SGA Fic - The Long Miles Home Pt. 2
Back to Part 1
When John woke up, it was to one hell of a headache, something being not quite right and a lot of shouting. He blinked his gritty eyes open, wincing against even the dulled light of the morning, and realized with an almost overwhelming panic that he was sitting on the ground tied to a pole. He struggled briefly against the ropes tying his hands behind him until a nudge to his sore ribs made him stop. He looked up at the nervous kid guarding him. Then he looked in the direction of the shouting.
Gilen, Felyf, Cores and three other captains were clustered together, with Gilen trying to talk over Felyf while waving the orders in the captains’ faces. The debate must have been going on for some time, the captains - especially Cores - looking weary. They eventually frowned, bobbed their heads, and said something that neither Gilen nor Felyf were all that happy about. But they disbanded before any further arguments could be made.
Gilen shooed the guard - not off - but distanced enough away so that it didn't feel like the kid was hovering at their shoulders. He then settled on the ground beside John with a grunt. They sat there, the silence adding to the tension knots in John's shoulders and churning his already nauseous gut.
He licked his dry lips and croaked, “So, how much am I screwed?”
“Not much, actually,” Gilen said, chipper. “I told them you were merely hungry and attempting to stretch your rations. Not uncommon, but Felyf is tenacious dung and would not let the matter drop, so I said you were trying to follow my orders. The commanders were inclined to side with me - you are only a civilian, after all: naïve, sympathetic, easily swayed. For you, slipping food to the captured is a minor offense. Were you a soldier, you would have been imprisoned. As is, you do not even have to worry about a possible interrogation.”
“And yet I sense a but coming.”
Gilen grinned. “However, to placate Felyf's paranoia, you are to remain tied to this pole for two days with no food, only water. And you are no longer allowed to feed the prisoners. Another cadet will see to that.”
John's stomach contents, if there were any, crawled into his throat. He swallowed them quickly back down. “Whoopty-friggin-do.”
Gilen nudged his arm. “Be well, John. It is not as bad as it could have been. But I will not tell you to have patience.” With that, he left.
It drizzled ten minutes later.
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John promised himself that he would never bad mouth bread and cheese again. It may have been a long time since he'd last been full but at least he hadn't felt like he was digesting himself, not like now. It was weird how it was possible to be so hungry you felt like you were going to puke. Being mostly soaked seemed to make it worse. Gilen had been kind enough to eventually cover John with his oiled cloak, but not before the rain managed to wiggle its way through John's clothes to his skin - both of which he wanted to rip off.
Gilen kept him updated on his team. John had told Gilen about Rodney's condition, and thanks to the orders the rations John's team received were back to three portions a day rather than two. The camp had succumbed to hunting for wild game, not much to find in this weather other than birds and rodents but just enough to allow them to make up for the dwindling ration supply.
John had one day left before he was untied and allowed to eat. Right now, it was feeling more like a year. The only time he could recall feeling this miserable was when he'd dragged Holland's dying body through the arid desert - hot instead of cold, but still drenching him via sweat until even that dried up. Then again, turning from a bug back into a human hadn't been a picnic either.
“In other words, you've been through worse. So buck the hell up,” John croaked to himself, spooking the current cadet guarding him.
Night crawled in, dropping the temperature from tolerably chilly to arctic, making John shiver. His body had fused, the pulse of pain going solid throughout his body from his skull to his feet, and no amount of shifting put a dent in it. He couldn't have the medicine, not without food in him, so he wasn't counting on any sleep.
John dozed off. He didn't know when, or how; didn't even realize it happened when he was startled awake by panicked shouts. He looked wildly around at soldiers running, other soldiers calling out and pointing. He flinched at the distant crack of a rifle.
Then cried out when something exploded behind him, hammering his back with debris and the concussion of violently displaced air.
“What the hell!” he shouted above the chaos and noise: screaming, rifle shots, another explosion off in the distance. Soldiers were running everywhere, none of them paying him any attention. Another explosion pelted John with what he hoped was mud and not body parts.
A hand grabbing his shoulder jolted him so hard the back of his head smacked into the pole.
“John. John! Calm yourself; it is I, Gilen.”
John stilled but didn't relax as wet fingers and the cold edge of a knife worked his bonds loose. The moment the ropes fell away John was gripped by the arm and practically thrown onto his feet.
Gilen called above the noise, “This way!” and they were running - Gilen running, John's numb and shaking body stumbling to keep up. Everything was pain and noise and chaos rattling him to the bone. He focused on Gilen's back like it was the light at the end of the tunnel, turning when the other man turned, ducking behind wagons and tents then darting forward in a crouch. Another close-call explosion sprayed them with mud, almost knocking John off his feet if Gilen hadn't grabbed him. Yet despite all hell having broken loose, the psychotic bastard still found a reason to keep smiling.
“Almost there, John,” Gilen said.
Then they were at the prison pen, in the section holding his team. Gilen pulled a ring heavy with a multitude of keys from inside his coat.
“Grabbed them while the warden was out,” was all he said as he fitted each key into the padlock. The padlock gave with a snikt. Gilen yanked it off and threw it away. They both darted inside.
“About damn time!” Rodney squeaked. Another explosion made them all cringe. Gilen fumbled with the keys several times before finding the ones that unlocked the manacles.
With John's team finally freed, Gilen shouted, “Let's go!” and led the way from the pen. They ducked, dodged and weaved, pounding the mud for the safety of the woods. They were ignored and unimpeded, the tree line only yards away, getting closer and closer. John's lungs burned and his bones ached but adrenaline had hold and wasn't letting go. So damn close, yards becoming feet, feet becoming inches.
A force like a metal fist slammed into John's shoulder blade, throwing him to the ground.
“Sheppard!” Ronon roared, and then John was hauled to his feet by his arm, dragged the last inch into the trees. They paused only long enough for Ronon to throw John over his shoulder, which John might have protested, knew he should have protested but could not seem to get his voice to work. He was numb, dizzy, addled...
The pain hit harder than whatever had knocked him down. He choked on an agonized cry, each minor jolt shoving more pain through his body.
“Oh... crap...” he squeaked, because he knew this pain. He swallowed. “Th-think I've been shot... buddy.”
“Yeah. Think so, too,” Ronon panted, ducking tree limbs that still scraped across John's back.
“Th-think you could stun me?”
“Don't have my blaster.”
