The highest balcony on the central spire of Atlantis had one lone resident at four in the morning, Pegasus galaxy time. His silhouette against the break of dawn made for a majestic image, one he was sure Evan Lorne would have liked to have captured on canvas. Neon red met autumn orange in a glorious dance as they waltzed across the sky. The sun began to rise.

Hitting 'Enter,' sending his latest e-mail, John Sheppard closed his laptop and stood up, stretching his legs in the process. Taking a few steps forward, he leaned against the railing and took in the view of the city. It never failed to take his breath away.

His brow creased in thought, imagining the day he lost contact with his second-in-command. The SGC had replaced him with Major Jacobson who, while dutiful and always obedient, had the unfortunate want of approval at all times. John wasn't quite sure how to handle the man, even though they were nearing the one year mark. Jacobson was exactly what John had predicted Lorne to be like the first time he met the man: needy, always at his beck and call, by the book, straight-faced, and devoid of humor. But after their first conversation John knew Lorne was going to be anything but.

He could not say the same for Major Matthew Jacobson.

It had been more than ten months since Major Evan Lorne had last stepped through the Stargate. His team was under heavy fire off-world and Lorne sacrificed himself to save the others. McKay had been with them, intent on discovering the source of some fluctuating energy readings during their routine trade agreement. The physicist refused to talk about that day after his initial debriefing. Not with John, not with Teyla, not with anyone. Self-sacrifice was not particularly viewed in high-esteem by Rodney McKay, but you couldn't even say Lorne's name within earshot of the man without this glint of utter heroism in his eyes.

John knew McKay idolized Lorne from that moment. Rodney wouldn't elaborate on the specifics of what happened on that planet, but not one team member had returned unscathed. Rodney actually fared the best of the lot with three deep stab wounds on his right bicep and several lacerations covering his back and chest. If that was how bad off Rodney was, John didn't want to imagine how badly tortured Lorne had been.

Evan, he chided himself. Show some respect.

They returned to the planet in jumpers less than an hour later. John himself led the charge and with an armada of four jumpers they prepared to fly through the Stargate to seek out the lost Major. The only problem was, the Stargate wouldn't open a wormhole.

"Why isn't it locking?" John shouted, his voice directed towards the technician.

"I'm sorry sir, it can't find the other 'Gate," the woman said—Sara, he thought her name was—as she tried dialing again. And again.

"Radek. Explain," he ordered, gritting his teeth as he glared at the Czech.

"You know same as me!" Radek explained, his broken English starting to come through as desperation filled him. "The Stargate is not locking. The 'Gate on the other end must be…" he fished for a suitable word, "…impeded."

"Perhaps," the tech possibly known as Sara said, "They are dialing another planet?"

This only made him angrier. The marines closest to him backed up several steps, aware of the absolute anger radiating from his body. "Keep dialing," he growled at the tech. "Everyone be prepared to go through the Stargate the minute it locks."

No one made a sound for the next thirty-two minutes.

After nearly thirty-eight minutes once they began dialing the planet, they succeeded. John remembered vividly the relief on everyone's faces, but all he thought at the moment was how Evan Lorne was probably no longer there. Either dead or captured and gated to another planet.

They found no body on the planet. John had searched for months, Woolsey giving him substantial leeway, aware of how the bond between the two men had grown. Every lead led nowhere. No one knew anything about where the Major, or the people who took him, had gone.

Three months later, they called off the search.

John never allowed himself to think about losing one of the few people he allowed himself to grow close to. They were never close friends in the way he and McKay were, but they had complete trust in the other's abilities and could always depend upon the other to pick up any slack.

This balcony was his reprieve. Here he would think about all the things that went wrong. The missions, the deaths, the decisions, everything. He laid it all out in front of him and ran it over in his head until he could no longer think clearly. Teyla had caught him alone up here on more than one occasion, but he brushed off all of her inquiries. She knew this was that one place he went to be alone, just like every member of the expedition had. She left him alone each and every time.

More than ten months later and he was still trying to adjust. Lorne's void was so large that nearly every person on Atlantis was affected. Jacobson had taken over SGA-2 as team leader, a decision Cadman was none too happy about, but John didn't have the strength in him to fight with her about it. It was easier than creating another team and helped Jacobson from having to lead a whole new one—which, in turn, also made scheduling easier.

Doc Keller had taken things particularly hard. She and Lorne had grown close, he knew through the grapevine, even teased Lorne about it sometimes, when suddenly he never came back. She was distraught, the poor woman, and Cadman had to step in to comfort her.

Due to McKay's taboo about the subject, John's own team never really addressed the issue. Sometimes he, Teyla and Ronon would make passing comments during sparring matches—it really did help to get his blood flowing—but never anything more than that. Sometimes it hurt to think about just how much work Lorne did for him, but John never fully realized it until the man was gone.

The marines, too, were downright despondent to see him go. John wasn't one to interact with the men daily, mostly due to his more bureaucratic role in the scope of things, but Lorne taught classes in self-defense on Tuesday mornings. He would spar with some of the men if he happened to be in the gym and they happened to need a partner. He would sit with them if they were alone at the mess hall, keeping up with his odd quirk of constant social interaction.

This, too, John did not realize until Evan was gone.

