Author's Notes: This is my first (completed) Atlantis fic, so I greatly hope that I've managed to capture these wonderful characters. A huge thank you to my awesomely fantastic, brilliant beta and wonderful friend, for smacking me upside the head and telling me to keep going on this story until we were both happy with it, patiently holding my hand all the while. And big thanks to my other awesomely cool bud, Kat, for the final once-over. I hope I got it right this time...

Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and these characters belong to their respective owners. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money was exchanged. No copyright infringement is intended.

Feedback is always welcome and feeds the need. ;)

For John Sheppard, the trip back to Atlantis seems endless, and he's not a man content to watch from the sidelines, especially when it's Rodney McKay doing the flying. John's itching to push McKay aside and sit himself down at the helm and allow his mind to disappear into the zone. He needs the distraction that flying offers him. He needs to think about nothing but the controls under his fingertips, he and the craft symbiotically linked as one.

Instead, he has allowed Carson to lead him to the rear of the jumper. Even though every nerve ending is on edge, John forces himself to sit down on the bench and submit to the man's insistent poking and prodding – something he knows the doctor has been impatiently waiting to do since they'd first found John back on that planet. And as he looks him over, Carson incredulously and repeatedly comments on how it isn't possible for John to have endured three Wraith feedings and come out looking so unchanged, even with this so-called gift of life.

John tries to hold still as Carson takes his pulse, checks his pupils and tests his cognition and reflexes. He replies to Carson's questions with monosyllabic utterances, nods in what he thinks are the appropriate places, and grits his teeth against the urge to flinch away from every touch. John doesn't tell Carson and the rest of his team about the fourth feeding – the one that very nearly killed him. He's not quite ready to talk about that yet. He may never be.

In truth, he can't shake the sense that this is all happening to someone other than him. Everything had happened so fast, and he had come so close to death that he'd accepted its imminence, waited for it even. And now… it feels strange to be alive. Feels somehow wrong.

He's doing his best to keep it together, to stay still and appear his usual in control self, but Ronon and Teyla keep watching him with identical worried expressions. John thinks he should at least try to offer them some reassurances, but his mind keeps wandering away from him, back to wherever it went while he was lying there waiting to die. He can't stop trembling, his heart pumps too quickly, which makes him want to breathe too fast. It is as though his body hasn't yet realized that his ordeal is over. And it is over. He tells himself this. He says the words. Quietly. Inside his own mind. And he tries to believe it.

Still, there's an incessant thrumming in his veins, he's riding a wave of fear and adrenaline and if he weren't crammed claustrophobically tight in this damn jumper, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from pacing or running until his legs buckled with exhaustion. Then, if he were lucky, maybe he'd pass out and not wake up until this nightmare was completely over.

He wants to do anything but just sit here, trying not to come apart at the seams.

Something touches his upper chest. He flinches back with a strangled yelp and terror seizes hold of him, his fists defensively flying up. Someone quickly snatches tight hold of his wrists, pinning them together and he bucks and twists, frantic to free himself.

"Sheppard!"

The sound of his name and the familiar voice jolt him back to his surroundings. Muscles tensed and humming like live wires, John stares, shocked, into Ronon's face, realizing that the terrifyingly strong grip on his hands belongs to the Satedan. The larger man is holding him just tight enough to keep him from fighting, but not tight enough to hurt. John darts his gaze to the front of the jumper and Rodney is leaning over his chair at the helm, eyes round with worry.

Pressing his back against the bench, John forces his muscles to slacken and wills his clenched fists to loosen. "Okay," he pants, trying to catch his breath and tugging ineffectually at his trapped wrists. His trapped wrists. No. He will not allow his mind to go back there, to that room. "Let go now, Ronon. I'm okay."

Ronon slowly releases his wrists but keeps a wary eye on him. Rodney slowly turns back to the helm, and Carson stoops down, gathering up the equipment that has fallen scattered to the floor of the jumper. John realizes that in his panic, he must have shoved the doctor away from him, and he's furious with himself for the loss of control.

Jesus. Pull it together, John. You can't freak out now. Not here. Just get it together, dammit.

"S-sorry, Doc…" he manages after a moment, wrapping his hands protectively around his chest without being aware of it. He's shaking from head to foot, and if he doesn't get a grip right now, he's afraid he'll shatter into so many pieces he'll never be able to pull himself together again. "You just… startled me."

"It's all right, son – I should be the one apologizin'." And Carson does look remorseful as he slowly positions himself beside John again. "I should'a warned you first. I just wanted to take a look at your chest and make sure you're not still bleedin'. Is it all right if I do that now?"

John takes a more few shaky breaths, trying desperately to calm himself. Ronon takes a seat on the bench across from him, perching beside Teyla. John can feel the Satedan watching him, keeping a close eye on him, as if he's dangerous or unstable. John purposely lifts his eyes and holds Ronon's gaze until the other man looks away.

Teyla, who hasn't spoken much since they'd found him, looks as though she's fighting back tears, and Teyla doesn't cry easily. Feeling sudden pricking at the corners of his own eyes, John looks away from her. He doesn't want her looking at him that. It only scares him even more.

His gaze drifts down to his hands that are tightly clasped around his upper arms. The sight of them gives him such a start that his heart skips a beat and his breath catches painfully in his lungs. The skin on the backs of his hands is smooth, renewed and healthy, not wrinkled and withered. There are dark, silky hairs on his wrists instead of sparse gray ones. After each violent feeding, his hands were the only part of his horribly aged body he'd been able to clearly see, and he still expects flesh shriveled down to the bone, leeched dry as dust.

John holds his hands out in front of him, turning them over and over, staring at his palms, then the smooth backs. Surreality washes over him again, but he can't look away.

"Colonel?" Carson calls, leaning forward so that he's on John's eye level.

