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John choked, feeling the food he had half-swallowed come back up again. He dropped his fork, watching it bounce and skitter across the table until it hit Ronon’s tray of food. He coughed again, and pounded his hand against his chest. Ronon stared at him, his own fork laden with a chunk of steak held frozen halfway to his mouth. John could feel his face flushing with heat as he coughed a third time and reached for his glass of water with a shaky hand. The water slid down his burning throat, clearing it of food. He sucked in a heaving breath and fought the urge to cough again.
“What?” His voice sounded hoarse and he gulped down the rest of his water.
Ronon shrugged and shoved his fork into his mouth. John narrowed his eyes at him, irritation prickling beneath his skin. Ronon chewed silently, reaching a hand out to shove John’s fork back toward him. John grabbed it, holding it in a white-knuckled fist. He wasn’t quite ready to take another bite. He reached for his glass again then slammed it down when he realized it was empty.
Ronon pushed his own glass toward him but John shook his head and scowled. “You can’t just say that, then shrug. And where’d you hear that expression anyway?”
“Lorne,” Ronon answered, taking his glass back and drowning half its contents.
“Lorne thinks Doctor Iwata is hot for me too?”
“See? It’s not just me.”
“What? No! I didn’t say he said that. You just said…” John huffed out a sigh. “Never mind.” He glanced around the mess, taking in the lunchtime crowds at the tables. No one was staring back at them. No one turned away too quickly. “I’ve never even heard of Doctor Iwata.”
“She’s hot. She was checking you out.”
“You’ve been enjoying Radek’s moonshine way too much. It apparently causes hallucinations and loose lips.”
“You should check her out,” Ronon pressed.
John shoved his plate away from him, then pulled it back and picked up his fork again. It had been a long week, but nothing over-the-top. No invasions. No attacks. No botched missions. Nothing that might explain Ronon’s shove over the edge of insanity or his sudden interest in John’s love life. Lack of love life. Whatever.
“Ask Teyla. Bet she saw it, too.”
“Where is Teyla?” John asked, way too brightly. It was a pitiful attempt to change the subject, but he’d take anything he could get at the moment.
“Mainland.”
“Again? That’s the third time in two weeks.”
“Maybe she’s hot for someone over there.”
John had the fork halfway to his mouth, but he dropped it back to the table. Ronon smiled and shoved another forkful of food into his mouth. He chewed slowly, letting his gaze drift toward the ocean. John opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut, lost for words. He really needed to pull Lorne aside and have a little discussion about what he was teaching Ronon. On second thought, maybe he should just drop this topic completely. He looked over at Ronon’s way-too-innocent expression, but before he could think of a response, McKay dropped into the seat next to him with a groan.
“What’s wrong with you?” John snapped, still glaring at Ronon. Ronon brought his gaze back to John’s face, not returning any of John’s anger or irritation. His face was blank. Almost. The lines around Ronon’s left eye crinkled then smoothed out a second later.
“Hello to you to, Mr. Sunshine,” McKay snapped back.
After a year and a half, John knew how to read Ronon’s expressionless expressions, and what he saw now was amusement. He turned away from Ronon to focus on his other teammate, who was now pushing at his lower back as he stretched, rolling his neck until it popped.
He looked a little like he’d just come from a wrestling match. All of his hair was pushed toward his forehead, including the sides, and his shirt was twisted around his torso. The skin on his neck was red as well, like he’d been hit or grabbed.
“Seriously, McKay,” John said, concern leaking into his voice. “What happened to you?”
“Dhaliwal happened.”
John blinked, exchanging a confused glance with Ronon. “Dolly…”
“Dhaliwal. As in Doctor Kavitha Dhaliwal—the latest minion to grace my lab.”
A smile was already breaking out across Ronon’s face. Bastard. He was messing with him. John held up a hand, halting any impending comment from Ronon.
“What did she do? Jump you?”
McKay sighed, digging into his mashed potatoes. “Yes,” he mumbled.
Ronon’s smile grew bigger. What the hell was that man drinking? John shook his head. “Do we even want to hear about this?”
“She’s convinced there’s a mouse in the lab,” McKay continued, ignoring John’s question. “Every five minutes, she’s jumping up on a chair or screaming.”
John’s mouth quirked, forgetting some of his irritation at the whole I think Doctor Iwata is hot for you conversation Ronon had been intent on pursuing. “Maybe one of Carson’s mice escaped.”
“I checked with him. There are no mice in my lab.” He punctuated the sentence by slamming his fist into the table. A few heads turned toward them, but lunch was in full swing now, and the din of conversation had grown louder around them.
John stifled a smile. “So, how exactly did this lead to her jumping you?”
McKay had taken another bite, but he set his fork down and swallowed quickly. “I walked into my lab right when she spotted this ‘mouse’ again,” he explained, using his fingers to mime quotation marks around the word mouse. “She let off a blood-curdling scream and threw herself at me.”
“She jumped you,” Ronon repeated.
“To escape the imaginary mouse, yes. And she’s not as light as she looks. I think she seriously messed up my back.”
