New SGA fic: The Sheppard Sipher (R, 1 of 2)

[maisierita]

Title: The Sheppard Sipher
Fandom: SGA
Rating: R
Warnings: Language and violence. No sex, sorry.
Characters: Dave Sheppard, John Sheppard
Length: 11,500 words, give or take
Spoilers: Through Outcast
Disclaimers: After a dozen years of writing fanfiction, I still don't own a single character in any fandom. Stinks, doesn't it?
Acknowledgments: Thanks as always to my gorgeous beta sapphiresmuse , without whose prodding this story would have continued to languish on my hard drive forever and another day. If there are any remaining grammatical or spelling errors, the fault is entirely mine.
Summary: He almost misses the key words, because it's been years since he and John played this game, and maybe if the military hadn't come around knocking on his door three weeks ago he wouldn't have noticed the key words at all.



~

The e-mail is innocuous, or at least it looks that way, sent from a hotmail account with a generic subject line, printed out blandly on a piece of paper and shuffled neatly in the tedious pile of non-critical e-mails that Janet replenishes for him every hour. The time stamp on it is 11:13 a.m., but it's nearly eight at night before Dave gets to it, what with all the meetings and phone messages and actual work-related e-mail to answer.

He almost misses the key words, because it's been years since he and John played this game, and maybe if the military hadn't come around knocking on his door three weeks ago he wouldn't have noticed the key words at all. But there they are, neatly printed out in 10 point Arial, and he's so disconcerted that he just stares at the e-mail for a minute, blinking a few times, before he very carefully gets up and shuts his office door and sits back at his desk, both hands flat on the burnished wood surface. Janet left almost an hour ago after making sure his dinner had arrived: a turkey sandwich, a small salad with no dressing, and a bottle of iced tea. It's sitting untouched on the side of his desk. Dave rarely gets around to eating until nine.

He eats half the sandwich and all of the salad, then stares at the e-mail for a long while, trying to analyze what it is he's feeling because analysis is a good way to delay, delay, delay. He should be surprised, he thinks, but on balance he doesn't think he is surprised at all, thinks he's been expecting something like this since he got that first inquiring phone call from the Air Force, even though he'd told them truthfully that he's the last person John would call for help. He doesn't have a place in John's life any more than John has a place in his; filial ties last only so long when two people have nothing but blood and a birthday in common.

But here is the e-mail in stark black and white, both key words in place, and that can't be a coincidence, that means John trusts him still, after all this time; after everything they've done and said, John trusts him to remember. And Dave does remember, even though it's been, god, almost twenty-five years since they played around with codes and ciphers, but it's almost like muscle memory, too deeply ingrained to forget.

He's a little rusty - a lot rusty - but it starts coming quicker the farther he gets into it, letter substitutions, transpositions, words that are codes in their entirety. "Unbreakable," John had said with a grin, "so long as you don't tell anyone," and of course Dave has never told a soul because he's always done anything and everything John asked him to, and it seems that habit hasn't changed at all, even though John stopped asking anything from him years ago. Dave's got to decode the message in his head because he's afraid to write any of it down, even though he's got a document shredder under his desk, even though it's a remote and ridiculous possibility that his trash is being monitored, but he does it in his head anyway, just in case. While he works, there's a slideshow of snapshots playing in the back of his mind, memories of hot summer days spent in the stifling attic of the Greenwich estate, the two of them crouched over the dusty antique roll-top desks, John explaining the rules of the game again, thorough and patient, and the magical moment when Dave had finally gotten it. It'd been the first time Dave had gotten any insight into the mystery of John's mind, the way it worked, full of leaps of messy intuition and sonic bursts of brilliance, and Dave thinks now that it'd maybe been the last time, also.

It takes him twenty minutes to work through it and another hour to write a four-sentence reply; John, he thinks, probably wrote his much longer e-mail in a much shorter amount of time, but then Dave's brain has never worked the way John's does. This is just another way in which they're nothing alike at all.

~

It's a long four days until Dave's due in the city again and there are no further e-mails from John in the interim. Dave doesn't bother worrying whether John got the message: if he did, he'll be there; if he didn't, he won't, and worrying won't make a difference. But on Friday, after his two meetings are over, he gets in four days worth of worrying in the ten minutes it takes to get to the pizza place. Because if John's not there, then odds are Dave's never going to know what happened to him, and that's what kills him every time he sends a message through Peterson and it's not returned, that John could be dead, and Dave won't ever know. It hadn't taken a fortune to find out that John's not really stationed in Colorado, but apparently even David Sheppard doesn't have enough money or enough influence find out where John really is stationed. This is unsettling because Dave has a stupid amount of money and an awful lot of influence, and there's never before been anything he can't find out if he's wanted to. It's unsettling too to wonder what it is John's doing that is so top secret that knowledge of it can't be bought with money or favors; nothing good ever comes of secrecy, their father had always said, and in Dave's experience this is usually true.

Turns out he needn't have worried about John showing up. Dave's ordering a slice, mushrooms and olives, when he hears John's low, dry chuckle in his ear. "Mushrooms, okay," John says. "Olives, okay. But not mushrooms and olives together."

Dave lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Says Mr. pineapple and pepperoni." He says it like it's no big deal, like he hasn't been worrying himself sick enough to screw his diet and eat pizza.

"You only say that," John says, "because you've never tried it." He doesn't order a slice for himself, but stands fidgeting at the counter while Dave eats, scoping the exits compulsively, keeping himself still by valiant, visible force of will. "You come here a lot?"

