Never Too Late for Christmas

John wheeled into the drive, put the car in park, and sat staring at the imposing entrance to his brother's home. Dave was so much like Dad – favoring formal over casual, form over substance, business over family. John shook his head. He wasn't being fair and he knew it. Dave wasn't the one who had missed Christmas.

He flicked his gaze over the house – two stories of gray stone and white metal-rimmed glass – and pity rose as he imagined his brother rambling around in almost four thousand square feet, alone. Was it pretension or had he dreamed of filling it with a family one day? John realized with a pang that he had no idea what Dave's dreams were. The brother he had grown up with, had spent summers racing around the lake house with, had teased and clung to and idolized, was now a stranger.

A curtain fluttered upstairs, and John knew there was no going back. After shutting off the engine, he grabbed the package on the passenger seat and got out, wincing as the still-healing scar on his right side shot little sparks of pain across his chest and back. He paused to get his breath and then gingerly eased his duffel bag onto his shoulder.

The front door opened before he could knock. Dave's face was devoid of emotion as he stood there, finally arching a brow at the gift wrapped in bright red and green. "Christmas is over."

John shifted under his stare. "Yeah, I know, but it's the thought that counts, right?"

"No." Dave's voice was sharp, and the corners of his eyes tightened with anger. "You didn't even call."

"I'm sorry. It couldn't be helped."

"Couldn't be helped?" The words echoed painfully against the stone. "Do you know how long I waited? I tried calling—" Dave closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. "I guess you can't tell me where you were or why you didn't come."

Not anger. John narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. Fear. It was the same look McKay gave him after he pulled their asses out of the fire by almost getting himself killed. Why hadn't he seen it before? Had he ever looked? Would he have recognized it? After all, McKay's look had the added bonus of a tirade that left no doubt about how he felt. Dave, on the other hand, was a Sheppard.

"I'm sorry, Dave. I'm really sorry." Dave's gaze flew upward, eyes wide with surprise as John continued, "I can't tell you what happened and I can't explain why no one got in touch with you. I can't even promise that it won't happen again. But I would've been here if I could, and I sincerely apologize if I worried you."

And if you spent Christmas alone, in this big empty house.

John straightened, chin lifted, under Dave's scrutiny. He couldn't blame his brother for being skeptical. The day they had spent together after their dad's funeral had been a bridge – a shaky, narrow wooden one with fragile planks and big gaps – between two headstrong men who harbored a lot of hurt and resentment. John had gone back to his life in Atlantis afterward and Dave to his life running the family business. They traded emails. John sent photos of his team and colleagues with bland backgrounds. Dave sent quarterly financials and newspaper clippings. The connection was tenuous at best, but it was there.

Then Atlantis arrived on Earth and the meetings determining her fate started. John wrote his reports and gave his opinion to anyone who would listen. When the IOA ordered another round of analysis, Teyla and Ronon hitched a ride home on the Daedalus. McKay volunteered to help reconstruct the data and technology that had been lost in the Wraith attack on Area 51. John was given his choice of assignments, and while a part of him was tempted to become Caldwell's XO – to keep in touch with Pegasus and maybe to irritate the colonel a little – he knew he was best suited for a gate team. Landry took it better than John had expected, though the team of misfits that made up SG-13 smacked of retribution.

John and Dave were finally on the same planet and yet worlds apart. Text messages went unanswered for weeks. Phone calls didn't happen. Plans fell through. Six months on Earth and they still hadn't managed to make time to get together. On Dave's birthday, John had been in tense negotiations with a tribal leader who had taken offense at Lieutenant Margold's tattoo. At Thanksgiving, Dave had been in Moscow at a symposium on global sustainability. And Christmas….

John sighed and grimaced as his side pulled again. "So, can I come in?"

"What?" The words seemed to pull Dave from his own walk down memory lane. "Oh, yeah, of course." He stepped back and held the door open wide. "Come on in."

John moved past him, scanning the foyer and huge den on instinct. The fancy alarm control panel was new. So were the security cameras along the vaulted ceiling and the motion detectors in every corner. A thin layer of dust covered the top of the Renoir's frame. The hardwoods were dull. A half-eaten carton of lo mein sat next to a bottle of beer on the table next to the sofa that was laden with blankets and newspapers.

