A/N - 7th and final chapter coming up this 2010 Halloween w/e at the latest. XD

Uh, here's hoping y'all're enjoying my little horror tale, and I'm not writing this in vain, though I admit to being compelled to put virtual pen to virtual paper, dearth of encouraging reviews notwithstanding. Ah, me. :P

tra la la-a-a... raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens/bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens/wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings/these are a few of my fa-a-avorite thi-i-ings...

...when the bog dites, when the stee bings - Doh! ;-D

oooOOOooo

A/N - super duper extra hyper mega thanks to my terrif beta, shepsgirl72 for suggesting a nightmare scene here - I managed to stuff in three - yay! - and to joaniexjony for coming up with the brill rag doll motif, which totally works. Woot! I'm on target to post on or before Halloween! Merest hints of Sheyla here, canon per John's escapist dream in the opening scene of S&R. He's only dreaming here, too, poor baby. My take. Enjoy! XD

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"Oh, nonononono. He's not coming back, Carson. I had thought. I had thought. Maybe. I thought I saw him in the flames. Was I dreaming? Seeing things?"

"He's free now, son." Carson plunked a firm hand on Rodney's shoulder. He shrugged it off. Carson stared at him, as if searching his soul.

"What do you want from me? What?"

"Let's free our Ronon. How about it?" Carson looked typically kind and benign, making Rodney feel like a total ass as usual.

"At least that, eh?" he replied. "Big whoop."

"You wanted a miracle."

"What, someone do a rain dance? Can we at least take what's left of Sheppard home now? We can stuff him in this sandwich cloth. He... requested the east pier. "

Rodney rolled his left hand in a gesture meaning pretty much whatever he wanted it to mean at the time. This time, it was meant to indicate burial at sea. Tomorrow, it might mean double cheeseburger with pickles on the side please, switch channels now or suffer the consequences, or even cabbage crates over the briny.

"Aye, that we can!"

"You don't have to sound quite so ecstatic about it. Wait! Where are you doing? Ronon's still up there on the wheel looking a bit sooty! He might have smoke inhalation. We have to cut him down! What's with you, Carson?"

"Triage, Rodney, for crying out loud! That's what's with me. Ronon's alert. The smoke blew away from him and the flames never even reached him. They were… doused. Quenched. By the body fluids of that poor wee spider when it burst open like a bloody water balloon. Plus the light drizzle. Now, hie ye down here! Help me extricate him! It's a bloody miracle!"

Carson's dimples were positively crater-like. Rodney followed Carson's gaze.

No way.

Sheppard.

Sheppard!

John!

There he was, lying there still badly injured, but very much alive. It was impossible. But true.

"It's him! It's really him! The bastards tricked us! Didn't they?"

Rodney joined Carson in hoisting a soggy, singed John Sheppard out of the soggy, singed hay. Together they gently wiped and excavated dirt from the man's eyes, nose and mouth with their fingers, their sleeves - anything that came to hand. John squirmed in the mire like an exposed worm. Then his eyes flew open, preternaturally bright against the encroaching dark. Rodney leapt as John's hand shot out like Carrie's from her grave, and grabbed Carson's vest.

"I remembered, Carson, Rodney. I remembered. I wasn't what they said I was. Take me home. Please!"

And Rodney saw the same pleading yet wistful look he saw moments earlier in a kamikaze spider.

"Ronon okay? Sorensen? Rozenberg? Lorne? The other marines?"

The man's eyes were wide and pleading despite his own dire straits. Was there no end to his sense of humanity?

"They're all fine. Very much alive. We're all very much alive."

"Good. That's good. Hope ya don't... mind'f'I… 'f'I... " and John promptly passed out, arms and legs akimbo, a more relaxed expression on his bruised and battered face.

A limp, boneless John Sheppard was way easier to deal with than a thrashing one in any case. Rodney looked around for the cute, fuzzy spider-pig, but realized it was most likely long gone.

oooOOOooo

Jhh lay bleeding, oozing lava-like body fluids in the dying embers of the fire, staring skywards, his splayed limbs cooling even as his innards steamed, his juices bubbled and fizzled, yet he found no solace in his sacrifice. It'd been in vain. The tendril-headed human had been burned beyond recognition. They'd hacked off his blackened, cremated remains with axes, allowing his carrion to be scavenged on his broken carcass.