"Sometimes," Dave says, which is a pointless exaggeration. He's been here once before, a couple of years ago, before Dad cut back his hours and Dave stopped eating lunch out altogether to make up for it. He's eating quickly because John's nervousness is infectious; the people on either side of them are picking up on it too, checking the exit, edging away. "The lawyers have an office down the block."

John's quiet, taking in the not-so-very subtle hint. "I don't need a lawyer," he says, finally. What he does need, by the look of things, is a shower and a bed, and a lot of food. He looks strung out and half starved. He's got a baseball cap on, and Dave can't see his eyes behind his cheap, chic sunglasses, but he's leaning heavily against the counter, holding on like he might fall over if he lets go.

"No," Dave says. "I didn't really think you did." But he'd picked this place to meet, just in case. Dave fishes in his pocket and pulls out a set of keys which belong to an apartment Dave hasn't set foot in for ten years. "C'mon."

They detour only long enough to pick up some staples: milk, bread, eggs, a couple of pieces of fruit and vegetables. John doesn't say a word the whole time, but he laughs when he sees the boxes in the apartment stacked neatly by the door, addressed to Bobby Fischer, an old, old poke at a kid who'd been cool and self-confident enough not to care that he was a geek.

"Sheets," Dave says, "and towels. Toiletries. Couple of changes of clothing. Dried goods. Should be enough to keep you for at least a week without having to leave."

"I -" John says, and swallows. "Thanks. This is - " He swallows again. John has never been a big talker, but it is still uncharacteristic of him to be at a loss for words like this. "Thanks."

"Okay," Dave says. He tosses the keys on the counter, which is cheap Formica, but which has been scoured clean. "Here's the deal. I don't think there's any way this apartment can be traced back to me, but if they're really looking hard, then …" He shrugs. "Who knows?"

John nods at the boxes. "What about them?"

"PayPal," Dave says. "Dummy account. Set it up three years ago for emergencies. I don't think they'd catch it unless they're looking really hard." If they're looking really hard, they'll find the apartment anyway. Dave doesn't bother saying this, since John will already know it. He checks the light switches one by one; they all work. The cleaning service he'd hired - anonymously, for cash - had done a thorough job. When he turns back around, John's stripped off the coat and the sunglasses and the hat; he looks worse this way, stretched thin and gaunt, huge dark circles under his eyes, hair shorn in a brutal crew cut that looks horrendous on him. "You look like hell, John."

"I'll be all right," John says, but he won't meet Dave's eyes and his hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists and turns away, hefts up a box and opens it, rummaging through the contents. He looks like he's shivering, or maybe trembling; exhaustion, possibly, or something worse, some kind of sickness. Withdrawal, Dave wonders, kind of horrified to even be considering it, because this is John, whose biggest vice is a second beer.

Jesus, Dave thinks. What the hell is this? "I can get a lawyer," he says. "Whatever it is, I can get someone to help you with it."

"This is helping," John says. "This is more than I expected." He's still digging through the first box, pulling out peanut butter and jelly and Cheerios, placing them on the counter. "If they ask you -"

"They asked me a couple of weeks ago," Dave says. "I told them I hadn't heard from you and I didn't expect to."

John doesn't flinch at that, but then again Dave hadn't expected him to. Distance can't be measured with only one end point; it takes two people to set the boundaries of a dysfunctional relationship. And yet despite it all, when John had needed help it was Dave he'd called; despite it all, Dave hadn't hesitated to help him.

"I didn't know who else to call," John says into the box, words dragged out reluctantly from tight lips. His hands are still shaking. Dave's starting to get a little worried that he's going to pass out. He hadn't ordered any pizza even though it's obvious he's starving; Dave wonders when he's last eaten. Dave wonders what the hell is going on. John's running scared, and that's just wrong. Dave's never seen John scared of anything at all.

"I don't have a lot of friends here anymore," John says quietly. "None, really. Not any that I'd …" He stops talking and looks at Dave from reddened, exhausted eyes. "I'm a pretty lousy brother, I know that. I wasn't thinking straight, I guess. I shouldn't have gotten you involved."

"You're still not thinking straight," Dave says. He leads John over to the couch, flinching at the feel of John's arm under his, bones far too well defined under the skin. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday," John says. "I think. Maybe the day before. I had a sandwich."

He shrugs like it's nothing, and Dave wants to shake him. "You need to eat," Dave says, frowning. "I'll make you something. Lie down and sleep for a bit. You look like you're going to collapse."

"A little orange juice and I'll be fine," John says, but he folds up on the couch anyway, and is asleep before Dave unearths the old, cheap stoneware plates from the cabinet.

Dave stays for a while longer, but John is sleeping like he's dead, and Dave's loathe to wake him when he so obviously needs the rest. So he leaves a cheese and tomato sandwich on a plate in the fridge, with potato chips and an apple and a big glass of milk. On the counter he leaves an envelope with the $300 he had in his wallet and a prepaid calling card that John can use to buy time at any internet café.

It doesn't feel like much. It doesn't feel like anything. Dave's got all these resources at his disposal but he can't fight something when he doesn't know what it is he's up against. John's life has always been impenetrable to Dave; the older they get the more the gulf between them widens, but that doesn't mean that Dave wouldn't do anything in his power to help John, if he only knew what to do.

But Dave doesn't know what else to do, and he's certain John won't tell him; it's a surprise as it is that John has asked him for this much. Maybe, Dave thinks, maybe it means there are more to these filial ties than either he or John has ever believed.

~

John's kind of a genius, even though he likes to pretend he isn't. This has been a fact of Dave's life ever since they were little, that his brother is much, much smarter than he lets on. But Dave's no intellectual slouch, even if things don't come quite as easily to him as they always have to John. Really, Dave's smarter than most people he knows, more than smart enough to deal with his life and his job while consumed with worry about what's going on with his brother. It's a strange thing to be worried about John, after all these years when he wasn't worried about John at all, when he hadn't really even been thinking about John in any way that mattered. John's been a loose end in Dave's life, a stray thought; now he is in the back of Dave's mind constantly, a dozen years' of inattention reimbursed in days.