John blinks, the other man's voice breaking him free of the near trance. He tears his gaze away, and presses his dry lips together. He sits up straighter. He ignores the way everyone is looking at him.

"Yeah… okay," he whispers, readying both himself and Carson. He starts to unzip his shirt before Carson can do it, and the bloodstains are still damp and tacky under his fingers. To his dismay, his hands are trembling so badly that he can't quite manage it. Carson intervenes and gently helps him the rest of the way. The sensation of the other man's fingers pulling back the material sends another rush of panic through him. John's upper chest is bare and vulnerable, and his already hyped-up fight or flight instincts scream at him to pull away. Instead, he grips the edge of the bench and forces himself to hold still and just fucking pull it together already.

"This is unbelievable…" Carson breathes out, fingers lightly tracing a line from the base of John's throat down his sternum. "I can't see any trace of a feeding mark. Are you feelin' any pain in your chest, at all?"

John swallows hard and clears his throat. He looks down at his chest to try to see for himself if there's anything left of the mark. Even with the deep shadows in the jumper and the dark hairs covering the skin on his chest, he still should be able to clearly make out the raw, oozing wound, but it's gone. For reasons he can't quite wrap his mind around, this terrifies him almost as much as the feeding itself.

It feels like his teeth are chattering, but his voice is somehow steady when he manages to answer, "I'm just a little achey. Kinda like I've been punched, or something."

"I can imagine," Carson agrees, giving John a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and carefully zipping his shirt all the way up, like he'd had it before. Thankfully, before the doctor can say or do anything else, the jumper reaches the gate and slips through the wormhole with hardly a jolt.

Rodney's getting better at piloting, John thinks with a sudden and unexpected pride in his friend.

They've landed in the jumper bay and Carson shoves the rest of his medical gear back in his bag. Ronon is on his feet before the rear hatch fully opens. He offers to give John a hand up.

John reaches for Ronon's arm without thinking then jerks back when he sees that his hand is still trembling like that of a damn geriatric. He looks up quickly to see if Ronon has noticed. He has, and John is deeply ashamed when his friend gives him a mingled look of sympathy and helpless rage. Staggering to his feet on his own, John hauls himself up by the overhead straps, and forces himself not to look at his wildly shaking, startlingly young hands.

Carson gently takes hold of his upper arm and this time, John manages not to jump at the touch. Looking around, he realizes that they are all waiting for him. It takes a moment for his brain to get the signal to his feet and tell them to start moving. When he loses his footing and stumbles into Ronon at the bottom of the ramp, John hears Carson tap his radio.

"Can you bring in a gurney to the jumper bay, straight away?"

"No!" John protests more harshly than intended, "I'm okay. I'm just a little tired." He tries for a shrug and his usual lop-sided smirk. "Despite evidence to the contrary, I can actually walk."

Carson gives him a skeptical look but cancels the request, for which John is grateful. He's been carted through the gateroom on a gurney far too many times than he cares to count, and this time, he's fully determined to get to the infirmary on his own power.

"Cut yourself some slack, Colonel," Carson quietly tells him, looking him straight in the eye. "You've had a rough couple of days."

Coming down the ramp behind them and clattering only slightly more gracefully than John did, Rodney pauses to gape at Carson. "'A rough couple of days'?" he echoes. "Beckett, the stomach flu is a rough couple of days. Being stuck-off world with Ronon is a rough couple of days! Getting fed on by a Wraith is... it's bad... beyond bad…" he splutters, waving his hands, his outrage on John's behalf leaving him at a loss for words. Rodney's voice fades, and he looks closely at John. The scientist's meticulous scrutiny makes John feel disconcertingly like a lab rat, and he takes a few steps away, ducking his head. Still staring at him, Rodney continues regardless, "...although, like I said before, he does look surprisingly youthful, which is somewhat disturbing on a whole other level—"

"Rodney," Teyla interrupts, turning to glare her teammate, caution heavy in her voice.

John can well imagine what Rodney was about to say, and he's grateful to Teyla for stopping him. John doesn't want to hear it. Not now. Not when he's barely hanging on by his fingernails.

"But—"

This time it's Ronon who silences Rodney with a single, withering glance.

"Right. Fine," Rodney mutters, "excuse me for being concerned."

"McKay… I'm all right," John repeats as token reassurance for both his friend and maybe himself, even. "Yeah... it was... bad, but it's over now, okay?" He starts to pat Rodney on the shoulder, then remembers his trembling hands and instead curls them into tight fists by his sides.

And it is over now. It is. He's okay now, and he can just put this whole damned thing behind him. Or can he? He doesn't allow himself to think of that Wraith, or Kolya. Both still out there. No, he won't go there. Not now.

He just wishes that this would start feeling real.

The doors whoosh open and Elizabeth strides through, too impatient to wait for them to emerge from the bay. Even though Carson gave her an update on John's condition while they were on the jumper, Elizabeth stops dead in her tracks at the sight of him, her eyes widening, features slack with shock. It only takes a moment for her to regain her composure, and without hesitation, she steps up close to him and carefully enfolds him in her arms, as though he'll shatter like glass if she holds him too tight.

John stiffens at the unexpected touch, certain she'll feel him shaking, that she'll feel the erratic staccato of his heartbeat. That she'll see how messed up he is. He wants to pull away, but she only holds him a little closer, and then the contact seems to ground him. It feels real. The sudden warmth of another body, the clean scent of her skin and hair… It feels so real and in that moment, it's everything. He relaxes into her embrace, arms loose by his sides, and closing his burning eyes, he lets that moment of simple comfort wash over him.

It's Elizabeth who pulls away first, far too soon, but she leaves one hand on his shoulder. "John?"

He glances at her long enough to see the tears she tries to blink away. He carefully averts his own eyes for fear of revealing too much, for shameful tears of his own.