“I hate... this planet.”
Ronon leaped over a log, the impact of him hitting the ground like whiplash to John. The pain intensified beyond what even John's pain tolerance could handle and he gladly passed out.
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John woke up screaming because some inconsiderate bastard was digging a hole into his shoulder blade and it friggin' hurt like a bitch. His body jerked, reacting on the instinct to move away from whatever it was causing the fiery agony ripping through his back, but equally inconsiderate hands gripping his limbs wouldn't let him.
“Hold him still!” someone shouted. He was pressed down until he could barely breathe while something hard scraped against his scapula. He must have passed out, because the next time he opened his eyes the agony wasn't quite so hellish and he was no longer pinned. He was moving, rocking back and forth, with an occasional hitch that made the pain sharp and his stomach roll. Two seconds later, he lurched up and over the side of whatever he was in, puking up bile. A hand on his back made him flinch in alarm.
“Easy, John,” said a female voice. A female voice he knew, the small hand warm and gentle against his spine.
John coughed and rasped, “Teyla?”
“Yes, I'm here. We are all here.”
John's body sagged in relief. He was eased onto his side, and realized by the hard surface, swaying and creaking that he was in a wagon. He rolled his bleary eyes upward, blinking until the three faces hovering over him congealed into Teyla, Ronon and a pinched and worried Rodney.
Neither the pain in his shoulder nor knotted gut could stop John from smiling. “Hey...” he coughed. “G-gang’s all back together.”
“Barely,” Rodney shrilled. “Hypoglycemia almost killed me, a bullet almost kills you and on top of that these Neanderthals perform impromptu surgery with only a knife... without sterilizing it, I might add. If you don't die of infection then I will officially believe in miracles.”
“They did what they had to, McKay,” Ronon said, easing back against the wall of the wagon bed. “Leaving the bullet in would've made it worse.”
“They used a poultice that they assured would prevent illness and too much bleeding,” Teyla said, more for John's sake than Rodney's. She was looking at John, concern, dirt and blood making her seem gaunt and wild. “But you suffered much blood loss.”
“Yes, and between that and the fact that they hadn't fed you for two days, you're lucky to be alive,” Rodney said. If Teyla's concern made her wild, then Rodney's made him down right panicky. All three of his teammates looked like cold crap: filthy, pale, hungry, edgy; even Ronon whose eyes wouldn't stop darting all over the place, not just looking for danger but waiting for it to get the drop on them at any moment.
Another cough from John prompted Teyla to pull a water skin from the pile of supplies at the head of the wagon. She held John's head as he drank. His throat no longer trying to stick together, he asked, “What happened?”
“We got away,” Ronon said, glowering.
“Only to get captured again,” Rodney finished.
John closed his eyes and groaned. “Let me guess. Guys in green coats.”
“Got it in one,” Rodney said.
John hissed, “Damn it!” while massaging his forehead with his hand. “Damn it, damn it, damn it! I should've known. I... I did know. Damn it!”
“Why?” Ronon challenged. “This more of that because you're 'the guy' crap again?”
“The guy?” Rodney echoed.
John shook his head, wincing when his skull throbbed. “No. Cause I knew. Gilen, I shouldn't have trusted him. I knew I shouldn't have.”
“Well, a little late for could haves,” Rodney said, voice tight with fear.
“I'm sorry,” John slurred.
Ronon leaned forward and gripped his forearm. “Don't be. This wasn't your fault so don't even think about beating yourself up over it.”
“It was,” John said, but passed out before Ronon could push his argument.
John woke up sporadically, the wagon still trundling over rough terrain wreaking havoc on his body, but sometimes there was no movement at all. It was while the wagon was stopped that Ronon held John up while Teyla coaxed a thin, flavorless broth through his mouth, Rodney running commentary.
“We're all going to be remarkably svelte after this,” he said, wrapping a thin blanket tighter around his shoulders with one hand, gnawing on a piece of jerky with the other. They'd all been given blankets, John practically cocooned in three of them, but so ragged and sparse they hardly did much good.
“Except Sheppard,” Rodney went on. “He's already doing a remarkable impression of a walking skeleton.”
“He's not that bad,” Ronon snapped.
“Bad enough,” Rodney snapped back. “Crap, he won't stop shaking. He probably has an infection.”
John couldn't say if he had an infection or not - one pain out of too many to keep track of. He did know that he was cold, even bundled as he was. He mumbled, “Sorry.”
Which made Rodney even less happy if that were possible. “Don't. Not your fault. And we're going to keep saying it until it penetrates the muck currently coating your brain.”
After lunch... or dinner, breakfast, whatever... Teyla and Ronon propped John against the wagon wall and all three huddled around him, giving him the warmth his body could no longer produce - Rodney and Ronon on either end, John and Teyla in between. Upright, he could see over the wagon the men and women no different from the cadets of the sovereign army except for their green coats. He couldn't see Gilen.
“How long have we been going?” John asked.
“About two days,” Rodney said. “Well, two days and a night in between. We only started stopping today, and one time the other day when,” he twirled his finger in the direction of John's shoulder, “you know.”
“I know,” John said, drowsy and unpleasantly numb. “Drugged me?”
“Yep,” Ronon said.
John bobbed his head. “Thought so.”
Night came and they stopped, not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Many of the green coats had started dropping, the rest barely able to drag their feet. Fires were started, so it was safe to assume the platoon was well ahead of the blue coats or in a zone of safety. From the way the wagon had jostled and bounced, John had the feeling they hadn't kept to the road.
Two cadets lowered the back of the wagon. A man who John would bet good money was a high ranking captain, his dark hair and beard shaggy but his stance straight and dignified, approached. He pointed at John.
While three cadets aimed their rifles at his team, two cadets jumped into the wagon, grabbed John and dragged him away. He almost blacked out from the pain but still heard over the roar of his blood through his ear his team's protests: Ronon snarling, Teyla pleading, Rodney high-pitched and rambling, all of them demanding or begging for them to leave John alone.
“He will not be harmed as long as no one does anything foolish,” the captain said matter-of-fact, then led the way from the wagon to a fire pit in the middle of the camp. There John was forced to his knees, the two cadets holding him up while a third carefully removed his coat, then the makeshift sling of rags securing his arm to his chest. John ignored being disrobed against his will.
He only had eyes for Gilen standing on the other side of the fire, the captain next to him.