Worried as he is, Dave's also smart enough to stay far, far away from the apartment he's stashed John in. He doesn't call, he doesn't stop by, he doesn't make any attempt to initiate contact in any way. Whatever John's gotten himself into, it's got the military breathing down his neck, and Dave doesn't want to be the one that leads the investigators straight to John's door.

John doesn't initiate contact either, which probably means nothing except that John thinks it's unnecessarily risky. Or else he just expects Dave to trust that he can handle himself, like he has since he was 21. There is a lot about John's life that Dave just doesn't know, but he knows some bare facts, that John's seen combat in at least five different countries, more than half the time as a Special Forces operative (which is classified, but this is one of the few things that Dave did have enough money and influence to uncover); it seems ridiculous to think that John can't take care of himself in his own country.

Except there was John's e-mail, and there was John at the pizza place, looking thin and worn and haggard, so maybe there are some things John can't take care of after all. This is why Dave's worried, and it's why he panics uncharacteristically when he gets notified that the military is nosing around the records of his real estate purchases in San Juan and Istanbul and the Ivory Coast. There's nothing to find in any of those places, but if they are looking deep enough to find those holdings, it's only a matter of time before they manage to track down the cruddy little apartment he bought for cash fifteen years ago in New York City.

He is, thank god, already in the city when he gets the e-mail on his Blackberry, and it's just a matter of minutes to reschedule his lunch appointment - Wyatt doesn't mind; they cancel on each other all the time, and have been since business school, but that's what friends are for - and then postpone his afternoon meeting with the investment fund managers, who have nothing but bad news for him anyway, because the market is down, down, down the hell down.

"John," he calls out, letting himself into the apartment, "it's me-" And then he stops in his tracks, words stuck in his throat, because John is at his back and there is a gun nuzzling the base of his skull.

"Jesus, Dave," John says irritably, "call ahead much?" He slams the door shut with his foot and only then drops the gun.

"Overreact much?" Dave says back, but his voice is quavering just a little, because he's never had a gun to his head before, and it's just about as terrifying as he would have guessed. It's surreal to think that this is how John's life goes, that it's like this all the time. It's like a movie, rich kid gone bad, but that's not really true; John hasn't gone bad, he's just gone different.

John is padding through the apartment, dressed in the same jeans and tee shirt he had on when they met in the pizza place, but he looks better, remarkably so, like the only things he's been doing for the past week have been eating and sleeping and working out and maybe using Rogaine, because his hair's grown in more than Dave would have guessed is possible, spiky cowlicks already defiantly popping into place. John shoves the gun casually into the waistband of his jeans where it rests comfortably, like it belongs there, and Dave has a moment where he can't imagine that he is related to John at all, never mind being his twin brother. Fraternal, obviously, but still.

"Not that I don't enjoy seeing you," John says, which is a complete lie, "but what are you doing here?"

"People have been investigating my real estate holdings," Dave says. "You're going to have to leave. It's not safe to stay here anymore."

"Fuck," John says succinctly. "I was hoping for a little more time." But it doesn't look like he was actually expecting to get it. He pulls a rucksack from behind the sofa, and it's already packed. From the fridge he pulls pre-wrapped food and a couple of drinks which he shoves in the rucksack too. "How much cash do you have on you? Small bills are better."

Dave always carries at least a few hundred dollars, but he's only got a little more than a hundred in small denominations. He passes it over wordlessly; John takes it with a frown and shoves it in the front pocket of his jeans. Then he looks up, suddenly awkward, like he's realized this is Dave, not some stranger he is accosting for cash. "I don't know when I'll be able to pay you back."

"It's not going to bankrupt me," Dave says. "I'd give you more if I had it."

"Yeah," John says, "I know you would." He grins then, bright and startling. "You're a much better brother than I deserve. I just want you to know that I do realize that, even if I don't ever say it."

"I don't need you to say it," Dave says. He's a little bit surprised to realize he means it, but then again it would hardly be fair to expect John to articulate something that he himself wouldn't be willing to articulate back. They never have communicated too well with words, never developed one of those secret languages of twins, except maybe the Sheppard Sipher, but Dave still isn't sure that counts.

John grins again, a warm and genuine smile, and for a second he's the John that Dave remembers from when they were young and still understood each other a little bit. But the second is shattered when the door blows in off its hinges, and there are suddenly three more people in the room, all pointing weapons at them.

"Crighton," John snarls, staring at the tallest man, his gun in his hand already, lethal and unwavering, and suddenly so very, very scary.

The man - Crighton - nods his head with a smirk, and glances carelessly at Dave. "You're probably going to want to be leaving now, Mr. Sheppard."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dave says. He means it to sound brave, and maybe it actually sounds that way, but frankly he's mostly terrified at the thought of walking past the people pointing guns in his direction. Well, in John's direction, really, but he has a feeling the men in front of him wouldn't care much if he happened to get shot by accident.

"Don't be stupid, Dave," John says tersely. He has moved in front of Dave, blocking him with his body - John would take a bullet for him, Dave thinks stupidly; John would get shot for him. John would die for him. Jesus. It looks like it is taking every ounce of self-control John possesses not to shoot this Crighton fellow where he stands. Dave wonders if it's his own presence that is holding John back. He thinks it might be, and feels a little ashamed. "You can't do anything here. If they're willing to let you leave, you should leave."

