Title: Written in Blood
Author: Angel Leviathan
Spoilers: None.
Notes: Written for 50lyricsfanfic.
Elizabeth closed her eyes tight, clenching her jaw. She had been in worse situations. So her mind told her. She was hard pressed to actually recall them, however. A tear hit the crumpled sheet of paper before her, blurring some of the ink. Elizabeth glanced over at her companion, voice hitching, "Anything else?" she asked.
John shifted on the cold ground and hissed in pain, looking everywhere but at her, so she wouldn't see the pain in his eyes. Blood covered hands reached to run a shaky path through his hair, a nervous gesture. Pale features twisted in pain again as he tried to answer her. Too much blood. Far too much blood gone.
She reached across to try and stem the blood flow, only to have her hands batted away. Hurt flashed across her face for a moment, before she reclaimed the paper and pen, trying to write, supported on her knee.
He had already given up on himself.
"…Right…okay…" John coughed, "Tell Ronon it was an honour to fight alongside him. Shame I couldn't get to know him better. He'd probably be calling me all the names under the sun right now just to get me to stand," he slouched against the wall of the dark cave, "Tell him to look out for the rest of the team…" he coughed again, "Even if they hate him for it."
Elizabeth continued to write, pen piercing the paper as her frustration and anger got the better of her, "…Okay…" she nodded as she finished.
They had been ambushed. And no matter how good a soldier John was, there was no way he could have avoided the number of shots fired at him. Split up from the team, they had taken shelter in a nearby cave. Their attackers were supposed to be new allies. But oh no. Just allies long enough to lure them back to the planet and try to take them for everything they had. He was bleeding to death from multiple wounds. Elizabeth had several wounds herself, bruises from falls and gashes from bullets that had sliced close, but not hit home entirely.
He was insisting she write some form of goodbye for him.
"Give me…" he winced in pain, "Give me the paper," John reached out, "pen…" he added.
She didn't hesitate, though she knew he was likely to do himself more damage. He could have asked her to end worlds at that moment and she would have done it, "John, what're you doing?" she asked, voice quiet, head swimming a little from her own pain. Elizabeth frowned and had to look away as she saw blood stain the paper as he attempted to write, "John, stop," she pleaded.
"…Can't," John answered.
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to get her tensed muscles to relax. Deciding she was most definitely being pathetic, she opened her eyes again; his wounds were far worse than hers and he was there writing a damned essay.
Several minutes of silence later, a cough drew her attention right back to him. She noted, with horror, that blood was now seeping from the corner of his mouth, "John!"
"'Lizabeth," he said her name as a statement rather than an admonishment. He handed her the paper and chewed on the end of the pen thoughtfully for a moment. Then his eyes fluttered closed.
"John!"
"Elizabeth?" another voice, not John's.
"We're here!" she shouted.
"Elizabeth?" Rodney's voice.
Elizabeth caught sight of Rodney, Carson, the rest of Sheppard's team, and enough figures to make up another team or two, before she finally allowed herself to lose consciousness.
A week later, released from the Infirmary and limping her way around the city, Elizabeth Weir held up a blood stained and ripped piece of paper to the light. She had retrieved it from the Infirmary with some other battered pieces of kit, after insisting that Carson hand them over. Most of the handwriting was hers, and she remembered all too well what she had been instructed to write. His goodbyes to his friends and team mates. She narrowed her eyes when she came to writing of his style, and lowered the paper as she allowed the words to sink in.
It was just as well John couldn't move. For someone who had been nearly dead, he still managed to be a damned annoying patient. Though he was immobile, he seemed to make up for it by shouting the odds at any given moment. When he was able, that was. He had even accused them of giving him pain meds just to knock him out and give them a few minute's peace.
"I'd knock, but you seem to have this whole organisation revolving around you…"
A still weary looking Elizabeth stood a few feet away from his bed. He blinked, "They won't bring me my laptop."
"And?"
"I want to play games."
"You would," she moved to stand beside his bed, slight smile on her face.
"How you holding up?" John asked, suppressing a yawn.
"I think I should be asking that of you."
He tried a shrug, and regretted it, "…What you see here is what you get," he choked out.
Elizabeth reached out and rested a hand on his, "Still. Now," she demanded. She sighed, "…John, about what you had me write in the cave…"
"Forget it," he insisted, embarrassed. He wasn't one for emotional displays, and deathbed confessions and goodbyes floating around whilst he was still here was his idea of hell.
"What you wrote?" she tilted her head.
He frowned, casting his mind back. Still a little blank. Just a lot of pain. Not a lot else. No, wait a minute…
"Well then…" Elizabeth began, voice quiet, "…Let me just say that…" she knew she was going to embarrass him, "…You mean just as much to me as you wouldn't have me think I mean to you," she continued, teasing note in her voice. She narrowed her eyes slightly, "And if you ever make me write your last words again, I may have to kill you myself."
John laughed, despite the pain.
"You're a pain in the ass, John Sheppard, but I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Laugh less," he quipped.
She smiled and drew a seat close to his bed, "Probably." Elizabeth's expression sobered, "Sleep, John," she insisted.
He exhaled slowly, for once obeying orders without so much as a second thought. He opened one eye, "That paper-"
"Burnt."
Fin