"We thought we'd lost you... again," she says after a moment.

Twisting the corner of his mouth in his usual smirk again, he hopes it looks authentic. "Yeah, I kinda thought we'd lost me, too." He resists the urge to wrap his arms around his chest for something to hold onto.

"Well, you're home safe now. That's all that matters." Elizabeth swallows hard and reluctantly drops her hand. John can only nod in reply.

"Come, let's get you checked out now," Carson says, gently steering him through the doors and in the direction of the infirmary.

John nods again. He keeps his gaze on the floor, and will not look his friends, or anyone they pass, in the eye. He knows they all saw what Kolya did to him, and it fills him with shame. He doesn't want to see their pity or their shock at how unscathed he is, and so he doesn't look.

But even with his eyes averted, he's still far too aware of Elizabeth and the rest of his team following him, protectively flanking him on all sides. Teyla is walking so close beside him that her shoulder keeps brushing up against his arm. Ronon is striding a few steps in front, as though clearing a path for him. Rodney is a few close steps behind, watching his back and strangely silent for once.

--A--

Before the medical staff can descend on him, John pleads an urgent call of nature and dashes into one of the small bathrooms in the infirmary. Closing the door behind him and quickly locking it, he leans against it for a moment, just listening to the sounds of his rapid breaths echoing around him.

Though the others have told him more than once that his appearance is remarkably unchanged, John still has to work up the courage to step up to the mirror and look at his reflection. Despite all the pretty boy jibes he's endured for most of his life, John has never been the type to pay much mind to his appearance. A quick shower, shave, and a swipe at his naturally untamable hair in the morning pretty much sums it up, but he can't help succumbing to fearful vanity now.

Just fucking look, already, he orders himself, furious with his own cowardice.

When he finally does raise his eyes to meet his reflection, the sight of his unchanged features shouldn't surprise him, but it does. He remembers what Sumner had looked like right before John had put a merciful bullet in the dying man's heart. Shivering, he wonders if he'd looked that bad, in the end, too.

He thinks of Gaul, Colonel Everett, and Ford… How they'd looked. How different they all were afterward.

And staring at his familiar, unmarred features, John tries to find some differences, too, some signs of what he's been through, but there's nothing. He looks exactly the same and that's just not right. Why should he get off any easier?

Before he even realizes what he's doing, he tugs off his jacket and lets it drop to the floor. His fingers claw at his shirt. When he can't manage the zipper again, he grabs the collar with both hands and pulls. The material digs painfully into the back of his neck but he doesn't let up. Then the cloth rips open with such startling ease that he bangs his elbow on the wall.

He pushes back the shreds of his shirt. Raking his fingers over his still sore chest, he still can't see anything and that just isn't possible. It has to be there. There has to be some proof, dammit, his mind chants, there has to be.

Leaning in closer and roughly scraping his fingernails through the hair darkening his sternum, he finally finds a long, purplish bruise. And just below the base of his throat is a small scar, shiny with the pink-tinged iridescence of freshly healed skin. It's so faint, he has to squint to see it, but it's there.

The sight sends an odd rush of relief through him, and he almost laughs at the bizarre irony. Just another day in the incredibly fucked-up life of John Sheppard. Then he does laugh, but it sounds almost like a sob instead. He clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound and tries to get a grip.

Okay, he tells himself, taking a trembling, rasping breath through his shaking fingers, it's okay, you're all right. This is all real and it's over now and you're okay...

"Colonel Sheppard? Are you all right in there?"

John startles badly and whirls to face the door. His head swims with vertigo and he has to grab onto the sink to steady himself.

"Colonel!" Carson shouts again, banging on the door as though he's readying to break it down.

"I'm fine!" John calls to the other man when he starts rattling the doorknob. John's relieved that his voice doesn't sound as shaken as the rest of him. "'Be out in minute."

"One minute is all you get, son," Carson warns.

Turning on the tap, John splashes some water on his face and the cold makes him shiver even more. He cups some in his shaking hands and takes a few sips to soothe his parched throat. He runs his damp fingers through his dirty hair, then thinks to flush the toilet in case anyone wonders what the hell he's been doing for so long.

When Carson raps on the door again, John isn't anywhere near ready, but he pulls the door open. The doctor studies his face for any signs of meltdowns. His blue eyes widen as they stray to John's chest. John follows the other man's gaze and he remembers that he's damned near ripped his shirt off. His exposed chest is covered in raised red scratches from his fingernails.

Way to go, John. Try explaining that. At the same time, he's too rattled to even try. Instead, he stoops to retrieve his jacket, holds it in front of him and follows Carson to a waiting gurney. He even manages to smile at one of the nurses along the way – the very image of a guy dealing with everything just fine. Yeah, right.

Carson relegates his team to waiting outside, and John strips from his filthy clothes and into a gown. He lays back and submits to more endless poking and prodding and being hooked up to various flashing and beeping monitors. Carson expertly inserts an IV catheter into his hand, and a nurse hangs a bag of saline on the pole beside him.

"How are you holdin' out, Colonel?" Carson asks, and the sound of his voice makes John jump a little.

"I'm okay," John lies, his voice coming out in a tremulous whisper. "Gotta admit I'd rather be watching football."

"Aye, I hear ya on that," Carson says, inflating a blood pressure cuff on John's arm, "but I'm afraid you're gonna have to put up with us for a while longer."

"Figured as much," John says, scrunching his face, and one of the nurses gives him a sympathetic smile. He tries to stay still, quietly enduring what seems every test known to mankind, and some he suspects Carson invents for the occasion. He can't hide a wince when Carson draws yet another vial of blood from his arm, and he just wants this to be over. His other hand twines in the sheet covering him, clenching it so hard that his fingers start to ache, but he can't loosen his grip.