He often wondered what the man was up to now. Was he living as a slave? Was he wounded and calling out for help? Human test subject? Dead? None of his hypothetical situations for the Major were positive ones and he almost preferred the last one to the rest, simply because if the Major were dead, he would be at peace. But that also meant he couldn't be rescued.

He also envisioned what he could have done differently at the time of the Major's disappearance, but really, there was nothing that could have been done. No one had anticipated the attack on the planet. It was a friendly one, visited every forty-six days to trade for crops and other supplies. The unusual interval was due to the native's own calendar. And it had been on that particular forty-sixth day that a race they had not met ambushed Lorne's team and McKay.

John shook his head, trying to shake away the memories of his ineptitude, of his inability to rescue his XO. Former XO, he chastised, remembering Jacobson.

A sudden beep from his watch alerted him that the morning shift was relieving the graveyard shift and that he was needed in the Gate Room. Woolsey had the day off after a three week stint and the man was looking forward to some much needed rest. John didn't blame him. He knew what running on fumes felt like.

Grabbing his laptop, he headed for the stairwell. Another advantage to having this balcony was that the Gate Room was only a few floors down. It took him no more than three minutes walking at a casual pace.

John questioned Chuck as to how things were going that morning as he relieved Sharon—not Sara—at the dialing console. "The usual," Chuck replied.

The usual. The Stargate was down for repairs after a live grenade, or what would pass for a grenade from a rogue Genii sect, had made its way through following Lieutenant Harrington's team. McKay nearly chewed out the poor Lieutenant when he realized the work ahead of him. It was pure luck that all the other teams were already on Atlantis due to the annually scheduled November holidays. Harrington's team was the only one off-world at the time.

It had taken four days to ensure that everything was up to working standards. They were making the Stargate operational this morning and John was here to oversee that.

"Turn 'er on, Chuck. Let's get this show on the road."

The Stargate powered up momentarily afterwards and Lieutenant Jeffries' team was on its way not thirty minutes later. They were overdue to trade off-world with three different civilizations and would need to hurry to make contact and apologize in the event that their late check-in compromised any negotiations or contracts.

And that made what happened that afternoon all the more worrisome.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when the Stargate sprang to life. Jeffries' team was due for check-in right about now. John was signing several requisition forms in Woolsey's office when he heard the tell-tale sounds of the 'Gate spinning and locking each dialed symbol.

He walked out along the catwalk to peer down at the expected SGA team. "IDC?" John asked.

"It's Jeffries," Chuck confirmed, typing away at something. "Lowering the shield."

A few button presses later and, sure enough, in walked Jeffries' team. "Lieutenant!" John called down, "I hope our tardiness didn't warrant a late slip!"

"No sir," Jeffries' called up, smiling. "We got a wagonful!" His smile was contagious and, as promised, a wagon full of grain and other goodies was pushed through the Stargate following the team before shutting down.

"Are those not-strawberries?" John queried from above, squinting at the tiny scarlet dots.

Jefferies grinned. "Indeed, sir."

"Excellent! Head on down to the infirmary for your check-up. Keller's waiting."

"Yes, sir!" Jefferies' saluted—highly unnecessary, John thought—and escorted his team to the infirmary.

"So, Chuck, two more check-ins and we're done for the day."

"Yes, sir. Can't wait for the movie tonight," the young man said, nodding his head enthusiastically while reading some information on his computer.

"Who's next?" John asked.

"Harrington, sir. They should be back in about an hour."

"Alright, I have some papers to sign. I'll be back in about—"

He didn't have time to finish his sentence as the Stargate started to rotate a second time. Chevron after chevron clicked into place and John had that sinking feeling that something wasn't right here.

He tapped his earpiece. "Security team to the Gate Room, we have an unscheduled off-world activation." It took no more than thirty seconds for the room to fill up with marines. Klaxons went off overhead, as if trying to warn them of the danger.

"IDC?" John asked again, looking towards Chuck.

A few taps of the keyboard. "Lieutenant Harrington, sir." Chuck paused, as if feeling the same uneasiness. He looked to John for confirmation.

John nodded. "Lower the shield, Chuck." Chuck repeated the order aloud so the marines could hear and be ready for gunfire. The shield dissipated and for a few tense seconds nothing happened.

Then, a lone figure stepped through the Stargate and John Sheppard sucked in a breath. Time seemed to stand still as someone who resembled Major Evan Lorne stood alone in the center of the room. The Stargate shut down.

The man stared back at each of them in turn, taking stock of who had weapons and who did not. His eyes lingered on Sheppard for an instant before turning to the accompanying medical team arriving from the east door, right hand hovering over a holster attached to his right thigh.

No one moved.

John traversed the steps and took up residence behind Samuels and Davis.

"Major?" John asked. He didn't trust his voice to say the man's name without cracking.

The eyes turned back towards him, the right one so crimson it was practically glowing. A vertical scar rose two inches above and below said eye. His eyes betrayed nothing as he stared back at John, utterly devoid of recognition. Does he even know who I am?

It wasn't just the eye that shocked him. His hulking frame reminded John of a bodybuilder on steroids. Lorne was always sturdily built, but this was pushing the boundaries of human muscle. The shirt he wore was sleeveless and a strange, sinewy, silver streak ran from each index finger all the way up his arm, branching off at various points like veins. He had a five o'clock shadow and his hair was close-cropped and spiky and so unlike Lorne that John nearly did a double take.

This was not the Lorne that John Sheppard remembered.