John was waiting to die.

It wasn't so much that he wanted to die, more that he simply didn't care any more what happened. After what he'd done to Rodney . . . It didn't much matter whether he died, so long as he didn't wake up.

John could hear voices around him. They were blurred, though, too blurred for him to make out what they were actually saying. The people talking sounded as if they might be worried about him, but he didn't particularly give a shit what they thought, because there was one missing, and that one was the only one he really wanted to hear.

What was more, John was pretty sure he was never going to hear that voice again, because he knew that Rodney would never have left him alone like this. Rodney would've stayed with him, no matter what. Which meant that Rodney had to be dead.

Sometimes, too, John dreamed, although it was always the same dream. He dreamed, over and over again, of waking up in the cave with Rodney's body at his feet and Rodney's blood on his hands. The voice of the sword was gone now, along with that of the corpse, but he didn't need to hear either to know what had happened or to understand the accusation in the glazed blue eyes: I loved you. And you killed me.

And John always answered. But I loved you back, he'd say. But it never did any good—not even love, it seemed, could raise the dead.

He'd killed Rodney, and he didn't want to wake up to that. It was that simple.

-----

Every day, Rodney got a little stronger and sat by John's side a little longer. For the first day or two, while his throat still hurt too badly, he sat in silence; but then, as the cut began to heal—it had hardly been the worst of his wounds, after all—he started talking to John. He'd heard somewhere you were supposed to do that, that sometimes coma patients could actually hear people talking to them. If John heard, though, there was no way to tell.

And every day, John got a little weaker. No one ever came right out and said that, of course; to admit that John was dying would have been to admit defeat. But no one needed to say anything; Rodney could see it in the way Carson looked just a little sadder every time Rodney saw him. He could hear that, although the infirmary was just as busy as ever, it grew gradually quieter as the days went by.

Still, no one was going to admit that John was dying, least of all Rodney. So he kept right on sitting at John's side, holding on to his limp hand and pleading with him to wake up, doing whatever was necessary to keep pretending that everything was going to be okay.

There were times when he even half-believed it.

-----

The dreams were growing more and more vivid. They were coming more often, too, to the point where John spent most of his time now sitting in the cave and trying to look everywhere but at Rodney's corpse. He could never sleep—how could he, when he was already dreaming? It was an effort even to keep his eyes closed for long. In the end, he didn't even try to avoid it. He just sat there, his clenched fists all but glued in position by the perpetually fresh blood that stained them, and stared at the horror he'd perpetrated, listening with half an ear to the storm howling outside. It never occurred to him to wonder where the sword was; he was so focused that he hadn't even noticed that it was gone.

Underneath the roaring wind, John could still hear voices occasionally, even assign names to them when he bothered to think about it, but they had faded to a dull mutter.

And then, at long last, he heard a new voice among them, one he recognized all too well: Rodney's voice, sounding very real and painfully sad.

A small spark of hope flared up—and then he looked over at what was on the floor next to him, and the spark died as swiftly as it had appeared. Because if John knew anything anymore it was that dead men couldn't talk. Which meant one of two things: either the sword was trying to screw around with his head again, or he was finally going insane.

For the first time in a while, John looked up at the roof of the cave, and he suddenly saw that the stone was beginning to crack. There was a web of dark lines there that he'd never seen before. Even as he watched, a tiny shower of dust sprinkled down from one of them, sifting down lightly over Rodney's leg.

-----

Elizabeth didn't speak up right away, but the rattle of the curtain rings still gave her away as she came up behind Rodney's chair. He didn't say anything either, just waited to find out what it was she wanted. If they were going to have a conversation, he didn't want it to be right by John's deathbed, but standing up was still painful and difficult enough that there wasn't really much choice in the matter.

"The sword's been destroyed," Elizabeth said at last.

"Really." Rodney's voice came out sounding more bitter than he'd intended. "And just how do you think you've managed that?"

"Ford and Teyla went back there with Bates' team and some metal detectors and hunted the thing down and dug it up. Then they attached it to a camera tripod, stood it up right in front of the Stargate, and dialed. The energy surge vaporized it. It's gone, I promise you."

"So you say," Rodney said tiredly. "What about the Machine?"

Elizabeth heaved a sigh. "They couldn't find it. There was no sign of the tunnel you said would be in the back of the cave."

