Epilogue

Beckett, Carson, M.D. He was from a place called Scotland. Except, Scotland wasn't here, it was somewhere else, Sheppard just wasn't sure where that somewhere else was yet.

His brain no longer felt like it was being skewered with firebrands, but it still hurt. A pressurized ache pulsed to the beat of his heart and attempted to incite another acid riot in his stomach. The room's stifling heat that the doctor insisted didn't exist, only exacerbated the way he was feeling. It sucked the energy right out of him, like being out in the sun too long without water or shade. All John wanted to do was curl up on his soft bed and sleep.

The doctor wouldn't let him, however, not yet. He stood on one side of the bed next to a short woman with honey-blond hair tied in a ponytail. Rodney stood on the other side, pointedly ignoring another woman with dark brown hair. Both women were dressed in the loose clothes John's brain kept calling scrubs.

It took gentle coaxing from Carson and irate prodding from Rodney to get John to release his hold on his shirt. It wasn't that he didn't trust Rodney's promise that these people didn't give a damn about the mark. It had just become an ingrained habit to make sure it stayed hidden.

When John finally relented, Carson peeled the two halves apart and didn't react to what he saw except to become more sympathetic. John let him maneuver the shirt's remains from his body. The doctor looked over John's front, then his back. He stuck a listening device into his ears and placed the round end to John's chest, followed by both sides of his back.

A stethoscope; the device was called a stethoscope. Recollection popped in easier with each item Beckett used. A pressure cuff that pinched his arm. A pen light that stabbed like a blade into both eyes. A thermometer that went in his ear. A needle hooked to a tube connected to a clear bag full of liquid was stuck into his hand.

"I.V.," John mumbled.

Beckett smiled as he taped the needle into place. "Aye, an I.V. Rodney, did ya say if his amnesia was retrograde?"

Rodney had finally been coaxed onto another bed for Carson to check him. "No, Carson, I did not," he snapped. His hands were clasped on his lap and his legs swung impatiently back and forth. "I said he had some kind of amnesia. Need I remind you who's the one who tosses the chicken bones around here? Although, I did suspect his memory loss may have had something to do with, well, what happened to him."

Carson nodded. He was taking blood out of Sheppard now, collecting it in a little tube. "Aye, that could be." He handed the tube off to the woman John realized was called a nurse. Carson gave some order, then while he waited for it to be filled, checked John over by hand, pressing along his spine, then each individual rib. He was gentle around the bruises, but John still yelped at a pinch of pain.

Carson winced. "Sorry, lad. Looks like there might be a few cracks in the ribcage."

"Is he going to be all right?" Rodney asked with a mix of impatience and worry.

"Well," Carson said, "he's got a temperature of 100.7, and my money's on infection as the cause. That and further infection from these cuts are my main concern. He's dehydrated, no surprises there. You don't stay hydrated out in the sun with a fever. You say he hasn't been starving or anything, so I can't say that he's malnourished. He is a bit too underweight for comfort, though. If ya hadn't have told me otherwise, I would have jumped to the conclusion that he hasn't eaten for days."

"But he has," Rodney assured him, then turned indignant. "I don't see you fretting over my weight loss."

"That's because you haven't lost an amount for me to fret over, Rodney. Colonel Sheppard isn't the kind of man who needs to be losing weight. He had nothing to lose except muscle."

John rubbed his arm in growing discomfort at being talked about while he was still present.

The nurse returned with the requested items, including a bowl of soapy water and a sponge. John didn't think anything about it until the curtain was pulled closed, blocking Rodney from sight.

John tensed. "Wh-what... what are you...?"

Carson placed his hand lightly on John's shoulder and smiled. "It's all right lad. We're just going to clean you up a bit."

"It's cool, Sheppard," Rodney called. "Like hell am I going to be blinded by your pasty white ass."

John huffed a nervous laugh. He tried to come up with a witty retort, only to be distracted by the touch of something soft, warm, and wet on his back. He flinched, pulling away.

