Hi! This is my very first Stargate Atlantis fic, so I am somewhat nervous about having got the characters right. Please tell me what you think about it. The poem "High Flight" was wonderfully composed by John G. Magee Jr. in 1941 and I have no rights to it whatsoever. It's being used today as the official poem of the Canadian Forces Air Command and the Royal Air Force. First-Year Cadets at the US Air Force Academy have to learn it by heart (Wikipedia).

No copyright infringement intended.

So...now I hope you like this story! (= Oh, and English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any wonky grammar.

Sachita

Summary: While stationed in Antarctica, Sheppard meets a scientist who could use some lessons in humility, realizes why he loves it there and thinks about flying.

Warning: This might be somewhat of an AU, see why below.

Edit: Thanks for the review and the advice, lh. As I've been correctly told , there is no evidence in the show that Sheppard is a math genius. So this story is possibly somewhat of an AU...because I sort of made him to a math genius. So a word of warning that this might not really be canon. Thanks again for telling me. Somehow fanon became muddled in my head with canon...so I'll hope you'll forgive me for that AU bit. However, this story is mainly not about Sheppard as a sort of math genius, but rather about his love for the sky and for flying.

Blue Simplicity

***

McMurdo, Antarctica

Antarctica, Sheppard had soon learned, was different from just about everywhere he had ever been.

Everything was different there, as neutral as the white ice plains and as subdued as the grayish sky outside when the weather was bad. When he had first arrived there by helicopter, staring anywhere but at the pilot's hands on the controls next to him, he had realized with detached indifference that it didn't matter to him where he ended up.

It had turned out to be different. Even though he had come in in an uncontrolled crash, straight from the front lines of the war on terror, trailing a dust tail of tears and crimson sand behind him, no-one seemed to notice. Instead he was met with a dull silence. Not a necessarily cold one, no, but an indifferent one.

Everyone was hustling and bustling about on that new base and there seemed to be a certain inequality – while the scientists (John had never been stationed with civilians on a base before and he was surprised at how little he noticed them but that could be due to them being everywhere and nowhere all the time) were possessed by some kind of hectic energy that left them noticing less than they were supposed to, the military men on the base were as unmotivated as the scientists were not. They seemed to be drained, lacking the power to do anything but sitting in the mess hall when they were off-duty and staring at the snowflakes.

No-one, John had soon learned further, wished to be stationed here; they all just ended up being so- exempting some. The scientists were a different matter, though, and sometimes, when no-one was there and all the grey-floored hallways were cold and empty, John sneaked into their labs. He didn't turn the ancient lights on because they hummed quite obscenely and loudly - for all the innovative and advanced stuff the scientists were said to be mumbling about, which, at least for them, was absolutely classified and strictly hush-hush (Sgt. Peters swore if you asked him that he had heard them talking about rings you could go through to meet aliens, but then again Sgt. Peters also believed that eating alphabet soup is bad for the identity), they were sometimes remarkably backwards.

It was not as if he believed that the equations were really important or even difficult, if they left them on their blackboards for the entire world to see. No, the real important ones were surely safe on a hard-drive somewhere, in the top-secret facility that John's flights often took him to. It was only him and another pilot who had that job. If less people knew about it, less people had to be silenced when everything went to hell. Not that John cared much about their research. He had always known how to blend in when time called for it.

He took his pocket lamp with him on his nightly excursions into the labs and then, when he slipped past the door and breathed in the smell of linoleum and chalk, he always felt marginally better. He could forget about all that had happened in between and he was 25 again, had just freshly graduated from the Academy and there was nothing but him and the sky. Or, if he wanted to, he could turn time even farther back to when he had been at the Academy, drinking in equations and their practical usage and standing in front of the blackboard, practically shaking with excitement as his fingers touched the chalk and he wrote numbers after numbers. They marched across the blackboard to form individual, beautiful combinations that made John smile with glee, just because. Just because it made sense and just because the feeling of having solved a difficult equation was a bit like the rush of flying, the feeling of no boundaries and no-one to hold him back as he sailed through the sky. The others had never understood his love for math, but they had tolerated his ways for he was also the one that got them both into the biggest of scrapes and again out of them.