“Let it never be said that we are cruel,” the captain said. “Or rude.” He bowed his head. “First Captain Olesk. And you are John Sheppard.”
John said nothing. With his coat off and the sling removed, he was made aware of the fact that at some point in time the back of his shirt had been slit open, the cold air biting into his skin. The halves were parted and the front slid down catching at his elbows to hang just below his chest. Exposed, wounded, dirty and shivering, he didn't think he could get more vulnerable than he was. But he stared at the captain, pouring his pain, his anger, into a glare that stated loud and clear, I'm not beat yet.
It made the captain smile. “A soldier through and through. How does the wound look?”
“Inflamed,” said the cadet - a woman - currently prodding the skin around the entry site. With the numbing effects of the drug having worn off, John felt it, and couldn't stop himself from wincing. “It will need another cleaning.”
Olesk nodded. “In a moment. Mr. Sheppard, I wish to assure that so long as you cooperate, neither you nor your people will be harmed. We have no quarrel with you, and even hope to return you to your home should all go well. Word has reached us that our side has taken possession of the ring. Thanks to Gilen we are in possession of the symbols to your world, and upon arrival at the ring we will exchange you and your people for weapons.” Olesk grinned. “Smile, Mr. Sheppard. You will be going home, soon.”
John snorted.
Olesk frowned. “You do not believe your people will comply?”
John looked at Gilen, then at Olesk. “Ask your buddy Gilen about how well it worked out for the blue coats.”
“Oh, we know of your people's... lack of cooperation.”
“And, what, you think you can do better?”
“We know we can.”
“Then you're kidding yourselves.”
Sighing, Olesk moved around the fire and knelt in front of John.
“We are not cruel,” Olesk said. He placed his hand on John's shoulder, his fingers positioned over the wound, and squeezed. The pain was molten lava spreading through John, making it impossible not to cry out. “But sometimes we have no choice.” He released John. John sagged in the restraining grips of the cadets, panting and fighting the need to puke.
“You can't argue that there are times when drastic measures must be taken,” Olesk went on, wiping his hands clean on a rag. “As a soldier I would assume you understand this. We do not take pleasure in it, and if we could find another way we would. But this is all we have, and I am sorry for it.”
Olesk bobbed his head to the cadet tending to John, then stood and left. The cadet/medic tried to be gentle as she cleaned John's wound, but John still grunted, groaned, cried out and whimpered. When the wound was covered in some kind of goo, his arm rebound and his shirt closed, John was a boneless puddle in the cadets' hands. They barely managed to get him to swallow any of the numbing medicine.
Gilen had them set out blankets on the ground for John to lie down and warm up while the medicine ran its course. Moving him too soon might kill him, he said, which probably wasn't far from the truth. As much as he hated being drugged, John begged the damn medicine to hurry up and dope him already. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, his gut stop churning. He thought for sure he was going to throw up and was surprised he hadn't.
But he kept his eyes open, staring at Gilen through the fire. Gilen moved around enough for John to see him in full.
The bastard smiled.
“You mad, John?”
John looked at him like he was an idiot. Gilen chuffed, moving closer to crouch at John's head.
“Of course you are. It's a given. I would be quite upset had our roles been reversed.”
“Had our roles been... reversed,” John breathed. “I woulda let you go.”
Gilen raised his eyebrows. “Would you have, now?”
“Knowing that... a prisoner exchange wouldn't have worked? Yeah.”
Gilen shifted, dropping his ass to the ground, propping his arms on his knees and clasping his hands loosely. “I've carried men on my back, too” he said. “Dead, alive, wounded. We both know what it's like, John. We know the stakes. You've had to do things you're not proud of to get things done. I mean, that's war. How can you not? And they haunt you. And sometimes... sometimes you have days where you forget what it is you're fighting for. Don't deny it.”
John blinked languidly, his mind going fuzzy, preventing him from thinking and responding. Gilen must have noticed when he stood, waving two cadets over. “He's ready. Take him back.”
They lifted John, dragging his dead weight between them and allowing, with great hesitancy, for Ronon to gather John in his arms and settle him in the wagon. With his team back around him, pooling their body heat, it was like he never left.
“You okay? Did they hurt you? Why were you screaming?” Rodney babbled.
“Cleaned the wound,” John grunted. He decided better than to tell them about his little interrogation. Rodney didn't need another reason to stress out.
Teyla's arm stretched across John's shoulder, careful of the wound. Her hand pulled his head down to her shoulder. “Rest, John.”
John chuckled. “Like I have a choice.” It was getting impossible to keep his eyes open. But he managed long enough to reach up with a shaking hand to grip Teyla's hand. Ronon squeezed John's shoulder. Rodney reached over and nervously patted his knee. John let his eyes close.
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There was an advantage to sleeping for most of a journey - it cut the journey in half. John woke only to eat what he could and to have his wound cleaned. The medic did what she could but the wound remained inflamed, throbbing in time with John's heart, forcing him to take the drugged water or throw up the little he managed to eat.
He said as often as he could, “I hate this planet.” Rodney replied with an “Amen to that.”
Then they arrived. John, even mostly out of it, knew they had. He remembered the clearing where the 'gate sat surrounded by a perfect circle of trees as big as red woods. He heard one of the cadets mention how the greenback camp was not far, saw a few of their faces light up in anticipation. He had never had the chance to count how many there were, but saw about eight of them take off into the woods when Olesk gave them the go ahead to report in and take a break.
“Four left plus the captain guy, the wagon driver and Gilen,” Ronon said, always on the same wavelength as John. “Five guys at the 'gate.”
The wagon rumbled to a stop, the durs snorting and stomping. The back of the wagon was open and Olesk stood there, flanked by Gilen and a young kid barely old enough to grow a beard.
“I am a man of my word, Mr. Sheppard,” he said. “When your people comply, you will be returned home. If they do not comply...” Olesk breathed deep, bracing himself. “For each time they do not comply, one of you will be shot.”
Rodney made a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. Ronon growled. Teyla tightened her hold on John while John closed his eyes. He opened them to see Gilen, blank-faced and stone still.
“Captain Gilen, the device.” Olsek said, holding out his hand. Gilen pulled John's radio from his pack and slapped it into Olesk's hand. “Go and dial.”
Gilen did as told, moving to the 'gate. He let his pack slide from his shoulder to the ground. He moved his rifle as though about to do the same to it.