"What's wrong?" John asked, dropping his bag by the antique curio cabinet and setting the gift on top.

Dave avoided his gaze as he cleared off a spot on the sofa. "Nothing."

"When did you become such a terrible liar?"

"I am an excellent liar."

John snorted and took a seat. "Maybe in the board room or at a poker table, but right now, you're really sucking at it." He picked up the bottle and wiped at the condensation with his thumb. "You don't drink beer."

"Maybe I started."

"When? Right after you fired the housekeeper and cook? Or maybe it was when you installed the Fort Knox security in here." John waved a hand at the cameras overhead.

When Dave headed to the wet bar in the corner, John noticed with a frown that all the decanters were empty. His brother was a social drinker, careful to never overindulge, following their father's principle of always having the clearest head in the room. Dave preferred wine over liquor, and had an impressive collection of rare vintages. John had sent him a disguised bottle of Athosian ruus wine last Christmas and had spent the past twelve months dodging questions on where the exquisite beverage had come from.

"I had some trouble a while back," Dave said, a fresh beer in hand. "Minor stuff. Nothing I can't handle." He swapped bottles with John and plopped on the sofa, taking a long swig before laying his head back and staring at the ceiling. "Not buying it, are you?"

"Nope." John sipped his beer and waited. Life with Ronon had taught him a new level of patience.

Dave rolled the bottle between his thumb and forefinger, and then set it on the table and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, hands clasped as he stared at the far wall. "The threats started about the time Dad died."

"That was almost two years ago!"

"I know." Dave glanced at him then away. "We get cranks all the time because of the business, from tree-huggers upset that we're building coal power plants to displaced homeowners and small businesses who had to move because of imminent domain proclamations." His smile was quick and bitter. "It's the price of progress. I have a file cabinet filled with letters." His head dropped lower. "Including some death threats."

"Oh, God," John breathed. "Dad?"

Dave shook his head. "No, he'd had heart problems for years. The doctors warned him to cut down on the booze and rich food, but…."

John laughed softly. "I bet the chef at Marcel's was devastated when he died."

"He sent a massive flower arrangement and his best bottle of wine." Dave's grin faded. "Dad would have loved it."

"Why didn't you say something to me at the funeral?"

"I had other things on my mind, John." Dave raked his fingers through his hair and pushed to his feet, pacing in a slow circle. "Besides, I didn't take the threats seriously. Like I said, we get them all the time. I reported them like I always do, stuffed them in a drawer and went on. I had the board breathing down my neck about a merger, and the economy was getting rocky." He whirled, arms held wide. "There was nothing special about these threats. Just random mutterings from some nut who promised that wrath would rain down. He signed them 'Mother Nature.'"

"The police couldn't track them?"

"Nothing to track – no specifics, just a lot of ranting about pollution and raping the land. I've had harsher words tossed at me at investor meetings."

"What changed?"

"About a year ago, he started including news clippings of me at charity events." Dave slumped in a chair with a sigh. "And then he left a dead cat and a note on Sonya's car, promising the same would happen to her if she continued to associate with me."

"Sonya?"

Dave's eyes flicked to John's. "My fiancée. Or she used to be."

"Oh." He hadn't known Dave was even dating anyone. "What happened?"

"I hired a bodyguard for her and installed a state-of-the-art security system at her apartment, but I guess the stress of not knowing when or if he would strike got to her." Dave blew out a breath, his jaw working as emotion flickered on his face. "We were at dinner about six months ago when some guy who'd had way too much to drink stumbled into her. She just lost it – shaking and crying, screaming like he'd stabbed her. The police came. The guy was some college kid celebrating his twenty-first birthday. When she finally calmed down, she handed me her ring and walked out. I haven't seen her since."

"Man, I'm really sorry. I know it hurts."

"When Nancy left—"

"Don't go there."

Dave sat up straight and looked him in the eye. "I heard what Dad said to you. He was wrong, John."

John's chest tightened as the memory of that day returned, vivid and vicious. Words had been flung like the lethal daggers they were, severing the last thread of connection between him and Dad. John had stormed from his father's home, dizzy with rage and hurt, berating himself for expecting anything resembling sympathy, never to return.

