Sunset

"It hasn't hit me yet… and I'm not looking forward to it when it does."

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard: Sunday

The red glow of the setting sun did nothing to comfort him. Truth be told, he wasn't surprised. Right now, he doubted anything would.

John Sheppard leaned hard on the East Pier railing. His elbows were locked… tense, much as the rest of his body. He flexed his fingers slowly, his mind registering the stinging sensation his raw knuckles were complaining about. Should have that looked at… know I'll get an earful from… He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard.

Carson.

His head dropped. The pain of grief was there. Raw and unrelenting, he had no choice but to face it. Everything had been so hectic. The damage, the people killed... everything that he had to handle as Atlantis' CO. He'd been able to shut his feelings out; find something else to focus on. But with the passing of time, things were starting to move towards normal. Deep inside him the persistent anguish weighed down on him... and he no longer had an excuse to turn away from it. So many times since Carson's death, his thoughts had turned to the Scottish doctor and each time he'd turned away, refusing to go down that road... refusing to face it. But, alone on the East Pier, his thoughts once more turned to Carson... and he let them free.

His mind played back the events of that Sunday. Carson's fishing trip, the animated smile on his face when he promised to bring back a record breaking Pegasus trout, the calm air he radiated amidst the chaos. John's grip on the railing tightened. Damn it, Carson, you didn't have to die! Anger surged through him and he cursed the stoic bravery in his friend; the refusal to give up on Watson's life... the raw guts he had to do what he did. John shook his head. He'd seen soldiers with less courage than that one civilian doctor and part of him couldn't help but admire Carson's strength.

But, then again, John always knew Carson was strong. He had to be, they all did... especially the ones on the original expedition team. He'd faced the unknown, knowing that he could die, just like all of them. But it was more than that.

"There are two kinds of strength, John."

John looked down at his mother's loving expression. Her smile was fond.

Her hand came to rest over his heart. "Make sure you're as strong or even stronger here," her hand moved to squeeze his bicep, "as you are here. And make sure you look for both strengths in the people you meet."

A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. She'd been right, but then again, he couldn't remember many times when she hadn't been. Through his life, he'd seen both strengths, yet in Carson he'd truly seen the meaning of his mother's words. In Carson there had been a quiet, unconquerable spirit that had remained unfazed in spite of everything Pegasus had thrown at them. John had been amazed that someone so strong could be so compassionate, but he'd come to admire and respect the dichotomy... and see it for the beautiful thing it was.

He flexed his hands again, his gaze settling on the dried blood on his knuckles. Anger had been what had led him here. Anger at himself for not doing something to stop his friend, at fate for the truly asinine way Carson had died... and anger at Carson for dying in the first place. Not even an hour ago, his thoughts had touched on his friend... and with it came a flood of rage that he no longer could turn away from. His rage had been the first step, the first door that he'd opened into his grief and it might have been the last, had he not found something to vent it on, besides the window in his quarters, which he barely refrained from doing...

John stormed into the gym, ignoring the surprised looks from a couple of his men and ready to beat the shit out of the first target that presented itself. Hanging strategically in the corner a stout punching bag became that target; the one outlet he could focus on. He never broke stride as he approached the bag, and soundly buried his left fist in it. The punch was like the breaking of a dam and his right fist followed suit. "God damn it!" He was vaguely aware of the two soldiers hastily exiting the gym and leaving him alone, but he didn't care. His gaze focused on the punching bag and his blows rained down on it as every curse imaginable flowed from his mouth. Only when sweat streaked his face and mixed with the blood on his knuckles, stinging him back to reality, did he stop. Exhausted his arms dropped to his sides and he stood there, chest heaving, as the bag swung absently back and forth. He left the gym, seeking someplace he could be alone...

John turned around and leaned heavily on the railing. His throat closed around each breath he roughly pulled in and his eyes burned. The weight of his grief pushed on him and he slowly sank to the deck. He rested his head against the center rail; his arms draped haphazardly over his knees as the death of his friend finally and fully hit him.

For a long time, John had believed that real men never cried. But, as the years, and his fair share of loss, passed by, he came to realize that real men did cry. Maybe not with an audience, but that didn't make it less real. Damn it, Carson... he shook his head, his vision blurring. He'd been helpless to stop the doctor from doing what he did and loosing his life for it, and that made John all the more upset. Helplessness was something he never accepted, never got used to and never took lying down. Carson had been his friend; a conscientious voice of compassion that kept him grounded in the reality of what really was right, when sometimes it seemed the only solution to the peril they constantly faced, was the morally ambiguous one. And yet, for all his compassion and dedication to the sanctity of life, Carson still knew when reality sometimes wasn't compatible with his beliefs. The strength and wisdom to realize that, and to take action only furthered John's respect and even admiration of the soft spoken Scottish doctor. And now? John squeezed his eyes shut against the pain of loss that cramped his gut.