Then whirled around and shot Olesk in the back. Olesk fell. The men at the 'gate shouted, aiming their rifles while the remaining four cadets aimed back and the durs driver jumped from his seat to cower against the wheel. Rifles exploded filling the air with metallic smoke. When the firing stopped, all of the guards and two of the cadets lay dead.
John gaped at Gilen.
Gilen, shouldering his rifle, smiled.
“I'm sure you didn't expect that,” he said, moving to the wagon. “For the best. You can come down, now.”
John's team shifted, starting to rise, when John held up his fist. They went still.
“What the hell is this?” John demanded.
Gilen looked at him, bewildered. “This? This is freedom, John. And you'd best not waste time making it happen. The camp would have heard the exchange. They will be here any minute.” Gilen hopped onto the wagon and rummaged through the supplies. He pulled out a sack that he tossed to Ronon, who caught it easily.
“I also took the liberty of reclaiming your things when I took the keys to your chains. It's all there.”
Ronon dug through it until he pulled out his blaster. But having his gun back in his hand didn't bring a smile to his face.
“Now be quick and dial your world so we can leave,” Gilen said. He jumped from the wagon
John, never taking his eyes off Gilen, nodded. Ronon helped him from the wagon, Teyla staying close behind and Rodney following.
“So, what, this was the real plan?” John asked. “No prison convoy, no jumping the convoy at night? Waiting until the camp was attacked, which I'm assuming you knew about from the start, then letting your people capture us to take us back to the 'gate?”
Gilen's smile widened. “You disapprove?”
“Hell yes I disapprove! Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because you would have trusted me even less. It was for the best, John. Believe me. And what does it matter? You are free to return home.”
“As long as we take you with us, right?” Ronon said, holstering his blaster.
“Well, no. Any world will do. I would think it a small enough reward for the service I did you.” His smile weakened. “I told you, once. I tire of war. Those were not just words, Sheppard. They were the truth. I saved you; I returned you as promised. All I ask in return is a world in which we can escape to, to live out our lives fighting something other than each other. It is all we want.”
John looked at the stony faces of the two cadets, then the bodies littering the ground. “You killed your own men.”
Gilen's smile shifted to wry. “We do what must be done, even though we hate it.”
John looked at the DHD. “The shield down?”
Gilen nodded. “It was before I went to dial.”
“John, I do not think this is wise,” Teyla whispered in his ear. Ronon, standing next to him, tightened his hold on the butt of his gun. The rest of the weapons, however, were still in the sack. Gilen's men and Gilen had their rifles in hand.
“Screw it,” John said, hobbling to the DHD. He had to lean against it for support as he dialed. The 'gate exploded to life. “Let's go.”
They stepped through, emerging on the other side into a grassy field, the sky blue, the day warm, decreasing John's shivering. He nodded, imperceptibly, in Ronon's direction and in one fluid move Ronon spun around, whipped out his blaster and stunned both cadets, leaving only Gilen.
Gilen froze, eyes wide and smile gone. Behind him, the 'gate shut down.
“John, what is this?” Gilen demanded.
John moved in close, knocking Gilen's rifle out of the way when he aimed it. “Parting of ways. From here on in, we don't know each other. We happen to pass each other on some street on some world, we just keep on walking.”
Gilen cocked an eyebrow. “Well, farewell to you to, then.”
“I mean it, Gilen. I'm happy you saved my life - our lives - and all but from now on we're strangers. I really think we'll be better off.” He tacked on bitterly, “Believe me.”
Stepping back, John nodded once. Red enveloped Gilen and he crumpled to the ground.
“We got our GDO?” John asked.
“In the bag,” Ronon said.
“I took the radio from Olesk,” said Teyla.
“I'll dial Atlantis,” said Rodney, moving to do so.
Three minutes later, they stepped through and were home.
John leaned against Ronon, his adrenaline gone, the medicine wearing off, his body heavy with pain and exhaustion.
“Sit until the medics get here,” Ronon said, helping John lower himself to the floor then sitting next to him for John to have something to lean against. Teyla and Rodney talked with Elizabeth and Lorne. Behind them, John could see the med team heading their way.
John sighed. “Damn it's good to be home.” He closed his eyes.
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When John opened them, he was in an infirmary bed, pain free and warm with several blankets tucked around him. But even pleasantly numb he could feel the pull of stitches over his shoulder blade and the limited range of a broken bone. He was hooked to an IV and the heart monitor, and wasn't alone.
Rodney was sitting up in the bed next to him, also tubed but monitor free, tapping on a tablet.
“Hey,” John said.
Rodney froze, looked at John, then back at the tablet. “Took you long enough.”
John rolled his eyes - a bad idea when it made him dizzy. “Sorry not to placate your personal schedule, McKay.” He studied Rodney's healthier pallor. “Blood sugar better?”
“Much. And you?”
“Can't feel a damn thing.” He smiled. “It rocks.”
Carson arrived on schedule, never a step behind the change in a heart monitor letting him know when a patient was awake. He explained how John's wound had been infected but not badly, his scapula was broken, his ribs were cracked, his blood volume had been low until Carson (as usual, he had to add) remedied that, he was malnourished but on a vitamin regime (as was Rodney, and Teyla and Ronon but the latter two not as severe so freed to get their own lunch), so on and so forth.
“But I'll live,” John finished.
“Aye, you'll live,” Carson said with a pat on his foot. “As long as you eat and rest.” He then moved to bug Rodney. After him, Carson left.
Silence settled around them except for the beep of machines.
“Thanks, by the way,” Rodney said.
John rubbed his dry eyes. “Huh?”
Rodney cleared his throat, shifting, clearly uncomfortable. “Doing what you had to in order to save us.”
“Rodney, I'll always do what I have to in order to save you guys. You know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” he snapped. “But it still needs to be acknowledged. You almost...” He swallowed. “Anyway, we never doubted you would find us. Even if it did take forever.”
“Then you're welcome,” John said, squirming to get more comfortable. Five minutes later, Ronon and Teyla arrived bearing trays of food. Teyla touched her forehead to John's, Ronon clasped his good shoulder and Rodney demanded his tray. Reminding John, as they always did, why he kept fighting.
The end
Request: Gen, Shep whump w/ a side serving of Teyla and Ronon on the side if possible. Team gets caught up in another civil war and as usual, John gets the worst of it.
Could be any season, but would love it if it were pre-Sunday, in order to have Elizabeth come storming to their rescue.