Until the funeral.

"I have something you need to see," Dave said as he crossed the room and disappeared down the hall. He returned with a stack of envelopes in his hand. "I found these when I cleaned out Dad's house. I wasn't sure how to get them to you without exposing your private matters." He traced his fingers over the top envelope. "Turns out he was a hell of a letter writer. He left some for me, too."

John took the stack, oddly moved to see his name in his father's strong handwriting. He flipped it over and gently unsealed it, pulling out a couple of tri-folded pages that were turning yellow with age.

January 5, 1968

Dear John Patrick Sheppard,

Welcome, my son…

John gaped at Dave. "He wrote this the day I was born."

"I know. He did the same for me."

"There are…" John shuffled through the stack. "…seventeen letters here."

"Most likely from the big events – when Mom died, high school and college graduation, that kind of thing."

"Why didn't he give them to us?" John opened the last one and sucked in a breath. It was dated two days before his father had died.

Dave squeezed his shoulder as he moved past to reclaim his seat. "Probably for the same reason he had to write it down instead of saying it." He laughed. "Dad could talk all day long in front of a room full of strangers, but he got as tongue-tied as you or me when it came to how he felt on a personal level."

When the sorrow in his chest threatened to overflow, John folded the letters and replaced them in their envelopes, tucking them in his bag to read later, alone. "So." He cleared the lump from his throat and tried again. "So, I take it the police still haven't caught this kook."

"No. They're taking the threats seriously, but they haven't been able to trace anything to him. The paper is generic. The postmark is from the main office in DC, and too many people are in and out of there for him to stand out. No fingerprints and no saliva for DNA." Dave sighed. "Nothing. So, I gave my household help an indefinite paid leave, had a new alarm system put in, hired a guard for the front gate."

"How long are you planning on living like this?"

"For as long as it takes. I'll protect myself and the people I care about as much as I can, but I'm not letting that maniac dictate how I run my business. One day he'll slip up, the cops will catch him, and life will return to normal." Dave leaned forward with a grin. "Enough of that. Are you hungry? There's a new Tex-Mex place that opened a couple of weeks ago. The salsa will burn the taste buds right off your tongue."

Considering some of the food Teyla and Ronon had subjected John to over the years, it was a miracle he had any taste buds left. "I've been dying for decent enchiladas. The Mexican food in Colorado leaves a lot to be desired."

"You'll love this place." Dave pulled his coat on and grabbed his keys. "The head chef came from San Antonio."

John's mouth watered as he followed Dave to the garage. "It was a sad day when I left Lackland."

They kept the conversation light, discussing the NFL playoffs, Stanford's loss to OU in the Sun Bowl, and whether the Orioles had any chance of beating the hated Yankees. The food was as delicious as Dave had promised. After three bowls of chips and two cups of queso, a platter of sour cream chicken enchiladas with rice and beans, and a sopapilla smothered in honey, along with two massive margaritas, John was in a food coma. When they returned to Dave's house, John mumbled a goodnight and headed to the guest room, asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

John had no idea what woke him a few hours later. He sat up, disoriented, reaching for a gun that wasn't there in a nightstand that wasn't his. He brushed a clock that read 3:41 and bumped a lamp that teetered but didn't fall. He froze, listening, but other than the scrape of branches against his window, the house was silent. He lay down, closed his eyes, depending on years of military action and inaction to get him to sleep.

His instincts wouldn't allow it.

As he rolled out of bed, he told himself he was being ridiculous, that Dave's stories of a crazed stalker had gotten under his skin. He felt like an idiot as he skulked down the hall in his t-shirt and drawstring pants, certain he was about to scare the crap out of his brother, but his instincts had pulled his butt out of the fire more times than he could count and he wasn't about to start discounting them now. He wished he had a weapon, even a baseball bat. Too bad he'd never convinced Ronon to help him find one of those cool blasters.

A muffled thud from downstairs made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. John paused at the top of the staircase and peered into the darkness below. Nothing. He closed his eyes, calmed his heart, and listened with his entire body.