“So you caught her?” John asked, grinning at Ronon.
“Of course, I caught—”
He stopped abruptly, and John noticed the noise in the mess hall had diminished drastically, in time with the frantic voice in his ear.
“Security to the armory. Security to the armory.”
John stood up, tapping his radio. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dozen others stand up around the room.
“Sergeant Lowe, report,” he asked, all humor gone from his voice.
“Keyes here, sir,” answered a groggy voice.
An image of a tall Marine with a dark, close-cropped hair popped into John’s head. Lieutenant Keyes’ team was offworld, or had been. They must have just returned.
“Lieutenant?” John prompted. He was already moving across the room, Ronon and McKay on either side of him.
“It’s Sergeant Dierking, sir. We were turning our P90s into the armory and he suddenly started screaming that someone was after him, trying to kill him or something.”
“Where is he now?”
John reached the door of the mess at the same time as Lorne, and he nodded at him as they broke into a jog. Boots pounded behind him—the other Marines in the mess hall who’d heard the call for security.
“Not sure,” Keyes answered. “He took off running down the hall.” His voice wavered at the end.
“You okay, Lieutenant?”
Sergeant Lowe answered for him. “Sergeant Dierking clocked him in the head pretty hard, sir.”
McKay split off from them at the next intersection without a word, heading toward the control tower. John and his group picked up their pace, closing in on the armory. John scanned the next intersection, searching for any signs of Dierking, but saw no one.
“Sir, he’s armed,” said Keyes.
John bit his lip, barely refraining from cursing. He rounded the next corner and saw Sergeant Lowe at the door of the armory. Keyes was on the ground, holding a bandage to his head, his two teammates kneeling on either side of him. Blood had dripped down the lieutenant’s face and neck, and John bit back another curse.
It only took minutes for him to organize the security teams and have the main control room issue a base-wide warning to clear the hallways. Stunners were passed out to each two-man team, with orders to use only what force was necessary to take Dierking down before he hurt anyone else. His mind raced as he decided on the best approach to search for Dierking. He pointed at Keyes’ two team members still kneeling by their team leader’s side and directed them to get the lieutenant and themselves to the infirmary and checked out. John had to assume for the moment that Dierking—and possibly the three others—had been exposed to something on the planet that was causing his erratic behavior. The sooner they found out what it was, the faster they could deal with Dierking and resolve this situation without injury.
“Sheppard!” McKay screeched in his ear.
John clenched his teeth but managed to keep from flinching at the sound, something a few others around him were less successful at. “What is it? Where’s Dierking?”
“Heading south. He just opened fire on a couple of scientists in the hall.”
“Dammit! Injuries?”
“No. They were lucky. They said the shots didn’t even come close but the sergeant looked half out of his mind.”
John’s mental map shifted. South—what was south? Where was Dierking going? Ronon handed him his vest and he slipped it on, zipping it up and checking the pockets. He snapped his fingers at Sergeant Lowe, who’d moved back into the armory, and the young man immediately handed him a stunner handgun and an LSD.
“We’ve got him on sensors now—at least I assume that’s him. One life sign heading south…Crap! He just jumped into a transporter.”
“Where’d he go?” John barked out, already moving down the hall. The teams of Marines followed him, waiting for the order to fan out and start searching.
“Um…”
“McKay!”
“There! Got him. He’s in the bowels of the city—Section S12, grid 4, level 4. Heading southeast toward grid 6.”
“We’re on our way,” John finally said. He snapped his fingers at the teams of Marines around him, ordering half of them to guard the vital areas of Atlantis while he took the other half to the basement levels of Atlantis.
It took a minute, maybe two, for all eight teams to transport to Section S12-Level 4. John scrunched his nose up at the smell. It was like a sewer. Level 4 was well below sea level and many of the hallways in this section had flooded over the years. The air was dank and humid. They’d managed to clear the water out a year or so back, but the area required more work than they had time for to really bring it up to livable and workable standards. More vital priorities had bumped cleaning up the lower levels of Atlantis to the bottom of a very long to-do list.
John snapped out quiet orders, sending the teams off in different directions as he pulled out his LSD. Lorne took half the group in one direction, while he, Ronon, and the other Marines went the opposite way.
“Sheppard,” McKay’s voice crackled over the radio, calmer this time. “Dierking is heading down the stairs to level 3, grid 6.”
“Copy that. Lorne?”
“Got that, sir. We’re heading that way now.”
John nodded. As tense as the situation was, he felt a thrill of pride run through him as his men marched behind him. At the next intersection, two teams peeled off, following the standard search pattern. Doing exactly what they had been trained to do. Following John’s lead without question.
By the time John reached the staircase Dierking had used to get to the next level, Ronon and two other sergeants were the only ones left with him. They took the stairs slowly, more because of the algae and wet moss growing everywhere than anything else. Dierking had yet to show up on John’s LSD, but according to McKay, he’d slowed down, hovering just ahead of them. It would take Lorne a little longer, but he should be able to get his teams to circle around behind the sergeant, containing him.