He realizes he can see the shadows of his friends hovering outside the curtained-off area, and they give him something to focus on. Ronon's lanky form is as tight as coiled springs as he sits with his elbows propped on his knees. Teyla's compact frame is huddled in a chair beside him. Elizabeth stands just off to the side of them, leaning up against the wall with her arms crossed over her middle, and Rodney is pacing impatiently back and forth in front of all of them.

John can hear Rodney's voice, talking at his usual breakneck speed, but it's too fast and too muted to follow any of the words. Normally, Rodney's incessant yammering irritates the hell out of John, but now, just the sound of his friend's voice offers him a welcome distraction. He listens to the cadence of Rodney's voice, watches the shadows of his continually in-motion hands playing across the curtain. He wonders what has Rodney so hyped up. He thinks he catches the sound of his own name followed by the word Wraith, and then he doesn't want to know so much anymore.

Instead, he thinks of the chopper he'd flown back in McMurdo. It was no fighter jet, or jumper, for that matter, but he'd loved that thing. Flying over the endless stretches of snow banks and glaciers was the closest thing to perfect freedom he'd ever experienced. Blue and white above him, pure, uninterrupted white beneath him. It was as though there were nothing but sky, and he could just keep flying forever if he wanted to.

In time, the thrumming in his veins begins to dissipate, and his limbs become heavy and numb. His fingers relax their death grip on the sheet. He doesn't even really feel the hands that still touch him from time to time. When the nurse removes the cuff from his biceps, he's so dazed it barely registers. But it's different from the surreal abstractedness of before. This is more the kind of floating, drifting sensation that happens just before falling asleep, or the result of heavy medication. He wonders if Carson has slipped something in his IV. John's afraid of what dreams will find him when he does finally fall asleep, but at the same time, this haze that has swept over him feels good, like nothing matters.

Everything goes quiet, and John realizes that the prodding is finally over. Carson seems to have disappeared somewhere, probably to harass his lab technicians, pushing them to hurry up the results of those interminable tests. To John's surprise, Elizabeth and his team are sitting around his bed. When did that happen? They seem to have been talking to him for a while. He blinks and tries to concentrate on them, but he can't focus or even react to them. He can't form a thought coherent enough to put into words. His friends don't seem to notice, or they pretend not to. At the same time, Rodney is talking enough for all of them.

John understands that they're trying to distract him, reassure him, even. They're good friends, and he wishes their presence touched him more, but right now they seem more like background sound and muted color.

Carson returns a short while later, looking both relieved and weary. "Colonel," he says, looking at his notes as if needing to assure himself of their contents, "as unbelievable as this sounds, you're almost as good as new." He glances up at John and frowns when he doesn't get a reaction.

As one, John's friends direct their gazes to him, and he presses himself into the pillows at the combined weight of their speculation. He manages a nod and waits for Carson to continue.

"Your heart rate is still elevated, though," Carson tells him, and everyone mercifully turns their faces away from John. "Your blood pressure is much higher than I'd like, and you're very dehydrated, which is to be expected after the strain your system has been put through, so I'm going to need to keep you here overnight."

John just blinks at the other man. He's in such a daze from the strange fog enveloping him that he doesn't even protest the enforced stay. He doesn't think he could make it back to his room without falling flat on his face anyway.

Carson pauses expectantly, looking at each of them as he tucks his notes under his arm.

Elizabeth sits up straighter and gives him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Carson."

The others murmur thanks and expressions of relief of their own, and John manages a brief wave, well, more of a lifting of his leaden hand.

Carson nods and pats John's leg. "Get some rest, lad," he says, and as he turns to leave, he mutters something about how he wishes he could bottle this so-called 'gift of life.'

Rodney's head pops up in alarm at that, and he watches the man's retreating back. "Which makes you wonder… what new and exciting retrovirus do you suppose he's thinking of concocting next?" Rodney mutters quietly, as though to himself, but John hears him anyway. He can't help smiling a little.

Elizabeth slips from her perch at the end of John's bed and with a soft groan, stretches her back. She looks almost as exhausted as Carson did.

"I'd better get back to it, too. This is going to be some mission report," she says with a smile that is too tight to be genuine. She starts to turn away, then abruptly changes her mind and instead leans in close to John. She pulls him into another embrace, but this time it's quick, almost urgent. "I'm so sorry, John," she whispers close to his ear, her grip strong, fierce with intensity.

The sudden physical contact jolts John into a heightened sense of place, and he tentatively lays his hands on her upper back. He's surprised and puzzled by her words, but before he can ask her what the apology is for, she straightens and turns away. Keeping her face carefully averted, she quickly strides from the curtained-off area of his bed, disappearing from sight.

The infirmary lights are dimmed and the hallways outside become quiet. John's team stays with him, congregating around him in the gathering silence. Teyla has taken Elizabeth's former place on the end of his bed, one hand resting near his ankle. Ronon is slouched in that boneless way of his on a chair, his long legs crossed and propped on the bed frame. Rodney has situated himself on the opposite side, pecking away at his perpetual laptop.

They seem more real to John now that everything else is so still. Now that it's just him and them in a small pool of light in a quiet room. None of them seem to want to let him out of their sight, and John is grateful for their loyalty.

Though he'll never admit it, he did have his doubts back in that cell. That they wouldn't come for him. That he would die alone. But it hadn't stopped him from hoping each time he had been brought back to that room. It hadn't stopped him from praying that somehow they'd get there in time. That in any minute, Ronon would burst in, guns blazing, a squad of troopers and his team behind him, and rescue John from his nightmare.

That hadn't happened, of course. There had been no squad of troopers. No one had broken down the door and saved him. John doesn't blame them for not finding him in time. He truly doesn't, he knows they'd tried, but at the same time, after each feeding, his hope and unshakable faith in them had wavered a little more.

