Hamel watched Sheppard crumple and felt a loss the likes of which he hadn't felt since Jonah died. In Sheppard, he'd caught a glimpse of what his son might have become, of what he'd hoped his son to become. With effort, Hamel forced himself to remember that Sheppard was only a few years his junior and that the man's example was for Hamel himself. He took a deep breath, focused his dance and lined up The Red Major in his angle.

"The man said to get our boys home. You going to help me do that, Red, or are you going to spill more blood tonight?"

The Major was staring at the huddle of friends hovering over Sheppard. He clutched Reema to his chest, who in turn had her face buried in his arms. Reema's twisted angles had fueled a slow burn of fury and determination in Hamel's chest. He felt betrayed, but oddly, that betrayal was driving him further down the path he'd been shoved onto. The Major sighed at last and pushed Reema to his side. He still held her hand tightly.

"No. No more bloodshed, Hamel. I meant what I said. I came to offer friendship. I...wanted to help." He looked at Sheppard again and Hamel could read the conflict on the man's face.

"Good. Then I'll start my boys cleaning up the mess around here. Probably be better if you sent yours back over the line. Some of mine might think it would be fun to start something."

"I'll do that." His lips twitched. "You calling for Prime, Hamel?"

Hamel swore a streak of his favorite profanities, then sighed. "I don't care what you call it, but I suppose I'm the one who gets to figure things out around here for a while."

"All right."

"I have no angles against Red, Major. But, for now, Black needs to build up from the inside out. We've spent too long slicing on each other. I'll welcome Red's friendship but...we're yielding no streets."

"That's all I ask, Black. All I want is a start. And good fences make good neighbors."

"What the bloody ancestors are you talking about?"

"Just a bit of wisdom from my homeworld."

"Ah. Don't call me 'Black'. Hamel will do."

"All right," The Major repeated, sounding amused. Hamel looked closely at the scarred, stern man and he saw something of Sheppard in the expression. There was something extraordinary about all of these people, he thought with wonder. The look was fleeting and The Major grew fierce again. "Hamel, you find somewhere safe for Sheppard. His team will look after him, but he's got to make it until his ride shows up. He's the only one who..." his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. "I'll send my boys home, and -with your leave - I'll stay around and help with what I can. You're going to need to get your colors in line quickly and your streets under control even faster."

"I know that," Hamel snapped, then leveled a glare. "You can stay. Just send her back to Red."

"Tony..." Reema's voice was angry and pleading all at once.

"He's right, Reema. You should probably go with the boys to the command building. I'll be back before morning."

"But what if Sheppard..."

"Go, Reema. I'll be back. I promise. Kennon! Take her, will you?"

Reema's brother nodded soberly, realizing that his family had just been banished from their Clan. But he took his sister's hand and pulled her towards the Eastern road. She straightened her shoulders and walked away, her steps stiff.

Hamel was very busy the next hour. The Major sent his clan home, true to his word, and then quietly advised Hamel as he picked Seconds and encouraged his people to keep the streets quiet for the rest of the night. By tomorrow, he intended to start that patrolling thing that Red had initiated on their streets. He was shocked time and time again when the boys simply did as he asked, or at least left without causing trouble. He began to realized that they were as weary of the violence and constant fear as he was and desperate for anyone to step forward and give them an excuse to simply...be. For one night at least. Hamel knew there'd be trouble soon enough - one can't fight a century of conditioning in a single night - but for now, they looked to Hamel and he was...happy. Happier than he'd been in years.

As one hour slipped into two, and two stretched into three, he occasionally let his thoughts drift to Sheppard. He'd sent the man and his friends back to his apartment to wait for their "ride", whatever that was. In his heart, Hamel knew that Sheppard had already crossed the big angle, and was just waiting to fall off the other side. When Ronon, Sheppard's second, appeared just as the early morning sun was brightening the thick clouds in the east, Hamel wasn't surprised.

"Hamel!" Ronon's voice was angry, tense - the voice of a desperate friend. "Sheppard needs you. The pain..."

"I'm coming."