"Yeah, with Sheppard you can have lots of fun," they'd said, cuffing his head affectionately. "Oh and you can come to him with your math problems, too. A real mystery man, that's our Shep." And John had smiled, that easy, lazy smile that he had learned early on, the smile that no-one could see through. And then there had been the sky. Wide and blue with only a little white wisp of clouds at the edges and he was the one controlling it, with sweaty hands on the controls and damn nearly teary-eyed as he pulled the plane up, spinning, dancing, flying. No-one would ever take the sky from him. And no-one ever had.

***

That realization sobered him quickly and as he came back to the present, he realized that his hands were shaking. He relinquished his hold on the suddenly slippery stick of chalk and stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers. Looking at the blackboard, he saw that the equation the scientists had been working on was finished, but the rush of memories that had come with it had as quickly dissipated as it had come. It had been a rush of memories, nothing else, and it could never be like that again. The days when he had graduated from the Academy, ( laughing into the wide blue Colorado sky, smiling and waving as a F-16 raced by in the distance, ignoring the funny looks he received for his goofiness) the day when he had married Nancy (she had smiled at him brilliantly, looking radiant in her white wedding dress while the sun had been shining on her brown, neatly arranged hair and as he had looked at her he had felt his heart overflow with pride and burst with love) - hell, he had loved her once upon a time but he had never loved her more than he loved the sky- the day when he had been on his first plane, the day…

He heard a distressed sound and realized that it must have been him. Suddenly struck by how empty the room was and how glaringly white the chalk numbers on the blackboard, he took a quick step back. No. He could never go back to who he had been. What was he doing here? Why had he stayed in the Air Force if he didn't even know-

***

Voices outside made him tense. He had not expected anyone except the skeleton crew to be up at this hour of night. Stealthily he slipped into the hallway and hid behind a pillar.

"…the data shows exactly what the problem is, I don't understand how you can't see it when it is so glaringly obvious, but no, of course not, of course Rodney McKay has to solve the problem. Why do you people have to be so slow all the time? It's not as if I can be in a dozen places at once, though maybe that's what I should invent, a machine that splits me into a dozen me's, who can be everywhere at the same time!"

"Heaven forbid," the other man answered dryly with a heavy accent that sounded distinctly Russian and John hid a smirk, because he was good in face of so much self-confidence.

That McKay sounded like he could use some lessons in humility. John tuned the two out and was just thinking of a way to pass the open door without the two noticing- although his past experiences had shown that the scientists rarely paid much attention, he could just pretend to be on guard duty- wait a minute. He really could pretend he was on guard duty.

Mentally thanking his lucky stars for his habit to take the gun-holster with him even if he was off-duty- he had found out that being alert all the time beat the alternative any day even if it was only on a remote research station in the middle of nowhere- he walked out into the hallway, adapting an easy stride. He was nearly past the labs' door and was very nearly smirking at his luck or at the scientists' blindness when-

***

"Hey! You! Air or whatever- Army Person!"

He tensed, too agitated to be insulted at being referred to as Army Person, but forcing himself to stay calm.

If they found out what he had done- how the hell could he have been so damned stupid?-it could cost him his commission, could cost him his job, and could cost him the sky. He raced through the worst-case scenarios with a mathematical-analytical approach and came to the result that keeping cool was the best option now. Things rarely made him lose his calm, but the sky was all that he had left.

"Yes?" he said, turning to the two scientists who were now standing in the door frame.

"Is this area surveyed by cameras?" the sturdier-built of the two demanded, not even bothering to introduce himself. Damn. Cameras, John thought, and if the situation hadn't been so dire, he would have slapped himself for having been so stupid.

The slighter man at his side snorted and stepped forward, raising earnest blue eyes under glasses to look at John. "I'm sorry. This is Rodney McKay and my name is Radek Zelenka. You see, someone must have come into the labs and altered some of our equations, well improved them more, which is why-"

"Yes, yes, yes," the other scientist, McKay, a man at least in his mid-thirties with a receding hair-line and hectic blue eyes, snapped impatiently. "Nice to meet you and all that, and what did you say your name was-"

"Major John Sheppard," John managed to squeeze in, before McKay continued, waving his hands.

"-but we really have to go to the surveillance room, if you know what I mean, because this is important, Shepherd-"

"Sheppard-"

"Anyway, this is important and hey, where are you going?"

Sheppard had been amused by the man's antics and would have maybe even thought of a snarky reply or two- being sent to the ends of the earth hadn't changed anything his capacities for sarcasm, although he knew when to keep quiet. But right now he had an idea to evade the possible disaster that was coming for him. He knew where the guy surveying the security cameras was located at and he wasn't about to divulge that advantage.