Their single hallway split into two. John signaled Sergeant Fitts with him while Ronon took Sergeant Brown. Water dripped from the walls, and John scoped out the shadows with each step. He knew the hallways they were in were safe, but it still creeped him out a little. The air was thick with moisture down here, and the thought of just a few thick walls separating him from an entire ocean was bugging him more than he expected.
Or maybe it was knowing that an armed Marine was nearby and out of his mind. John wanted Dierking subdued and taken to the infirmary without any injuries, and then he wanted to go back to the mess and finish his lunch. He glanced down at the LSD in his hand and almost sighed when a single blip popped up on the edge of the screen.
Finally. John signaled to Fitts to move forward, showing him the screen as he passed. Dierking was at the end of the next hallway, too close for John to call out to anyone on his radio. He shoved the Ancient device into his vest pocket and tightened his grip on the stunner handgun.
He hadn’t decided if he would call out to Dierking and try to talk him down first, or if they should just shoot, but Dierking made the decision for them. In the three seconds since John had stashed the LSD, Dierking must have heard them coming. John’s head jerked up at the sound of footsteps pounding toward them. He had his stunner up and ready to fire, but before he even got a glimpse of the Marine, the sound of bullets exploded around him.
John ducked, thinking Fitts was doing the same thing, but the sergeant hit the ground and sprawled, dropping his weapon. John jerked his weapon up to fire at the still stampeding footsteps, but hit a patch of algae and slipped. The motion jerked him off balance, and he caught a glimpse of something dark heading right for him before a solid weight crashed into him and sent him flying backward.
He hit the ground and slid across the wet floor into the wall, but he managed to hold onto his stunner. He rolled as the dark shape flew past him and fired, the blast crackling against the wall a second too late as Dierking flew around the corner and disappeared. John pushed himself up to his knees and crawled over to Fitts, grimacing at the blood soaking into the man’s pant leg.
“Fitts? You with me?” John called out. Fitts groaned and rolled his head toward John’s voice, opening bleary eyes to look up at him.
“Sheppard? What’s going on?” Ronon’s voice screamed out over his radio, and John tapped it as he pulled out a bandage.
“Dierking heard us coming. Sergeant Fitts has been hit in the leg. We need to secure this hallway and get him evacuated to the infirmary.”
He heard acknowledgements ring out from the other teams as he slapped a bandage over the gunshot wound. Fitts grunted as John tied it tightly around his thigh, raising his head an inch off the ground.
“Don’t move, Sergeant,” John ordered.
Fitts dropped his head back to the ground. “I’m fine, sir.”
John glanced up at the hallway in the direction he’d last seen Dierking, then back at Fitts’ leg. It was bleeding but not badly enough to make John think the bullet had hit an artery. Fitts pushed himself up on his elbows, then pushed himself closer to the wall until he was leaning against it. John heard distant footfalls behind him and knew Ronon and Sergeant Brown would reach them any second.
“Hang tight, Sergeant. Help’s on the way.” He patted Fitts’ shoulder and looked behind him again, relieved when Ronon and Brown flew around the corner at the far end of the hallway. Within seconds, they’d joined John, and Brown immediately dropped to Fitts’ side, slapping a second bandage on the wound.
“Stay with him,” John ordered. “Ronon, you’re with me.”
“Bring him back, sir,” Fitts called out.
John nodded, realizing seconds later that Fitts couldn’t see the acknowledgement. He and Ronon jogged as quickly as they dared, slowing down as they reached the hallway Dierking had fled down. A glance at his LSD told him the sergeant wasn’t in the immediate area, and they picked up their pace, calling out their movements to the other teams who should be circling around them and cutting off Dierking’s path.
More gunfire erupted far ahead of them, but it was quick. Two, maybe three shots. John was reaching for his radio when he heard Lorne’s breathless voice in his ear. “He’s doubling back the way he came.”
“Understood,” John answered. “You okay, Major?”
“I don’t know what he’s seeing, but he wasn’t firing at us and he’s pissed off. Be careful, sir.”
John wanted to call into the infirmary and find out if any of Dierking’s teammates were also hallucinating, but now was not the time for that. He surged ahead of Ronon, intent on intercepting the sick Marine. Their job was to stop the sergeant and get him back to the infirmary; then they could worry about whatever it was he’d been exposed to.
They walked quickly but quietly. The floor was wetter here, streams of it pouring down the wall. John cocked his head as he walked, hearing a faint clattering sound. He pulled his LSD out and glanced down quickly. There, around the next corner. He signaled Dierking’s position to Ronon as they crept up to the intersection and peered into the hallway.
This corridor was a disaster, debris strewn all over the place. When the scientists had cleared out the water on this level, it looked like all of it had rushed through this space, carrying and dropping broken pieces of Atlantis along its path. The advantage was that it gave him and Ronon a bit of cover if they had to move into the hall. The disadvantage was that it gave Dierking the same thing.
The Marine stood at least fifty feet away, half hidden behind some of the rubble, but he wasn’t acting like he’d noticed John or Ronon’s presence yet. John bit his lip, wondering what the best approach would be. Ronon glanced down at him and jerked his head toward the hall, ready to dive in with guns blazing.