Maybe that's what Elizabeth is apologizing for, he thinks. Maybe that's why she can hardly stand to look at me. Maybe that's why my team won't leave.

He glances around at them, and even though he is tired to the point of exhaustion, he forces his eyes to stay open. Or maybe they know I'm afraid to go to sleep, he thinks even as his eyelids start to drift shut again. He forces them open again, snapping his head up. He wants to hold onto this reality for as long as he can.

Strange how it was the wraith who saved me in the end. He killed me, and then saved me.

John shivers at this sudden thought, this disconcerting truth, and pulls the blankets a little tighter around his shoulders. It's cold in here, he decides, not admitting the real reason for the iciness creeping along his spine.

Though his friend's voices are still all around him, and despite his determination not to think about the last few hours on that planet, it's the Wraith and the too-recent memory of John's resurrection that follows him into sleep when it finally catches him unaware.

--A--

Seemingly only moments later, John bolts upright in bed, a scream trapped in his throat, sealing off his lungs, his heart jackhammering, racing in his ears, pulse pounding. Agony rips through his chest, burning, tearing, pulling...

No, no, no... God, please not again... not again... I can't... not again...

His terrified gaze darts around only to find indigo darkness and stillness. He can't hear anything over the pulsing roar in his ears, can't breathe around the tight, terrible pressure in his ribcage. He claws at his chest, frantically trying to dislodge the source of the crushing pain, but his fingers find nothing but the cotton of his shirt. He hears himself wheezing with the futile effort to pull some air into his lungs. Black and yellow motes skitter in front of his eyes, and his heart begins to race so fast he's certain it will burst from his chest in a spray of blood and shattered bone.

Maybe he only imagined the Wraith giving him back his life. Maybe he's still lying there on the cold forest ground, drained of all but the last filament of stubborn life and this is his heart's last ditch effort to keep pumping. Maybe coming home had only been a dream his dying mind had conjured as a final attempt at comfort and consolation. If that were true, then death couldn't come soon enough.

Curling around the tight pain in his chest, John waits for his heart to stop its frenetic hammering, waits for it to just end already. A wave of dizziness pours over him and the sensation of being upended makes his stomach churn. He pulls in a terrified, strangled gasp. One arm flails in an attempt to catch onto something, anything to right himself and his fingers find something metal. He tries to grab on, but it skitters from his grasp. A sudden crash sounds in his ears, but he can't tell where it's coming from. Something rips at his hand, tangling in his fingers, but he can't free himself. All that matters is getting some air into his lungs, for the world to stop spinning, for everything to stop hurting so damned much. There is a rapid beeping sound that echoes maddeningly in his head. He wishes it would stop. Wishes it would all stop. He can't take this anymore.

"Colonel!"

Hands pull at him, grasping him, forcing him to sit up, gripping the back of his neck. Something presses onto his face, and the possibility of being gagged again helps him summon the strength to fight for all he's worth. More hands grab hold of him, and he hears someone calling his name. His mouth and nose are covered again, and this time, his body's survival instincts override everything else. He sucks in a lungful of oxygen, gulping in air with the same frantic need in which the Wraith had pounced on him that first time.

"Easy, breathe slowly," a soft voice close to his ear tells him. John tries to listen to the voice, but he suddenly understands what that burning the Wraith had described to him feels like, and he clutches what he now realizes is an oxygen mask to his face, gasping and shaking so hard that his hands slip a few times. Someone else takes hold of the mask for him, slipping something over his head to keep it more firmly in place.

"That's it, you're doing just fine," the voice says again, and John hazily and finally recognizes it as Carson's. The vise on John's chest begins to loosen, but the pain is still there, still crushing, still squeezing his heart. He takes in more air, finding it easier to breathe now, and after an interminable amount of time Carson removes the mask. Something wet keeps running down John's face, and it takes a moment for him to realize that he's crying. A distant part of him is horrified by this display of weakness, but he can't stop the helpless sobs any more than he can stop breathing.

Carson just rubs his back, in between his shoulder blades, in exactly the right spot to further help ease his respiration. John pulls up his legs, clutching his knees to his chest, leaning heavily against the other man's solidity without realizing it. The doctor reassures him that he's having a perfectly normal reaction. As though getting fed on by a Wraith until you'd reached what felt like the age of ninety-seven, then suddenly being restored to almost perfect health is a common everyday occurrence among the patients in his infirmary.

Through his tears, John snorts with laughter at the thought and tries to pull himself together, but his body seems to have a mind of its own.

Dammit, John. Stop it already, he orders himself. You're okay. But he's never been very good at following orders, and he can't stop the goddamned crying. Each heaving breath is jarred by a painful sob. He tries to hold his breath to halt them, but he can't. His body is still in too much shock and aching too badly to deny itself something as vital as oxygen, and despite his best efforts, he can't help gulping in pathetically hitching breaths. And, despite his growing shame, the damn tears keep falling. He feels them sliding down his face, dripping from his jaw. He watches them as they drop, large and heavy, one after the other, onto the back of his miraculously young hands. Even now, his hands won't stop shaking, and the teardrops staining them tremble in time, reflecting the dim light from the ceiling. He wipes them off on the front of his shirt and swipes an unsteady hand over his face and tries to stop the damn tears.

"It's all right, lad. Don't be worryin' yourself about it," Carson says, and that only shames John even more. "Looks like you had a doozy of a nightmare that's triggered a panic attack, but you're okay now," Carson reassures him. "Just keep breathing… in... out..." Carson gently repeats the words like a soothing mantra, still rubbing his back, and all John can do is follow the simple instructions, keep breathing and riding out this storm. All storms eventually pass, even the worst ones, he reminds himself.