There. A scrape of leather on stone – the tread of a man trying to move silently, not something Dave would worry about. Someone was in the house.

John crept into Dave's room, clamping a hand over his brother's mouth.

Dave's eyes flew open, and his body tensed.

John held a finger to his lips and whispered, "There's someone in the house. Do you have a gun?"

"In the safe." Dave bobbed his head toward his closet.

"Get it."

Dave hopped out of bed and disappeared into the closet, returning a moment later with a .45 and two clips. "I've been to the gun range a couple of times. I'm a pretty good shot."

"I'm a really good one." John loaded the gun and thumbed off the safety. "Stay here. Call 911."

Dave grabbed John's arm. "I'm not letting you go out there alone."

"Look, this isn't some tree hugger. You said the police couldn't find a shred of evidence from almost two years of letters. Now, someone has broken in without setting off your high tech security system." John disentangled himself from Dave's grip. "These are pros."

"Then I'm sure as hell not letting you go alone. This is my house and my life. I'm not going to sit back and let my little brother fight my fight for me."

"Oh, yes you are." John leaned in, letting a little drill sergeant growl into his whisper. "This is what I do, and I'm damn good at it. You don't have combat training. Can you really pull this trigger and end a man's life without hesitating?"

"Can you?"

"Yes." John watched the battle in Dave's eyes, giving his best Ronon glare until his brother backed down with a nod. "Now, call 911 and stay—"

A floorboard creaked outside the door.

John shoved Dave in the closet and closed it. The bedroom doorknob turned. John waited for the door to swing open. When a black-clad leg appeared, John lunged, slamming the door into his target. The man grunted and staggered back. John whipped the door open and pulled his opponent inside, tossing him to the floor.

"Surprise." John wrapped his arms around the man's neck and squeezed until he slumped, unconscious. The only weapon he carried was a taser. John jerked the closet door open and handed the taser to his wide-eyed brother. "Just in case. Now, stay here until I come back."

Without waiting for a reply, John closed the door and used the zip-ties the intruder was carrying to cuff him. John dumped him in Dave's bed, pulled up the sheet to mask his identity, and headed to the stairs. He crept cautiously down, moving as Ronon had taught him to prevent his bare feet from making noise on the stone and wood as he crossed the foyer and headed toward the den.

Fabric rustled to his left, and John brought his gun to ready, eyes and ears straining. A shadow in the corner separated from the others. John fired. The muzzle flash lit his target for a second. A large man also dressed in black clutched his chest, his mouth open in a scream that was lost in the echoing gunshot.

John caught movement to his right and wheeled, but not in time. Someone large and heavy smashed into his right side, directly on his still-healing wound. John's world was reduced to white noise as pain exploded through his chest and back. The gun flew from his grip. John rolled to his hands and knees, scrabbling toward the wall and the light switch.

A hand latched onto John's ankle. He kicked, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage under his heel. The hand let go, and John was on his feet, one hand on his side and the other swatting the wall.

Light flooded the room. His opponent flinched away from it, and John ran, praying that Dave had managed to call the cops. John skidded into the open game room and smiled when he spotted the pool cues. He snapped one neatly in half, twirled it through his fingers, and headed back.

The big man who had tackled him was holding a broken nose with one hand and snarling into a radio with the other. His eyes went wide when he saw John swinging the halves of the cue, and he stumbled backward, fumbling for his weapon.

John knocked the taser from his hand with a strike and doubled him over with another. Before he could land a knockout blow, the guy twisted away and landed in a fighting stance.

"Don't make me kill you," John said. "Give up now."

"You must be Baby Sheppard." The man wiped the blood from his nose on the back of his sleeve. "We were beginning to think you'd never come back."

"If I'd known you were looking for me, I would've come sooner."

The man reached for his pocket, and John whacked him with a stick. His opponent gasped and clutched his badly bruised, possibly fractured arm.

"The police are on the way. You might as well give up now."

"I don't think so." The man shifted, and a thin metal bar appeared in his hand. "Let's see if you're as good as you think you are."

John blocked the overhand blow and struck. The man turned so the hit caught his back, and slammed his heel backward into John's knee. In a flurry of thrusts and attacks that would've made Teyla proud, John drove his opponent across the room, missing a lethal blow to the skull by millimeters. The man ducked and smashed his weapon into John's injured side.