He finished his last set of instructions and sent the last group of boys back to their cold rooms and followed the impatient man through the streets. It wasn't until he'd turned the last corner that Hamel realized he'd changed his dance. Instead of wary precaution, he danced as if...there was no fear. As if it was normal to walk down the street without expecting death's angle at every corner. It was slightly unnerving and he quickly attributed the feeling to fatigue and the dangerous bulky man he was following.

A blast of heat washed over him when he stepped over the threshold into his apartment. Hamel took a moment to hang up his coat and wash his hands in the cold water of his sink. Sometimes, friends in mourning were as dangerous as enemies. He somehow expected Sheppard's people to handle themselves well and he wasn't disappointed, but the frantic pacing of the men, and the tense hovering of the woman belied their anguish. When Hamel approached the bed, he allowed himself the privilege of sharing it. The tough, old core of his soul had melted just a bit in Sheppard's presence.

"How long has he been feeling it?" Hamel asked, his voice gruff with unshed emotion.

Sheppard lay curled in a tight ball on the cot. The twisted blankets underneath him were soaked with sweat and he was burying his face in a pile of towels that had been placed under his head as he writhed and groaned softly. He was stripped to the waist, fresh bandages on his forearm and chest. Despite the heat in the room and the thick sheen of perspiration, he was shivering and his teeth were chattering.

"His fever has been rising steadily since we left the crossroads. He slept quietly for nearly two hours, but has grown increasingly restless in the past hour."

Sheppard thrashed weakly and yelped some fevered nonsense, distracting Teyla from her answer. She ignored Hamel until Sheppard stilled enough for her to return the cool cloth that had slipped off his head. "He is delirious more often than lucid," she added, her voice soft with worry.

He nodded and tugged his chair over opposite Sheppard's face. He was tired. Something jabbed him when he bent to sit, and he shoved his hand in his pocket to yank out the small knife that had twisted up and jibbed him. It was the knife he'd just finished balancing this evening - last night. He flipped it once, then flung it angrily across the room to lodge, blade first, smack in the middle of the frame above the door to his room. Just where he'd intended it to go. Ronon and Rodney-the-loud-one looked startled, then Ronon nodded in grudging respect. This time when he sat, Hamel leaned close and held Sheppard's face until his eyes fluttered open at the gentle touch.

"You ready?" he asked softly, the question for Sheppard alone. Hamel waited, lightly touching the surface of the man's mind until Sheppard gathered his bearings and Hamel saw understanding in the depths. Understanding immediately followed by defiance.

"No. No...no, no, no..." Sheppard whispered. Hamel wasn't sure if he'd really spoken or if the words were shared mind to mind. "A...little...a little...less..."

Hamel retreated to gather his composure. He'd seen the pain, he knew the score - infection always won the throw. But Sheppard fought to live. Even now?

"A little less pain," Hamel repeated, yet again caught in Sheppard's glare until he spoke the promise. No mercy numbing for this man. No surrender.

He concentrated and sought the pain. He almost writhed himself at the agony of it; almost found it too much to push away. In the end, Sheppard did most of it himself and sank into a quiet sleep leaving Hamel to bury his face in his hands with exhaustion.

Teyla handed him a cup of hot tea and then busied herself draping Sheppard with cool cloths who continued to shiver and burn at the same time. Hamel rested, watching Rodney and the woman increase their efforts to control the fever...the only thing they had any hope of fighting. Sheppard didn't rouse any more, even in delirious mutterings. His breath grew faster and Teyla's face grew darker each time she pressed her fingers into his neck. Ronon's pacing grew more aggressive, more frantic.

Early morning crawled into late morning. A single beam of sunlight escaped through the breaking clouds and pierced the single, grimy window of Hamel's room. Hamel scrubbed his face and turned red-rimmed, bleary eyes into the blinding brightness. Sometimes a whelp would hang on until daybreak, as if they knew that there was hope with the new light and wanted to take some of it with them across the big angle. Sheppard lay as still as death. Each time Hamel touched his mind to try to soothe a new spike of escaping pain there remained that spark of defiance, of hope, of endurance - but it was slipping. Hamel had seen it too often not to recognize the signs of a body overwhelmed.