They then dragged another human to the wheel. They hated her, they screeched, because her eyes were the color of the land and not of the sky. They tied her, ignoring her cries, her pleas to go back to her suckling. Four human-like creatures approached the wheel. Life-suckers, all. As one, they slammed a feeding hand against her chest, draining her dry without mercy or remorse, then tossed the shriveled husk onto the still smoldering pyre. Jhh found himself immobilized, pinned now by the ravaged skeleton of the tendril-headed human, pinned by his own failure, staring at empty eye sockets.

The newly dessicated husk reanimated, and scrambled over to him.

"I want to thank you, John," it rasped.

"For what?"

"For rescuing me."

"I don't… remember… "

John felt a stab in his right side. He'd been impaled! By a human femur. Gah! The skeleton lolled its huge tendril-headed skull towards him, and growled through clacking jaws.

"You don't remember rescuing her because you didn't. Just like you never rescued me."

"No!"

John woke up screaming. This was five days in a row now, and it was getting old. He couldn't keep this up. It was taking its toll on everyone around him. He sensed rather than saw medical personnel, detected their flitting shadows, their various smells from aftershave to garlic breath, the sounds they made with squeaky running shoes. From time to time he even heard the clump of standard issue boots.

They all fell quiet, quit their fuss and ministrations, and sidled out of the ward. Bar one. Doctor Beckett. Carson. His silence and stillness told him he was waiting for him to speak. Maybe today he would. Maybe today he would look up at the good doctor. The man had the patience of a saint. John braced himself, and spilled.

"They told me I was less than human, Carson. Over and over."

He buried himself in the sheets as best he could given the number of wires and tubes attached to or inserted in his happily long, human male body. He wriggled his legs, and counted only two. Male? He did a quick shimmy. Yep, everything else below his belt was still there, too. Phew.

"We think it was a combination of drugs and sleight of hand, John."

"No. Nuh uh." John flashed a pained, half smile with accompanying one-shoulder shrug. "I left. Left the village. I came across the local wildlife. That big black wolfhound herded me along, nipping and nosing at my legs, until I reached the melonumpkin patch. Even some black cat swung by. They were more humane than humans, Carson. They took care of me, kept me warm, kept me company. Pepe Le Pew turned up, and even tried to feed me. I prefer my worms deep-fried, but if I tell ya, if I hadn't spotted the rescue team heading towards the Kemmian village... " John let that thought trail off. "Then when I saw Ronon - I couldn't let them do the same thing to Ronon! - I - I - had to come back. That's when I remembered what they said. Thing is... " John gulped, then began to choke. Carson offered him a drink, which quelled the jag. "Thing is, I had to be burned alive. Again. That was the deal. Oh, God! It hurt. So bad. Sometimes, I'm still there. It keeps happening, Carson! Every damn night!"

He struggled to sit up, but fell back into his bed. Sitting up took too much energy. John felt rather than saw a nurse tuck some more pillows behind his head. He felt grateful, and proffered a weak smile. He even made fleeting eye contact.

"I'm no psychologist, John, but you have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I do, Carson."

"You're not a Torm, son!"

"John rolled his head.

"It's not that, Carson. Still, how do we know exactly how good or bad these Torm were? They're not exactly around any longer to defend themselves."

"Aye, genocide."

"You feel it too, huh?"

"What's that, son?"

"Guilt. Shame."

"Good God... "

"At being human."

"Drop it, Sheppard."

"Ronon? You okay, buddy?"

"Yep."