"In… out…"

John drops his head to rest his forehead on his clasped hands. He squeezes his burning eyes shut. Whether this is real or not, he doesn't know. He doesn't want to think of the possibility that it may not be, so he thinks of flying, flying through clouds blackened, roiling and heavy with condensation.

"Keep breathing..."

He rocks with the motion as the winds tear at him.

"In... out..."

The words drift over his subconscious, and in his mind's eye, John pulls up on the throttle, rushing through the dark clouds surrounding him. Up, up and up.

"That's it…"

Higher and higher where the storm can't touch him, and he can just fly. Unimpeded. Free. There is nothing but white and blue above him and nothing but white below.

"Keep breathing…"

--A--

In his quarters and sitting hunched on the bed in front of his laptop, John double-clicks on the first innocuous looking file, his heart stuttering in his chest. Of course they'd recorded everything, Rodney is nothing if not thorough. The rational part of John's mind wonders if he's making a mistake in doing this. Even still, he can't stop himself from watching. He needs to see this.

Kolya's craggy features come into view and the hated voice sounds tinny over the small speakers: Doctor Weir, if you are receiving this, please respond.

The video is of poor quality, like a film reel of old home movies. Static and horizontal white lines of interference jump across the picture, but John can see everything well enough. Too well, in fact.

I do know you're there, Doctor. The existence of Atlantis is no secret among the Genii. It would be pointless not to answer.

Elizabeth's recorded voice comes through. This is Doctor Weir.

She sounds remarkably calm, John thinks, but of course, she didn't know at the time what was to come.

Oh, good. Kolya nods and looks pleased. I wanted to be certain you were there to see this.

Kolya steps back and John sees himself, gagged and bound to a chair. A cold wave of dread and fear rushes down his spine. His mouth goes completely dry.

Then the Wraith is dragged in, shuffling and barely mobile. John forgets to breathe. When the Wraith latches onto his chest, John watches in transfixed horror as his own face contorts and his bound, helpless body writhes in agony. Elizabeth is shouting in the background, and the roar of the Wraith is so loud that John can't tell if he'd been screaming along with it. He can't remember if he'd screamed or not.

He doesn't remember to breathe until the transmission blacks out, and the sudden hiss of static makes him jump. His heart is racing and he feels light-headed. He stares at the blank screen a moment, trying to get his breathing under control again.

Then he clicks on the second file.

The next time the Wraith is brought in, the blood roars so loud in John's ears, and rage consumes him so completely that for a moment, he can't see or hear anything. When the transmission is over, he's drenched in cold sweat and his teeth are nearly chattering.

He opens the third file and doesn't notice the blood welling in his palms from his fingernails digging into the flesh as he watches.

Now it's two hours, Kolya's voice says and the screen goes blank, but John can't see anything around the watery haze of furious tears.

His stomach clenches in a painful, churning knot and he barely makes it to the bathroom before he's vomiting up the light breakfast he'd eaten earlier that morning in the infirmary. He can't stop heaving until there's nothing left but bile. Dry heaves wrack him for so long that he's amazed his stomach doesn't turn itself inside out, or that he doesn't rupture something.

As soon as his body is back under control, John wipes the tears and mess from his face. Shivering and trembling, he pulls himself to his feet, rinses his mouth with water then stumbles back to the bed and the waiting laptop.

He opens the first transmission again and it's not so bad the second time around. Even still, he can hear himself breathing in short pants, frantic little sips of air that would have alarmed him had he been paying more attention to anything but what was happening on the screen.

The second transmission he's determined to watch with a detached eye. Sweat drips down the sides of his face, but he distractedly swipes it away and manages to follow Kolya and Elizabeth's tense conversation. John even manages some pride in her strong stance. He wonders at Elizabeth's inexplicable apology again but doesn't think he'll ever be able to ask her about it.

The third transmission is harder because it goes on for so long, and sound of the Wraith's terrifying roar is something John is certain he'll never get out of his head.

He doesn't hear the door sliding open.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rodney exclaims in horror.

John's head darts up and he's so surprised at Rodney's sudden appearance that he almost topples off the bed. He tries to slam down the laptop lid, but Rodney's faster than expected and he grabs onto the base. John refuses to let go of the lid, and Rodney keeps pulling on the base, nearly dragging him off the bed in the process.

"Knock it off, McKay!" John snarls, fury seizing hold of him, and he gives the laptop a savage yank.

The computer rips apart, stopping Kolya's voice in mid-sentence and the base flies from Rodney's hands and smashes to the floor.

In an instant, John's on his feet, his fists bunching in Rodney's shirt. He pushes forward, shoving Rodney towards the door. "Get out of here!"

Rodney's hands fly up defensively and he stumbles a few feet backward across the floor, but then John sees his expression change. Something in Rodney braces for battle, his blue eyes become steely, and he digs his feet in and shoves back.

"No!" he shouts, his voice shrill, "and you can't make me!" Rodney furiously curses under his breath at how pathetically that came out, then takes in John's appearance. "I mean – look at you. You can hardly stand up, for Christ's sakes."

John glares at him, shaking with anger, and Rodney's words prove true when a wave of dizziness pours over him. John's knees buckle and if Rodney hadn't grabbed him around the waist, he would have fallen. Rodney half walks, half drags him to the bed, and drops him unceremoniously onto it.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Rodney shouts, staring wide-eyed and furious.

The anger leaves John as swiftly as it had risen, as though Rodney has sucked it all out of him and taken it for himself. John is left with nothing. He can't look at Rodney and instead, slides back on the bed to lean against the wall. He rubs his eyes, pushes his sweat-dampened hair off his forehead and takes a few deep breaths, his head still spinning.

"Have you ever heard of knocking, McKay?" He says this tonelessly, he doesn't even really care now, but Rodney is still buzzing, overwrought and high on anger and fear.

