hurting him. Sheppard! Stop struggling; it's all right. It's -” Rodney was cut off when he was yanked from the cell, then lost to sight behind a wall of gray-clad bodies. John was pinned to the ground - arms, legs, chest - by too many hands. One hand slipped, pressing against his tender side, driving the knife in deeper, making John scream.
“You're hurting him!” He heard Rodney call on the heels of Ronon's incoherent bellowing. Somewhere within the rubble of pain was a cold pinch. Sounds faded as though John were being submerged underwater. Darkness followed, but no matter how hard John fought, he couldn't push it back. Hands gripped him and carried him away.
------------------------------------
They gently lowered him to his knees, pressing the cold lip of a canteen to his mouth until he drank, taking it away prematurely.
“Not too much, buddy, you'll just make yourself sick,” the soldier said. John could only nod dumbly, even though he begged to differ.
“Th-thanks.”
The soldier, his face featureless under the shadow of his helmet, clasped John's shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. “No problem. We'll get you into the nice cool truck soon enough. Just be patient.”
“Waited this long,” John said. What's a little longer? but wasn't sure if he'd said that out loud. He searched around aimlessly. Hadn't he been carrying something? Something heavy?
No, not something. Someone?
He found that someone only a few yards away partially obscured by a small crowd of soldiers. All John could see of Holland was his legs.
Hands gripped his arms, lifting him to his feet. “Come on, man. Time to board. This boat's heading out and heading out now.”
“Holland?”
“We got him, sir. Come on, into the truck.” Not that he had a choice when more hands joined the first, hoisting him into the shade of a covered truck-bed. He saw the men around Holland, saw them doing nothing except stare, talk and shake their heads as though everything were futile. John's entire body seemed to buck and he felt himself falling forward, except the hands wouldn't let him, pulling him back.
So he fought. “Holland! Holland, answer me, damn it, Holland!”
Then his stomach heaved, making him double up and puke himself inside out.
-----------------------------------
When he felt only two hands on him - one gripping his bicep, the other resting on his back - there was no thinking involved, only reacting. Anger and fear filled John with adrenaline, enough for him to lunge forward, grabbing whoever was touching him and pulling them flush against his chest while twisting their arm around their back. Whoever his hostage was, she was female according to her yelp of surprise and pain.
John blinked wildly at his surroundings. A hospital, only old, simple: walls of white cinder-block, beds on plain metal frames with hand-cranks to raise or lower the heads, his hostage a brown-haired woman in a sky-blue robe. John had his arm pressed against her throat, not so hard that she couldn't breathe, but hard enough for him to feel her frenetic pulse. He was that hyper-aware, knowing without having to look that he was shirtless with a bandage wrapped tightly around his chest.
His attention went from his surroundings to the men in sky-blue shirts and pants attempting to surround him. John tightened his hold.
“Where is he -” John blinked. Not he, not one. Them, two of them. “Where are they? My team, where are they? What did you do with them!”
“Please, sir, if you'll just calm down and let her go, we'll tell you,” said a blond male nurse, a kid who couldn't be any older than twenty. “Just, please, don't hurt her.”
John had no intentions of hurting her. Neither was he going to comply and let her go, not until he got some answers.
“Not until you tell me where my team is!”
“Sheppard?”
John looked up, over the shoulders of the closing orderlies to Rodney - a bandage around his head - shuffling slowly, cautiously, toward them with hands held palm out.
“John, just relax. We're all right. We're here and we're safe, so just let her go.”
But John couldn't comply. The moment he did, they would rush him, pin him down, drug him, and he couldn't let that happen, not until he got some answers. So instead, he backed up.
Rodney increased the speed of his shuffling, shouldering his way through the wall of orderlies, practically shoving them aside. “Will you people back off! You're scaring the hell out of him. You don't ask a soldier to release someone when you have him cornered.” He looked at John, calm but imploring. “You can let her go, John. I promise that nothing will happen to you... or us.” He glared over his shoulder at the orderlies. “Right?”
And that was the Rodney John knew. A calm, rational Rodney. A Rodney who wasn't panicking because there was no reason to panic. John released the woman, dropping onto the edge of the bed at the same time. He couldn't help a cringe when the orderlies started to surge only to be blocked by a single physicist who looked ready to kill if he wasn't obeyed.
“Didn't I just say to back the hell off? Huh? Well, allow me to repeat myself uselessly - Back. Off. I have everything under control and I swear if you lay one finger on him, I'll tell the guy with the broken leg. And believe me, a busted leg has yet to make a difference for him when he has a need to kick ass.”
Whether they believed him or not, John couldn't tell (He'd have had a hard time believing it himself had he been in their shoes. Unless they'd already had the misfortune of meeting a Ronon with the need to kick-ass). All the same, they backed off, looking uncertain and a trite nervous. Rodney dropped down on the bed beside John, never taking his eyes off the orderlies until they'd dispersed, the nurse following at a fast walk as though trying not to run.
“Looks like no more pretty nurses for you until we get home,” Rodney said. He finally tore his gaze away to look at John, studying him, annoyance shifting into worry. “Hey, you okay? I mean, apart from having a piece of shrapnel pulled out of your side, losing a lot of blood and all that crap. The quack here said you were lucky. It went in at an angle and got caught between your ribs. He said any deeper and it would have punctured your heart. You are one oddly lucky bastard, you know that?” He narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “John?”