John paused a half second then shook his head. “Not yet,” he mouthed. Ronon was a damn good shot, but if he missed at all, Dierking would be on the run again. He braced himself as he peered around the corner. They had to get closer; with the amount of debris around, haphazardly knocking the sergeant out could kill him if he landed on a sharp edge. John wasn’t willing to take that chance—not yet. Dierking’s head and shoulders were just barely visible, and he pulled at his hair with one hand as he looked around, like he was searching the ground for something he’d dropped.
Ronon jerked his head again toward the hall. “There’s cover about ten feet in,” he whispered.
John nodded, tightening his grip on the stunner gun. Dierking was muttering to himself, and he sounded panicked and terrified as screamed at whoever he was seeing to both stop talking and answer his questions. John grimaced. Ronon pointed to a large desk standing on its end and pressed up against the wall. It would give one of them enough cover to move closer. Ronon pointed toward himself, then signaled his intention to move forward, but John shook his head. He would—
A large crash interrupted their silent debate, and they both ducked down instinctively. Dierking’s screams were punctuated by the rhythmic pounding of metal against metal. John leaned forward and gasped in surprise at the sight of the Marine sergeant flailing in circles, swinging a metal pipe against imaginary attackers. The pipe clipped the debris around him, sending shards flying in every direction. With one final heave, he flung the pipe in John and Ronon’s direction then dropped out of sight.
“Sergeant?” John called out.
At the continued silence, John and Ronon stood up cautiously, their weapons raised. There was still no sign of Dierking. No sound. The transition from total freak-out to utter quiet set John’s heart pounding. Something was wrong. He took another step forward, but froze at the sound of a muffled clang. It sounded far away and...
And like it was coming from below them. John frowned, moving faster as he weaved through the crap piled up between him and Dierking’s last known location. As he cleared the last obstacle, he felt cold lead sink into his gut. A large hole had been ripped up in the center of the hallway. John pulled out the LSD and just caught a glimpse of Dierking’s blip disappearing off the top of the screen.
“Dammit, he dropped down a level.” He tapped his ear, calling in the sergeant’s latest movements to the other teams.
“Next time, we shoot first,” Ronon said.
“Right,” John sighed. He crouched down, staring into the inky darkness of the lower level. He pulled a small flashlight out of his vest and flashed it over the area directly beneath the hole. Level 2 was dark, all the lights in this particular corridor out, and a thin film of water over the floor reflected off his flashlight. “Let’s go.”
He dropped down, his boots splashing in the water but staying steady. Ronon dropped down next to him, and together they moved forward. A few dozen yards ahead, John could see a faint light spilling across the intersection.
Not all of the lights in this area have been destroyed then, he thought. He stowed his flashlight to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and pulled out the LSD again. Dierking was nowhere in sight, but he and Ronon moved forward as fast as they could. At the light, John glanced at the LSD again and saw the Marine’s lifesign in the corner of his screen.
“He went that direction,” John whispered, even though he knew Dierking was too far away to hear him. “Keep going straight, see if you can come around and cut him off. He’s stopped moving for the moment.”
Ronon nodded and ran forward. John watched Ronon’s blip disappear off the edge of his screen, then he turned left and followed Dierking’s footsteps. Most of the lights were out, but the occasional functioning wall sconce gave off just enough illumination for John to pick his way through the corridor. The algae was thicker down here, and he could hear running water all around him. His boots splashed against the moss and puddles beneath his feet, but the steady drip and stream of water from the ceiling and walls gave him some cover.
He glanced down at the LSD after another hundred feet and cursed. Dierking was moving again, away from him. He picked up his pace at the sound of the man screaming. As he got closer, he began to pick out words from the sergeant’s incoherent ranting and felt a lance of fear pass through him.
“…have C4… … blow everyone…taken alive… … …kill you all before…take me…”
John had no idea what a C4 explosion this close to the bottom outer hull of the city would do. There was still at least one more floor beneath them, but the bottom of the city wasn’t exactly a smooth plate. Maybe it would punch through to the ocean, flooding these levels. But there were areas that went deeper—ballast bays or something like that. Maybe it would hit those instead of the ocean.
And the stardrive. Shit, John thought. Were they close to the stardrive? He had no idea what an explosion near it would do, and no time to stop and ask. He picked up his pace, pumping his legs into an all-out sprint. The only option was to stop Dierking from doing anything.
He saw the dark patch on the floor in front of him but didn’t think anything of it until he was halfway across it. Five feet ahead, the hall opened up into a small, pentagon-shaped room, with four other hallways branching off from it. John slowed down but the change in momentum was too much for the soles of his boots and he suddenly realized that the dark patch was a thick carpet of algae when his heels slid across the floor.
He flailed his arms, unable to slow down, and shot out into the small bay completely unprotected. A small ember of hope flared in his chest at the thought that Dierking was still running away from him and not laying in ambush, and then he felt himself lift into the air. The walls jerked around him as he suddenly shifted in direction, and his eyes traced over the bright flash of bullets smacking into the wall next to him. He hung midair for an eternity, hearing the echoing bang of Dierking’s Beretta long after the sparks had disappeared.