Beckett graced him with another gentle smile. "Clean-up, son. We're just cleaning you up. It's all right, it won't hurt. And just the upper body. Right now, I can't tell bruises from smudges, no offense."

John didn't relax until half-way through the cleaning. At one point, the nurse had to go for another bowl of water when the first turned to mud. After the major cleaning came the minor cleaning of the cuts on his back with swabs and saline solution. Antiseptic cream was smeared on and the cuts bandaged. One needed sutures.

After the cleaning came a short trip through the complicated box with openings on either end. The machine was familiar, just not enough for John to trust it. He didn't lie down until Beckett removed the I.V. and gave him a non-medical-jargon overview of the machine's purpose. The thing sounded harmless, but it was large outside while small and bright on the inside. John's heart felt like it was trying to beat its way through his ribs, making it hard to breathe. So he held his breath as the bed eased him into the opening. Beckett commanded him to hold still, and John tensed his muscles until the shivering stopped.

"At this rate," Rodney shouted from across the infirmary, "I'm going to die of old age and Sheppard of a heart attack. Seriously, Carson, you're scaring the hell out of him."

John emerged at the other end unharmed, heart rate descending back to a tolerable speed. It hadn't been so bad, after all, except for the lights and that obnoxious humming. And yet he still couldn't get off the cold, solid bed fast enough, backing away from the thing until he ran into Beckett, who was looking over the results.
"Whoa! Easy there, son," Carson said, placing his hands on John's shoulders to steady him. "Come on, let's get you back into bed."

Carson was kind in the way he pushed Sheppard along. They gave him a white scrub shirt and pants, letting him change in privacy. The I.V. was pricked back into his hand and taped into place. Then, finally, what John had been waiting for, the covers were pulled up to his waist and the go-ahead given for him to rest.
Carson moved on to Rodney's bed to go through the same process he had with John. John winced rolling onto his side and pulling the blankets up to his shoulder He fought back exhaustion just enough so he could keep his eyes open and watch.

He trusted Rodney.

He didn't trust that this place hadn't changed since they were gone. New people, perhaps, could be present who did not know them. New leadership. New rules they had yet to become aware of. That neither sounded nor felt right, John just couldn't be sure, and that scared him.

The only surety he had was that Rodney knew what he was doing, and what wasn't known, he'd soon find out. This was Rodney's domain of expertise.
The ball is in his court. Yeah, something like that. It was up to Rodney to keep them safe this time, should there be anything to be kept safe from.

"Oh, will you just go to sleep already!" Rodney barked. He was trying to remove his shirt with one hand while smacking the nurse's hand away. "I'm not going anywhere and neither are you, so just relax and enjoy sleeping on something other than rock for once. We're safe, Sheppard. If I have to tattoo that on your forehead just to make you realize it, then so help me I will. We're safe. Safe, safe, safe." Then he added with emphasis, "Safe."

John sighed heavily. He trusted Rodney, and even if he hadn't, the exhaustion was too much to hold back. "'Kay," he mumbled. He gave his eyes permission to slide shut, and burrowed deeper into the softness under him, the warmth over him, and Rodney's petulant retorts all around him.

-------------------------

Carson chuckled lightly. "You've established quite the influence over our poor colonel, Rodney. And you've done a bloody right job looking after him." He warmed the cup of the stethoscope in his hand before placing it to Rodney's chest.

No sarcastic retort backlashed against Carson's comment. Rodney was unnaturally silent. Carson looked up to see his friend staring at Sheppard's bed.
"Rodney?" Carson said. The physicist's prolonged silence was making him nervous.

Rodney seemed to bodily deflate. "I didn't look after him, Carson. I didn't do crap except deflect a few of the rocks being thrown at him. We're alive because of Sheppard. Or, more appropriately, I'm alive because of him. Hell, he didn't even know who I was, just that I was someone he was supposed to know, but it was enough for him to bust into some fortress during a battle and save my ass." Rodney worried his bottom lip for a moment before continuing, adding wistfully, "I didn't even know he was still alive."

