Theseus' Paradox, Or, a Postmodern Romance in 26 parts

by dossier

Warnings: Language, violence, drugs, alcoholism, rape, torture, discussions of racial purity, minor character death, gratuitous crying and kid-fic. It sort of runs the gamut, and is not recommended for more sensitive readers.

Notes & Warnings.

| Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Epilogue |

| 1. | 2. | 3.| 4. | 5.| 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | 11. | 12. | 13. | 14. |

| 15. | 16. | 17. | 18. | 19. | 20. | 21. | 22. | 23. | 24. | 25. | 26. |

 

PROLOGUE

Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran,
Pleasure with pain for leaven,
Summer with flowers that fell,
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And Madness risen from hell,
Strength without hands to smite,
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And Life, the shadow of death.
Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Atalanta in Calydon"

1.

December

"You want another beer?" John gave the porch swing a little shove backwards as he stood up. He looked around his neighborhood; the other diehards that hadn't given up on the Gulf Coast appeared to be locked up tight inside their homes. He turned to look at Rodney, sprawled out on the papasan chair, his exposed skin shiny with sun block and insect repellent, mouth open and eyes closed, the half empty bottle of beer dangled precariously in his hand.

John carefully pried it from his grasp and sat it on the table, and leaned over to draw down the shade behind him. It had been another late night at Building 30 for Rodney. It hadn't bothered John that Rodney had spent Christmas Eve at the lab.

Rodney was always showing up at the crack of dawn, eyes red and his pale face drawn with exhaustion, unable to sleep and unwilling to bail on whatever plans they had. John would get a couple hours of manic hand waving and talking excitedly about the latest transmission results from the GLAST array before Rodney crashed.

He shook his head as he quietly entered the house, making sure the screen door didn't slam behind him.

The house was dim and quiet, almost cool enough that Rodney didn't bitch too loudly about John's miserly habits with the air conditioning. A tiny aluminum tree sat on a table with a couple of presents underneath, though the single garland of real pine boughs over the fireplace had cost him far more than the entire dinner and Rodney's present together. It was worth it, the sharp fragrance complimented the exotic, rich scent of roasting turkey, an annual gift from Katie and a faint reminder of a time long past.

He grabbed another beer, leaving Rodney's in the fridge, and went back out on the front porch. It was a warm, sunny day and John intended to enjoy the break in back to back storms, despite the lack of ozone layer between him and the hot sun. It was supposed to be getting better, though John hadn't noticed any appreciable changes.

John stood inside the screened porch, surveying the tiny garden that bordered the porch and sidewalk. It had been a long time since his brain had adjusted to the nanotechnology that had replaced his right eye, the left eventually superseded, though 'normal' color differentiation was still an issue.

Eleven years and the leaps and bounds made in bioengineering and nanotechnology could make it right, but he'd still never fly again, so what was the point? He'd save the cash and live with the razzing over his apparently monochromatic choice of colors. It looked okay to him if he had both eyes open, the colors a subtle riot. Besides, he refused to walk around with one eye closed.

Rodney's PCD hummed the first few bars of the Toccata, and John managed to snag the external before it repeated; Rodney had just fallen asleep. Shit, it was Elizabeth. "Hello?"

"John?"

John swallowed convulsively, and managed to say almost normally, "Hey, Elizabeth, Merry Christmas."

"I wish it was. Charlotte is missing." Elizabeth's voice quavered, and John felt a sudden, wrenching pang of anguish; this was going to kill Rodney.

"Why? What happened?" He leaned over and prodded Rodney's shoulder. Rodney startled awake, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, and gave John a questioning look as Elizabeth bit out her reply.

"She left school yesterday evening to take the red-eye home and the last time anyone saw her was in the Detroit airport," she said in a dull tone.

John chickened out; didn't want to be the one to give Rodney the bad news that his only child was missing. "Elizabeth," he said, and perched on the edge of the swing, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands curled around the thin, flimsy device.

Rodney tapped the subcue implanted behind his ear. "What's wrong?" His face paled even further, his horror obvious in the widening of blue eyes and his crooked frown twisted as he listened to his distraught ex-wife.

Damn it all to hell. It could be anything —kidnapping, violence— but more likely, she'd run away. Seventeen-year-old girls weren't normally the most stable creatures, and Charlotte had always been a difficult child. It had been awful the last time Charlotte had left Houston to go back to Elizabeth. Rodney had been white with rage at his own daughter, and the public screaming match between them, the insults and imprecations flung back and forth, had the security officers at Bush surrounding them with weapons drawn.