Ignoring the warm, sticky trickle spreading across his ribs and down to his hip, John spun, whipping the sticks against the man's temples and then his throat. The guy dropped with a gurgle.

"Stop," a voice commanded from the stairs.

John glanced up, and his heart sank. A fourth man had Dave in a chokehold, a gun to his temple. Blood dribbled down his brother's face, and a rage John had rarely experienced pounded through him. "Let him go. I'm the one you want."

The man jammed the gun against the base of Dave's neck and prodded him forward. "That's where you're wrong. We want both of you."

"Why?" John asked.

"Shut up and move." Fourth Guy shoved Dave until they reached the first floor.

John's mind was racing as he tried to stall. "Where are we going?"

Fourth Guy smacked Dave in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Dave slumped to his knees with a groan and froze when the man pressed the gun to his head. "The contract is for both of you. Dead doesn't pay as much, but I'll take the cut if you force me to. Now, move."

John moved as ordered, his eyes never leaving Dave's. His brother frowned, flicked his gaze to the ground, and back up to John. Then he did it again. Schooling his features, John casually glanced down. Dave's .45 was behind the leg of the sofa, the grip peeking out from under the heavy gold brocade. John staggered a step, then another, and dropped to his knee, pressing his right hand to his side and making a show of displaying the blood that was smeared on his fingers.

"My God," Dave said.

Fourth Guy's attention shifted from John to Dave for a split second, but that was all John needed. He grabbed the gun, raising and firing it in one swift motion. The shot landed squarely between the man's eyes. His body jerked and fell. Dave scrambled away, staring in shock at the dead man and the spatter on the wall.

John zip-tied the man he'd beaten and then checked the other guy he'd shot. Unconscious and bleeding heavily, but alive. "Did you call 911?"

Dave blinked at him. "What?"

"This guy needs an ambulance. Did you call 911?"

"Um…." Dave clenched his eyes shut and held his hand to his head. "No. I was trying to get to the phone when he," Dave glanced at the body, "found me."

John made the call then knelt at his brother's side, swatting his hand away. "The cops and ambulance are on the way."

Dave exhaled and sat still while John probed gently at the bruise on his temple and the knot on the back of his head. Dave hissed but didn't pull away.

John studied his brother's eyes. "You'll need a doctor to check you out, but I don't think you have a concussion."

Dave's look was blank, hollow.

"I think you need a drink." John grunted when he stood, grimacing as pain rippled along his side.

Dave's gaze sharpened. "You're hurt. Sit down."

"I'll be fine."

"Sit."

John's body obeyed automatically. "Damn. When did you learn to channel Grandma Jo?"

"When I became Director of US Operations." Dave got a bottle of water and a towel from the wet bar. "Let me see."

John pulled up his shirt to reveal the bleeding wound on his side.

"Holy God, John. What the hell happened?"

Maybe it was the gentleness of his brother's shaking hands washing the blood away. Maybe it was the adrenaline leaving his system or the margaritas or the lack of sleep. For whatever reason, John's normal dodges just wouldn't come.

"Got shot. Bullet nicked my kidney. Had to have surgery."

Dave's hands stilled. "Is that why you weren't here for Christmas?"

"Yeah." John sighed, trying not to think about how close he'd been to bleeding out or how basic the hospital had been on P7T-594.

"Why wasn't I notified that you'd been injured?" Dave flushed and looked away. "Oh."

"Oh? What does that mean?"

Dave blotted John's side. "It's still bleeding. You must have ripped something inside."

"Wouldn't be the first time," John said. "I was wounded on a mission. Sometimes things can't go through normal channels."

"So, if something happened, something… bad, they'd let me know." Dave's voice wobbled but his gaze was steady, locked on John's. "Right?"

"All of your contact info is on my next-of-kin form." John gripped his brother's shoulder and offered a reassuring smile. "But don't worry about that. I work with some of the best people on the planet. I'll be fine."

Dave traced the scars left by Michael's falling building and a hiveship in the making. "Yeah, I can see that."