"See you in a few!" he shot over his shoulder, adding to mollify McKay: "I'll just tell the guy which tapes you want to look at, so he'll have them prepared."

Not waiting for a reply, he took off down the hallway, grinning in relief when he saw his target in the distance. He was surely a sight, barreling into the room like he did; out of breath and red-faced.

***

The four or so people in the room stared at him, belatedly snapping to attention to which John panted "At ease" and the officer in charge- a First Lieutenant- raised a mildly concerned eyebrow at him. "Sir?"

"Uh-" he began, fumbling hesitatingly around for words. Right now, when he thought about it, it all did seem a bit embarrassing. An explanation later and the Lieutenant's smooth brown face had stretched into a wide grin, showing off his pearly whites – he could probably do an advertisement stint for Colgate, he thought distractedly.

"So you're him," the Lieutenant exclaimed suddenly gleefully.

"Beg your pardon?"

"You're the guy nicknamed Maverick, sir. The one who was renowned at the Academy even seven years after you'd graduated which was when I got there. You're famous."

The Lieutenant's words sounded rather like hero worship and not disrespectful at all, but Sheppard felt a twinge of bitterness. He was probably the last person one should have a case of hero worship for.

"Yeah," he answered lowly, "that was probably me."
The Lieutenant's grin didn't waver; in fact it only got bigger.

"Could we get on with-"John motioned to the screens.

The Lieutenant gave him a mischievous salute. "Right away, sir."

When McKay and Zelenka finally arrived, out of breath and McKay complaining about getting no answer when asking for directions and in the same breath criticizing the long distances one had to travel here to get anywhere- all was set up.

"Sorry, sirs," First Lieutenant Miller, as he had introduced himself to John only moments before, said in a monotone.

"We only have two cameras in the area you refer to and both of them were taken down for maintenance at the time you wish to have access to the tapes." He turned a screen to them, which showed only blackness. Sheppard was slightly amused at this badly-covered up lie, but he kept a straight face. He wasn't that amused by all of this, because this could still end in a mess.

McKay was red-faced and wearing a look that John quickly recognized as indignation.
"What?" he practically spluttered. "You mean you took both of them down to do maintenance? At the same time?"

"Yes," Miller answered in that monotonous voice. "Yes we did."

"This is-"

Zelenka cut McKay off. "Thank you for your help."

The Lieutenant nodded and McKay followed the crazy-haired scientist with the hard accent out into the hallway, but not before shooting them a look of exasperation. Once they were gone- without even a word of good-bye- John allowed himself a sigh of relief.

He then turned to the Lieutenant, who was still looking at him from among his beeping and blinking equipment with keen interest. "Thanks," John said in heart-felt gratitude.

"Any time, sir." Miller gave him a fully-fledged salute- John was surprised for he hadn't received that in some time, even if he didn't care too much for it.

He returned the salute sloppily and nearly ran out of the room, grateful to be back in the silent hallways and on the way to his bunk.

Christmas rolled around quicker than he'd expected, though there was no anticipation on his part. He had no-one to give gifts to and would receive none- not as if the shopping options were that great here anyway (sorry sweetheart, I lost the gifts, a penguin assaulted me). He was rather indifferent towards the whole Christmas thing, though he got a note saying that there would be an informal gathering on Christmas Eve. Why the hell not, he thought and decided that he'd go.

It had been fun to listen to McKay's theories about the "mystery mathematician" as the scientists had dubbed him.

Whenever he passed McKay and his group of scientists in the hallway- someone always seemed to be following the man around, hanging onto every word he said in spite of his abrasive nature so John figured that there had to be something to the whole I'm -a- genius-you're-not- thing McKay had going- he saw him waving his arms in an enraged fashion, telling someone why it couldn't have been that person, because, and how he looked forward to finally finding that idiot so he could tell him what being a real scientist meant. John always struggled to hide a smirk on those occasions.

He knew he was safe. Lieutenant Miller had upon his request deleted the records of the period of time in question; he had even entered "unofficial maintenance" in his log. John was truly grateful to him, but the Lieutenant had assured him that it was "no big thing". "Anything for you, Sir," he had added with hero worship still clear in his eyes. John had wondered, just exactly what his reputation had entailed back at the Academy. He still was no hero material, doubted he had ever been. Just look at what had happened in Afghanistan.