There was quite the story behind the words. But Carson didn't pry, no matter what his curiosity begged.

He exchanged the stethoscope for the blood pressure cuff and slapped it onto Rodney's arm. He'd seen the marks on Rodney's back; Carson wouldn't be surprised if Rodney held back on saying anything. Rodney usually started spilling his guts before anyone had a chance to ask him what happened, talking his catharsis. His refusal to share was the same as John admitting to pain. When both happened, you knew things were bad.

Carson looked back at John, now nothing more than a lump beneath the blankets that rose and fell with his deep breathing. The scan hadn't revealed anything neurologically problematic. Carson suspected Rodney was close if not correct in his assumptions concerning John's amnesia.

The marks on Sheppard's back had been worse: deeper, crueler. Whatever the colonel's story, it wasn't going to be told any time soon.

"You're wrong, Rodney," Carson said, turning back, to inflate the cuff.

Rodney drummed his fingers impatiently on the edge of the bed. "About what?"

"About not doing crap. You brought John home, lad. Do ya honestly think he'd have been able to do that on his own?"

"Carson, the guy has amnesia. He didn't even know what home looked like."

Carson nodded. "Aye, exactly. You both played a part in surviving, Rodney. And ya did take care of the Colonel. Ya brought him home. So don't give me this tripe about not doing squat."

Rodney huffed out a breath but said nothing. There was officially nothing for him to say.

---------------------------

They'd tenderized him first using ropes of linked metal since it made him scream sooner. One man circled him in a room too poorly lit to see his face. John was on his hands and knees half-naked in the cold. He trembled for a number of reasons, anger being one of them, fear the other.

"Where did you obtain your weapons? How do you create such weapons?"

"Who are you?"

"What world do you come from?"

"What are the symbols to your world?"

It was a new question every day, and a new meaning to Hell. They'd started with beatings and moved to less water and no food. Sometimes they liked to hang him up by his wrists. Mostly they wanted him on the ground to add kicks to the tenderizing.

The thin links of metal came down and tore another ribbon of flesh from John's back. He screamed, and a foot on his neck kept him from rolling onto his back. The chain was dangled in front of his face so he could see the blood dripping off it, soaking into the dry stone and dust.

Then the chain was tossed aside and the boot removed so he could be flipped to his back and held down. The branding iron bobbed closer to him, hell-red. It hovered over the soft spot between the ribs, hesitating for four heartbeats simply to prolong the inevitable. Then it plunged down, fire meeting vulnerable flesh.

John screamed.

He awoke sucking in air that wouldn't come, like breathing through a straw. He heard sounds over the ragged rasps of his breathing. His chest hurt, burned, and together with the incessant mechanical screaming and his inability to pull in air, he couldn't think. His hand scrabbled to his chest to claw and dig through mounds of material. His whole body felt lead-based, his brain misted over, his vision foggy and dark. They'd drugged him. That was what it was. They'd injected him with something that would either make him talk or too weak to fight back.

Or maybe it was killing him. Something was. His chest wasn't expanding the way it was supposed to, and his lung volume was shrinking. He arched his back and thumped at his chest trying to break through whatever it was squeezing the life out of him.

"Colonel Sheppard!"

Hands were all over him, pulling back the blankets and yanking up his shirt. They were going to brand him again. John struggled, arching and twisting out of too many grips.

"Colonel Sheppard, I need you to calm down! It's all right!"

John knew that voice. The mere fact it didn't belong in that place of pain broke through the torrent of terror like a battering ram. He felt something cool brush his nose and mouth. Something hard was pressed to his face, and pure oxygen flowed down his throat on the next pathetic inhale.
"That's it, lad, deep breaths. Nice and easy, slow and deep."