"I don't trust them not to shoot me in the back as I walk down the hall," Dave says honestly. "I'd rather take my chances with you."

Crighton laughs, sounding honestly amused. "Talk about your misplaced loyalty. If you think that thing gives a rat's ass about what happens to you, you're sadly mistaken."

"That thing-" Dave starts. He's furious now, because he doesn't understand John but they are still brothers. "Listen, I don't know what you think John has done-"

"John," Crighton repeats, with an intolerable, smug inflection, like there is something amusing about John's name. "Right. You wouldn't know, and it's not like he'd tell you himself."

"Tell me what himself?" Dave shoots a frustrated glance in John's direction, but John's attention is all on Crighton, sharp and laser-focused. Dave's cell-phone is a light weight in his pocket, tantalizing. If he could just figure out a way to hit 911 without anyone noticing … but he is not brave or foolhardy enough to try it. He also has an idea that the police, if they come, will not be on John's side, because if that was all it would take to save him, a word to the police, John would not be here, holed up in this tiny apartment. "What wouldn't he tell me?"

"Well, for one thing," Crighton says, still light and amused, "that he's not John. That he's not a 'he' at all."

Dave stares at him, at all of them, three nasty looking men with nastier looking weapons, John a few feet away holding out his gun like it's enough to fend off the world, and considers the possibility that he has gone temporarily insane, because none of this is anything like his life. "What?"

"Easier to show you," Crighton says and flicks his head. In an instant, the other two men have opened silent fire, bullets piercing the room, piercing John. Blood sprays everywhere and Dave is too horrified to even scream or move or breathe. He just watches as John's body crumples gracelessly to the ground, red blood staining the floor all around him.

"Clock it," Crighton says casually, while Dave is staring in horror at John's bullet-ridden, lifeless form, fighting back the urge to vomit, or scream, or both.

Crighton walks over to John's body, and kicks the gun out of the way, out of reach of John's crumpled, grasping fingers. "Can't hurt to be too careful," he says, and he sounds indifferent, maybe even amused, like he has not just ordered John's death with a careless tilt of his head.

Dave has heard the expression 'seeing red' before, but he's never experienced it, has never been so enraged that the world has gone pink-tinged and distant and out of focus, pulse thundering in his ears so loudly that everything else around him is muted and indistinct. "Get the fuck away from him," he says, his voice unrecognizable to himself, lips shaping profanity that he never utters. He is trembling, shaking with fury, shattered beyond all sense of self, but he doesn't care because John is lying dead at his feet, and it is Dave who led his killers here.

Dave drops to his knees and hovers over his brother's corpse, lying still and pale and lifeless. It is impossible to believe that John can just be gone like that, all the things that made him so endlessly irritating and complex and fascinating simply snuffed out in a hail of bullets. Dave hasn't understood John for a very long time, but he's always assumed that he was going to get the chance to figure him out some day, maybe after they were both old and grey and crotchety, but still. It was going to happen; it was part of Dave's plan. "John," he chokes out, reaching out to stroke his cheek, bloody and slack but still warm. Dave's other hand comes to rest on John's chest, and that's when he realizes that John is still alive.

Dave's heart stutters in his chest, like John's heart is stuttering under his fingers, a frail, thready beat that's barely discernible under Dave's trembling fingers. It doesn't seem possible that anyone could be alive with so many bullets in him, but the feeble beat of John's heart says otherwise. John is surely dying, must be, but he's alive right now, and that is a distinction too precious to put a price tag on. "Shhh," Dave whispers, carding his fingers through John's messy, sticky hair. "Shhh." He doesn't care that his voice is choked and broken, because John is dying right in front of him, and all he can do is offer thin, pale comfort.

Crighton and his men are talking behind Dave, but he hears only fragments of it through the anger and grief that is rendering him mostly blind and deaf to anything but the faint, infinitesimal rise and fall of John's chest , the fluttering beat of John's struggling heart.

"… at least forty-five minutes…" one of them says.

"…twenty minutes until the cleanup crew gets here…" says another.

"…cuffed and bagged". That's Crighton, and Dave sees red again, feels rage rise up to choke him, wishes he were brave enough to reach for John's gun and turn around and shoot Chrichton in the face, even though it would be suicidal and stupid. But Dave is neither suicidal nor stupid. Though, if the situation were reversed, if it were Dave dying on the floor under John's bloody fingers, John would not hesitate to grab the gun, to shoot, even if in the end it would accomplish nothing.

John's heart stutters again beneath Dave's fingers, once, then twice, and all Dave can do is tighten his hand convulsively in John's hair, press down a little harder on John's chest, and hope that there is some part of John that recognizes that he is not in the end alone. John's heart beats again, stubbornly, and beats again and again, each beat a torment, a tease. It takes many more beats to bring Dave to slow, numb awareness that the faint pounding under his fingers has settled into a steady, strong rhythm, that the almost invisible rise and fall of John's chest is strengthening too.

Dave lets out a choked cry and hunches down over John, shielding him from Crighton's eyes, because surely if Crighton realizes that John is not dead, he'll simply shoot him again and finish the job. "John," he murmurs, and let Crighton make of that what he will, let him mistake it for filial grief instead of a prayer, a plea, though for what, he's not sure, because it is impossible for John to live like this, but still, he is not dead yet.