So the Machine could protect itself from unwanted intrudersafter all, even without a Swordbearer. "Then how do we know destroying the sword did any good at all?"

"We don't," Elizabeth admitted, and Rodney realized abruptly that she sounded at least as exhausted as he felt. "But it was the best idea anyone could come up with under the circumstances."

"I'm sure it was," Rodney agreed more quietly. He really didn't feel like getting into anything that even resembled an argument right now.

Elizabeth squeezed his shoulder lightly by way of response, and then the curtains rustled again, leaving him alone with John once more.

-----

The cracks in the roof were growing, spreading further and further through the rock and widening as they went, accompanied by an almost continuous shower of dust. A few small bits of stone were beginning to fall, too. Light was shining through the cracks: not sunlight, but a brilliant, flickering blue glow.

-----

None of it was anything he hadn't said before . . . and yet, he just kept on trying.

"Dammit, John, you can't do this to me. If you die now, this'll all be worthless. You're letting the Machine beat you down all over again. I don't know what's going on in your head right now. Hell, I don't even know if anything's going on in your head. But you need to know that none of this is your fault. If anything, it's mine for ever letting you use that sword in the first place. Either way, you held it off as hard as you could, for as long as you could, and if you hadn't it would've killed me. I'm not going to let you give in to it now. You have to keep fighting, because I could never stand to lose you—now, or ever. I don't think I'd be able to deal with it. For my sake, at least . . . please, John. Wake up."

-----

"Stop it!" John roared from his corner, no longer knowing or caring whether he addressed his anger to himself or the blue light that shimmered through the cracks in the ceiling. "Why are you doing this to me? I know what I did—it's right here in front of me. He cared about me, and I killed him for it—do you think I've forgotten? Do you have to rub my goddamn face in it? Because it's not going to do you any good. I'm going to sit right here and wait for that ceiling to cave in and kill me, and you can't do a damn thing about it. So quit using Rodney's voice. It's not going to work."

There were tears running down his face, but he barely even noticed.

-----

There was no response; then again, Rodney hadn't expected one. There was only John, lying as pale and lifeless as ever and breathing shallowly.

-----

The subject couldn't be avoided forever, of course. Someone, sometime, would have to admit aloud what was happening. And in the end it was Rodney who brought it up first: a simple statement of fact. "John's going to die soon."

Startled, Carson looked up for a second from changing the bandage on Rodney's side. "Aye," he said at last, softly. "He is."

"Are you sure?" Rodney asked, more from sheer reflex than anything else. He knew already. "There's no chance he could wake up?"

"Not the way he's been going," Carson said heavily. "His blood pressure, pulse, and respiration are all going steadily down. At this rate . . ." He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"But why?" Rodney said. "It's like he's just given up."

"I don't know." Carson shook his head. "There isn't even anything wrong with him, as far as I can tell."

"Except that he's in a coma," Rodney snapped, regretting it a moment later when he saw Carson's stricken expression. He softened his voice. "Like he just doesn't want to wake up."

Carson nodded slowly. "I know you've been talking to him. If that's not doing any good, there's nothing else anyone can do for him, really."

"How long?" Rodney asked reluctantly.

Carson hesitated, biting his lip. "A day, maybe. Two at the very most."

-----

A day. Two at the very most.

Rodney drew the curtain behind him and walked to John's bedside, just like always. This time, though, he didn't sit down, even though his legs were feeling rubbery again. Instead he leaned down over the bed. The movement tugged at the staples in his side, and pain speared through him, but for once that seemed pretty damn unimportant. He leaned down a little further, gently pressing his right hand—the left was still in a sling—to John's cheek.

One day.

Rodney bent his head and kissed John goodbye.

-----

John raised a hand and brushed it lightly across his mouth. For a second he'd thought—but no. He must've been imagining it. But there it was again, the faintest sensation against his lips, like something pressing on them.

Like someone kissing him. Except that there was no one there except for Rodney, and Rodney was dead . . . wasn't he?

As he focused on the feeling again, it grew stronger, and he knew for certain: someone was kissing him, a kiss that felt somehow frantic and desperate. It was, John realized, exactly the way he'd kissed Rodney before . . . Before killing him, out there in the sandstorm.

But he didn't think he was imagining this. But he didn't think that the sword would do anything like this, either. Which left only the possibility that this was actually Rodney kissing him, which also made no sense, since Rodney was dead. So what the hell was going on?