He'd managed to hustle Charlotte to the flitter and keep Rodney from being arrested with the flip of his detective badge, and that was the last time John had seen or heard from her. It stung, but he'd expected it. Charlotte, like Elizabeth —or perhaps because of Elizabeth— blamed John for the dissolution of her family, completely erroneously in his opinion.

Rodney hadn't heard from her either, and yet he dutifully kept shelling out the huge admission fees to the private girl's school that Elizabeth had insisted that Charlotte needed: an old fashioned school with a firm hand and small classes designed to cater to those with special learning needs. Charlotte wasn't stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination, not with Rodney and Elizabeth as parents, but she simply didn't process information or emotions the same way they did.

John had gone with Rodney to run errands not two weeks ago, and a package to Charlotte went airmail, along with those for Maddie and Robbie. He knew that Rodney would never receive a thank you note from Charlotte; he hadn't got one in three years of trying to apologize to his equally stubborn daughter.

Rodney turned off the subvo with a touch to his throat. "She was seen getting on in Stratton and never made the connecting flight." His voice was even and toneless, too shocked to rant and rave.

"Rodney," John said. He had an entire repertoire of speeches for distraught parents that he'd had to deliver too often, but it didn't seem right to pull that on Rodney. John's Zhing booted up as he pulled it out of his pocket it, the RFID chip in his fingertips automatically logging in and transmitting his authorization ID. He spoke into it softly and the requested data began scrolling across the holographic projection. The newer PCD's came with a free neural interface, but John already had as much tech in his head as he cared to have; he never even bothered to get the aural and vocal implants for his older model. The external worked fine.

He downloaded everything, and watched the video feeds of Charlotte in the flitterport in Stratton, reviewed what little data had been compiled so far.

A note from the investigating officer said they were looking into the surveillance feeds from Detroit, the down flight stop. John considered sending an email to the officer in charge of the investigation, but he'd already crossed a line by even checking into the case. The noncustodial parent was always the first suspect in a missing child case, and he didn't want to make it look any worse for Rodney by mucking around in the details.

He looked up at Rodney, curled up in his chair, staring determinedly away from John, with a look of absolute misery on his face. "Nothing so far, but they're still processing."

"Thanks for checking."

"Sure. I'm going to call Evan, and cancel, that okay?" He turned slightly, to shield the display away from Rodney.

Evan Lorne was John's partner of five years at HPD. He and his wife Katie lived outside the city on her family's farm, and every year they threw a Christmas Gala, part family gathering, part agribusiness media event. It always seemed like there were a hundred kids there and he didn't want to inflict any more misery upon Rodney, nor ruin Katie's party.

John lightly tapped the headset, and instructed the Zhing, "Call Evan, audio." It beeped only once before he answered.

"John! What time are you guys planning to be here? Katie's already in a complete lather."

"Yeah, that's what I'm calling about. Charlotte's gone missing, and I we're going to stay in, monitor the situation."

"Crap, what happened?"

"No one is certain at this point."

"Be careful, John. I'm sure that Rodney wasn't involved, but you know he's the first person they're going to look at."

"Yeah."

"Has anyone local been assigned yet?"

"No, not yet."

"You should probably prepare him for that eventuality."

"I will. Sorry for bailing on you, buddy, and my give regrets to Katie."

"Don't worry about it and I'll pass that on to Katie. Please, let me know if I can help at all, and keep me up to date, okay?"

"I'll do that." John forwarded everything he had to Evan, and weighed his options. This was one case he couldn't volunteer for, and he wouldn't want it anyway; he'd never be able to be objective. Hell of Christmas present. He got Rodney another beer, and sat down on the swing.

Rodney scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of hands and took a drink.

Fuck, there just wasn't any good way to say this. "Rodney, you know they're going ask you some questions."

"Do you honestly think I had something to do with this?" Rodney's voice was ragged and he gave John a hostile glare.

"No, I don't, but it's standard procedure, and I didn't want you blindsided."

"Do I need to call my lawyer?"

"No, just cooperate while they eliminate you as a suspect."

John did his best to comfort Rodney. He had an idea of what Rodney was going through— he'd suffered his own losses in the past, and even if he could dredge up the right words, it didn't change the fact that, in the end, it was only so many words.