He was just about to ask for permission to push the man over before the pain grew too fierce for even Hamel to master when all three friends in the room stiffened at once. All three raised a hand in unison to touch their ears, and Hamel was surprised to notice that all three wore small black devices, like tiny, shiny stones attached to a small wire. Ronon broke the silence with strange, terse words.

"Jumper three! Confirmed! We need immediate evacuation, medical emergency. Where are the nearest landing coordinates?" The Second paused, listening, and Hamel could hear a tiny buzz in the empty silence.

"Understood. I'll meet you there. Relay to Atlantis and have them prepare for an emergency medical team upon arrival."

Ronon dropped his hand and pointed at Teyla, "I'll meet the jumper and bring back a stretcher and med kit. Teyla, you stay and get him ready to move. McKay, you come with me."

The team responded to the orders with crisp activity and almost before Hamel had puzzled out the meaning within the bizarre words, Ronon and Rodney were gone. Teyla began stripping the cold cloths off Sheppard. "Help me wrap blankets around him," she demanded and Hamel leaped to obey as if she were Prime and he a whelpy yellow-band. They waited again once Teyla was satisfied by their efforts. She sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, clutching Sheppard's hand and murmuring encouragement.

"The jumper is here, John. You'll be home soon. Hang in there, John. Carson will take care of you, just hang on..." and the like.

When Ronon returned, he was laden with a bag on long straps, Rodney was carrying a thin set of poles, and another man was with them. It was this other man that surprised Hamel the most. His hair was short like Sheppard's, but he was wearing an elaborate vest with pockets and a weapon like Sheppard's strapped to his hip in easy reach and prominent display. He was undoubtedly another of "Sheppard's men."

The new man and Teyla tore open strange bags and tubes and needles from the kit that Ronon had carried. Hamel was drawn into the effort to move Sheppard from the cot to the poles which turned out to be a bed with handles for carrying. Almost before he realized what was happening, the group was opening the door and heading out into the streets.

"Wait!" he yelped, thrown by the abruptness of it all. He'd come home this morning to watch a man die, to soothe and honor him over the edge. Now they were about to walk out as suddenly as they'd walked into his life. Ronon paused from the front of the stretcher that Sheppard lay on, bundled in blankets, the strange tubes twisting out towards the bag of water on his chest.

"What?" Ronon asked, sounding impatient.

"Where are you going?"

Teyla touched his arm with a gentle squeeze. "We are returning to our home. Our ship will take us through the Ring of the Ancestors. We have advanced medical facilities that will care for John."

"I believe you," Hamel breathed, realizing he did as he spoke the words - and oh the implications of that! Wraith Queens indeed! He drew himself straight, lifted his chin. "Tell Sheppard when you get there that...The Black Prime thanks him for his..." he paused. How did one find a word for the gift of courage and example he'd given Hamel. He shrugged, giving up. "Tell him I accept his yield."

"About time..." came a very soft answer and Hamel grinned. Sheppard's eyes were mere slits, but they were open and glittered with life. He clapped the blanketed man on the shoulder.

"I hope we meet again, friend Prime of Atlantis. We have much to learn from your clan."

"Where's...Cassini?"

Hamel thought for a long moment. "No one around here by that name, anymore," he said at last. "Your man, Cassini, died six months ago on the borders."

Sheppard's look was thoughtful in a weary sort of way. At last, he just nodded, closed his eyes again and gasped softly. The group exchanged worried looks and hustled away. Hamel watched them until they turned down a side street and he was alone in his quiet, empty alley door. Yesterday, once daylight quieted the streets and the civilians - to borrow Sheppard's word - peeked out for a few hours of peace, Hamel would have drawn the curtains and brooded within the darkness of his room.

Today, there was too much to do. He wandered inside, grabbed his coat and left again, planning to find his Seconds and prepare for tonight. He closed the door behind him and found his dance as he moved through the streets. Great shadows of dark and light chased him as he walked, the clouds soaking up then releasing the sun in a dance of their own.

The knife was left behind.

10 Days Later:

"Hey! Carson letting you work?"