The vise around his chest eased off, freeing his ribs. Pain knifed through his flanks, and he exhaled on a whimper.

" Not too deep. Cracked ribs and all..."

The haze parted as though a breeze had blown it away. John was able to see again, so he turned his gaze to the face he recognized the easiest out of all the ones hovering over him. Carson smiled down at him, looking both relieved and weary.

"You're doing good, John. Just keep breathing. You're all right."

The burning in his chest narrowed down to an itch pinpointed over the mark. John rubbed at it weakly.

"That buggin' you, lad?"

John breathed in, breathed out, and shuddered. "N-not anymore."

Carson clasped his shoulder. "You tell me if it does. Now, keep breathing. You'll be right as rain soon."

The mechanical shrieking was now a mechanical beep. Carson bustled about the bed, looking at machines before sticking the thermometer into John's ear. The look on Carson's face as he studied the readout wasn't helping John's frayed nerves.

"One-oh-three," Beckett muttered. "Rising. Damn it! Jenny, love, could you fetch me the cooling blanket? We need to bring it down..."

John knew he should have been disconcerted hearing that. He was, but not to the point of panic. He didn't have the energy left to even so much as wallow in fear. When Carson moved out of sight, John drifted back to sleep against his will.

When he next awoke, it was to being wrapped in a cocoon of absolute cold. He curled into a shivering ball and tried to call for help, but barely heard his own voice. Something was stuck in his ear, and he flinched with a hoarse yelp.

"Sorry, Colonel," a female voice replied. "I didn't mean to startle you, I just need to check your temperature."

"C-c-c-cold," John rasped between chattering teeth.

"I know. I'm sorry, Colonel, but we need to bring your temperature down. Which, by the looks of things, we have. I'll go inform Dr. Beckett, then we can have you warmed up in no time..."

Whatever else the nurse had to say became white noise to John. He heard voices, then felt the cold pull away and warmth wrap around him. John drifted off again.
He awoke briefly to exhaustion but wasn't cold, so slipped back to sleep. He awoke again when Carson made him so he could stab his eyes with a pen-light, then listen to his heart and lungs. After that, he was allowed to sleep some more.

---------------------------------

The next time John awoke, he actually felt rested. He ached, a little in his head, some in his joints, but at a level that was easy to ignore. He rolled his head to the bed across from his, the one Rodney occupied.

It was empty.

John's heart thudded, and the beeping let who-ever happened to be close by know it. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't support his weight.

Rodney was gone.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

A hand on his shoulder caused him to jerk back. He looked up at the blonde nurse with her hand raised innocently and a chagrined smile.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you like that. Are you all right? Any pain?" She reached toward John, only to have him recoil from her. The nurse bit her bottom lip and pulled her hand back. "Colonel?"

"Where's Rodney?" he blurted. It was childish and a little harsh on the pride, he knew, to panic over the lack of the more familiar face. John was one high octave away from whining over Rodney breaking his promise that he would be there. To prevent that, John kept his mouth shut, waiting for an answer.

Crap, but he was pathetic. These people weren't exactly giving him a reason not to trust them. Caution heading toward paranoia had become like a security blanket for him on that alien world, and it was hard to let go. He caved to it since he didn't have the energy to convince himself to think otherwise.

"Dr. Beckett sent him with Teyla and Ronon to the Mess for food," the nurse replied, and her tone was edgy, nervous. "He thought it would be all right since you were asleep... and he felt Dr. McKay could do with the change of scenery. Would you like me to get Dr. Beckett?"

John nodded. He could do with familiarity, even if it wasn't Rodney. There was a sense of loneliness outside the well-known, which wasn't helping John's trust issues any. The nurse hurried off and seemed relieved to do so. It plucked John's guilt that he might have spooked the woman.

Beckett arrived not long after with the nurse following. The Scottish physician was all smiles on seeing John awake.