Gravity snapped back into place, and John felt himself rushing backward into darkness.
His eyes flew open at the sound of heavy breathing. It was close. Very close. He let his eyes shift, searching for Dierking’s form in the darkness. He saw the edge of the hallway he’d been sprinting down and realized he was lying halfway into the pentagon shaped room. He was sure he’d slid out of the corridor completely.
But no Dierking.
The area was darker than before, and John remembered the wall sconce at the end of his hall had been lit. He moved his head carefully and picked out the cracked covering of the light. It had been hit by one of Dierking’s bullets, the bulb shattered.
It was then that John realized the ragged breathing echoing in his ears was his own. He clamped his mouth shut, trying to silence himself, but three seconds later he was gasping again. He couldn’t breathe. A cold, foamy sensation crept up from under him. The patch of darkness—the algae. It was thick and wet. It also smelled salty and rotting. Another smell intruded, just faintly, and John recognized the scent of a recently discharged weapon. He would recognize that smell anywhere.
What the hell?
He blinked, remembering the sparks tracing across the walls as the bullets dinged off them.
Bullets.
Feeling was slowly creeping back into his extremities, and the puddle of water caught in the algae beneath him was ice cold.
Have to get up. Have to get out of the water.
He strained his ears, listening for any sign of Dierking and realized he couldn’t hear anything.
“Radio,” he whispered, his breaths still coming out in frantic pants.
Calm down, John. Calm down.
The thought raced through his mind, sounding way more calm than he felt. He finally felt the heat of blood puddling on his chest, soaking into his clothes and dripping off the sides. It was a sharp contrast to the frigid temperatures of the ocean water. He dragged his left hand up toward his chest and found the source of the bleeding, but frowned when the only indication that something was wrong was the too-hot fluid pooling around his vest.
He was hit in the right shoulder, but he felt no pain. In fact, his entire arm was numb. No feeling whatsoever. He let the fingers of his left hand flutter across the fabric of his uniform and probe the entry wound. Right below the collar bone, in the crease at his shoulder socket. A couple of inches lower and it would have hit the Kevlar plate of his vest. He’d be looking at a bruised rib, maybe two at the most.
He shuddered then, his breath hitching in his throat.
Out of the water. Have to get out of the water.
His right arm was useless, but he managed to push himself up with his left and slide over to the wall. He collapsed against it, exhausted, and tried desperately to get his breathing under control again. With his left hand, he reached for his radio earpiece and found empty space.
But he’d already known it was gone. He dragged his hand across his forehead, feeling cool skin slick with sweat.
He scanned the area in front of him, but the radio was nowhere in sight. Neither was the stunner. The remaining wall sconces—all two of them on the other side of the room—did not give off enough light for him to see anything more than shadows and outlines of walls and passageways. Dierking could have been down any one of them, waiting for him.
At least he wasn’t here now. John pushed against the floor and forced himself to sit up straighter, groaning at the dull ache that was starting to pound in his chest. The numbness was going away, and already his body was wracked with shivering chills.
“Shock,” he muttered. The blood on his chest shifted, and the hot liquid began dripping down toward his stomach, pooling in his lap.
It took several attempts, but he finally managed to dig out a bandage from his vest pocket. With a shaking hand, he shoved it into the gaping wound in his shoulder. Fiery pain exploded through his chest and John cried out. The darkness wavered in front of his eyes and nausea washed through him. He grit his teeth and shoved the bandage deeper into the bullet hole…
He opened his eyes to find himself hunched over, almost lying on his side. The smell of fresh vomit wafted up toward him. He didn’t remember throwing up, but he spit out some of the sour taste still coating his mouth. His arm was alive with pain, but it didn’t reach very far past his elbow. His right hand was dead and numb next to him.
He pushed himself up again. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably, and it took all of his energy just to keep his head up. He couldn’t have been unconscious for long. The first time—when he’d been shot—he’d smelled the gun propellant, and it didn’t take long for that odor to dissipate. The second time felt like seconds, like he’d blinked but hadn’t opened his eyes immediately.
Ronon.
Ronon was down here with him. He was supposed to circle around and cut Dierking off, but he would have heard the gunshots. He would have changed directions and come for John when he couldn’t raise him on the radio. A drop of sweat rolled across John’s cheek, warmer than the water but not as hot as the blood. His eyelids drifted closed.
Footsteps echoed down from the hallway across the pentagon room, and John jerked his head up. Dierking? Or Ronon?
God, he hoped it was Ronon. He was still shaking uncontrollably, and the nausea was swirling in his gut again. The blood on his chest and stomach felt warm and tacky. There was no blood on his back. No exit wound. The bullet was still buried somewhere in his shoulder.
The footsteps grew louder, hesitant. John wasn’t sure what that meant—if that meant it was Dierking or Ronon. He finally caught a glimpse of the stunner handgun near his foot and he kicked his leg at it. His boot caught the edge of the hilt and the weapon spun out of reach. More sweat dripped down his forehead, into his eyes, and he blinked at the salty sting.