John glanced at his ward mate. Ronon was every bit as battered as he was. At least he hadn't had to face immolation. That would have turned his good buddy into a refugee from humanity like himself. He would have had company in the melonumpkin patch, living a half-life as some inarticulate, primitive-brained arachnid. He wondered what kind of spider Ronon would have been turned into. Something huge with tendrils emanating from his body to rival those damn melonumpkins. He permitted himself a faint smile. Perhaps it was better to find some humor in all of this. That or his half-baked sanity would tumble out of an immolated body, plummet into a bottomless pit, where it would wander forever, ranting and raving, in an oubliette of his own tortured making. He stayed away from the edge of that pit, though he knew it was ever present.

"So, you gonna make us both face the Kavvah-Naah?" He flashed lop-sided grin.

"Peter Kavanagh is sadly on board an inbound Daedalus, but no, I reckon Woolsey will spare you both further torture. When you get out of here, how about death by beer, then?"

"Guinness?" John flashed Beckett a hopeful look.

"No, Duff."

"Whuh?"

John glanced over at Ronon, who winked, his eyes sparkling with humor. Nothing fazed the guy. After all he'd been through over the years. John knew he needed to put his money where his mouth was, and buck up. Still, he had something to say. Must be the drugs still coursing through his veins. Huh. That or maybe his new-found appreciation for his language skills, however weak.

"That Bink dude told me something. About the Torm. Seems they weren't even tall and skinny with dark hair. They were once kin, pretty much just as stocky and fair as the Kemmians. Almost indistinguishable. Apart from their eye color. But no-one chose to remember that. Not even the old folk. I became a scapegoat."

"You're not so tall, Sheppard."

"Hah! Guess not, buddy."

"You're not skinny either, lad. Just trim."

"Yeah."

John scanned his slowly healing body. It was an uphill battle, he conceded. He was yet to spot a single downhill, he thought, channeling Rodney McKay. He could afford to gain a few pounds, but he was close to his ideal weight, give or take. Maybe the incline was leveling off.

The bruises and scars would fade. If only it were that easy for his psyche to heal. The scars there were permanent, but as ever, he would never let on. The pit was there, as was the pendulum. John sighed. He had to find closure. Close the damn trapdoor. But how? Right now, it had a sneaky way of creaking open any time of the day and night. He slammed it shut. He had to sleep sometime, dammit!

oooOOOooo

He'd just taken his little short cut into the tower, crashing his jumper, but apart from a slight whiplash, he was pretty much unscathed. Good. He had a job to do. Save his Atlantis from a growing baby hive ship. He had to run the gauntlet of those tendrils, not get himself tripped up or choked, and administer the antidote.

He reached Keller's bedside, and jabbed her in the neck. He stepped back. So far, so good. She immediately became aware. Alert. Wait. What the? Uh oh. Not so good. The phage hadn't worked! All it did was animate her. She rose like a zombie from a grave on those tendrils, her gait rolling like a slew of snakes. She was coming for him, a sardonic grin on her mutated face.

Ellia?

But, he'd taken the cure! The baby hive ship part of her should have sensed the presence of the pathogen in his blood stream, and allowed him free passage. In and out. What gives?

The thing cracked those tendrils like whips. Crap. John stepped back, hoping to avoid another beating. His body couldn't take it. Not this soon. A tendril shot out, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, raising him off the writhing floor. He tried to shoot the thing, but a second tendril pinned his gun arm. A third tendril slithered up his shirt front, and ripped away his buttons. A fourth one slashed at his shirt and tee, exposing his torso. He was still a mass of welts and bruises. Maybe it would take pity on him. Let him go. Maybe he could appeal to its humane side.

Fat chance.

Four tendrils pulled his arms and legs out to the side. He knew what was coming. Then the assault began. The thing whipped his back and front without mercy, and he jangled from the blows. It even slapped his face. Oh, God, what if the thing ripped him limb from limb? Then it tossed him aside. He tried to crawl away, and fumbled for his 9mil. He slipped a few times in his own blood, but he forged on. Then - he found his gun! He turned to fire at it, but the thing whacked his forearm, knocking it out of his hand. It hoisted him into the air, and slammed him over and over again against the walls and floor. Not even the rampant hive ship growth could cushion him. He could feel all his bones break, and his body turn to mush. John screamed in agony. As the assault continued, the thing hissed in his face, and screeched at him over and over again.