Ronon bounded through the inner door of the infirmary to plop with a happy bounce on the foot of Sheppard's bed. The laptop John had balanced on his knees wobbled. Ronon snatched for the corner before it slid off onto the floor, then sat for a moment, grinning.

Sheppard had had a rough go of it. First had been the hours of surgery to sew up the hole in his belly. Then had come the hours of uncertainty as Sheppard battled fever and the massive infection that had taken hold during the time they'd waited on Hamel's planet. Words like peritonitis and septic shock and Gastrointestinal perforation were used by Carson to explain stuff. Ronon just knew that Sheppard had crawled to within an inch of death before his stubborn son-of-a-stanga friend had turned the corner and crawled the hell back out.

"I was working," Sheppard sighed.

Even ten days later, he was weak and still too pale for Ronon's liking. Sheppard knew it, too, and had grown frustrated over the past couple of days. He was especially grumpy when anyone else got too cheerful around him. This time Ronon ignored the glower that was settling onto Sheppard's face.

"Too bad. I brought you something, but if you'd rather work..." He shrugged with exaggerated carelessness.

"Well...what is it?"

Ronon fought not to grin at the curiosity that Sheppard was trying hard to conceal. He leaned closer and looked around as if worried about eavesdroppers, "Shouldn't really give it to you while you're still hanging out in here. Bit too dangerous. Carson would probably have my hair..."

He definitely had Sheppard's attention now, and his friend grinned, no longer even trying not to be interested.

"Come on, give it up."

"No, on second thought, I'd probably better not risk it." He slapped his thighs and stood up as if to go.

"Dammit Specialist, cough it up!" Sheppard snapped, the glower, and then some, returning with full force. Ronon laughed long and loud. He reached into his pocket and handed over the small knife he'd brought. Sheppard took it, studied it for a minute.

"It's a knife."

"It's from Hamel."

"Oh yeah?"

"Just got back. He sends his best...and the knife. He said 'That noisy angle banger of Sheppard's might be efficient, but it sure isn't elegant'." Sheppard just raised an eyebrow and Ronon shrugged. "He said that the trick with knife throwing is in the balance. He crafts the haft of all his knives by hand. He's known for his skill in all the clans."

Ronon took the knife back and demonstrated with a flip or two in passable imitation. Then with a last mischievous look around, he flung the knife towards a shelving unit stacked with paper goods. The blade sank into a roll of toilet paper and stuck.

"Sweet!" Sheppard exclaimed, "Let me try."

Ronon chuckled and retrieved the knife. "I was aiming for the chair."

Sheppard took it from him eagerly, shoved the laptop off his legs and gave it a flip as Ronon had done. The knife wobbled, Sheppard juggled it for a second before it stuck in the blankets on his lap.

"Ouch."

"Yeah, me too. Hamel said to start by just tossing it with one hand to get the feel. I'll bring you a target tomorrow to prop up on the wall."

Sheppard make a couple more tosses, with much more success this time, then sank heavily into his pillows, satisfied for now.

"Thanks. How's Hamel getting along?"

"OK. It's a tough place, but he really loves those kids, you know? He'll figure it out."

There was a comfortable silence. Sheppard studied the knife a little, then folded his hands behind his head. His expression went serious.

"How'd it go with Cassini?"

Ronon sat back down on the bed, folded his hands. "He doesn't want to leave, John. I talked to him again like you asked, tried to get him to come in on his own. He's convinced he'll get shipped back to Earth if he does."

"Yeah, well, he's probably right about that."

"Hamel vouched for him, too. Says he's been a big help. He didn't take Prime to prop himself up. He really thinks he's making a difference."

Ronon watched Sheppard thinking it through. The Earth Military was stricter than on Sateda. On Sateda you proved yourself by the results you got. And if you didn't want to fight any more, they didn't want you either. But Ronon knew that Sheppard had to answer to a set of rules that didn't always bend the way Ronon expected them to. He'd been surprised and touched as hell when Sheppard came for him on Sateda the second time he'd been caught and released as a runner. Like Teyla, he'd assumed that his superiors would prevent Earth resources being "wasted" on outsiders.