Air puffs against Dave's cheek, growing stronger, as John - holy Christ - breathes in and out, stronger and stronger with every inhale exhale breathe, John, breathe. Then his body stiffens minutely, tensing, and Dave lets out another choked cry to cover John's cough, shaking like he's crying, hoping it will hide the trembling of the body in his arms. Whatever John is going through, whatever is keeping him alive, it's hurting him. Or maybe that's just the bullet wounds; Jesus, John took a lot of bullets and Dave can't figure out why he's still alive, why he's choking silently in Dave's arms, and this is worse, maybe, than having John dead on the floor in front of him. Dave will never forget the sight of John going down, blood spraying everywhere, but that wasn't nearly the immediate sensory experience this is, having John in his arms, gasping for breaths he shouldn't be alive to take, while Dave's sitting here petrified that Crighton or his men are going to realize any second that they didn't finish the job the first time.

He lets himself sob and it's not much of an act at all, because he's furious and terrified and distraught and that is at least two too many powerful emotions to deal with. John chokes again and then goes suddenly, frighteningly still. Dead, Dave thinks in despair, the magic keeping him alive finally run out, but maybe John at least knew he wasn't alone as he died - he reaches down to close John's eyes, and finds his brother staring back at him, eyes wide and glazed with pain, but focused and aware and impossibly, undeniably alive.

Dave bites back the curse - curses - that want to escape, and keeps his body very, very still, even though, Jesus fuck, it is impossible that John is not dead. John's eyes slide sideways as he turns his head fractionally to the left, sighting the gun with preternatural accuracy, like he knew where it was before he even looked for it. For a second all Dave can think of is the way Crighton had laughed at him and called John a thing, and John hadn't said a word in denial. But then the moment passes because this is John in his arms, improbably alive, but still his brother, and for all Dave knows John is wearing a bullet-proof vest under his tee-shirt because he is that paranoid.

Although it wouldn't be paranoia, would it, if they were really out to get him, and obviously they were, Chrichton and his men, and probably more men behind them; "twenty minutes," one of the goons had said, "until the clean-up crew gets here," and Dave is inexperienced in this, John's world, but he is far from stupid, and a clean-up crew will be more than they can handle. Or, to be honest, it will be more than John can handle, since Dave is under no illusion that he will be very much help. He has no gun, and wouldn't know how to shoot one if he did. All he can do is what he has already done: keep the fact of John's continued existence hidden from Chrichton and his men.

Heavy footfalls. John's eyes slam shut as Crighton appears in the periphery of Dave's vision. He eyes John's motionless form with mild interest, then checks his watch. Apparently satisfied, he turns his attention to Dave. "I'm sorry you had to be here for this, Mr. Sheppard." He sounds anything but sorry.

Dave swallows hard. John is a dead weight in his arms, his chest still, the rapid flutter of his heartbeat under Dave's hand the only thing marking him as still living. "In the movies," Dave says, "that's what they say before they kill you."

Crighton smiles, but there is no humor in it, or if there is, it's a humor that Dave thinks he doesn't want to understand. "Why would we want to kill you?"

Because I saw you murder my brother, Dave thinks, but he's not reckless enough to say it, can all too easily imagine Crighton shooting him as carelessly as he'd ordered his goons to shoot John. But Dave is not wearing any bullet-proof vest.

"There's no reason for us to kill you," Crighton says lightly. He glances down at John again, then checks his watch one more time, nodding to himself as if something has been revealed. "Frankly, Mr. Sheppard, killing you would be a waste. You're a powerful man, with powerful friends. We'd rather keep you around for the future. You never know when it might come in handy, knowing someone in the energy industry."

"You-" Dave chokes out. "You killed my brother. You think that I would - that I would ever -"

"That," Crighton says, "is not your brother. I assure you, Mr. Sheppard, your brother is alive and well."

Dave looks at him, really looks at him, for surely there has to be some sign of insanity visible in a person so completely psychotic. But Crighton simply stares back at him, small, smarmy smile fixed in place, his eyes cool and penetrating, but clear, and there's no sign of insanity in him at all. Dave's sitting on the floor holding his should-be-dead-but-not-dead brother in his arms, and John's murderer is standing a few feet away saying that John is alive and well.

Dave blinks a few times and wonders, when he wakes up, which parts of this dream are going to seem the most absurd.

"I really am sorry that you were here for this," Crighton repeats, though he still doesn't sound sorry at all. "Believe me, if we had any other way to subdue it" - there's an emphasis there, a sneer evident even in the one short syllable, that makes Dave recoil - "we would have used it. But we couldn't risk it getting away again."

"You're crazy," Dave says sincerely. He clutches John tighter, and is reassured to feel the heartbeat still there beneath his fingers, stronger now than before, settled into a steady and reassuring rhythm. "You murdered my brother in front of me, and now you're trying to get me to believe this isn't him? You're all crazy."

"No," Crighton says, and he sounds for the first time a little bit honestly regretful. "Though there are a lot of times I think it would make my job easier if I were." He turns back to his men, who are standing around looking bored. "Time?"

"Four minutes," one of them says, without checking any sort of watch Dave can see.

Crighton nods and turns back to Dave. "We're going to have to bring you in with us, of course. I'm sure you understand that under the circumstances we can't just let you walk out of here."

In Dave's arms, John stiffens, and there is cold metal suddenly pressing into the skin of Dave's belly. He glances down; it's the butt of a gun; John's gun, that was kicked off to the side. John must have reached for it when Crighton's back was turned, reached out without looking, in that split second when Crighton's attention was elsewhere.

The spot on the floor where the gun was is empty now, glowing in a cold patch of bright sunlight, and Dave is sure Crighton is going to notice, because he might be crazy but he is also very, very astute; can't be too careful, he'd said, and kicked the gun away, because he knew what Dave had not then known, that bullets might not be enough to kill John, even as many bullets as they'd used. He'd kicked the gun away, because he'd known John might survive, but he hadn't guessed John would be awake and aware again so quickly, and maybe that will be his one, fatal error.