"Rag doll, you are no more human than I!"

"No!"

John let out an inhuman squeal, and practically shot out of his bed, setting off alarms. They calmed him down yet again with soothing words and damp cloths. He fought against sleep. He couldn't take this any longer.

"They singled me out because I looked different. They made me feel different. Less than human. I became less than human." John paused, remembering the barrage of chanting and whispering. "No, I became more than human. The Kemmians, they were inhuman. Inhumane."

The drugs were making him talk! Crap.

"The critters, they were more humane than humans. The Torm, maybe they were - "

"For crying out loud, Carson, feed him actual food. Puh-lease! Giving Sheppard a dictionary intravenously is clearly detrimental to his health. My health. He's only gotten to the Hs! Speaking of health - H is for Health, Sheppard - the melonumpkin juice, it… it… "

"Gave our Rodney here the squits."

"Come on! Whatever happened to doctor/patient confidentiality? Eh? I was going to say it stains! No wonder they wanted to get rid of it. Well, they're stuck with it now."

John glanced sideways to see Rodney perched on a chair by his bedside. A week later, and there were still black dribble marks on Rodney's chin, and the splash pattern where the spray hit him full in the face. Melonumpkin juice, it seemed, was as indelible and as dark as the stains on the collective Kemmian soul.

"Colonel, if it's of any compensation, Woolsey has arranged to have the Kemmian DHD disabled. They can become as self-important as they wanna be."

John winced. Elizabeth.

"You channeling Doctor Weir, Rodney? You telling me she's still here? In spirit?"

"Who's to say who's still here and who isn't? Doctor Beckett is still here, John," Carson whispered. "In spirit."

"In you, doc."

How could anyone doubt Carson's humanity? Oh, yeah. He doubted his own. He was a just rag doll after all.

oooOOOooo

They were about to shove him into the chainsaw-wielding Kemmian crowd. At the end of the line an iron maiden awaited what was left of him. There was a single elevator button on the side of the damn thing. It was a glowing red arrow pointing down. No green up button. One way trip. He thought he saw a figure standing in front of the 'elevator' like some glowing Statue of Liberty, but before he could make out who it was, John fought himself awake, stifling a scream. This time he didn't set off any alarms.

"No… "

John flailed and snatched at the ether, finding purchase on small, smooth yet firm forearm. Teyla. He might have knocked her over! Hurt her! He'd never forgive himself if he ever hurt her. What was he thinking? She could wield those crutches like bantos sticks, take down his sorry ass. Sorry…

"Sorry."

And how the hell she managed to walk on crutches with the ease and grace of a dancer, he'd never know.

"I am sorry for surprising you. You have nothing to apologize for, Colonel Sheppard."

She steadied herself, then bent over and touched his forehead with hers, grounding him. It worked every time since the day he met her.

"I believe your nightmares are abating somewhat. Colonel, John, please look up at me."

Her voice was calm, reassuring, but he was sure he detected more than a hint of concern in her tone.

I can't look up. Not yet. Maybe some day soon, Teyla.

"I believe disabling the Kemmian DHD to be justice for what they did to you all, especially to you, John."

And for what they did to the Torm. What we all did.

John kept his head bowed. How could the Kemmians ever hope to become something better than they were? If they were abandoned. In isolation… If he was struggling as just one man -

John rolled his head in anguish.

"You can run, but you cannot hide, John Sheppard," she added, raising a single eyebrow.

Uh oh. Teyla was onto him. He looked up through hooded eyes. And held her sultry, unblinking gaze. He felt a full-body stirring. Perhaps he was less reticent at being human after all. A red-blooded, American male at that. He'd acknowledged her when he'd turned into a bug, and almost took her by force. Now with a vestige of arachnid blood flowing through his veins, he didn't dare leap out of bed, lure her into his webbed lair, and -

Oh, God, she was so incredibly beautiful. He had once thought of her as beyond his reach. He would never wish ill upon Kanaan, who was a pretty decent guy, the father of her baby son, but if ever she were unexpectedly re-available... Next time, he wouldn't hesitate, put up stumbling blocks, hold back from physical contact, mourn Elizabeth's passing until rot set in in the dark, dank dungeon of his mind.