Gun. He had a gun.
He could feel the holster around his leg. He tried to unholster the weapon with his right hand but stiffened at the throbbing pain the slight movement caused. He choked on a cry, and heard the footsteps halt at the sound. He’d hardly even twitched his arm. Slowly, he reached across with his other hand, fumbling as he tried to grab a hold of his .45 and pull it free of the holster.
The footsteps picked up again, faster this time, and John knew it was Dierking. He was coming back for him. He saw the man’s shadow appear in the far hallway and he grunted when his fingers slipped from his gun. Dierking hesitated, and John reached for the gun again. Some part of it was caught on the holster, and he couldn’t bring his hand far enough across his leg to loosen it.
Dierking must have seen the movement. With a cry, he lunged across the room, waving his own gun. At the last second, the .45 came lose and John swung it around, tightening his finger on the trigger.
Dierking was too fast and still coordinated enough, despite the hallucinogens raging through his system, to kick the gun out of John’s hand before he had a chance to fire. John screamed at the pain of his hand smacking against the wall. He brought the empty hand into his chest, curling around it protectively.
“No! You won’t kill me. You won’t catch me. I caught you first—I saw you coming, all of you. How many of you bastards does it take to catch one man? I’m a Marine. I can take you all out.”
One second, Dierking was inches from John’s face, the next he was stomping across the room. John lifted his head enough to see the sergeant grab at his hair again, then pound on his forehead with the palm of his hand. In the dim light, he looked pale, his eyes sunken and haunted.
“Sergeant,” John rasped out.
“No! No! No! I won’t be taken. Evade…Evade, escape…No, no, no, no, no. Escape, resist, evade.”
John licked try lips. His head tilted forward, his chin thudding against his chest. Too heavy, too heavy. His mind raced for Dierking’s first name, finally latching onto it.
“Nathan,” he whispered.
The battle now was to keep his eyes open. The muscles in his neck had gone lax and he felt his mouth fall open.
Shock.
The word echoed through his mind.
Fight!
He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t even lift his head. Dierking was mumbling now, pacing back and forth across the room.
“Nnna…” John tried again. His lips felt numb, his tongue foreign in his mouth.
Hands suddenly gripped his jaw and pushed his head up. The touch startled John, giving him enough of an adrenaline burst to peel open his eyes. Dierking was staring at him, but his eyes were glassy and unfocused, the pupils too large even in the darkness. Sweat pored off his pale face.
“Sheppard.”
The single word carried all of the terror and panic dancing behind the sick man’s eyes.
“Yeah,” John managed, though his voice was almost inaudible.
The hand on John’s jaw tightened. “Sheppard will come for me. He’ll come, you’ll see. The Marines…we don’t leave people…we don’t…behind…the colonel… I’ll fight—you won’t make me talk…”
John’s eyes widened at the ramblings and he shook his head in a vain attempt to break free of the Marine’s grasp. Dierking’s head swiveled on his neck, searching the darkness, and John wondered what he was seeing.
“Stay back!” he screeched pivoting suddenly and firing his gun.
John flinched and almost fell forward when Dierking released him, but he flung his head back to let it rest against the wall. Ronon would be the first one here, the first one to reach him. If Dierking had just shot him…
He turned his head slowly, and shuddered in relief when he saw Dierking had fired at an empty wall. There was no one there.
“Shut up!” the sergeant screamed, waving his gun again. “Stay back! I told you…all of you. Stay back. You won’t take me.” He dug his hands into his face, scratching his forehead with his nail and drawing a bead of blood. “Colonel…the colonel…he’ll come…people, behind, we don’t…he’ll… … Marine, I’m a Marine.”
John pushed against the wall, trying to sit up. Dierking ignored him—maybe didn’t even see him. The pain had finally reached John’s hand, but no amount of effort could make it move, could make the fingers curl or twitch.
Don’t pass out. Stay awake, John. Fight!
His chest felt heavy, like a weight was pressing against it. He pulled in as deep a breath as he could and felt warm spit dribble out of the corner of his mouth on his exhale. His eyes were trying to roll into the back of his head and he banged his left hand against the ground to keep himself conscious.
Come on, Ronon… Come on, buddy…
“I’ll fight you, every single one of you… I won’t talk… I… Atlantis is… aaaarrghh!”
Dierking’s rambling choked off into a painful cry and he dropped to the ground. He wrapped his arms around his head and curled into himself, moaning.
Ronon?
John searched the dark tunnels behind the Marine and saw no one.
Dierking suddenly kicked out, flopping on the ground and swinging his fists as he fought his hallucinations.
“Sergeant!” John yelled. He blinked, surprised at the loudness of his voice.
Dierking froze in mid-swing, then slowly pushed himself up. “Where? Where’d they go? Where are you? You were just…I just saw…”
“Dierk…” Whatever energy John had had a second earlier was gone. His body shuddered again.