Because John, John whose blood is drying, tacky, on Dave's fingers, John who is maybe not quite human, John who Crighton calls it, John is lying in Dave's arms with his pale, bloodied fingers wrapped around a gun like it is enough to save them both, and maybe it is enough to save John, if Crighton and his men are human too, but Dave is not so sure it is enough to save him; he is, so far as he knows, entirely, thoroughly human, and bullets piercing his chest will kill him. The question is, then, does this maybe inhuman John in Dave's lap care enough about Dave to save him too?

Dave knows the answer as soon as he frames the question. Of course John cares enough; he always has. When they were younger, John took the blame for a hundred things they'd done wrong together - no sense both of us getting grounded, he'd say, even on those rare instances when the fault had been primarily Dave's - and then, after grounding, he'd sneak out the window of their room, free climbing down three stories of ivy-covered walls, hot wiring his motorcycle when the keys had been taken as punishment; Dave would hear him leave, those nights, the roar of the motorcycle muted where John had walked it down to the end of the driveway, and he'd never known then whether to be envious or resentful.

John had done it even younger, of course, saying, It was my fault, Dad; don't get mad at Dave, and Dave had always let him get away with it, even when they were eight years old, because John handled punishment better than Dave; he always had; it rolled over him like it was nothing.

All the ways in which John has changed, but this is not one of them, because earlier, when Crighton pulled out his gun, John had been there in front of Dave, shielding him. Now, maybe for the first time ever, Dave is shielding John, but not for long. John's tensing in his arms, and his grip has tightened around the butt of the gun, fingers going white with pressure. This is going to be it, then, John's last chance, and all Dave has to do is not screw it up. Dave, as it happens, is uncommonly good at not screwing up.

"People are expecting me," Dave says. His voice sounds loud and unnatural to his own ears, but at least appropriately fearful. "If I don't come back."

"You'll come back," Crighton says, vaguely amused again. "Safe and sound, Mr. Sheppard. I already told you, you might come in handy."

He turns his back then, stupidly, and that is when John stretches out his arm and shoots him in the head, one clean shot in one swift motion. Crighton falls in a grotesque, messy heap, and his two men are taken off-guard just long enough for John to shoot them, too, one in the forehead and one through the eye.

Dave chokes, and gags, because there are bodies and brain matter all over the floor, and these are things he never, ever wanted to see. To his immense relief, he does not actually throw up, but it is a very near thing.

John is up out of Dave's lap in an instant, his movements betraying no sign of discomfort at all, except for the frowns that cross his face when he checks each of the bodies and finds them, presumably, very dead.

"They won't," Dave starts, then coughs, and says it again, more steadily, "they won't come back, will they?" Like you did, he doesn't say, though it's obviously there behind the words.

"No," John says shortly. He is stripping off the wreckage of his tee shirt. The hair on his chest is matted with blood, Dave sees, but underneath there is no sign of a wound at all and that's really no more of a surprise at this point than the lack of a bullet-proof vest beneath the shirt. "They're not coming back. But there are other people coming. We have to be gone before they get here."

"John," Dave says, because he can't help it, "you were shot."

"I know," John answers. He's pulling a new tee shirt on, not even bothering to wipe off any of the blood off his chest, and Dave shivers involuntarily, remembering the feel of John's heart shuddering under his fingers.

"You were shot. You were dying. And now you're … you're not even … Crighton called you it. He said you weren't human."

"I'm human," John says. He sounds tired, and he won't meet Dave's eyes. "Or close enough." He sighs, long and slow, bending down to pick up all the guns, prying them out of the grips of the dead men. "It's complicated."

"I'll bet," Dave says. He can't look at John right now, but it's no safer to look at the corpses on the floor. "I need to change," he says. "I can't go out like this."

"We don't have time," John says, but then he stops and stares at Dave, at the blood on Dave's fingers and the blood all over his clothes. John's face goes stiff and frightened then, and he is eerily still. "Are you hurt?" he asks. His voice sounds strangled, like the fear in his eyes has reached down his throat and is choking out all the air. "Are you cut anywhere?"

"No," Dave says jerkily. John is spooking him. "No, it's all your blood, John."

This does not seem to reassure John, who jerks toward him and grabs at his shirt, ripping it off over his head roughly enough to leave friction burns. "Anywhere, Dave, are you cut anywhere? Did you cut yourself shaving? Do you have a god damn paper cut?"

"No," Dave says, "no, I don't. John, what the hell-"

But John isn't listening; he's lost in some kind of fugue where sound and light and sense don't seem to penetrate, and there is only desperate, insistent action. John drags him across the room into the bathroom and shoves him, bodily, into the shower, then turns on the water and cranks the knob to the left, past hot and onto scalding.

Dave flinches. He is getting parboiled. "John, stop, what are you-"

"Strip," John says, and that voice brooks no disagreement. He is persistent and furious and scared. "Get all your clothes off. Keep the water on as hot as you can stand it." He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. He looks like he's about to fall to pieces.

It's all scaring the hell out of Dave. "John-"

"Strip!" John repeats. His voice is rough and desperate. "Jesus, Dave, for once in your life, just listen to me. Christ," he says, turning away, "I didn't even think … I was so stupid."