Instead, he fed him dinner, plied him with drinks, and put on an old childhood favorite, Star Wars: The New Jedi Order trilogy. They lay tangled together on the couch; John occasionally checking the progress of the investigation; Rodney calling Elizabeth to keep her updated, trying, and failing miserably, to offer her reassurance where he himself had none. The phone call to Jeannie was particularly difficult, in the end, gave the phone to John to finish the conversation and escaped to the front porch. John talked to Jeannie and Kaleb until Rodney came back in, took the PCD back, and went out onto the porch.

By ten pm the request came in to pick up Rodney for questioning and it went to Pierce and Reynolds, which was a relief. It could have been much worse— it could have gone to Larrin and Kavanagh. Kavanagh was an obnoxious asshole and John was on the verge of filing a sexual harassment suit against Larrin.

Pierce called Rodney, and explained that this was only a formality, and requested that he come down to the station in the morning to answer a few questions. He obviously didn't think McKay was a flight risk.

It was a precarious predicament for John; he wanted to be there for Rodney, but for appearances sake, he couldn't give the impression that he was interfering in the investigation; merely his keeping tabs on the situation could be construed in an unfavorable light for Rodney.

John let Rodney go in by himself, after extracting a promise that he'd call, or come back when he was finished. After Rodney left, John turned on the news portal and listened as he scrubbed the turkey pan, and rinsed out the beer bottles and put them away.

Rodney was back in an hour. "They think she's run away. Apparently there was an altercation at school, and she was about to be expelled—again."

If possible, Detroit was worse off than even Houston, and the surveillance coverage at the ancient Metropolitan airport was far from adequate, but the Detroit cops had tracked down her RFID wave pass in the waste receptacle and found evidence that hair dye and No-Shed skin spray had been used in the airport bathroom. Airport security didn't extend to those leaving the airport; only those entering and Charlotte had simply walked away and disappeared.

Rodney swore at Elizabeth's reluctance to permanently chip Charlotte; it had been an ongoing argument since their daughter had turned sixteen. Elizabeth had been rabidly certain that the ubiquitous radio frequency technology was the underlying cause of Charlotte's learning disabilities, going so far as moving back to the rustic wilderness of the Canadian Rockies and making sure that Charlotte's school was as low tech as possible. Rodney was sure it was sheer stubbornness, and that eventually she'd find something that fascinated her enough to want to learn.

John fielded the barrage of calls when the news of Charlotte's disappearance hit the Chronicle's net site within the hour of Rodney's return from the precinct. The possible kidnapping of the daughter of a local former child prodigy and the daughter of the former Canadian ambassador rated Vala Mal Doran a headline. Her report made the case sound sensational. She also made plenty of insinuations and proffered several wild theories.

She must be bored with both John and Evan on vacation. Her interview of Pierce and Reynolds was indifferent. They were good cops, rock solid and methodical, but they were not particularly charismatic on vid.

John thought the case was a perfect blend of her talent set. Mal Doran had joined the Chronicle last fall when Paul Davis moved to the Washington Examiner. Prior to that, her assignment in Colorado Springs had been the society page. John missed Davis and his calm, dispassionate reporting style.

Rodney was furious with her and the broadcast, and spent the weekend holed up at John's until the furor receded. He would have stayed anyway.

When John logged in at Central Patrol division on Monday morning, Charlotte's picture and description were only one of thousands that were at the fingertips of every law enforcement officer. He saved everything he'd captured so far, set notification flags on the Integrated Automated DNA Identification System and Integrated Automated Fingerprint System, and moved onto the day's schedule.

John took the time in the office to update outstanding cases and review the files that were on the court docket for the next few days. He normally took all the court appearances anyway, but since Evan was on vacation, he'd have to handle the press briefing, too. John preferred to stay out of the media spotlight, but budget cutbacks had whittled the entire P.R. Department down to one man for the whole city, and then new rules about operational transparency necessitated that they handle their own briefings.

Evan didn't get why John hated these things, insisted that no one but him saw the scars. The grafts were near perfect, but John still saw them when he looked into a mirror, but it wasn't really his appearance. It was that he had to imagine that it was a military debrief, otherwise he felt awkward and tongue tied. It had worked well for a long time, but Vala seemed to make it her life's goal to annoy him.

Of course, Mal Doran was one of the few that bothered to show up in person, the rest logged in to the Gov2.0 webcast. She stood in the front of the informal gathering, in her trademark pigtails and scandalously short skirt that came nearly to her knees.