Dierking crawled toward him. “You,” he said, ducking his head until it was level with John’s. He stood up, and John could see his legs were shaking.
“You’re sick,” John whispered. But John was the one who was sick. Dying. Nausea gripped him again and he swallowed back the urge to throw up.
Dierking raised his weapon.
How many times had he fired? How many bullets did he have left?
John blinked, not sure if he should beg the other man to lower the weapon or if he should just stay quiet. Not sure if he had the energy to do anything but stay quiet. Dierking’s arm shook with the effort of holding the gun out, and he dragged the sleeve of his other arm across his clammy forehead.
“They’re coming again…have to run…can’t be followed,” he whispered. He dropped the gun and rubbed at his face, then raised it again until the barrel was level with John’s head. “The colonel…the Marines…they’ll find me…rescue…I gotta stay hidden, away from them. Evade…Survive…” He stopped and looked down, clawed at his vest. “C4…they’ll…I can…”
John shook his head and Dierking slid a half step closer to him. The C4 was still in the Marine’s vest, though John had almost forgotten about the threat of an explosion down here. In the shadowy light, he could see the sergeant pat the C4 on his vest then focus again on John, tightening his finger on the trigger.
With all of his remaining energy, John kicked out his leg, catching the Marine in the side of the knee. Dierking’s leg collapsed on him and he fell hard. A split second later, the shot exploded out of the gun, the sound deafening. John gasped, wondering if he’d been hit by the bullet, but it wasn’t until the sound echoed away from him that he realized he was still breathing.
No new blood. No new pain. The shot had missed.
The smell of ball propellant was strong, almost overpowering the smell of the ocean water and growing, rotting algae plants. John’s breath echoed around him, his chest jerking with every pant. Dierking was struggling to push himself upright and John grabbed at him with his left arm.
It was the wrong move. Dierking jerked away from him and punched out. His knuckles glanced off John’s shoulder and into the bullet wound. John screamed, then gagged when his body bucked against the pain. The shadows around the deranged man were starting to move and twist, and a gush of warmth cascaded down his chest.
John tried to lift his left arm, but that limb lay dead at his side now too. The pain was ebbing, quickly, and feeling pulled away from his extremities like the tide returning to sea. First his fingers and toes, then his arms and feet and legs. His body was going numb. Dierking was next to him, pushing himself up to his feet. He made it, but lurched immediately to the side and had to grab the wall to keep from falling. With a pitiful whimper, he shoved himself in the other direction and staggered into the center of the hallway.
His eyes fastened on John again, and he kicked his leg out. The boot of his toe caught John in his shin, and John saw his leg jump in response, but he felt nothing.
Dying, he thought. It doesn’t hurt. I thought it would hurt.
Blood was flowing from his shoulder again, but he couldn’t feel the warmth of it anymore, just the movement.
“Shut up, just…stop screaming,” Dierking whispered, his voice strangled. He was still holding his Beretta, and he brought his hand up to his face to stare at it.
“I didn’t say anything,” Ronon’s voice suddenly called out, and John would have smiled if he could have gotten any part of his body to respond. Dierking looked up, frowning, unaware that this voice was real and coming from directly behind him. A second later, his body went rigid, and John saw flares of red bleed out around the Marine’s silhouette. Dierking tumbled forward, landing across John’s legs.
The weight disappeared a second later, and John blinked as Dierking was rolled off of him.
“Sheppard,” Ronon cried out.
John couldn’t move his head to look up at Ronon, but he felt a rough hand lift his chin, moving him gently. Ronon cursed, and his hands rifled through John’s vest then pressed against his shoulder. The world jerked sideways as Ronon lifted him away from the wall and laid him down.
Numb. No pain. Nothing.
Ronon’s face wavered in front of him. He was talking, but John couldn’t hear anything. In his peripheral vision, he could just see Dierking’s body next to him. They had stopped him at least. Whatever else happened, they’d be able to bring him home, just like Dierking had said they would.
“John, buddy, come on!”
John saw the world moving around him again, but it was fading.
Home. Home.
His last image was of Ronon’s face, looking terrified, but he’d fought off unconsciousness as long as possible. He saw his friend manhandle him up and into his arms, and then he sighed, letting go completely.
“Colonel? I need you to look at me. Just for a moment, then you can go back to sleep.”
The voice broke through the darkness, and John frowned at the intrusion.
“That’s it, son.”
He knew that voice. The voice of a friend.
“John, wake up.”
But he wanted the darkness back, just a little bit longer. He felt hands tap against his face, then rub against his chest. A deep, dull ache picked up in his shoulder, chasing the darkness back even further. The voice returned, urging him awake again, and then he felt fingertips ghost across his wrist. There was a click from somewhere near his head, then a band squeezed tightly against around his left bicep.
The pressure was uncomfortable enough that he groaned, and the sound reverberated through his head. A moment later, a hiss signaled the release of pressure on his arm. He felt another tap against his cheek and he peeled open bleary eyes.
“There you are,” the voice said. “I know you’re tired and in pain, but I need you to stay with me for just a moment.”