"Welcome back to the land of the conscious, Colonel. Hope you're up for a bit of soup. I'd send for something more to your liking, but you've been under for a good four days, so you're going to need something more gentle on your digestion." Beckett took the blood pressure cuff passed to him by the nurse and strapped it around John's upper arm.

"Rodney's all right?" John asked.

"Aye, he's fine and obnoxious as ever. You'd think he'd made my infirmary his permanent residence. He refuses to stay in his own quarters until he's certain you're not going to die on him anytime soon." Carson frowned slightly. "He's suffering a few abandonment issues."

John gave Carson an apologetic look. "He thought I'd died on that world."

"Aye, I know. It's not you're fault, Colonel. Ga! You and that bloody guilt complex of yours."

John shrugged. "Sorry."

Carson's grin returned, and he patted John on the arm below the inflated cuff. "I'm joking, lad. Stones in glass houses and all that. I believe excessive guilt trips are the norm for all us expedition members. Rodney, too, though he'd never admit to it." Carson removed the cuff and tossed it onto the rolling tray beside the bed "Any further recollections?"

John massaged the back of his neck wearily and looked away. Images skittered across his mind like shadows, and it would have been so easy to dismiss them as bad dreams. The scar on his chest wouldn't let him. So he did recall, just not what he wanted, and it made him shudder. So much for avoidance.

"Some things," he quietly stated. He waited for Carson to pry, while praying that he dropped the subject.

"You don't sound thrilled," Carson said.

John shrugged, keeping his hand on his neck.

"Is it bad?"

John shook his head. "Still kind of vague but... I get the idea, if you know what I mean." He looked up at Carson, resigned to the inevitable as best he could, but feeling a little helpless. "It's just going to get clearer."

Carson nodded solemnly. He was all sympathy without the pity, as though he completely understood what John was talking about. John had the feeling he did, if not because of shared experience then because the man knew what it was to never be allowed to forget. The longer John stared at Beckett, the more images flitted by of things done that led to regrets, fear, and pain.

Beckett on a world of Wraith-turned-humans-turned-Wraith. He'd been interrogated, and wraith didn't hold back when it came to interrogations.

"That it will," Carson said. "My advice is to talk about it at some point. It really does help. Only when you're ready, though. I'll not have you pushed into recovery, since it'll only set you back. On that note, I'd like to keep you in the infirmary for a bit even after you make a full physical recovery. Considering what happened to you the moment you arrived home, I don't want to take any chances. You'll be free to come and go as soon as you have the strength to do so. I'd just feel better having you where I can keep an eye on you should memory resurgence have any adverse effects."

John nodded. "Sounds like a good idea."

Carson's eyes went round. "Ga, never thought I'd live to see the day when Colonel Sheppard's agreeable about being confined to the infirmary. Should have had a camera handy."

John grinned at that. "I'm not exactly Colonel Sheppard at the moment." He tapped the side of his skull. "He hasn't woken up yet."

Carson clasped John's shoulder. "He will, lad. Just give it time and he will." He put his stethoscope on and started the vitals check. Rodney returned, carrying a tray with a small ceramic bowl of soup and an even smaller carton of orange juice.

"Don't even think about getting used to this," he said to John, handing the tray off to Carson. "I will endure boredom to keep you company out of the kindness of my heart, but I'm not your damn errand boy. I've come painfully to the determination that servitude isn't my forte. So, how is he?"

"Better," Carson announced, beaming like a proud parent. "Fever's down, congestion's gone. A little more rest and a lot of food – he should be back on his feet in no time."

----------------------------

"No time" turned into three days before John was able to eat solid food and had strength enough to get out of bed. Carson wasn't a man who pushed for healing. He liked his patients to take it slow, and so restricted John's movements to the infirmary. A few days later, he was allowed a few short walks through Atlantis.
The crawl toward one hundred percent was equally for the sake of body and mind. John explored the city one piece at a time, day by day, in the company of McKay. First the Mess Hall, so John didn't have to take his meals in the infirmary. They went when it wasn't so crowded to avoid assaulting John with a multitude of faces. Teyla and Ronon brought John to the gym to start him on exercises that would build his strength without taxing him. Next was the Jumper Bay and a ride in a Jumper.