He went through their open cases, a laundry list of real kidnappings, murder investigations and burglaries. When he opened the floor to questions, he shook his head when Mal Doran asked brightly, "John, what can you tell us about the kidnapping of Charlotte McKay?"

He saw through her tactics, she was goading him. She knew that it was not a kidnapping, but that Char had run away. He countered her informal use of his first name—none of the other reporters ever did that. "You need to speak to the officers on the case, Ms. Mal Doran. I can't offer any personal insight, you know that."

She grinned, undaunted by his refusal. "Can't kill me for trying."

I only wish I could, he thought. "No, that would be a crime. Does anyone else have a question?" Fortunately it was a slow week, and he was able to keep it short and sweet, and he escaped the briefing room with a minimum of annoyance.

On top of the stalled open investigations, Lieutenant Sumner lobbed him a few softball cases during the week, and John had most of them cleared by the end of each day. In the evenings he stayed close to Rodney, offering his meager support and sympathy, though by New Years, Rodney said he needed to do a few things and then retreated to his house. That was shorthand for alone time, so John volunteered to work the New Year holiday for the shift differential. Beside the fact that neither he or Rodney felt like they had anything to celebrate, he owed it to Sumner for not breathing down his neck all week, and the cash was always welcome.

PART ONE

2.

January

The new year didn't bring with it any new information on Charlotte's whereabouts. John regularly checked for any updates, but there were none posted. He saw her face sometimes, scrolling past on the LCD screens in the foyer of the grocery store, one among many other missing children, and he was struck by fresh grief for Rodney that echoed his own, old pain.

It had been more than twenty years since Hurricane Victor had torn Houston to shreds and John's parents had died, but Rodney's grief had ripped open those old wounds. John's twenties had started out with such hope for the future: getting his degree, getting married, his acceptance into the Air Force, but had ended horribly with the divorce, hurricane and crash.

John ruthlessly shoved the aching memories out of his head and threw himself into work. He hated himself for thinking of the worst of humanity, that death, rape, burglary, 'net crime and gang violence was routine and normal, but it was—a ceaseless, never-ending tide.

The only support that John really had to offer in the face of Rodney's depression was that of companionship. He ferried take-out to Rodney's house the evenings Rodney bothered to leave the lab, which were too few for John's liking. When he did bother to come home, Rodney was depressed and morose, and engaged in bouts of introspection. Most conversations devolved into a tense angst-fest of his failures as a father and husband. It wasn't that Rodney didn't recognize this part of his personality, but he was normally able to shrug it off, ignore it. And the thing was, it was generally true; Rodney could be supercilious, condemning and vicious, but so could Elizabeth. Whether Rodney and Elizabeth's relationship had crumbled because he spent long hours at N.A.S.A., or he'd stayed away to escape the toxic atmosphere was immaterial. And after the divorce, as a single parent, Charlotte had known every one of Rodney's buttons and how to push them, perhaps in retaliation and anger over the divorce, or to get attention.

John had only experienced the tail end, the last three, downhill years of their marriage. He'd come home, physically healed, but traumatized and addicted to painkillers. Rodney had been there for him while John got back on his feet. He'd helped John arrange his finances so that he could buy the house, helped him figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life on the ground, and helped through the painful process of withdrawal and reintegrating into civilian life. Elizabeth had resented the hell out of that, of John getting what she saw as rightfully hers: Rodney's care and concern.

He couldn't disagree with Rodney's arguments, because reminding Rodney of the good things he'd done for John would only bring up the fact that though their relationship at the time had been completely platonic, it had been twisted into another way that Rodney had essentially failed Elizabeth. He couldn't remind Rodney of the good times with Char either, that would only highlight what he'd lost.

3.

February

John felt guilty going on with his life, but Rodney had irritably shoved him out the door in retaliation for hovering. A couple of nights a week he walked to one of the local dives to shoot pool. He didn't play league. It was patently unfair to the teams, since his schedule was unreliable and he could be tied up with a case. Or when the weather was reasonably pleasant and not raining, he'd hit the driving range and work out his frustrations on a couple of buckets of balls until he felt relaxed and ready to deal with Rodney. Whether Rodney was ready to deal with him—or not—was the question.

"Call Rodney, audio," he instructed the communications system in his car.

"McKay."

"I know that, Rodney."

"Right. Are you coming over?" He sounded chipper, even excited.

"You're at home?"

"Yes, yes, I'm at home."

John had to see this. He tapped on the video control to reveal a smirking Rodney. "Yeah, on my way. Am I bringing anything?"