Dave tugs off his sodden, heavy clothing, feeling vaguely like he is back in the high school locker room. He's fascinated in a sick sort of way by the water swirling pinkly down the drain; John's blood draining away, he thinks, liquid life, seeping down into the pipes, and Christ, Sheppard, morbid much? He shifts his attention with a fierce mental wrench, focusing instead on washing as quickly and thoroughly as he can, under the bright stinging water set hot enough to scald, and tries not to imagine what has his brother so scared. But not imagining is hard - there is only one thing that comes to mind, and it is harder, somehow, to not imagine only one thing instead of many. Anyway, it can hardly be said that John is sick, exactly; John's sort of anti-sick, actually, but it can't be that simple, because if that's all it is, why would he be so scared for Dave? Dave wouldn't mind being the sort of anti-sick that lets you walk away from bullet wounds, but John is nervous, John is terrified, so there is more going on than just that. What more there could be is something else Dave does not want to imagine. "Are you infectious?"

"No," John says. "Not in the way you're thinking. But if you were cut - Christ, Dave, are you absolutely sure?"

"I'm sure," Dave says, and he is. He would say it even if he weren't, though, because John looks like the wrong answer will shatter him, and Dave does not want worry for him to be the one thing that causes John to break. "No paper cuts, no cuts from shaving, nothing."

John does not appear to relax, but he turns off the water and shoves a towel into Dave's hands. "Get dressed. We've got to get out of here."

"My clothes are wrecked," Dave says pragmatically, scraping the towel across over-sensitive skin. He is parboiled.

John has already thought of clothing. "Wear these," he says, and tosses a pair of jeans and a tee shirt in Dave's direction.

Dave recognizes them as items he purchased online for John, which means they will be at least one size too small. He takes them anyway, because there is no choice, and forces them on over still-damp skin, then shoves the baseball cap John gives him low down over his head, like John would wear it. He feels nothing like himself, and the lack of underwear does not help.

Damp but dressed, Dave follows John back out into the living room. "What are you going to do about them?" He inclines his head in the general direction of the three bodies on the floor, but manages to avoid looking directly at them, even though not looking doesn't help. He can still see them in his head, bullet-ridden and glassy-eyed. Dead. Whatever magic has been done to John, it has not been extended to the men sent to capture him.

"Nothing," John says. He picks up the backpack. "No time. They're going to know I was here anyway. My blood's all over the place." He gives only the briefest look at Crighton's crumpled body. "Don't waste any sympathy on them, Dave. They don't deserve it."

Dave follows John out the door and down onto the street. John relaxes somewhat when they are several blocks away and lost in a crowd of people. At least, Dave thinks, John has relaxed to the point that he no longer appears to be in imminent danger of shooting someone. Dave does not relax at all. He is thinking of John barely sparing a glance at the men he'd killed, and trying to reconcile that with the boy who'd splinted broken legs on squirrels and nursed baby birds to health. "What did they do to you?" He is not at all sure he wants to know, but he remembers how John looked a week ago: haunted and hunted. It does not take an especially vivid imagination to conjure up ideas of what a man like Crighton might do to a man like John, if given the chance.

John shrugs, deliberately casual, and maybe that would have fooled Dave, once upon a time, but twenty minutes ago he was holding John's broken body in his arms, and he sort of doubts that John will ever be able to fool him again. "They wanted to know how I worked. How much I could take, how long it would take for me to heal."

Dave is horrified but not surprised, except that John is admitting it so easily. "They tortured you?"

"They didn't call it that," John says. "Not to me, probably not even to themselves. They called it 'gathering experimental data'." He goes silent for half a block, watching every person who passes them through the relative security of his sunglasses. "After a while, I was wishing I'd heal slower, just to get a break."

"They didn't give you anything for the pain?" Dave knows it's a stupid question as soon as it falls, stumbling, from his lips. Obviously they had not given him anything for the pain. Obviously it had hurt. Dave can see it in the set of John's jaw. It looks like just remembering hurts.

John laughs, sort of. At least, he makes a sound which Dave thinks might resemble a laugh, if a laugh could be twisted and bent and broken, then put back together wrong. "Painkillers? No. That was part of the data they were gathering. How I reacted to pain. How I dealt with it." He's silent again, waiting for the light to change. When it does, he crosses the street without looking to see if Dave's following. "You know what the worst of it was? It was the way they just didn't care. Crighton, he'd … I'd be screaming, and he'd just be standing there watching, clocking it, like it was nothing."

"Jesus," Dave swears, and he means it, fervently. "Jesus, John, how long …"

John shrugs again. He is leading them through the city, but to where, Dave doesn't know. That's the thing about Manhattan, Dave thinks, you can get to everywhere from anywhere.

"Ten months," John says. "Give or take. Not that I could tell, in there. They messed with mealtimes, kept the lights on all night, shit like that." He's silent for a minute then, glancing at Dave from the corner of his eye. "You all right?"

"No," Dave says honestly, because this, somehow, after all he has seen and done today, this is the thing that is too much to take. Ten months is just not possible, because six months ago, Dad died, and John was there. Dave had spoken to him, Dave had fought with him, yelled at him about money and responsibility and familial duty and stupid, stupid things, so John could not have been locked up somewhere, being tortured, when he was in Connecticut, annoying Dave. "Dad's funeral, John. You were there."

"No," John sighs, though his lack of shock shows that at least he knew Dad was dead. "That wasn't me."

"Not you," Dave echoes faintly. They walk along for a little bit. "So, there are two of you?" It is ridiculous; he feels ridiculous saying it, but it is the only explanation that makes any kind of sense, even though it doesn't make any sense at all. John has a twin brother already and it is Dave. But there was Crighton, smirking. He'd murdered John in front of him and then said, "I assure you, Mr. Sheppard, your brother is alive and well." Dave runs his hand through his hair, which doesn't help at all.

John shoves his hands down deep in his pockets, and shrugs. "Yeah."

Dave walks on, blindly. He can't think of a thing to say that won't sound absurd. "Clone?" he finally manages.

"No," John says, but he doesn't say anything like, "don't be ridiculous," or "that's impossible," which is the kind of thing he should say, in a world that still made sense.