Rodney did the piloting, for about ten minutes. The euphoria of flight had never left John's memory. During lulls in the darker dreams came dreams of endless stretches of sky over a myriad of lands, and the freedom of that sky. Recalling how to fly the Jumpers came to John so fast it left him both momentarily dizzy and giddy, and he begged Rodney out of the pilot's chair and took over.

Taking the controls sent more memories flooding through him. Giddiness mellowed into contentment that would have left him weaving through the towers of Atlantis for the rest of the day.

Remembrance continued to flow without pouring, allowing his mind to absorb. Names came before he saw faces, and the memory became complete with the faces. Zelenka, Miko, Lorne, Stackhouse, marines and scientists one by one or sometimes in clusters. Elizabeth brought him to the control room, the gateroom, and the meeting room. Memories flowed faster, and John had to leave when he swayed from them.

Atlantis was like the Indaani caves, full of chambers, rooms, places to climb, upper levels and lower levels. The likeness made John comfortable with the place long before memories returned. He knew his way around without having to memorize all over again.

John's own quarters were last on the tour, and it was a tour Rodney let him take on his own... sort of. As John basked among his things, Rodney hovered in the doorway, just in case the river became a flood John couldn't handle.

It was the room of a stranger when John first walked in. He stood there at first, looking around at individual items. He stared at the item long enough for it to soak into his mind and invoke bits and pieces of recollection. Everything down to a discarded sock under his bed got its chance to get him to remember. He'd been looking for that sock for a while. He thought it had been lost by the laundry crew.

John went over to his guitar in its stand and ran his fingers lightly over the strings. He looked at his Johnny Cash poster and songs popped into his head. He went to his nightstand, picked up the framed photo, and smiled. An inexplicable feeling of contentment enveloped him, as though his skin were finally adjusting to fit more appropriately around his bones.

John moved around his bed, picking up his guitar along the way, and sat on the edge. He thrummed across the strings and the guitar vibrated with a soft resonance, but he couldn't remember the notes to the songs in his head to play.

In time.

The bits and pieces could wait. All that mattered was he was back where he belonged.

He was home.

------------------------------

John twanged the string, only to get the wrong sound. He twisted the knob little-by-little until the right sound was finally produced, and tried again.

The balcony doors whispered open. John looked up from his strumming to see Rodney step out and sit with legs folded Indian style on the other side of the small ledge. He eased back until he was resting up against a pillar, staring out over the water to the horizon cutting the fading sun in half. The sky was soft in warm sunset colors fading to dark starry violet. There was an orange path cast over the water, like a choppy carpet leading to the sun.

John plucked at the strings.

"So, what are you trying to play?" Rodney asked in a rather indifferent timbre as though he'd been forced to speak. The physicist held up a single finger. "Wait, don't tell me. Johnny Cash?"

"Give the man a prize," John said.

"Which one?"

"Which ever one I happen to remember how to play."

Rodney nodded sagely. "Sooo... I guess it's okay for me to say that you're memory isn't all that up to par yet?"

John ran his thumbnail down all the strings. "Actually, it is. It's just been a while since I've played."

John plucked out a simple version of "Walk the Line" for the purpose of refreshing his mind. He lifted his hand away, letting the last string vibrate for a heartbeat before he pressed his hand to the strings, silencing them. He looked up to give Rodney a tight, caustic smile.

"Guess what I've been remembering?"

Rodney looked over at John. His expression was sympathetic while trying not to look sympathetic, and failing miserably. He was also looking a little uneasy. "Um... details or just, you know, in general?"