"Nope, it's all under control." The image that floated over the dashboard was from the house security camera, a bird's eye view of the kitchen where Rodney stood at a counter, cluttered with various bowls and pans and ingredients.

That Rodney was cooking was a better clue to his psyche. "So what's up?"

Rodney glanced up at the camera. "I'll tell you when you get here," and with a little wave, tapped his throat and disconnected the call.

Half an hour later, the house unlocked the front door with a touch of his finger to the ID pad, and the house announced in dulcet tones, "John Sheppard," as he strolled in with a loud, sarcastic, "Honey, I'm home!" John rarely hazarded a guess as to the exact nature of the wild concoctions and mishmashes that Rodney would throw together. Mostly it tasted good, and the nights it was a failure, they'd throw it out and get a pizza. John sniffed. It didn't smell like a pizza night.

He sauntered into the kitchen. Rodney greeted him with a wave as he pottered around, putting away unused ingredients and tossing pans and bowls into the sink.

"So, you look better." The lopsided frown and worry lines were less evident and the animation had returned to Rodney's hands.

"I feel better." He picked up a towel and dried his hands. "So, it's like this—my lawyer called Elizabeth's lawyer and the upshot is, no child support while Charlotte's not living there. And, with the refund of the outrageous fees for that ridiculous, useless school, I bought myself a present."

John raised an eyebrow. Rodney bitched about money, but he was a terrible impulse buyer and it was always impossible to buy a present for him. "Oh?"

"Mmm-hhm. Season tickets to the symphony, or what's left of the season, there've already been three performances, but it's fine. We've got the rest of the year, and they gave me a break on the price." Rodney was almost vibrating in place with excitement.

"We?" It was impossible to resist winding up Rodney when he was like this.

He came to a complete standstill, and stared at John with a crestfallen expression. "What? I mean, I guess I can—"

"Kidding, McKay. So you're going to dress me up and drag me out to the Wortham, huh?" That had been his least favorite part of being married to Nancy, the social whirl integral to her lifestyle. The parties and rubbing elbows with the glitterati had been fun in college, but it had worn thin after a few years. After the reality of being an Air Force pilot's wife had really sunk in, Nancy had high-tailed it back to Houston when John had been stationed at Pampanga, Philippines, or as Nancy had called it, the ass end of the earth.

"No! Yes. I mean, I'd like you to go. I bought two seats, and after the all of the basketball games I've gone to, I thought it would be only fair."

John was relieved to see Rodney take an interest in anything. The look on Rodney's face was too precious to ruin with a smart-ass remark. "It's fine. I probably even have a suit or something in the back of the closet." John periodically considered selling off the formal and semi-formal clothing, but they occasionally came in handy and it was an investment that he wasn't likely to replace on his own initiative.

"From college?"

John shrugged and gave Rodney an evil smile. "It's not like that stuff ever goes out of style—and they still fit, too."

That got a grimace. Rodney had been as slim and reedy in high school as John, but he now sported a decidedly more plush physique. John liked it, preferred it. "Hmmph. Well, no. No dressing up—I have no intention of getting caught up in the machinations of the committee, so. The performances are all matinées, except for the Beethoven in April."

"Flying under the radar, huh?"

"I certainly hope so."

"Good luck with that."

4.

March

Simple genetic modification had been available in the back rooms of beauty parlors and gyms for years, an offshoot of the same easily available treatments that physicians used to cure diseases and genetic ailments. Permanent change of hair color, skin lightened or darkened on request, a modification of eye color, all the aegis of the extremely wealthy.

When the private health care system had collapsed, many of the smaller hospitals had been abandoned with the medical equipment still lying around. The USHCP hadn't had the resources to deal with the problem, and the scavenged medical equipment went to underground labs and clinics.

The entire GeM process was well regulated and the hospitals had long since been cleared out, but old equipment was still on the loose, and occasionally, the reagent got loose too. Case in point: a legal lab on West Alabama reported a missing vial from their stock, and John and Evan traced it to an illegal operation in Eastwood.

Prior to Hurricane Victor, Eastwood had been undergoing a renaissance, but it hadn't recovered as well as other neighborhoods. There were dark storefronts and empty lots where ruined homes had been razed. It was one of many blackout zones around the city; the CCDP cameras were subject to physical theft, vandalism, and pirated signals. The city's embattled budget couldn't keep up with the repair and replacement, and many times it was left up to the local residents to replace equipment. It made for very spotty coverage, as most of the people who lived inside the blackout zones tended to like it that way, though they were not necessarily part of the criminal element. Many were simply iconoclasts that disliked the fact that their daily lives were on record.