The memory of it made him stop in the middle of a hallway. Flashes of bloodied desert combat wear assaulted him; Holland's hand on his arm, holding him back. Thanks for coming, Shep, echoed in his mind. Thanks for coming…- Yeah, well, we leave no-one behind….Anyway, Shep, thanks for coming…But he hadn't saved him. Holland had died in agony, face contorted, writhing and gasping under John's hands who had tried his damnedest to keep him alive. But there was no stopping what had already gone too far and soon Holland's eyes had looked past him, sand-crusted and tear-stained face slack. No peace in his eyes, just the terror of his last moments and John had closed his lifeless eyes, lowering his head into his hands. He had looked up then, at the sand surrounding him, the sun beating down on him and at the blood crusting his hands and Holland's still body and had wondered where he went from here. For a moment he had seen it clearly and he had lamented over all the lives lost in this war that barely made sense to him. He was just a pilot, flew in, rescued their guys, flew out again, in a continuous circle- but he had never questioned his orders. Until now. They were not just chess pawns, moved by a hand of a guy bigger than they were. They had lives. Holland had had a life. For a long time, John had thought that the brass respected those lives, that the military respected those lives. But they didn't. John had thought of all the guys stationed here, the Afghan civilians and the wave of guilt had almost choked him. He had done as much as he could, had tried to save everyone, but in the end it narrowed down to him being only one man, one man who often didn't do the right thing. The sun had blinded him and he had averted his eyes, staring down at his shaking hands. Thanks for coming, Shep. Look what good it did you, Holland. Thanks for coming, thanks for coming…Oh God. Where did he go from here?

John wasn't aware of a hand on his arm until an insistent voice said: "Major! Are you alright?"

He looked up and saw Lindsay O'Leary, a female Army technician, who had taken a liking to him. "Sure," John said and smiled shakily. He knew he had to get some time alone to get himself back together. Couldn't afford to lose it right in the middle of a hallway. "Sure," he repeated, shook off her arm and walked away, not having the energy for a proper denial. Before he turned the corner, he looked back to see Lindsay staring after him, concern for him clear in her brown eyes hidden by glasses.

As he looked back, he bumped into someone coming from the opposite direction.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly and looked up to see McKay staring at him irately: "Look at where you're going, will you?"

John was not in the mood for the scientist's cranky countenance and so he brushed past him without a further word, ignoring McKay's shouts of: "Hey! Shepherd! Yes, you. I was talking to you! Rude Military!"

He didn't care.

***

A few days later, on December 24th with practically everyone but him in Christmas mood- white Christmas got a whole new meaning here- he saw McKay walk in the opposite direction, talking to Zelenka.

"-narrow down the list of suspects-" he was saying and in spite of himself, his interest piqued, Sheppard walked after them. Having done several special ops stints in his career came in handy for him now in terms of being inconspicuous.

He could hear McKay's voice now. "Sure, those equations were not really difficult, anyone could have solved them, well anyone with a grasp of higher mathematics and I know that they are not really important …"

An Army Colonel passed him and he greeted him, biting back a smirk at the conceited salute and cold glare he received due to his salutation being a fraction of a second too late. He had never cared much for these ceremonial affairs; in the end when you had someone bleeding to death under your hands they didn't matter anyway.

McKay was in earshot again.

"…could have been anyone, really, except for the military. You can cross them out…"

John stopped dead. Frankly he felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Well, what did you expect ? His subconscious taunted him. Not good enough for anything anymore but playing taxi driver at the end of the world , the voice of the judge who'd come to see him after the Afghanistan hearing, thundered. What did you expect? His subconscious, back to taunt him further. That he'd welcome you, Air Force Major Maverick with open arms, as a prodigy in his science team for solving a few equations? That someone would recognize you are still worth for something, purge your record and allow you to keep flying? No. Suddenly even his subconscious sounded as weary and devastated as he felt. You can't do anything. You're nobody. This will be your last tour. You won't ever fly again.

"Yes, what the hell did I expect?" Sheppard whispered nearly inaudibly to himself.

He arrived somehow at his quarters, uncaring that he was supposed to be on duty. Only for half an hour now anyway. The colorful sheet of paper with the invitation to the Christmas party caught his eye. Yeah. He would definitely go.