When John woke up, it was to one hell of a headache, something being not quite right and a lot of shouting. He blinked his gritty eyes open, wincing against even the dulled light of the morning, and realized with an almost overwhelming panic that he was sitting on the ground tied to a pole. He struggled briefly against the ropes tying his hands behind him until a nudge to his sore ribs made him stop. He looked up at the nervous kid guarding him. Then he looked in the direction of the shouting.
Gilen, Felyf, Cores and three other captains were clustered together, with Gilen trying to talk over Felyf while waving the orders in the captains’ faces. The debate must have been going on for some time, the captains - especially Cores - looking weary. They eventually frowned, bobbed their heads, and said something that neither Gilen nor Felyf were all that happy about. But they disbanded before any further arguments could be made.
Gilen shooed the guard - not off - but distanced enough away so that it didn't feel like the kid was hovering at their shoulders. He then settled on the ground beside John with a grunt. They sat there, the silence adding to the tension knots in John's shoulders and churning his already nauseous gut.
He licked his dry lips and croaked, “So, how much am I screwed?”
“Not much, actually,” Gilen said, chipper. “I told them you were merely hungry and attempting to stretch your rations. Not uncommon, but Felyf is tenacious dung and would not let the matter drop, so I said you were trying to follow my orders. The commanders were inclined to side with me - you are only a civilian, after all: naïve, sympathetic, easily swayed. For you, slipping food to the captured is a minor offense. Were you a soldier, you would have been imprisoned. As is, you do not even have to worry about a possible interrogation.”
“And yet I sense a but coming.”
Gilen grinned. “However, to placate Felyf's paranoia, you are to remain tied to this pole for two days with no food, only water. And you are no longer allowed to feed the prisoners. Another cadet will see to that.”
John's stomach contents, if there were any, crawled into his throat. He swallowed them quickly back down. “Whoopty-friggin-do.”
Gilen nudged his arm. “Be well, John. It is not as bad as it could have been. But I will not tell you to have patience.” With that, he left.
It drizzled ten minutes later.
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John promised himself that he would never bad mouth bread and cheese again. It may have been a long time since he'd last been full but at least he hadn't felt like he was digesting himself, not like now. It was weird how it was possible to be so hungry you felt like you were going to puke. Being mostly soaked seemed to make it worse. Gilen had been kind enough to eventually cover John with his oiled cloak, but not before the rain managed to wiggle its way through John's clothes to his skin - both of which he wanted to rip off.
Gilen kept him updated on his team. John had told Gilen about Rodney's condition, and thanks to the orders the rations John's team received were back to three portions a day rather than two. The camp had succumbed to hunting for wild game, not much to find in this weather other than birds and rodents but just enough to allow them to make up for the dwindling ration supply.
John had one day left before he was untied and allowed to eat. Right now, it was feeling more like a year. The only time he could recall feeling this miserable was when he'd dragged Holland's dying body through the arid desert - hot instead of cold, but still drenching him via sweat until even that dried up. Then again, turning from a bug back into a human hadn't been a picnic either.
“In other words, you've been through worse. So buck the hell up,” John croaked to himself, spooking the current cadet guarding him.
Night crawled in, dropping the temperature from tolerably chilly to arctic, making John shiver. His body had fused, the pulse of pain going solid throughout his body from his skull to his feet, and no amount of shifting put a dent in it. He couldn't have the medicine, not without food in him, so he wasn't counting on any sleep.
John dozed off. He didn't know when, or how; didn't even realize it happened when he was startled awake by panicked shouts. He looked wildly around at soldiers running, other soldiers calling out and pointing. He flinched at the distant crack of a rifle.
Then cried out when something exploded behind him, hammering his back with debris and the concussion of violently displaced air.
“What the hell!” he shouted above the chaos and noise: screaming, rifle shots, another explosion off in the distance. Soldiers were running everywhere, none of them paying him any attention. Another explosion pelted John with what he hoped was mud and not body parts.
A hand grabbing his shoulder jolted him so hard the back of his head smacked into the pole.
“John. John! Calm yourself; it is I, Gilen.”
John stilled but didn't relax as wet fingers and the cold edge of a knife worked his bonds loose. The moment the ropes fell away John was gripped by the arm and practically thrown onto his feet.
Gilen called above the noise, “This way!” and they were running - Gilen running, John's numb and shaking body stumbling to keep up. Everything was pain and noise and chaos rattling him to the bone. He focused on Gilen's back like it was the light at the end of the tunnel, turning when the other man turned, ducking behind wagons and tents then darting forward in a crouch. Another close-call explosion sprayed them with mud, almost knocking John off his feet if Gilen hadn't grabbed him. Yet despite all hell having broken loose, the psychotic bastard still found a reason to keep smiling.
“Almost there, John,” Gilen said.
Then they were at the prison pen, in the section holding his team. Gilen pulled a ring heavy with a multitude of keys from inside his coat.
“Grabbed them while the warden was out,” was all he said as he fitted each key into the padlock. The padlock gave with a snikt. Gilen yanked it off and threw it away. They both darted inside.
“About damn time!” Rodney squeaked. Another explosion made them all cringe. Gilen fumbled with the keys several times before finding the ones that unlocked the manacles.
With John's team finally freed, Gilen shouted, “Let's go!” and led the way from the pen. They ducked, dodged and weaved, pounding the mud for the safety of the woods. They were ignored and unimpeded, the tree line only yards away, getting closer and closer. John's lungs burned and his bones ached but adrenaline had hold and wasn't letting go. So damn close, yards becoming feet, feet becoming inches.
A force like a metal fist slammed into John's shoulder blade, throwing him to the ground.
“Sheppard!” Ronon roared, and then John was hauled to his feet by his arm, dragged the last inch into the trees. They paused only long enough for Ronon to throw John over his shoulder, which John might have protested, knew he should have protested but could not seem to get his voice to work. He was numb, dizzy, addled...
The pain hit harder than whatever had knocked him down. He choked on an agonized cry, each minor jolt shoving more pain through his body.
“Oh... crap...” he squeaked, because he knew this pain. He swallowed. “Th-think I've been shot... buddy.”
“Yeah. Think so, too,” Ronon panted, ducking tree limbs that still scraped across John's back.
“Th-think you could stun me?”
“Don't have my blaster.”
“I hate... this planet.”