Just for a moment, Dave wants to ask, Are you the real one? but he supposes he doesn't need to. If there are two of John - and for the moment, he is willing to entertain the possibility - then one of them was artificially created, somehow; isn't quite human. The John at the funeral had seemed real enough, shifty and irritable, and this John seems real enough too, but less than an hour ago, he'd been bleeding out in Dave's arms, and now he's walking around, not even limping.

"I should have known," is what Dave finally ends up saying. He feels a flash of real regret. "John would never call me for help."

"Hey," the other man - who the hell is he? - says. He sounds affronted. "I did, so he would. That part of us is the same." He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, and that is so John that Dave feels a wave of disorientation. "Look, he doesn't know I'm here, all right? He'd be pissed if he knew I dragged you into this." He grins ruefully. "He'd be right to be angry, too. It was a stupid idea. I just didn't … I didn't have anyone else to call, and I thought they'd figure I wouldn't ever … but in the back of my mind, you were always the one I'd trust for … " He sighs. "For anything."

Dave looks away, a surge of emotion twisting into life somewhere deep inside, difficult and conflicted. He wonders if John, this John, would feel the same if he'd been there at the funeral, if he'd heard Dave's bitter accusations. Maybe he would. It's the sort of thing John would do, to forgive and forget, no matter the provocation. John's loyalty, once earned, is a hard thing to shake. "He knows about you, then?" His voice is rougher than he'd like, but there's no help for it. He never was as good as hiding his emotions as John.

John nods tersely. "Yes."

Dave swallows. "Does he know you were being held prisoner and tortured?"

"I don't think so," John says, but it's a little slower than it should be, more reluctant, like he's not entirely certain but doesn't want to admit it. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't."

"Then," Dave says slowly, "why didn't you call him?"

"He's not the easiest person to get a hold of," John says mildly. "He's not in a position to help now, anyway. He already helped me more than he should." He pauses, squints at Dave, and bites his lip. "It'd be a risk he can't afford to take."

But he would, Dave thinks. John would risk it, because it's what he does. And because this John knows that John at least as well as Dave does, this John won't ask. It's giving Dave a headache.

"Look," Dave says, "I won't pretend I understand any of this. You say you're not a clone; okay, fine, you're not, but … hell, John. You knew the cipher. You stepped in front of a gun for me, and that's just the sort of stupid, suicidal thing that John would …" He frowns. "You're obviously some kind of copy, and I guess that makes you my brother, sort of. You need help. I can-"

"No," John says. "No way in hell. You're done with this, Dave. Just … go back to your office. Go back to your life. Crighton was a sadistic son of a bitch, but he was right when he said you're no use to them dead. You'll be safe enough. A hell of a lot safer when I'm gone."

"But where -" Dave stops, because John is not an idiot in any incarnation. "Okay, you're probably not going to tell me where you're going."

John flashes him a wry little grin. "Nope."

"Right," Dave says. He scuffs his shoe against the ground. Just for a second, he remembers the feel of John shuddering in his arms, gasping for breath; he remembers Crighton slumping to the ground, his brain exploding grotesquely from his forehead. "Just be careful, all right?"

"Believe it or not," John says, "I usually am."

Dave does believe it. John is anything but reckless; it's just that his acceptable risk/reward ratio is a little larger than most people's. And, well, it's also true that John's definition of reward is a little looser than everybody else's. "Be extra careful, then," Dave says. "You know, like a normal person would be careful."

John grins. "I'll do my best." Then his grin fades. "You need to get checked out by a doctor, Dave. Sooner rather than later."

Dave rolls his eyes. "Yes, mom."

John looks like he wants to hit him. Not hard, but still. "I'm serious. You can't just see your internist about this. You need a good doctor who'll know what to look for." John frowns, thinking. "I'll call some people."

Now it's Dave's turn to frown. "The people you're not calling to help you?"

"It's different," John says. "They'll take care of you, make sure there's nothing wrong. They're good people, Dave. This isn't their fault."

Dave feels mulish and irritable. "And yet you're still not asking them to help you."

"They don't trust me," John says. He shrugs. "They're probably right not to." He looks away, across the street, where a subway sign looms large and green over the thronging pedestrians. "But I trust them."

John's hefting his backpack, and his eyes are already distant. Dave knows that this is it, this is as close to a goodbye as he is going to get. He also knows that he will probably never see this John again; he will never know the truth of what he is. Dave grabs for his arm, and pulls him close. He looks deep into John's eyes, and all he can see is John, not a clone, not a copy, not a fake. "Who are you? Really?"

John looks at him, considering. Then he says with a sort of lopsided grin, "I'm John Sheppard. That's who they made me to be, so I guess that's who I am."

"Who made you? How is that even possible?"

John shakes his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I might," Dave says stubbornly, but it's futile. If John has decided not to tell him, that's pretty much the end of it. If Dave is ever going to find out the truth, it'll be from someone else. "Look, I just want to know. Are there more of you? Am I going to get another message from another one of you one day?"

John looks a little startled. "I hope to hell not."

"Not quite as definitive a 'no' as I'd hoped for," Dave says wryly.

"It's the best I can do," John says.

They don't embrace, because they are Sheppards, even if one of them has been somehow manufactured. Dave just sticks out his hand, and John takes it. His handshake feels exactly the same as always, firm and even, with calluses in all the same spots. For a second Dave considers that this is all a huge practical joke, but then he remembers John's heart beating under his own bloodied hands, and knows that it is not.

"Take care of yourself," he calls out to John's retreating back. John just lifts a hand in reply, and that is the last Dave sees of him.

Epilogue

~~~