She'd done this before.

It wasn't always John's team that rescued her.

A couple of times the Daedalus simply beamed her from her cell and she materialized on its bridge, no scrapes, no bruises and not one bit worse for the wear. There were plenty of versions where Major Lorne's team would force their way in with guns blazing, leaving a satisfying trail of destruction in their wake. Once it had even been a lone and fearless Doctor Zelenka armed with a P90 and a data pad, no hand free to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Remarkably, the latter had been no less convincing than any of the others. She'd never considered herself to be gullible, but her optimism had been known to get the better of her, and for a long while she had continued to fall for the delusions.

Following Ronon down the corridor, heart and the patter of weapons fire pounding in her ears, she figured it was only a matter of time before optimism was no longer a problem.

There were only so many times you could escape and still believe.

It wasn't Woolsey who met her on the Atlantis side of the gate, thank god. That was always more than a little disturbing to come home to. She'd have liked to think the IOA and the SGC, though admittedly not without fault, wouldn't be ithat/i misguided, but apparently her subconscious wasn't convinced.

She preferred the times when Teyla stood at the helm, felt a certain comfort and pride and relief. But she couldn't find too much complaint with Colonel Carter in command. Though she flinched at the idea that Atlantis had militarized, she knew Samantha Carter was a scientist as much as she was an officer. There were plenty of worse alternatives.

Plus, it was always entertaining to watch Rodney try not to trip over his tongue, and she'd never begrudge herself a little levity in the face of the inevitable anguish.

Keller greeted her with the same wariness in her eyes every time Elizabeth wound up in the infirmary (usually escorted by armed marines, sometimes John, sometimes Lorne, and on one more disturbing occasion, bound and gagged and flung over Ronon's shoulder). The doctor always did countless scans, and Elizabeth's isolation ran the gamut from non-existent to never-ending.

She ran her nails up and down her arm, legs crossed at the ankles as she listened to Keller marvel over the lack of nanites in her system.

This time, Elizabeth opted not to tell the doctor how they'd been removed. The story (and the process itself) was painful and degrading and didn't warrant another retelling. This entire thing was an exercise in futility anyway and she could spare herself some of the heartache.

"I see no reason to keep you in isolation," Keller informed her as the doctor's eyes continued to flit over the pad in her hand, awe creeping in around the edges of trepidation. "You're severely malnourished, dehydrated and –"

"And I haven't slept in days," Elizabeth finished for her.

The doctor nodded. "Get some food, get some rest, and check in with me in the morning."

Elizabeth slid off the bed and started toward the door, barely hearing the soft words spoken at her back.

"Welcome home, Dr. Weir."

Usually someone would have been hovering over her in the infirmary. Rodney, John, or Teyla would feel the need to keep her in sight – to confirm for themselves that she was real, had returned in one piece. They'd drag her to the mess or to her room, or she'd convince them to slip off to the balcony for a small reprieve. She'd fill her lungs with fresh air and acquaint herself with Atlantis' new planet home as she listened to a report of what she'd missed.

Now, though, she was alone and too tired to bother with food or sentiment. Her muscles ached and her head spun, and more than anything she wanted to lie down – probably a manifestation of her mental exhaustion and weariness.

This time, she told herself as she passed the wonder-filled and cautious eyes of expedition members, she'd try and get a little rest.

Elizabeth wasn't surprised to find John in her quarters, but this was the first time he'd been doing anything other than sitting with his head in his hands or pinning her roughly against the wall and sticking his tongue down her throat.

"I was going to send them to your mother," he said without turning, pulling her photo of Sedge from a box and placing it on her desk. "I figured you wouldn't want your things collecting dust or becoming some sort of shrine."

She watched him continue to un-box her life. This was a new side of John Sheppard – one she hadn't created before – and the vision caused her to take an unconscious step back.

"You've given up."

Instead of countering her claim, instead of becoming defensive, he admitted, "It's been two years, Elizabeth. I couldn't handle hoping anymore."

She knew the feeling.

They unpacked in silence, elbow deep in memories until it became too much.

"I should probably get some rest," she said, for some reason anxious to rid herself of this John, of this personification of her state of mind.

He nodded and retrieved a pair of pajamas he'd just put away in her drawer, placing them in her hands without meeting her gaze. "Right, yeah."

Neither of them said anything as he crossed toward the door, and she found herself following after him, a part of her needing to convince him – to convince herself. "It's not your fault, John," she said as she tugged his arm and made him face her. "I'll be okay."

The look in his eyes told her that he didn't believe it any more than she did. A shiver accompanied the realization that even in a false reality she could no longer find anything but despair.

She pressed her lips to his to try and draw the shadow from his eyes.

John didn't pull away (he never pulled away), and instead cupped her face in his hands when she fisted hers in his shirt and held him closer.

"I left you there," he whispered, words muffled against her mouth. "I abandoned you. How can you –"

"I'm back," she insisted. "I'm here."