Ronon leaped over a log, the impact of him hitting the ground like whiplash to John. The pain intensified beyond what even John's pain tolerance could handle and he gladly passed out.
------------------------
John woke up screaming because some inconsiderate bastard was digging a hole into his shoulder blade and it friggin' hurt like a bitch. His body jerked, reacting on the instinct to move away from whatever it was causing the fiery agony ripping through his back, but equally inconsiderate hands gripping his limbs wouldn't let him.
“Hold him still!” someone shouted. He was pressed down until he could barely breathe while something hard scraped against his scapula. He must have passed out, because the next time he opened his eyes the agony wasn't quite so hellish and he was no longer pinned. He was moving, rocking back and forth, with an occasional hitch that made the pain sharp and his stomach roll. Two seconds later, he lurched up and over the side of whatever he was in, puking up bile. A hand on his back made him flinch in alarm.
“Easy, John,” said a female voice. A female voice he knew, the small hand warm and gentle against his spine.
John coughed and rasped, “Teyla?”
“Yes, I'm here. We are all here.”
John's body sagged in relief. He was eased onto his side, and realized by the hard surface, swaying and creaking that he was in a wagon. He rolled his bleary eyes upward, blinking until the three faces hovering over him congealed into Teyla, Ronon and a pinched and worried Rodney.
Neither the pain in his shoulder nor knotted gut could stop John from smiling. “Hey...” he coughed. “G-gang’s all back together.”
“Barely,” Rodney shrilled. “Hypoglycemia almost killed me, a bullet almost kills you and on top of that these Neanderthals perform impromptu surgery with only a knife... without sterilizing it, I might add. If you don't die of infection then I will officially believe in miracles.”
“They did what they had to, McKay,” Ronon said, easing back against the wall of the wagon bed. “Leaving the bullet in would've made it worse.”
“They used a poultice that they assured would prevent illness and too much bleeding,” Teyla said, more for John's sake than Rodney's. She was looking at John, concern, dirt and blood making her seem gaunt and wild. “But you suffered much blood loss.”
“Yes, and between that and the fact that they hadn't fed you for two days, you're lucky to be alive,” Rodney said. If Teyla's concern made her wild, then Rodney's made him down right panicky. All three of his teammates looked like cold crap: filthy, pale, hungry, edgy; even Ronon whose eyes wouldn't stop darting all over the place, not just looking for danger but waiting for it to get the drop on them at any moment.
Another cough from John prompted Teyla to pull a water skin from the pile of supplies at the head of the wagon. She held John's head as he drank. His throat no longer trying to stick together, he asked, “What happened?”
“We got away,” Ronon said, glowering.
“Only to get captured again,” Rodney finished.
John closed his eyes and groaned. “Let me guess. Guys in green coats.”
“Got it in one,” Rodney said.
John hissed, “Damn it!” while massaging his forehead with his hand. “Damn it, damn it, damn it! I should've known. I... I did know. Damn it!”
“Why?” Ronon challenged. “This more of that because you're 'the guy' crap again?”
“The guy?” Rodney echoed.
John shook his head, wincing when his skull throbbed. “No. Cause I knew. Gilen, I shouldn't have trusted him. I knew I shouldn't have.”
“Well, a little late for could haves,” Rodney said, voice tight with fear.
“I'm sorry,” John slurred.
Ronon leaned forward and gripped his forearm. “Don't be. This wasn't your fault so don't even think about beating yourself up over it.”
“It was,” John said, but passed out before Ronon could push his argument.
John woke up sporadically, the wagon still trundling over rough terrain wreaking havoc on his body, but sometimes there was no movement at all. It was while the wagon was stopped that Ronon held John up while Teyla coaxed a thin, flavorless broth through his mouth, Rodney running commentary.
“We're all going to be remarkably svelte after this,” he said, wrapping a thin blanket tighter around his shoulders with one hand, gnawing on a piece of jerky with the other. They'd all been given blankets, John practically cocooned in three of them, but so ragged and sparse they hardly did much good.
“Except Sheppard,” Rodney went on. “He's already doing a remarkable impression of a walking skeleton.”
“He's not that bad,” Ronon snapped.
“Bad enough,” Rodney snapped back. “Crap, he won't stop shaking. He probably has an infection.”
John couldn't say if he had an infection or not - one pain out of too many to keep track of. He did know that he was cold, even bundled as he was. He mumbled, “Sorry.”
Which made Rodney even less happy if that were possible. “Don't. Not your fault. And we're going to keep saying it until it penetrates the muck currently coating your brain.”
After lunch... or dinner, breakfast, whatever... Teyla and Ronon propped John against the wagon wall and all three huddled around him, giving him the warmth his body could no longer produce - Rodney and Ronon on either end, John and Teyla in between. Upright, he could see over the wagon the men and women no different from the cadets of the sovereign army except for their green coats. He couldn't see Gilen.
“How long have we been going?” John asked.
“About two days,” Rodney said. “Well, two days and a night in between. We only started stopping today, and one time the other day when,” he twirled his finger in the direction of John's shoulder, “you know.”
“I know,” John said, drowsy and unpleasantly numb. “Drugged me?”
“Yep,” Ronon said.
John bobbed his head. “Thought so.”
Night came and they stopped, not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Many of the green coats had started dropping, the rest barely able to drag their feet. Fires were started, so it was safe to assume the platoon was well ahead of the blue coats or in a zone of safety. From the way the wagon had jostled and bounced, John had the feeling they hadn't kept to the road.
Two cadets lowered the back of the wagon. A man who John would bet good money was a high ranking captain, his dark hair and beard shaggy but his stance straight and dignified, approached. He pointed at John.
While three cadets aimed their rifles at his team, two cadets jumped into the wagon, grabbed John and dragged him away. He almost blacked out from the pain but still heard over the roar of his blood through his ear his team's protests: Ronon snarling, Teyla pleading, Rodney high-pitched and rambling, all of them demanding or begging for them to leave John alone.
“He will not be harmed as long as no one does anything foolish,” the captain said matter-of-fact, then led the way from the wagon to a fire pit in the middle of the camp. There John was forced to his knees, the two cadets holding him up while a third carefully removed his coat, then the makeshift sling of rags securing his arm to his chest. John ignored being disrobed against his will.
He only had eyes for Gilen standing on the other side of the fire, the captain next to him.
“Let it never be said that we are cruel,” the captain said. “Or rude.” He bowed his head. “First Captain Olesk. And you are John Sheppard.”