"What, five times isn't enough for you?" Rodney yanks out the chair by John's desk, slamming it down it next to the bed and dropping onto it with an angry thud. "I overrode the lock when you wouldn't answer, not that I expect you to appreciate my concern…"

This surprises John. Five times? "I… I guess I didn't hear it." He takes a deep breath, and pulls his hand over his eyes. "What are you even doing here?"

Rodney stares at him a moment, as though willing John to get a clue. "Well… let's see. Once upon a time, Radek came to my lab and told me that a certain fly-boy asshole colonel tricked him into telling said colonel where certain files were saved. And then this colonel, who bears a rather striking resemblance to you, proceeded to hack into Radek's computer when his back was turned and stole those certain files. And you are so unbelievably bad at covering your tracks, Sheppard. I mean... really…" Rodney pauses for breath, watching for a reaction, but John won't look at him, and so he continues, "Knowing you, I figured you were about to do something incredibly stupid, like, oh, try to watch them, and as usual, I was right."

John doesn't answer, doesn't look at him. He can't look at him.

"How did you even open those files, anyway?" Rodney waves a hand in frustration. "They were password protected for Christ's sakes. Although, granted, I set up the passwords rather quickly, seeing as we were otherwise preoccupied with trying to find you—"

"Rodney…" John finally breaks in, irritated. "I am head of military command and have every right to see those transmissions, and I didn't steal them. I made copies."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Rodney sneers, "You didn't exactly saunter up and announce to the world, 'hey, guys! Gonna break out the popcorn and watch a few home movies. Wanna join me?'" Rodney's voice cracks on the last sentence, and his eyes are suddenly too bright with the threat of tears, but he blinks hard, forcing them back and glares at John instead.

John's grateful to Rodney for that. Anger he can handle. Tears, not so much. "Rodney, Kolya's…" John has to pause a moment before he can finish the lie he's about to tell, but just articulating the man's name almost has him spiraling into renewed anger of his own. "He's still out there and if those transmissions offer any clues as to where he may have gone now—"

"That's bullshit, John," Rodney says but his voice isn't as harsh as his words. John finally looks closely at him, startled by both the unaccustomed use of his first name and the odd, flat note to Rodney's voice. "There's nothing on those transmissions that'll give you any clues."

John's continually amazed at Rodney's ability to see right through him, and he can't help glaring at his friend. And that's when he notices the blood staining Rodney's shirt collar. Then he feels stinging in his palms and turns them over to see matching bleeding crescents on each of them. The blood in his palms reminds him of the Wraith's hand covered in his own blood, and bile rises in John's throat again. He swallows it down and closes his eyes.

John hears Rodney pushing back his chair, and pulls open his eyes to watch as his friend disappears into the bathroom. He can hear the water running and Rodney emerges a few seconds later and hands him a warm, dampened washcloth.

John looks at it questioningly, his mind too scattered to make much sense of anything.

"For your hands," Rodney says quietly.

John takes the cloth with a muttered thanks. He feels his face burning with shame and so he concentrates on cleaning off the blood, keeping his eyes averted from Rodney even as the scientist sits down close beside him once more.

"How much did you see of it?" Rodney asks.

"All of it," John answers truthfully, "twice."

"Twice!" Rodney echoes in renewed horror. "Jesus, Sheppard! I'll ask you again – are you completely insane?" Rodney drags a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "What are you even doing out of the infirmary, anyway?"

"Doc had no reason to keep me there," John replies quietly, "there's nothing wrong with me that a few day's rest won't cure."

"Nothing wrong with you?" Rodney repeats. "Have you looked in a mirror? You're white as a sheet. And you look like shit."

"Gee, thanks, Rodney," John sneers.

"And the fact that you're sitting here, alone, watching that… that…" Rodney's hands flap in the air as he tries to find the elusive words. When that doesn't help, he gets up and starts pacing. "…how could you watch that once, let alone twice, for God's sake! And don't start that bullshit about non-existent clues, either!" Rodney tears his hand through his hair again, tugging on it in frustration. "I mean… Jesus, Sheppard!"

"You all had to watch it," John says softly, as though that explains everything. And maybe it does. Maybe it explains nothing, he's not really sure.

Rodney stops, blinks, and his mouth opens and closes silently for a moment. "So…? Do you have to do everything we do?" he challenges, then winces at the inanity of what he's just said. "I mean… you know what I mean."

"Yeah," John almost whispers, knowing exactly what he means. "I had to see it for myself, Rodney."

"Why?" Rodney asks, but his voice is gentle now. He genuinely wants to know – the endless scientist's curiosity coming forth.

John glances up at that, at the uncharacteristic note of empathy. It makes him self-conscious, like he's so fragile that even Rodney finds it in himself to be nice for once. Looking back down at the cuts on his hands, he sees that they've stopped bleeding. "It's hard to explain."

"Try me," Rodney says in an unconsciously snide tone of voice and tilts his head in that impatient manner of his and John is relieved by it. He can deal with their usual bickering much better than the unaccustomed sympathy.

Winding and unwinding the washcloth around his fingers, John slouches a little further down against the wall, and he tries to come up with the reason why. And surprisingly, a lot of reasons come to mind.

He needs what happened to him to feel real. He needs home to feel real even more. He'd needed to see that he hadn't withstood and emerged from that nightmare so unscathed, after all, and the three separate images of his unnaturally aged face are something he knows are going to revisit him in his nightmares for a long time.

And most of all, he'd needed that irrefutable proof of what the Wraith had done to him, so that he can start to understand why he's feeling so damned messed up, even though he looks perfectly fine. Almost as good as new, as Carson had said. Almost being the operative word. And it's the almost that keeps tripping John up.

But he can't tell Rodney any of that. Some things you have to keep for yourself. Some things you have to work out in your head before you can put them behind you.