***

The Christmas party was held in a smoky room. John strained his eyes to make out the contours of the room as he opened the door, but there was too much smoke. The room, he saw, was half-way decorated, as if someone had tried to make an effort, but in the end had decided it was too exhausting. A lot of people were inside and loud music was blaring from one of the speakers in the corner.

"Hey, sir!" someone greeted him. It was First Lieutenant Miller.

"Hey," John said distractedly. "Who are all the people?"

Milller's grin was infectious. "Dunno, Sir. Air Force mostly. Some Army."

John nodded and smiled tightly at him, moving past him. "See you around," he tossed over his shoulder. He was in no mood for small talk.

He ordered two Martinis from the bar, and then made his way over to a small table in a dark corner. It was probably not intended for one man trying to drown his sorrows in drink, rather for two lovebirds, but he couldn't have cared less.

The first Martini went down mechanically, the second followed suit.

He figured he'd go for Whiskey now. Even if he was trying to get drunk, he was all for having style. No use in being a little drunk only on Martini. Being a little drunk wouldn't do much for his plan to get a lot drunk. Oh. He possessed still enough of his facilities to snort at his unintended pun. A stupid one. He bought a bottle of Whiskey- had to do something with his pay after all.

The room swam by hazily, as he poured himself a new shot sometime later- he had no idea how many he had had already.

***

"Thanks for comin for me'," he muttered to himself and drummed his fingers on the table. "God..." He could still remember. Needed another shot.

Thanks for coming, Shep. Thanks for coming. "Thanks for comin'. A lot of good it did ya, Holland…"…could have been anyone, really, except for the military. You can cross them out… "Yeah, sure, we're only the guys takin' the hits for you, I got that…" Major John Sheppard, do you deny that you have disobeyed a direct order from your immediate superior, Colonel Samuel Hendon? "No, no, sir, I don't. I don't sir…" Disobeyed a direct order, did you? Well, anyway here are your new orders. Pack your stuff- you're going to Antarctica and don't think your career is ever going to recover from this. "Or face a dishonorable discharge immediately…"

He wasn't aware that he had put his head on his arms while the voices swam by. He could see their angry and reproachful faces. God, there was Holland, face distorted and bloodied as he looked at him accusingly: "You killed me! You could have saved me!" He put a hand in front of his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Holland. Someone came and took a seat at his table. He needed a moment to understand that this was real.

"Seat's- Seat's taken," he informed the guy, whom he could barely make out in the dim light. Plus there being two of the guy in front of his eyes all the time was not a nice touch. "Stop that, will ya?"

"I don't think that seat's taken, Major," a familiar voice informed him. He frowned.

"D'we know each other?"

"Yeah. The other unlucky guy who has to fly choppers here at the end of the world, remember?"

Oh yeah. "Hey Morton."

Major James Morton…not someone he hung around with a lot. Too harsh and too much sarcasm even for John's liking.

"You out to give someone a nice tongue-lashin'?"

"At the moment not, no. Though you look as if you're trying to drown yourself in booze. I hate to break it to you, but I am afraid it won't work."

John cracked a half-smile, though it felt sluggish on his face. Should be sober, he thought hazily. Would find better retorts that way.

"Yeah, thanks for informin' me, Morton. Didn't know 'bout that."

"Got maudlin about this being your last Christmas in the Air Force, right?"

"'S not like that," John protested feebly. Even through the alcohol-induced haze, Morton's shots, as always, hit home.

"Well, I'm going to break it to ya, flyboy. The Air Force doesn't want us. We are the screw-ups. You are going to do that last tour of yours, a mercy killing, and you're going to be kicked out with a Thank-you-for-finally-going-bootprint , though they are gonna call it "discharge with honors". You won't find a commercial Airline job. Everyone knows they're not too keen on the ex-Air Force jockeys. Afraid that we're gonna break their nice little toy planes. And someone with your track record- well better forget it quickly. The record is going to be a problem at any rate. So, maybe building Airplanes? Or crop-dusting business? Well, tough luck, kid, there is already many people doing this. So the only way you're gonna see the sky now is from the ground. Get used to it and get yourself together. This is embarrassing."

John shot up from his seat, though he regretted the motion instantly.

"You shut up, Morton," he threatened, feeling a lot more sober and enraged out of the sudden. The comfortable booze feeling had vanished. "Or else…"

"Or else what? You gonna hit me? You would even miss a house right now!"