John stared out at the sinking sun. Atlantis really did have beautiful sunsets. "I would say in general. Little bits of what happened to me, but mostly how they branded me." He pulled up his shirt one-handed for a quick look at the small bandage covering the spot where the mark had been. Everyone had felt it necessary for the mark to be removed through chemicals and even a laser, the kind used to remove tattoos. The mark could be recognized on other worlds, and John didn't need that threat plaguing every future mission. John adjusted his shirt back into place.

"Sorry to hear that," Rodney said.

John shrugged, apathetic. "There's speculation I'll probably never remember beyond being branded. Well, I've been speculating. I don't recall much after, probably what with me being out of it from pain and unconsciousness and all that. Truthfully, I wouldn't want it any other way."

"You think?" Rodney said. "I wouldn't mind a little amnesia of the whole ordeal, myself. The dreams are a pain in the ass, and talking to Heightmeyer isn't as cathartic as it used to be. Has Beckett booted your skinny rear in her direction yet?"

"He's suggested, it but isn't going to push for it. It's not like the nightmares have me backing into a corner gibbering. I don't even wake up screaming anymore."
Rodney squinted thoughtfully. "For real?" Then he rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, leave it to the man with the questionable sanity to come out perfectly sane from being tortured."

"It's not a matter of sanity or insanity, Rodney, it's a matter of perspective. And if you must know – not that I want this all over Atlantis – I have talked to Heightmeyer. Not on a regular bases, just enough to help with the memory thing."

"I thought you said your memory was fine?"

"It is - at least, now it is. I'd been having some problems a few days ago with my memory going schizophrenic on me. One moment I'd be walking the halls, the next I'd forget where I was, or I'd forget who someone was. One day I woke up and it took me two minutes to remember my name. Kate's been helping me with it."

Rodney patted the air with his hand. "Wait, hold up, go back to the perspective thing. What did you mean by it's a matter of perspective? What is?"

John pursed his lips and rolled his eyes upward thoughtfully. "Life in general." He looked back down at his guitar. "There's two ways I can deal with what happened to me... us. Two ways both of us can deal with it. We either let it fester and gnaw until we're doing the gibbering thing, or live in the now and let the past be a lesson and not a deciding factor to how we live in the future. It... it wasn't all bad, Rodney. My time spent with the Indaani was awesome. Uncomfortable, since I knew they weren't my people, but still awesome."

Rodney sighed. "Sorry I can't say the same for myself, Colonel."

John winced. He'd never been good at pep talks and words of wisdom. His motivational speeches normally consisted of one-liners such as "buck-up" or "you can do it, Rodney, so shut up and do it." The heartfelt stuff made his gut clench and his mind wander. He tried, though. He forced the words when he had to, which normally only made things worse. Still, he tried, because sometimes he got across what he was trying to. He just had to keep trying until those words were found.
"Yeah, I know. And I don't expect you to. It's not going to remain a nightmare forever, Rodney. Not unless you let it. It's not like I've gotten over anything. I have, however, moved on. Sort of. Like you said, the dreams are a pain in the ass, but at least they're just dreams. They'll go away eventually, especially now that we're home. It's just going to be a while."

John resumed plucking, trying for a little more of "Walk the Line."

"Thank you for saving me, by the way," Rodney said. "And for remembering me enough to pull my ass out of purgatory. Oh, and for not dying, after all."
John grinned. "You're welcome." He picked up the tempo, going from plucking to playing with more feeling. "Thanks for saving me."

"I didn't..."

John looked up, caught Rodney's gaze, and held it. Rodney stared, gaping for a moment, ready to protest, until John narrowed his eyes. Rodney slumped in defeat, only to straighten up again. "You're welcome." He returned his gaze to the last inch of sun slipping beneath the horizon. The conversation had effectively ended before discomfort levels could reach gut-twisting proportions. Besides, they'd said all they needed to say.

John smiled, shaking his head. Then, recalling the rest of the song, he played on.

The End

A/N: Hugs to everyone who read and reviewed. It makes me endlessly happy to know that this was enjoyed :D