John said nothing. With his coat off and the sling removed, he was made aware of the fact that at some point in time the back of his shirt had been slit open, the cold air biting into his skin. The halves were parted and the front slid down catching at his elbows to hang just below his chest. Exposed, wounded, dirty and shivering, he didn't think he could get more vulnerable than he was. But he stared at the captain, pouring his pain, his anger, into a glare that stated loud and clear, I'm not beat yet.
It made the captain smile. “A soldier through and through. How does the wound look?”
“Inflamed,” said the cadet - a woman - currently prodding the skin around the entry site. With the numbing effects of the drug having worn off, John felt it, and couldn't stop himself from wincing. “It will need another cleaning.”
Olesk nodded. “In a moment. Mr. Sheppard, I wish to assure that so long as you cooperate, neither you nor your people will be harmed. We have no quarrel with you, and even hope to return you to your home should all go well. Word has reached us that our side has taken possession of the ring. Thanks to Gilen we are in possession of the symbols to your world, and upon arrival at the ring we will exchange you and your people for weapons.” Olesk grinned. “Smile, Mr. Sheppard. You will be going home, soon.”
John snorted.
Olesk frowned. “You do not believe your people will comply?”
John looked at Gilen, then at Olesk. “Ask your buddy Gilen about how well it worked out for the blue coats.”
“Oh, we know of your people's... lack of cooperation.”
“And, what, you think you can do better?”
“We know we can.”
“Then you're kidding yourselves.”
Sighing, Olesk moved around the fire and knelt in front of John.
“We are not cruel,” Olesk said. He placed his hand on John's shoulder, his fingers positioned over the wound, and squeezed. The pain was molten lava spreading through John, making it impossible not to cry out. “But sometimes we have no choice.” He released John. John sagged in the restraining grips of the cadets, panting and fighting the need to puke.
“You can't argue that there are times when drastic measures must be taken,” Olesk went on, wiping his hands clean on a rag. “As a soldier I would assume you understand this. We do not take pleasure in it, and if we could find another way we would. But this is all we have, and I am sorry for it.”
Olesk bobbed his head to the cadet tending to John, then stood and left. The cadet/medic tried to be gentle as she cleaned John's wound, but John still grunted, groaned, cried out and whimpered. When the wound was covered in some kind of goo, his arm rebound and his shirt closed, John was a boneless puddle in the cadets' hands. They barely managed to get him to swallow any of the numbing medicine.
Gilen had them set out blankets on the ground for John to lie down and warm up while the medicine ran its course. Moving him too soon might kill him, he said, which probably wasn't far from the truth. As much as he hated being drugged, John begged the damn medicine to hurry up and dope him already. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, his gut stop churning. He thought for sure he was going to throw up and was surprised he hadn't.
But he kept his eyes open, staring at Gilen through the fire. Gilen moved around enough for John to see him in full.
The bastard smiled.
“You mad, John?”
John looked at him like he was an idiot. Gilen chuffed, moving closer to crouch at John's head.
“Of course you are. It's a given. I would be quite upset had our roles been reversed.”
“Had our roles been... reversed,” John breathed. “I woulda let you go.”
Gilen raised his eyebrows. “Would you have, now?”
“Knowing that... a prisoner exchange wouldn't have worked? Yeah.”
Gilen shifted, dropping his ass to the ground, propping his arms on his knees and clasping his hands loosely. “I've carried men on my back, too” he said. “Dead, alive, wounded. We both know what it's like, John. We know the stakes. You've had to do things you're not proud of to get things done. I mean, that's war. How can you not? And they haunt you. And sometimes... sometimes you have days where you forget what it is you're fighting for. Don't deny it.”
John blinked languidly, his mind going fuzzy, preventing him from thinking and responding. Gilen must have noticed when he stood, waving two cadets over. “He's ready. Take him back.”
They lifted John, dragging his dead weight between them and allowing, with great hesitancy, for Ronon to gather John in his arms and settle him in the wagon. With his team back around him, pooling their body heat, it was like he never left.
“You okay? Did they hurt you? Why were you screaming?” Rodney babbled.
“Cleaned the wound,” John grunted. He decided better than to tell them about his little interrogation. Rodney didn't need another reason to stress out.
Teyla's arm stretched across John's shoulder, careful of the wound. Her hand pulled his head down to her shoulder. “Rest, John.”
John chuckled. “Like I have a choice.” It was getting impossible to keep his eyes open. But he managed long enough to reach up with a shaking hand to grip Teyla's hand. Ronon squeezed John's shoulder. Rodney reached over and nervously patted his knee. John let his eyes close.
----------------------
There was an advantage to sleeping for most of a journey - it cut the journey in half. John woke only to eat what he could and to have his wound cleaned. The medic did what she could but the wound remained inflamed, throbbing in time with John's heart, forcing him to take the drugged water or throw up the little he managed to eat.
He said as often as he could, “I hate this planet.” Rodney replied with an “Amen to that.”
Then they arrived. John, even mostly out of it, knew they had. He remembered the clearing where the 'gate sat surrounded by a perfect circle of trees as big as red woods. He heard one of the cadets mention how the greenback camp was not far, saw a few of their faces light up in anticipation. He had never had the chance to count how many there were, but saw about eight of them take off into the woods when Olesk gave them the go ahead to report in and take a break.
“Four left plus the captain guy, the wagon driver and Gilen,” Ronon said, always on the same wavelength as John. “Five guys at the 'gate.”
The wagon rumbled to a stop, the durs snorting and stomping. The back of the wagon was open and Olesk stood there, flanked by Gilen and a young kid barely old enough to grow a beard.
“I am a man of my word, Mr. Sheppard,” he said. “When your people comply, you will be returned home. If they do not comply...” Olesk breathed deep, bracing himself. “For each time they do not comply, one of you will be shot.”
Rodney made a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. Ronon growled. Teyla tightened her hold on John while John closed his eyes. He opened them to see Gilen, blank-faced and stone still.
“Captain Gilen, the device.” Olsek said, holding out his hand. Gilen pulled John's radio from his pack and slapped it into Olesk's hand. “Go and dial.”
Gilen did as told, moving to the 'gate. He let his pack slide from his shoulder to the ground. He moved his rifle as though about to do the same to it.