John hit him, or rather; he would have hit him, if someone hadn't stopped him.
"Please don't do it, Sir," the voice of First Lieutenant Miller pleaded with him.

John let his arm sink, staring at Morton. He was suddenly feeling very sober and very old.

"Yeah," he mumbled, walking past Morton who was gaping at him, obviously having overestimated the extent of Sheppard's drunkenness. John had always been good at holding his liquor, but he knew he was drunker than he had been for a long long time and he himself was a lot less than he had been for a long long time, plus he had more issues than he had had for a long long time right now. The irony of it all nearly brought him to his knees.

***

Leaning outside against the grey walls of the base, the slight amusement faded to make way for an overwhelming fatigue.

"Sir?" Miller was still there. "You alright, Sir?"

"Sure," John muttered, thinking that Miller had surely gotten over his hero worship complex by now. He was oddly comforted by that notion.

"What is, uh, the matter with you, sir?" Concern, but still clear adoration in the eyes of the kid. Well, he had obviously been wrong. Figured. He had been wrong in a lot of things lately. Like him being good for something. Like maybe having a chance to keep the sky.

"Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth! And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds- and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of- wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence…" John quoted softly and turned around to go, before he could see the painful understanding on Miller's face – the kid had been at the Academy after all. He didn't want pity.

***

He walked outside, surprised by his own steady gait. It was late- or rather early. But that didn't matter. More pressing questions had to be found an answer to. Why had he stayed? What had happened? And where did he go from here?

What had happened?

Afghanistan had been death and fire, while Antarctica was white simplicity and seclusion. Afghanistan had been his hell, Antarctica was his heaven. A cold heaven and not a heaven that most people would have chosen. A heaven he hadn't chosen but now he was here and he had decided to make the best of it. However, being stuck here forever playing taxi driver didn't hold that much appeal to him- yes, why had he stayed? Had he just done it to avoid the dishonorable discharge? Honor….a wide field. He had done the honorable thing and he knew it. He winced as memories of blood and failure assaulted him. Again, the second time this evening. To hell with it.

He stumbled on, the earlier rush of clarity that the Arctic air had given him dissipating.

His thoughts became muddled and increasingly irrational, supplying him with useless information like the way to the restroom on his old base in Afghanistan, the correct start-up procedure for an Apache chopper or McMurdo's location and continuously Holland's voice in the back of his head- Thanks for coming, Shep. His thoughts drifted back to McMurdo- his subconscious had clearly marked it the safer topic.

McMurdo is located at the southernmost tip of Ross Island.

John's muddled mind supplied the information hesitatingly; he wasn't sure anymore why he was where he was and what he was doing here, but single-minded determination was driving him to set one foot in front of the other and again and again.

His legs trembled with exhaustion and fatigue while his lungs started to burn in the harsh air already. He was intoxicated enough to disregard the tell-tale signs that told him that this was a stupid mindless idea; the alcohol kept him from noticing the cold and the trademark stoicism he had honed over the years helped him to ignore the inward voice screaming at him that sudden ice storms could be deadly even that close to the base.

Finally, having arrived at the top of the ice and snow-covered hillock he had been climbing, he sat down- fell down more, for his legs wouldn't have held him up a minute longer.

Oh Heavens. Why had he stayed?

Antarctica was damned beautiful. The sun was just rising in the distance. Crimson light spilled over the edges of the white world and painted the ice fields in an orange hue that made him swallow for it reminded him of those early Afghanistan mornings and dust everywhere- the wee morning hours in the desert base spent drinking coffee and joking with the guys before heading out to yet another patrol flight. He shook his head and regretted the motion instantly.

The alcohol blurred the edges of his visual field and left him staring fixedly at the blue shadow that the ice mountain in the distance still cast on the unblemished white surface even though the morning sun was steadily eating away at it. His eyes started to burn and he blinked quickly, throwing his head back. Over him was the blue morning sky, brilliantly blue, nearly impossibly blue with only small wisps of clouds at the edges which were painted alternating red and luminous gold by the sun just starting to take shape at the horizon. He imagined what it would be like to fly in the morning sky now amidst the rouge and golden brilliance and he jumped up, waving his arms and staring up with his head thrown back until it was nothing but him and the sky. Blue and simple, just the way it ought to be.