He imagined himself back there in the melonumpkin patch. For the rest of his unnatural life. Maybe even alongside his knife-wielding buddy. He chuckled at the thought of Ronon hiding knives around a hulking spider body, and wielding at least six knives at once, pivoting on two legs, alternating them, switching his knives from claw to claw in a strange arachnid war dance. It might not have been so bad. They could have sparred. Kicked human ass. Maybe even Wraith ass. He thought long and hard about camaraderie. Even McKay would be great company. Or would he? Maybe not. Sans banter, they would both be completely screwed. Rodney would be miserable without being able to talk. He would never wish that on him. He'd rather be alone.

He'd once seen deep inside Rodney's whale-beset psyche, but conversely had never let him see into his own, presenting a bland chick-free scenario of a benign, sterile gateroom and nothing of what was scrabbling maggot-like below him, clawing its way with bloodless fingers through the rusty, invisible gate in the floor. An army of clowns and doppelgangers and Kolyas and charred corpses.

You torture yourself every day, John.

Yeah. How 'bout that.

So what of Teyla? Potential for arachnid procreation, huh? She deserved better than end up stuck with him in a melonumpkin patch for the rest of her life. Jeesh.

"John? John! Listen to me. You need healing sleep. I will stay. I promise to rouse you if your nightmares begin again."

"Whuh? Uh, thanks, Teyla. Think I might just switch off for a while."

Thanks? Was that all he could think to say to her? Dammit, John! He had a lot to think about. John closed his eyes. As he lay there, he tried to block thoughts of Kemmia, and concentrate on what it would take to recover from his horrific ordeal, consider himself worthy of being human again. But, what about those critters on the planet? They had his back! This was downright problematic.

Camaraderie. Companionship. Compassion. I'm on the Cs! Bite me, McKay! Hope. Humor. Back to the Hs. He mused upon them all. Especially hope. Maybe the bottomless pit/oubliette/dungeon that was his own personal hell was more of a Pandora's box. Yeah, maybe that.

He could hold onto hope. The last virtue. He could wrench open the trapdoor, releasing the other virtues, that or keep the trapdoor shut, sealing in the horrors he pitched down there from time to time to rail against him sometimes even during his waking hours. It was a weird two-way street, that was for sure.

Perhaps that's what it meant to be human. To have the ability to choose instead of act merely on instinct. Embrace or kick to the curb. Let 'em in, lock 'em out. Jhh - no, John! - curled up in his infirmary bed, tucking in his arms and legs as protectively as best he could while still connected to machinery by wires and tubes, still forcing himself smaller and rounder and darker than ever.

As he drifted into pain-free slumber, he considered he was maybe glad to be human after all. He'd look up at the other humans another day. Seek solace in their presence. Maybe even tomorrow.

Maybe.

The choice was his.

"I will be right here, John, for when you wake up."

As REM sleep began to kick in, he could see that trapdoor. And there standing upon it was a glowing figure triumphantly wielding the key to a padlock in one hand, and twirling those bantos sticks in the other, like some fierce guardian angel.

Teyla. Wow.

She'd been the one blocking the iron maiden elevator to Hell.

Teyla had his back. Heck, she had his heart and soul. She was pretty much Marion Ravenwood to his Indy.

He smiled to himself, and relaxed into his bed, wriggling all - no, both! - his legs to get comfortable, happy in the knowledge that his friends each in their own way would help him ward off his demons.

John Sheppard had almost forgotten an important thing even the Kemmians had hinted at in a whisper. It was what made him come back to his own kind. It was what might yet save him. It might even save the Kemmians someday.

Love.

oooOOOooo

A/N - aanndd it's a wrap! Happy Halloween 2010! Oct 31 also marks the start of the Celtic end of summer harvest festival of Samhain, (sort of) pronounced 'Savven', btw. Anyway, enjoy the cycle of the seasons, and this wonderful time of year, whatever and however you celebrate. :-D

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