Sheppard sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Does he know the score? I can recommend we continue trade and contact with Hamel's people, but...if things go sideways or if Atlantis gets preoccupied with other matters...he'd be on his own for good."

Ronon looked at his hands, feeling again the flush of gratitude for his friend's willingness to clash with his own chain of command for the good of a man or woman under him. Hamel had confided to him that Cassini believed Sheppard was the only commander he'd known who would understand, who would make the effort to understand. The Earth men and women lived by good rules, but sometimes they were still wrong.

"He understands. He's gonna have a kid with Reema in a few months. He understands."

Sheppard groaned and closed his eyes. "I'm gonna catch hell for this," he muttered. Ronon grinned.

"It was bound to come up, sooner or later. People meet, fall in love. Sometimes it doesn't matter what world you came from."

"You're a hopeless romantic."

Ronon guffawed, slapped his friend on the leg, then rose.

"You know I can't just leave him there?!"

"You'll figure it out."

Sheppard snorted then coughed with a wince. He'd also beaten a mild case of pneumonia, Ronon remembered. With another surge of affection, Ronon ruffled Sheppard's hair (earning a disgusted swat) more pleased than he could express that his friend was simply alive.

"Catch you later, Sheppard. Rest up."

"Like I do anything else," he complained in reply. The glower was returning and Ronon could only chortle. Just before he left the room, he spared one more glance back. Sheppard was still sprawled against his pillows, probably asleep already. The first few times Ronon had visited once Sheppard was waking up and talking, he'd doze off after only a few minutes of conversation. The first few days, he'd lain in frightening stillness, too sick to even breathe on his own.

"He'll figure it out," Ronon said to himself, confident in his friend's strength and will to live.

John dozed for a little, then found that his brain was too restless to get any satisfactory sleeping done. He fussed with the bed for a bit and hauled his laptop back up on his legs. He'd been tepidly working on his mission report, trying to remember what had happened and trying not to all at the same time. It was a lot harder to type "and then I got stabbed" than he'd expected, even in the carefully formal language of report style. He still felt a surge of frustration each time he brushed up against that moment that had thrown the mission sideways with a vicious shove.

Teyla had helped a little. He'd read her report to help himself remember what days of illness and mind-numbing drugs had blurred. She'd praised John for his quick response to Salma's "overwhelming and formidable" attack. Response? He snorted again to himself. He'd been flying on pure adrenaline and that something inside of him that slipped out of his control in a life or death struggle. It was the something that allowed him to slit a man's throat or shove a knife into a kid's heart when the human part of him was vomiting in horror. He usually suffered a few nights of cold sweats and nightmares as he fought to wrestle that something back to civilized levels, but it was always there. He'd had to learn to live with it since the first time he'd realized he was a man who would kill to stay alive.

He looked at the screen again and slowly gathered his thoughts to begin typing. Eventually the words flowed and time passed more quickly than he expected.

John paused again when it came time to report on Cassini. He thought for a long time. He looked up Cassini's dossier and next of kin and thought some more. The SGC regs were pretty clear. He was supposed to haul Cassini back. He would catch hell if they found out he knew where Cassini was and wasn't doing anything about it. At long last he typed one more sentence, filed the report and closed his computer.

When he lay down again, he was exhausted and then disgusted that merely typing had drained him so low. Before he drifted off he studied Hamel's knife for a while longer. As unskilled as he was, he could still feel the perfect balance of the little blade. John was still pissed at the man. If Hamel had just stepped up before the whole little Dashal drama, the kid wouldn't have had to die. But Hamel had found himself in the end, he supposed. And the Black Clan was better for it he was certain.

He laid the knife on his bedside table and felt the tug of sleep pulling him in. He'd wrestle with the something soon, he knew, but for now, it let him alone. Life wasn't about balance, he thought. Life was wobbly and unpredictable and flew off in crazy, often painful, directions. Maybe what Hamel had figured out was that balance might a good goal, but that the fun of it was in managing the wobble.

Life on Atlantis was as crazy as it got. And John would be there to go where throw took him.

A/N: Thanks for reading!