Blue simplicity and he smiled in bliss, leaning back further. The motion caused him to lose his equilibrium and he fell hard on his back, though his eyes were still fixed on the sky. A choked sound escaped him that soon turned into either a laugh or a sob, he couldn't have said himself. He loved this moment. He loved here. He loved it here so much he almost got tears in his eyes. He loved the perfect blue sky. Antarctica was damned beautiful.

But where, where the hell did he go from here?

***

Later he couldn't have said how he had come back to base. He woke up with a start and groaned as sunlight filtered through his eyes. It was midday. Twelve o'clock at least. Great, he thought, and sneezed. Thankfully his first flight was in the late afternoon today.

His legs ached as he swung them stiffly out of the narrow cot, but his head was killing him. Literally. He groaned again, as flashes of last night assaulted him. How the hell could he have gotten so drunk? Dazed, he stared at his sweat-soaked blanket lying on the ground. He must have tossed it off during the night, or rather, what had been left of his night.

John stood up on shaky legs and winced, as shadows danced in front of his eyes. He ignored them and stumbled over to the small basin in the corner of his closet-like quarters, rinsing his face and staring at his reflection in the square little mirror. He was unshaven with red eyes and a pale face- of course being stationed in Antarctica had never done wonders for his tan- but this was a new low.

Then his face crumpled in another sneeze and he coughed. Wonderful. Just what he needed now.

He fell back down on his bed, barely managing to get up some hours later as he had to start preparing for the flight. The last hours had included too many trips to the restroom and a head that was killing him slowly. As he trudged down the corridor, he heard a voice call out:

"Major!"

Tiredly he turned around to see a Captain facing him.

"Sir, the Colonel sent me to tell you that your flight today has been canceled."

He almost wanted to sigh in relief, but he refrained from doing so. Instead he nodded curtly at the Captain. "Thank you, Captain. Dismissed."

The Captain saluted and turned away.

"Major!"

He turned again to the other side, wishing for nothing but his warm bed and the promise of a day's rest. It was McKay. John kept his face tight, emotionless.

"I need a flight to the outpost," McKay said, all business-like.

"Sorry, no flights today," John replied curtly and was about to turn away, when McKay caught his arm. "I need to go there. Now. And believe me, your commanding officer will certainly agree. We can ask him, if you are not sure."
John was sure that his commanding officer would agree and he wasn't that keen on sounding reluctant- god knew he didn't have the best reputation in the eyes of his superior anyway- but he still knew he had to ask for permission, no matter what McKay said.

Thankfully the decision was made for him as the sharp voice of Colonel Mathew behind them said: "I definitely agree, Major. Fly the Doctor to the outpost."

McKay grinned smugly and John clenched his teeth, but then turned around to perform a neutral, perfect textbook salute for the Colonel, just to spite him.

"Yessir."

The Colonel frowned at him in irritation, when John stayed and stared at him.

Then he sighed. "Dismissed, Major."

"Yessir."

***

As he walked down the hallway to get to the helicopters, he wondered why he had done what he had just done, but found no satisfactory explanation except that he obviously, somewhere deep down, wanted to get out of the Air Force even quicker than expected…not this, because this was a slow death.

Once in the air with McKay taking the seat next to him in the cockpit since he was the only passenger, he deliberately flew a few maneuvers harsher than he would have needed to. A small part of him rejoiced at McKay's pale face and his snapped "Fly even worse, will you?", the bigger part of him was angry with himself for resolving to such petty acts of revenge.

He sighed and concentrated on his flying again. The facts that his head was pounding as if he'd taken a hit to the head with a book and that his fingers were slippery on the controls did not do much to improve his mood though. John was sure that there was rest alcohol in his system left, more than what was healthy when flying a combat helicopter.

In an effort to distract himself, he found himself gazing at the white mass of clouds with only a bit of blue peeking out ahead of them – it was a very cloudy day- and muttering the rest of the poem he had recited to Miller the night before to himself: "Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air…up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace where never lark nor even eagle flew-"

"-And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod the high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God," McKay finished softly.

John, realizing simultaneously that McKay must have heard him over the headphones and that he obviously knew the poem, looked at him in surprise. "You know the poem?" he asked.

"Yeah," McKay smiled. "It's by John Gillespie Magee. He was a pilot in the Second World War. You have to learn it by heart in the Air Force Academy, don't you?"

"Yeah," John affirmed. "We do."

"It's a good poem." McKay's blue eyes were far away.