He pulled back and appraised her, as if trying to verify her claim. His thumb brushed her cheekbone and his frown deepened. "You're not broken." It was a statement betrayed by the question in his eyes.

Not yet, she thought, wondering if even that was the truth, wondering if this wasn't the moment that would break her – if she would let it.

She shook her head and dispelled the thoughts. "You'll save me."

Standing in the middle of her quarters, her tongue found his, his hand found her ass and the energy finally, mercifully shifted.

She raked her nails up his sides, dragging his black t-shirt with them. His arms rose and she yanked the material over his head, barely breaking the kiss in the process. He tasted sweeter this time, richer than she would have imagined, and when he bit down on her lip she felt the sting all the way to the tips of her fingers.

"Want you," he hissed, and her shirt met the same fate as his. He trailed hungry kisses over her chin, down her neck and to her chest as his hands tangled with her belt. She toed off her shoes and socks as he slid her pants down, causing goose bumps to ripple across her hips.

John tore his mouth away to shed the remainder of his clothing before pressing his body flush against her, his erection hard against her leg as he backed her gracelessly toward the bed. Her knees buckled as they hit the mattress and he followed her down. He hooked his fingers in her underwear and pulled them from her legs at the same time as she scrambled up the bed.

He didn't follow her.

Instead he paused, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His eyes were burning with something she'd never imagined before, but they stayed on hers for only a moment before trailing down her body and over her exposed skin. She knew how pale and fragile she must look, gaunt and hollow with nothing to cover her but a flimsy black bra. She heated under his gaze and even though she knew it wasn't him, knew it wasn't real, she reached for the comforter, for something to shield her from his scrutiny.

"Don't," he insisted and she froze, still clutching at the fabric. She stayed still as his hand skimmed over her leg and his eyes followed the path, gently caressing. He settled himself beside her as his fingers continued to explore everywhere he could reach, up over her hip, grazing her breast, over her throat and coming to rest on her lips. He traced his thumb back and forth over the soft skin and she shivered.

"John, I –"

The rest of her statement vanished as he replaced his thumb with his lips. It was tender this time, but that stung even more. He ran his fingers through her hair, playing with the curls as he deepened the kiss. She turned into him, hand grabbing his waist and pulling him against her, eliminating the space between them as John's hand found its way between her legs.

She was breathing hard, her lungs aching with strain as John cocooned their bodies under the comforter. His look of concern was still gut-wrenching as he gently tucked the material behind her shoulder.

"That probably wasn't included in the doctor's orders," he said, voice warm and deep but still soft.

"No," she agreed.

He swept her hair from her forehead. "Close your eyes, Elizabeth." He kissed her gently. "You can sleep now."

He sounded so sincere, so genuine that her heart sank deeper into her chest. It didn't matter that this wasn't a perfect vision. It didn't matter that two years had passed here and everything had changed. She didn't want to go to sleep. She was tired of waking up.

She nodded and settled deeper into the covers as John curled against her. His breath was warm on her shoulder, his hand a gentle weight on her ribs. Lying there with her back to his chest and his arms wrapped around her, it was all she could do to keep the tears at bay as she fought the onset of sleep – the end of the cycle. It wouldn't bring her rest; it would bring her back to reality.

Another battle lost.

She woke without opening her eyes, headache ever-persistent and this time accompanied by sore, throbbing muscles and a severe hunger. She twisted in the bed and tried to bring her hand to her face.

Her arm met resistance. Her first instinct was that they'd restrained her, strapped her down, but it wasn't leather or metal that bound her.

Her eyes snapped open and she choked as her lungs struggled to fill. There was no cell, no bars, no cement; no coarse white sheets on an old worn cot. No fluorescent lights and no permeating darkness.

There was only John.

She reached out and touched him, hand shaking violently as she registered the sensation of warmth beneath her fingertips. She dragged her hands clumsily through his hair and he opened his eyes.

She dug her teeth into her lip and released the taste of blood.

John frowned and reached for her, her heavy, scratchy breaths echoing in the silent room as the salt of her tears crept into her mouth.

She turned away, tossed aside the comforter and pressed her bare feet into the cold, hard floor. She padded to the bathroom, running her hands under the faucet, first cold, then hot. She registered and catalogued every sensation as John appeared in the mirror's reflection.

"Elizabeth," he started, face etched with concern.

"Tell me something I don't know," she demanded. "Something I wouldn't know. What's the square root of 14534?"

John's brow furrowed. "One hundred and…" He shook his head. "I'm good, but I'm not a computer. That's the only math question you don't know?"

She turned around, jaw clenched. "Pi to the eighth decimal."

"3.14159265"

Her knees began to tremble beneath her. "I didn't know that."

"I'll be sure to report you to your geometry professor." John stepped toward her warily. "You going to tell me what this is about?"

She braced herself against the counter and took a shallow breath. The world was starting to spin.

"I think – I think I might be awake."