He swallowed hard and blinked as he heard the nearby door open. After a long moment, when he didn't hear the expected footsteps, he looked up, his gaze focusing on Ronon, standing in the opened doorway. John stared at his friend for a moment, before looking away, suddenly finding a fascinating interest in the dried blood on his knuckles. Only then, did he hear slow, heavy footsteps as Ronon walked up to him. He could sense the big Satedan standing over him, feel his eyes on him, but John didn't look up.

"Thought I'd find you here."

A fleeting and pitifully weak moment of surprise penetrated his sorrow. "Thought no one would." He could hear the thickness of emotion in his voice and cleared his throat quietly.

What passed for a soft grunt preceded Ronon's words. "Overheard two Marines near the gym talkin' about you and a punching bag. Didn't find you there, so I thought you'd probably be off somewhere on your own. You told me before that the best view of the ocean was from the East Pier. It's secluded. Figured you'd be here."

John winced slightly. "Yeah, wasn't exactly the model of restraint earlier..." he sighed. "So, you found me. Gotta be less predictable." John's quip was weak. He heard a faint rustling as Ronon squatted in front of him.

"You okay?"

John closed his eyes for a moment and pursed his lips tightly before finally looking up at his friend. He saw Ronon's gaze narrow slightly as he presumably noticed the deep redness John knew colored his eyes. "No, buddy, I'm not." Ronon's gaze stayed stoic, but John thought he caught a glint of compassion.

"Didn't think so." Ronon slowly sat down across from where John was sitting. He pulled his knees up and locked his arms around them. "Took you long enough," he commented quietly.

Curiosity got the best of John and he narrowed his gaze at his friend. "Long enough to what?"

Ronon looked him directly in the eye. "Face it."

John stared at the knowing look in Ronon's eyes for a moment longer before looking away. "Too much going on. We had deaths, funerals, next of kin to notify, security issues... medical ones..." his voice trailed off as his throat tightened again. He stared intently at the nearby doorway back into the city and swallowed hard. "Damn it, Ronon, I should've done something... anything."

"You couldn't." Ronon reasoned quietly.

"I know," John whispered, "but I should've." He let the silence between them linger for a long moment as he took in the intricate details of the door.

"Sheppard... John."

Ronon's quiet voice demanded John's attention. He looked back at his friend.

"Don't do this. It doesn't change anything."

John's gaze narrowed slightly at the wisdom he heard from his normally quiet friend. Ronon must've seen it because his brows arched slightly.

"I watched Melina die, Sheppard and spent years second guessing what I did... what I could've done..." He leaned forward slightly his gaze boring into John's. "Don't do that to yourself."

John was at a loss for words as he stared at the sincerity he saw in Ronon's eyes. He supposed Ronon knew what he was talking about; the grief of loosing someone he loved that deeply left scars.

"Did you leave someone back on Sateda? Wife?"

"Close enough..."

He settled for nodding silently as again, his hands became the center of his focus. He swallowed hard against the persistent lump that was lodged in his throat.

"Can I tell you something?" Ronon asked.

John looked up, his brow arching slightly. "Always."

Ronon looked away from him, his gaze growing distant as he stared out across the ocean. "Melina was..." he sighed deeply. "When I was running, I didn't care if I lived or died because without her..." Ronon's head dropped and he shook it slightly. "It hurts to lose people you care about. I cried, Sheppard. A lot."

John took a moment to process Ronon's round about way of talking before he nodded slightly, his vision blurring in response to a new wave of grief that washed over him. His head dropped as he felt a drop of hot wetness hit his hand, then another. "He was my friend, Ronon," John whispered. "He was there from the beginning, we all were... are... family." John closed his eyes, letting the tears come freely. "I feel like I lost a brother." His eyes still closed, John lifted his head and let it rest on the railing behind him. He felt tears trickle down his cheeks an instant before he felt a warm grip on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked down at Ronon's strong hand.

"You did lose a brother, Sheppard." Ronon answered quietly.

John nodded and closed his eyes again. He didn't know how long he sat there, letting the grief flow out of him, but Ronon's grip on his shoulder never wavered. Even though the Satedan didn't say a word, John felt the strength of his support. When at last, John sat forward, the sun was gone and the pier was bathed in a soft moonlight.

Ronon let go of his shoulder and stood. "Ready?"

John looked up, barely making out Ronon's features in the darkness. He drew in a deep cleansing breath and held his hand up to Ronon. "Yeah." He winced at his stiff muscles as Ronon easily pulled him to his feet.

John held Ronon's forearm a moment longer and stared him directly in the eyes. "Thanks." Even in the dim light, he could see Ronon's slight smile.

"Sure."

John let go and started towards the door only to stop as Ronon spoke again.

"Sheppard?"

John turned and stared at the silhouette of his friend. "Yeah?"

"You ever tell anyone about me crying, I'll kill you."

In spite of the pain he knew he'd carry for a while yet, John managed a small smile. "I don't doubt it." He turned and headed for the door, holding his small smile as Ronon fell in beside him.

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Author's notes: Well, it didn't take long for that muse to hit me after seeing Sunday cries

All words in italics, except the words of John's mother, are taken directly from the Atlantis Episode: Sunday. I don't claim ownership to them!