"That it is," John agreed softly. For the remainder of the flight he saw to it that he flew as smoothly as possible.

Two months after that flight, John received orders to fly a certain General O'Neill to the Research Outpost.

Atlantis, a few years later

It was a normal day on Atlantis. They were sitting in the mess hall enjoying their food, or at least Rodney was enjoying his food. John was watching somewhat incredulously. Rodney had the same capacities for food as a busload of tourists.

"So," Rodney said around a mouthful of something John wasn't sure he wanted to know about, "what would you have done if you hadn't joined the Air Force?"

In hindsight, the question shouldn't have surprised him.

They had talked about Teyla's dream occupation growing up- "I would have liked to build more efficient homes for my people to live in", she had said and had smiled her patented patient smile at their surprised looks. They knew about Rodney's pianist aspirations blown to smithereens by one jerk of a music teacher and when asked, Ronon had shrugged, saying: "I always wanted to be a Marf-gher when I was young." At their puzzled looks, Ronon had simply shrugged and continued eating in his usual stoic way. They still weren't sure what a "Marf-gher" was, only that this occupation obviously included the use of explosives. So in hindsight, Sheppard thought, the question shouldn't have been surprising, except that it was.

For a long moment he thought about what to answer.

His absent-minded gaze landed on McKay, but he did not really see Rodney but instead he saw grey walls and floors and even greyer weather. A snowstorm pounding against the base. Antarctica. Rodney transformed in front of his eyes and did not look as he did now, blue eyes wide and fork frozen half-way to his mouth in almost comic a look. John's eyes saw a different Rodney McKay, clad in an orange fleece monstrosity whose eyes were as cold as the ice plains on the outside as he said: "…could have been anyone, really, except for the military. You can cross them out…"

"John?"

He smiled and if it was with a hint of bitterness, he hid it well. "Believe it or not, I have no idea. None at all."

Rodney's eyes reflected genuine shock. "You serious?" He paused, setting the fork down. "I mean, what you could have done was being a mathematician or something, you certainly have the brains for it even if you don't look it-"

"Such a compliment from you," John sniped, but Rodney didn't understand the sarcasm or chose to ignore it.

"-You're welcome and- Hold on."

Something seemed to occur to him and John frowned at him. Rodney sucked in a large mouthful of air and Sheppard braced himself for what was about to come.

"That was you, wasn't it?" Rodney gave him no chance to reply, as he cut to the chase.

"You were the one who altered the equations on the blackboards that day in Antarctica! Of course, "his blue eyes were unfocused, "you ran ahead to that camera guy, you would have had enough time to…"

He trailed off and his eyes snapped back to Sheppard, as he pieced the clues together. "Of course, you could have done it, you took part in Mensa…And back then I couldn't even remember your name…"

"Gee, thanks, Rodney," John drawled vaguely amused, but he was again ignored.

"Of course it was you- why couldn't I remember your name?"

"Aw, shucks," John said and smirked a little as McKay noticed what he'd just said and quickly fixed an apologetic look on him. "You know I didn't mean not to remember your name, right?" he asked uncertainly.

John quickly took him off the hook. No use in enhancing McKay's social insecurities. "'Course I do," he replied. "I was only a little offended at the "Shepherd" bit you christened me back there…except if you're thinking of yourself as a sheep, then I'd be happy to oblige."

"What?" McKay spluttered and then rolled his eyes. "Oh ha ha, Colonel. " His eyes narrowed: "What did you do to make the Air Person in charge listen to you anyway? Did you just plain order the Air Person or did you turn your Kirk charm on?"

John had had enough lessons in McKay-speech to know what he was talking about. "It was a First Lieutenant, McKay. And a guy. Besides," he added conversationally, "I have no idea what you are talking about. At all."

Rodney's eyes widened in indignation. "But," he said and John could see the three exclamation marks behind that single word floating in the air irritably, if it was possible for exclamation marks to float irritably, that is.

He didn't answer as McKay rambled on about geniuses and having pieced the clues together and about perspectives and stupidly brilliant flyboys (Sheppard was sure that there was a compliment hidden in there somewhere). John stopped listening.

His eyes found the sky behind McKay's head- who was getting redder by the minute- and the sky was bluer than he had ever imagined it could be, impossibly blue, purely blue, and he smiled.

John Sheppard had his answers.

***

Finis

***

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor even eagle flew—

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

- John Gillespie Magee, Junior (1922-1941)