John started despite the fact that he'd been aware and listening the whole time. “Huh?” He felt strange, kind of light, shaky. Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were trembling.
“Seriously, are you all right? You don't look all right.” Rodney blanched. “Actually, you look like you're about to keel over. I should probably get a nurse... well, maybe not a nurse. Someone, I need to get someone. You're obviously going into shock again...” He rose and was about to leave when John's hand shot out, grabbing the sleeve of the white hospital shirt he was wearing.
Wait was what he meant to say. What came out was a rather pathetic sounding, “Stay, please.”
Rodney paused, caught in the proverbial headlights of indecision. He searched around, then looked back at John, panic tangling with concern.
“Just adrenaline,” John assured.
Rodney sighed. “Well, at least lie back down in case you're going into shock again.” He helped John ease onto his back, then covered him to his collar bones with a sheet and knit blanket. Taking a pillow from an unoccupied bed on the right, he used it to prop John's feet up.
“Better?” he asked.
John nodded. He still felt shaky, but no longer unsteady.
“Good.” Rodney plopped back down on the bed's edge. “Because they might not have killed you taking the shrapnel out but I still don't trust them as far as I can throw them. They claim the whole thing was a misunderstanding. Supposedly they've been having a lot of uprisings lately. Not so much against the government, just different things: the Wraith, evil merchants gouging people with sky-high prices, even us. They swear that the assholes that attacked us aren't affiliated with them. Oh, and they didn't mean to arrest us; that was an accident. Oh, oh! And Teyla managed to get back to the 'gate. Took her longer than she'd anticipated but she managed it and brought back reinforcements about the time you came out of surgery. Woolsey's here, too, clearing things up or something. Anyway, we should be going home soon but Keller wanted to wait until you were awake to see what kind of mental state you were in. I, uh... kind of let it out that you freaked in the cell. Guess she doesn't like the idea of you freaking out in a 'jumper full of armed marines. Anyway -”
“Where's Ronon?” John cut in. Again, he'd been aware, he'd been listening, but the adrenaline was wearing off, shoved aside by lethargy that was about to bring him down at any minute. The news of rescue seemed to have sucked the energy right out of him. Not that he was complaining.
Rodney stuttered to a halt. “Uh, what? Ronon? Oh, he's,” Rodney gestured vaguely in various directions, “somewhere with Keller and another doctor having his leg checked. He should be back soon. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Woolsey's doing the peace treaty thing...”
Ronon arrived five minutes later being pushed in a wooden wheelchair by Keller. After she and an orderly got him settled, she turned her henning on John, listening to his heart and lungs, checking his blood pressure and temperature (he still had a fever, thankfully not a high one) then the stitches on his side running parallel between two ribs. She then told him to rest, that they were safe and it was going to be a while before they headed out. Woolsey was still negotiating. Apparently the meeting had gone from “please let us stay friends” to “we're friends so let's trade.” Also apparently, this world was yet another in a long line that included anal ceremonies to finalize trade agreements.
“It's possible Mr. Woolsey may have to wear a grass skirt,” Keller said. She pulled a small camera from her pants pocket. “Which is why I always come prepared.”
“Just don't circulate it on the city's net,” Rodney said. “It's not like he can take civil action, but the lectures are torture enough.” He aimed a scowl at John. It had been his fault; John wouldn't deny it.
John just shrugged, too tired to attempt to deny it even if he wanted to. His body felt like it had walked days through a desert, carrying someone on his back. He shuddered, pulling the blankets up higher.
After ushering Rodney back to his bed on the other side of Ronon's, Keller left with the redundant parting instruction to rest. John was too happy to oblige and let his eyes slide closed.
-------------------------------
Holland's funeral was nice: the day warm, the grass green, the sky clear - perfect flying weather. He would have loved it. John watched as the flag was folded off the coffin, followed it as it was handed to Holland's wife. When she stepped back, her eyes met his and she frowned.
She blamed him. Of course she did, and John let her because it was her complete right to. He pulled his gaze away to look at the coffin as it was lowered into the ground.
Sorry you couldn't buy me that beer, buddy.
“Sheppard?”
----------------------------
John opened his eyes, blinked, then exhaled in utter relief on seeing Ronon, a bruised and battered Teyla sitting at the foot of Ronon's bed, and on the other side Rodney snoring away. He didn't know why he was relieved; it wasn't like they'd gone anywhere when he'd fallen asleep.
“You all right?” Ronon asked. “You were kind of muttering in your sleep.”
John nodded, licking his lips. “Yeah. Just dreaming.”
Teyla rose from Ronon's bed, limping slightly to John's where she poured him water from a glass pitcher. “Mr. Woolsey is nearly finished,” she said. “So we will be going home soon.” She handed him the glass that he drank empty. Setting it aside for him, Teyla then adjusted the blankets around him. “Rest some more.”
John didn't comply. He stayed awake, watching as Teyla and Ronon talked, watching Rodney sleep.
The End
Prompt: I would like a story involving Sheppard, Ronon and
McKay trapped together, with the other two the most obviously hurt and then
Sheppard becoming a victim of shock, etc.