"Sheppard?" Rodney snaps his fingers to get John's attention, then frowns. "Maybe I should call Beckett. I don't know why he let you out so soon anyway. When he hears about you watching those transmissions—"

"Rodney."

"I mean what were you thinking," Rodney mutters, more to himself than John. "But then again, thinking has never been your strong suit, has it?"

"Rodney!" John raises his voice and pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor, hands clasped and resting on his knees. He stares at Rodney until his friend meets his intense gaze.

"What!"

"Don't tell Beckett I watched the transmissions," John says slowly, his voice steely. "Or Elizabeth, or Teyla and Ronon. They don't need to know."

Rodney just stares at him, a multitude of emotions and questions lighting his expressive blue eyes.

"And tell Radek I couldn't figure out the passwords," John says, then looks at Rodney suspiciously. "He didn't really call me a fly-boy asshole, did he?"

"No, that was me." Rodney admits. "So you want me to lie?" He raises his eyebrows, all feigned moral indignation.

"Yes." Rodney blinks and before he can offer up another protest or insult, John blurts out, "Tell me something, Rodney." He waits until his friend looks at him straight in the eye. "If it had been you… if you were the one tied to that chair, had that done to you…" John's hand unconsciously strays to that spot on his sternum, "…in front of everyone, would you have watched it afterward?"

John remembers Kolya telling him that he'd have been just as content to torture Rodney instead of him, and John shudders a little at the thought, grateful his friend had been spared that. And watching Rodney's reactions closely, John can almost see the wheels spinning in the other man's overactive brain.

Rodney's thick eyelashes flutter as he ponders John's question. He sits back down in his chair, scowling. It's something he wouldn't have thought about if John hadn't brought it to light. John knows his friend well enough, though. He knows that in the long run, the detached scientist in Rodney would have been fascinated by the metamorphoses of the whole thing.

Finally, Rodney nods, as John expects him to do.

"Yeah. I would have," Rodney says softly, then chuckles a little. "Out of curiosity… I suppose. But just once. And I'd probably puke my guts out afterwards."

"That's what I did, too," John admits. "The first time, anyway."

Rodney's face scrunches in mingled sympathy and disgust. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "I thought I smelled something in there." Slouching back in his chair, apparently satisfied that John isn't ready for a padded cell just yet, he waves his arms around to indicate all of Atlantis. "Did you for one minute think that among our many other obstacles, that we'd ever be dealing with life sucking space vampires? Well, amended to life sucking, fountain of youth space vampires, in your case."

John gives Rodney his own look of disgust and irritation at that description. "Don't forget bugs. Big, ugly, life sucking bugs."

"Who could forget those?" Rodney winces on John's behalf. "God, it's a wonder we aren't all basket cases by now. I guess when it all starts feeling normal is when we need to start worrying. Although how do you define normal? How can you even feel normal after the last couple of days?"

John thinks about that a moment and something in his mind tries to grasp hold of a realization.

"So are you gonna tell me how you figured out those passwords?" Rodney's voice breaks through, almost startling John from his thoughts.

"As soon as you fix that," John counters and points to his decapitated laptop.

"What! You're the one who broke it," Rodney immediately protests, bolting upright in his chair.

"I did not," John argues, "you dropped it."

"After you ripped it in half!" Rodney reaches over to retrieve the base still lying on the floor. He studies it for a moment, then tosses it on the bed. "And no, I can't fix it." At John's scowl, he adds, "But I can transfer the data on your hard drive onto a new laptop. Happy?"

"Fine," John agrees. "Coupl'a new games would be nice, too," he adds hopefully. "I'm off-duty for another week." Rodney has an endless stash of games that he gets from God knows where. Hell, for all John knows, maybe he creates a new one every day, during his coffee breaks.

"Don't push it, Sheppard," Rodney says, but he's almost smiling. Then his expression sobers, and he watches John's face a moment. "Seriously, are you okay?"

John's not sure how to answer. He does know that he's tired of the platitudes, though. His mind drifts back to Sumner, Gaul and Everett again. Even Ford. John had simply been luckier than they had been, that's all. At least that's the only sense he can make of any of this. There is no rhyme or reason, and no one ever said life was fair. John had simply been lucky enough to cross paths with a Wraith that was desperate enough to make a deal with him. That understood the concept of honor and repaying one's debts.

John knows he should be grateful for that, but it's going to take a little while for it to take hold.

Rodney's staring at him, still waiting for an answer. John glances at his friend and decides to answer truthfully. "No… I'm not," he says with a wry laugh. "Not really. Not yet anyway."

"Couple of days though, maybe?" Rodney offers helpfully.

"Yeah," John says with a shrug. "Couple of days, I'll be fine. A week at the most," he jokes. And maybe, with a little more luck, that'll even be true.

"Good," Rodney says with a satisfied smile, as though that's all it will take until everything returns to their version of normal.

And then John remembers Rodney's words. How can you even feel normal after the last couple of days? The truth is, John suspects he'll never feel entirely normal again. He's starting to realize that you can't come within an inch of dying and then be the same afterward. He had almost died once before, no, he corrects, he'd been clinically dead before, but he doesn't remember that very clearly.

This time had been different. This had been his life being violently taken from him decade by decade in a matter of minutes. This had been looking death in the eye and wishing it would hurry up and take him, because to go on living that way was unthinkable. No, there was no true sense of feeling normal after something like that.

And maybe that's the final proof he needs; the realization that a part of him will never be the same, that he hasn't come out of this unchanged, at all. At the same time, he thinks he can live with that.

John looks down at his hands again. They sting a little from the shallow cuts, but he realizes that they're no longer shaking so badly. It doesn't startle him as much either when he sees the young skin and the strength and vitality his hands possess. He's getting used to them again, he supposes.

It really is over, he tells himself. And he finally starts to believe it.

-- finis --