Then whirled around and shot Olesk in the back. Olesk fell. The men at the 'gate shouted, aiming their rifles while the remaining four cadets aimed back and the durs driver jumped from his seat to cower against the wheel. Rifles exploded filling the air with metallic smoke. When the firing stopped, all of the guards and two of the cadets lay dead.
John gaped at Gilen.
Gilen, shouldering his rifle, smiled.
“I'm sure you didn't expect that,” he said, moving to the wagon. “For the best. You can come down, now.”
John's team shifted, starting to rise, when John held up his fist. They went still.
“What the hell is this?” John demanded.
Gilen looked at him, bewildered. “This? This is freedom, John. And you'd best not waste time making it happen. The camp would have heard the exchange. They will be here any minute.” Gilen hopped onto the wagon and rummaged through the supplies. He pulled out a sack that he tossed to Ronon, who caught it easily.
“I also took the liberty of reclaiming your things when I took the keys to your chains. It's all there.”
Ronon dug through it until he pulled out his blaster. But having his gun back in his hand didn't bring a smile to his face.
“Now be quick and dial your world so we can leave,” Gilen said. He jumped from the wagon
John, never taking his eyes off Gilen, nodded. Ronon helped him from the wagon, Teyla staying close behind and Rodney following.
“So, what, this was the real plan?” John asked. “No prison convoy, no jumping the convoy at night? Waiting until the camp was attacked, which I'm assuming you knew about from the start, then letting your people capture us to take us back to the 'gate?”
Gilen's smile widened. “You disapprove?”
“Hell yes I disapprove! Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because you would have trusted me even less. It was for the best, John. Believe me. And what does it matter? You are free to return home.”
“As long as we take you with us, right?” Ronon said, holstering his blaster.
“Well, no. Any world will do. I would think it a small enough reward for the service I did you.” His smile weakened. “I told you, once. I tire of war. Those were not just words, Sheppard. They were the truth. I saved you; I returned you as promised. All I ask in return is a world in which we can escape to, to live out our lives fighting something other than each other. It is all we want.”
John looked at the stony faces of the two cadets, then the bodies littering the ground. “You killed your own men.”
Gilen's smile shifted to wry. “We do what must be done, even though we hate it.”
John looked at the DHD. “The shield down?”
Gilen nodded. “It was before I went to dial.”
“John, I do not think this is wise,” Teyla whispered in his ear. Ronon, standing next to him, tightened his hold on the butt of his gun. The rest of the weapons, however, were still in the sack. Gilen's men and Gilen had their rifles in hand.
“Screw it,” John said, hobbling to the DHD. He had to lean against it for support as he dialed. The 'gate exploded to life. “Let's go.”
They stepped through, emerging on the other side into a grassy field, the sky blue, the day warm, decreasing John's shivering. He nodded, imperceptibly, in Ronon's direction and in one fluid move Ronon spun around, whipped out his blaster and stunned both cadets, leaving only Gilen.
Gilen froze, eyes wide and smile gone. Behind him, the 'gate shut down.
“John, what is this?” Gilen demanded.
John moved in close, knocking Gilen's rifle out of the way when he aimed it. “Parting of ways. From here on in, we don't know each other. We happen to pass each other on some street on some world, we just keep on walking.”
Gilen cocked an eyebrow. “Well, farewell to you to, then.”
“I mean it, Gilen. I'm happy you saved my life - our lives - and all but from now on we're strangers. I really think we'll be better off.” He tacked on bitterly, “Believe me.”
Stepping back, John nodded once. Red enveloped Gilen and he crumpled to the ground.
“We got our GDO?” John asked.
“In the bag,” Ronon said.
“I took the radio from Olesk,” said Teyla.
“I'll dial Atlantis,” said Rodney, moving to do so.
Three minutes later, they stepped through and were home.
John leaned against Ronon, his adrenaline gone, the medicine wearing off, his body heavy with pain and exhaustion.
“Sit until the medics get here,” Ronon said, helping John lower himself to the floor then sitting next to him for John to have something to lean against. Teyla and Rodney talked with Elizabeth and Lorne. Behind them, John could see the med team heading their way.
John sighed. “Damn it's good to be home.” He closed his eyes.
----------------------
When John opened them, he was in an infirmary bed, pain free and warm with several blankets tucked around him. But even pleasantly numb he could feel the pull of stitches over his shoulder blade and the limited range of a broken bone. He was hooked to an IV and the heart monitor, and wasn't alone.
Rodney was sitting up in the bed next to him, also tubed but monitor free, tapping on a tablet.
“Hey,” John said.
Rodney froze, looked at John, then back at the tablet. “Took you long enough.”
John rolled his eyes - a bad idea when it made him dizzy. “Sorry not to placate your personal schedule, McKay.” He studied Rodney's healthier pallor. “Blood sugar better?”
“Much. And you?”
“Can't feel a damn thing.” He smiled. “It rocks.”
Carson arrived on schedule, never a step behind the change in a heart monitor letting him know when a patient was awake. He explained how John's wound had been infected but not badly, his scapula was broken, his ribs were cracked, his blood volume had been low until Carson (as usual, he had to add) remedied that, he was malnourished but on a vitamin regime (as was Rodney, and Teyla and Ronon but the latter two not as severe so freed to get their own lunch), so on and so forth.
“But I'll live,” John finished.
“Aye, you'll live,” Carson said with a pat on his foot. “As long as you eat and rest.” He then moved to bug Rodney. After him, Carson left.
Silence settled around them except for the beep of machines.
“Thanks, by the way,” Rodney said.
John rubbed his dry eyes. “Huh?”
Rodney cleared his throat, shifting, clearly uncomfortable. “Doing what you had to in order to save us.”
“Rodney, I'll always do what I have to in order to save you guys. You know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” he snapped. “But it still needs to be acknowledged. You almost...” He swallowed. “Anyway, we never doubted you would find us. Even if it did take forever.”
“Then you're welcome,” John said, squirming to get more comfortable. Five minutes later, Ronon and Teyla arrived bearing trays of food. Teyla touched her forehead to John's, Ronon clasped his good shoulder and Rodney demanded his tray. Reminding John, as they always did, why he kept fighting.
The end
Request: Gen, Shep whump w/ a side serving of Teyla and Ronon on the side if possible. Team gets caught up in another civil war and as usual, John gets the worst of it.
Could be any season, but would love it if it were pre-Sunday, in order to have Elizabeth come storming to their rescue.