"Didn't say there wouldn't be a few close calls." John tugged his shirt into place as sirens filled the air. "Open the front door and keep your hands visible."

Dave switched on the outside lights, opened the door and took a seat next to John. Minutes later, the house was filled with police and EMTs. John handed over his gun and answered every question lobbed at him while the paramedics cleansed and bandaged his side.

"We need to get you to the hospital, sir," the medic said. "You're bleeding internally. It should heal on its own, but you should have a doctor monitor it just to be sure."

"I don't—"

"He'll be happy to go with you," Dave said, pulling John to his feet. "I'll finish up with the police and meet you there."

John glared even as he followed the paramedic outside. "Did you check his head? He got hit pretty hard. Twice."

The EMT helped John into the back. "Other than a world-class headache, he'll be fine."

John repressed a sigh and endured the trip down the twisting drive and past the guard house where a body was being loaded into the coroner's van. After a short ride through town, John was escorted to a bed. A nurse took his personal information, hooked him up to a monitor, and pulled the curtain.

About an hour later, Dave peeked around the curtain. "What did the doctor say?"

"Haven't seen one yet."

Dave's face turned to stone in a perfect imitation of their father's, and he strode away. John would've felt sorry for the doctor if his chest wasn't hurting so bad. A minute later, Dave returned with a doctor in tow.

"I'm sorry for the wait, Mr. Sheppard—"

"Colonel Sheppard," Dave corrected. "My brother is Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard of the United States Air Force."

"Yes, of course. Colonel Sheppard. I'm Doctor Pangee." He frowned at John's bloody shirt and pressed the call button. "Let's have a listen, shall we?"

John rolled his eyes, wishing for Carson or Keller or Lam as the doctor touched the cold bell of his stethoscope to John's side. Pangee clucked and tutted as he listened, ordering the harried nurse who scurried up to get John in a clean gown and then have him poked, prodded and scanned.

Once the last scan was done, John was wheeled back to his ER cubbyhole. Dave was sprawled in a chair, lines of exhaustion and stress etched on a face that was as pale as the bandage on his temple. He sat up, blinking blearily, while the orderlies parked the gurney and reattached John to the monitor.

"Well?" Dave asked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Gotta wait for the results. The tech said it would be a couple of hours."

Dave shook his head. "I hope you're not dying."

John laughed at his deadpan tone. "That makes two of us." He wiggled deeper into the thin mattress. "Think any of those guys will confess as to who put out a contract on us?"

"I doubt it, but I'm pretty sure I already know."

"Really? Who?"

"LaRoche."

John pushed up on an elbow. "Dad's attorney? Why?"

"Dad had a safe in his office that requires both of us to open. Some kind of biological lock on it."

"What's in the safe?"

Dave shrugged. "I have no idea. I didn't even know he had it until LaRoche read the will. He seemed as surprised about it as I was. He must think there's something really valuable in there."

"More valuable than our lives." John lay back and stared at the ceiling. "Did you tell the cops?"

"Yeah. They said they'd look into it."

John made a mental note to give General O'Neill a call later. The SGC had a couple of devices he wanted to borrow that would beat anything the police had. "So, what did you get me for Christmas?"

Dave folded his arms over his chest. "Superbowl tickets."

"The Superbowl was last week."

"I know. Guess you shouldn't have been late."

John narrowed his eyes. "What did you really get me?"

"I really got you Superbowl tickets. I gave them to my secretary and her boyfriend when you didn't show up. She's a big Saints fan."

"Well, I guess I'll have to give her the wine I brought you."

Dave straightened, and his eyes lit up. "The same kind you sent me last year?"

"Yeah, but this one is an older vintage." John grinned as his brother squirmed in his chair.

"You wouldn't really give my Christmas present away."

"You gave mine away."

"Because it had a time limit on it." Dave sighed. "And I might have donated some funds in your name to Mom's foundation."

John sat up, all humor vanishing. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." Dave glanced down at his hands. "I do every year."

Suddenly choked up, John could only blink away the dampness in his eyes and settle back in his bed. "Thanks, Dave. I mean it. Thanks."

"You're welcome, John. Merry Christmas a little late."

"Merry Christmas."

A/N: Thanks to kristen999 for the beta.