A shape floated above him, moving too much for the fogginess to clear from his mind and for his eyes to focus on the man now prodding at his shoulder. He twitched his foot, relieved that he could at least move it.
Had he not been able to move it before? Memories wisped across his mind, too vague and fleeting to hold his attention for more than a half second. Ronon. Algae-covered halls. Bullets. Pain. Numb. Dierking.
An image of Dierking battling his hallucinations stuck, and John grunted. What had happened to Dierking? They were trying to catch up to him, to stop him before he hurt himself or someone else. John tensed then tried to sit.
“Whoa, whoa—relax! What are you doing?” Beckett cried out, pinning John back to the bed with his hand.
Beckett. Infirmary.
John coughed, feeling dry itchiness rub against his nose. Beckett moved in front of him, looking more than a little concerned. John licked his lips, staring back at the doctor. His body felt heavy and lethargic, and he sank into the pillow.
“You cut it close, lad,” Beckett said, pulling his hand away from John’s chest cautiously, as if John was going to fly off the bed the second he was free of the doctor’s grip. John would have laughed, but he didn’t even have the energy to smile.
He blinked again, drawing in a deep breath through the oxygen tube running under his nose. He rolled his head so he could look at Beckett. Already exhaustion was trying to beat him back.
“Very close. I wasn’t sure…” the doctor trailed off, and his eyes lost focus, drawn into the memory. He shook himself a second later and looked back at John. His face was a mixture of relief and worry. “You lost a lot of blood, but you’ll recover. The bullet to your shoulder did a fair amount of damage, which will take some time to heal, but with physical therapy and rest, you’ll be fine.”
John blinked again. Bullets. Shoulder. He remembered hot blood dripping across his chest and stomach, cold water soaking into his back and pants.
Algae. Slipping. Bullets.
He remembered the numbness. He remembered the life slowly leaching out of him. He remembered dying and how it didn’t hurt as much as he’d thought.
It was starting to hurt now. He glanced down at his shoulder, expecting to see red blossoming across his body, and frowned at the thick white bandages.
“I can tell from the dazed expression on your face that I’ll have to explain all of this to you again tomorrow, so in the meantime—”
John saw the figure creep up behind the doctor a second before a large hand clamped down on his shoulder. Beckett yelped, flinching and spinning toward Ronon, and almost losing his balance in the process. Ronon grinned, grabbing onto one of the man’s flailing arms and righting him.
Beckett scowled. “For the love of God, Ronon. Don’t sneak up on me like that. Could you not make a wee noise to give me some warning?”
Ronon’s grin grew wider.
“You daft bugger,” Beckett huffed, shaking free of Ronon’s hand. He slid past him, muttering to himself, and disappeared into the infirmary.
John saw Ronon creeping up on another man, catching him off guard as well only seconds before he pulled the trigger. Dierking. John looked around, but the privacy curtains were pulled on either side of his bed, blocking his view.
“He’s okay,” Ronon said, seeming to read his mind. The smile had dropped from his face and he stared at John with intensity. Ronon was usually intense, but John thought there was something more in this look than normal, something he was too tired to divine. “So’s Fitts. And Keyes’ team. Dierking was the only one exposed—stepped on a weird plant.” Ronon paused, studying John’s face. “You okay?”
John sucked in another deep breath. His shoulder ached but it was buried enough in whatever drugs Beckett had him on that it wasn’t too bad. He could feel himself sliding again toward darkness, but now he wasn’t sure he wanted to go there.
“Tirr..’d,” he slurred, his voice no more than a broken whisper.
Ronon nodded, seeming to understand him anyway. He sat down, leaning back in the chair until he was balancing on the back two legs. He folded his hands behind his head and sank into a relaxed slouch.
John heard another click, followed by the tightening band around his arm. He recognized it finally as the blood pressure cuff. He exhaled with a huff when the pressure got too tight, but a second later it hissed and eased. He blinked heavy lids and saw Ronon studying his face.
“Thanks,” he breathed out.
Ronon shrugged, smiling again. John thought there was more that needed to be said, but the words escaped him. He was too tired to chase down the errant thought anyway, and he sighed, letting his eyes drift closed.
He heard the chair drop to the ground with a thud, then felt Ronon’s breath on his cheek.
“Pssst, Sheppard.”
John groaned, turning away from Ronon’s voice. His body was begging for sleep now, and he intended to give into it. He was safe; they were all safe. Atlantis was safe.
“Sheppard, buddy, wake up. It’s her.”
Who?
Ronon sounded urgent. Had he missed something? The Satedan was poking him in the arm, directly above the blood pressure cuff and hard enough that it was keeping sleep at bay. John scowled and forced his eyes open again.
“What?” he croaked.
Ronon grinned and jerked his thumb across the room. “Doctor Iwata. Maybe she came to see you.”
Iwata? He’d never even heard of a Doctor Iwata.
Ronon jumped up out of his chair then, but whether it was to get Iwata’s attention or for some other reason, John didn’t wait to find out. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Without Ronon prodding or whispering to him, the tension in his muscles unwound quickly, sweeping him into the beckoning darkness.
END