Maybe Rodney wasn't dead, after all . . .

Startled, John hauled that thought back into his head and took a good hard look at it. Come to think of it, he'd never actually seen Rodney die. And yet the corpse was there at his feet, undeniable proof.

He looked down, and Rodney was gone. There wasn't even a bloodstain left on the ground where he'd lain.

Before John could begin to worry properly about that, a low rumble interrupted his train of thought. Raising his eyes, he saw that the ceiling was beginning to collapse for real. Larger and larger chunks of stone were striking the center of the floor and already beginning to pile up. Within a few more minutes, the entire thing was going to cave in and crush him.

He looked down again, and the floor was still barren. Rodney was gone, and logic dictated that if he wasn't in the cave he must be outside. In the storm. Dodging the steady shower of chunks of rock, John ran to stand near the cave entrance, stopping to squint out into the darkness. The wind was shrieking just as loudly as ever, if not louder.

But if Rodney had followed John here no matter what, then John could damn well do the same in return.

He took one look back at the roof falling in behind him, and then sucked in a deep breath and plunged into the storm.

-----

Rodney had finally gotten himself back into his usual chair. Getting there had hurt like hell, but he hadn't wanted to ask for help for fear Carson would send him back to bed. He reached out, as always, and gently squeezed John's hand.

And John squeezed back.

In an instant, Rodney was back on his feet. (He winced again at the fresh stab of pain, but it was far from the greatest of his concerns at the moment.)"John?" he said urgently. "Can you hear me?"

John stirred again, opening one eye briefly and then closing it again. A moment later, both eyes opened and he turned his head. "Rodney?" His voice was raspy.

Rodney smiled. "Hey."

"But I thought—" John shook his head slowly in confusion. "You were dead."

"What?" Something tightened in Rodney's chest as he understood. "Oh. Oh, god, John."

"'Till you kissed me . . ." John raised his free hand and touched the bandage at Rodney's throat. "It was so close," he whispered, half to himself. "So close."

-----

Try as Carson might, he still couldn't find anything genuinely wrong with John other than the inevitable wobbliness, which went away after no more than a day. Still, that meant that an otherwise healthy man had been in a coma for the past week and a half, so he insisted that John spend a few more nights in the infirmary just to be sure. Since this made it easier for him to visit with Rodney, John didn't object much.

He woke up in the middle of his last night there to an odd rustling noise. It took him a minute to recognize the sound as Rodney tossing in the next bed over. An instant later, he began to hear Rodney muttering into his pillow, and that was enough to get John out of his own bed and padding over to see what was wrong. He pushed aside the curtains, sat down on the edge of the bed, and shook Rodney gently. "C'mon, Rodney. Wake up."

Rodney shot upright almost immediately. He let out a small moan, grabbing his side. "I need to stop doing that," he muttered.

"Are you all right?" John asked gently.

Rodney jumped as if he'd only just noticed he wasn't alone. "It's not a big deal. Believe me, I'd notice if I'd pulled one of the staples out."

John tried very hard not to remember inflicting that particular injury. "You sounded like you were having a bad dream."

"I was." Rodney licked his lips nervously and looked over at John. "It happens all the time. I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't be." John hugged Rodney to him as tightly as he dared. "Believe it or not," he whispered, "I think we're gonna be okay."

"Are we?" Rodney asked softly, even as he embraced John in return. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one having trouble sleeping at night."

John pulled away slightly, just enough that he could look directly into Rodney's eyes. "Well, we're alive, we're here, and we're together. I don't know about you, but that's a hell of a lot more than I ever expected."

Neither of them initiated the kiss that followed; it simply happened, a natural and inevitable thing.

They'd gotten hold of each other now, and they were never going to let go.

Never.

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THE END

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, huge delay, I know. This was a really tough chapter to write. It's unbelievably hard to write anything about a comatose person without running head-on into a cliché somewhere, but I think I escaped with a few bruises at the worst.

Immense gratitude is due to the following people, without whom this fic would have sucked in the worst way: alyse, apookie321, silentvoice29, gaiaanarchy, machingmonkey, and mikasteelell. I love you all, even those of you whom I threaten to kill on a regular basis.

I think I'll attack the challenge list next. Be very afraid.