It took a little extra work to deal with problems inside the blackouts, but John had always made a special effort to cultivate relationships with those same people that didn't want to be spied upon. It paid off; the business owners and citizens were quite forthcoming with information and private surveillance records, which made the illegal lab easy to track down.

John and Lorne played bad cop-worse cop, and leaned hard on the operator when he tried to stonewall them. When John threatened to turn him over to the Feds, he crumbled, and gave up his supplier, a fairly well-known fence.

The fence gave up the thief, and the thief, in a bonus confession, his dealer.

Pot and synthetic narcotics were legal and easy to come by. There were Synth vendors all over the city, inside bars and restaurants and licensed brothels, but illegal designer drugs and raw, organic forms that still flowed into and around the city. It was a constant effort to shut down the untaxed trafficking.

The illicit GeM shop was shut down and the operator, the fence and thief were all treated to accommodations at the San Jacinto jail. The drug dealer got kicked up to the Feds anyway; the raw heroin had to come in from international waters.

5.

April

Opening night at The Wortham was a crush. John was only slightly shocked to find that he'd been wrong about his sedate black suit not going out of style; the lobby to the concert hall was packed with people clothed in glittery formal wear in all the colors of the rainbow. As promised, Rodney had not dressed up for the occasion. His checkered short-sleeved shirt and plain trousers stuck out like a sore thumb. "So much for 'flying under the radar', Rodney."

Rodney shrugged. "You want something to drink?"

"Yeah."

John staked out a length of wall, while Rodney braved the long line at the bar. There were a lot of people he recognized, though like him, they were older and grayer. John spotted his ex-wife in the center of a small crowd, where an almost modestly dressed Vala Mal Doran chatted with the guest soloist. He was certain that nothing good could come of that acquaintanceship.

When Nancy looked over and caught his eye, he pasted on a fake smile and tracked her movement across the lobby, the wife stealing asshole drifting after her.

"John! What a surprise, I didn't expect to see you here." Nancy leaned in towards him, and John barely grazed her in a brief embrace.

"Well, you know me, can't keep me away from the limelight," he said with a faint, ironic smile.

She laughed and shook her head, "Oh, right."

John shook hands with Asshole, whose smile was as fake and plastic as his own, though his grip was brief and weak. "Grant."

"John."

"So how are you doing, John? Still with the police department?" Nancy's inquiry sounded sincere and affectionate. By her accounts, she'd left the Air Force more than she'd left John. It hadn't hurt any less.

It was an inane question, or else she didn't read the police beat reports on the 'vid. "Yeah, I am." John didn't have to ask about her, or Grant; they were regularly featured in the Chronicle's society portal.

John glanced over Grant's shoulder and was relieved to see Rodney, bearing towards him at full steam, with two glasses in hand and wearing a determined expression.

He handed John the short whiskey, "Here, drink up—the line was horrible. Nancy, Grant."

"Rodney, how are you? I heard the news about Charlotte, I'm so sorry."

Rodney winced and stared down at his drink. John wanted to fucking kill her. "Well, yes, thank you."

To her credit, Nancy gracefully changed the subject. "Do you still play at all, Rodney?"

He looked at John. They both followed the news, and it wasn't hard to see where this was going. "No, not really. No time to practice, all that."

"I'm putting together a little something, I was hoping I could talk you into it."

Rodney regarded her with suspicion, and more than a hint of an eye roll. The lights flashed once, and Rodney latched onto the signal. "Oh, look at the time, well, nice to see you again." Rodney grabbed John's elbow and hauled him towards the open doors, and John gave Nancy a shrug as they turned away.

"Nice rescue."

"Oh please. I know exactly what she's cooking up, some harebrained 'talent night' fund raiser for saving bunnies, or something. Even I heard of it." Rodney paused by the tray at the door and slugged back his drink in two quick swallows. "It's nice that she remembered, though."

"Rodney, I doubt anyone's forgotten that you were main soloist for a season." Rodney's 'colorful' personality had made for great coverage; his impending separation from the Houston Symphony and the eventual showdown had been splashed across the society sites for weeks.

He grinned. "True."

The lights flashed a second time, and John finished his whiskey in a couple of hurried drinks, it had probably cost an unconscionable amount and he was loath to waste it. He put his glass down on the tray and followed Rodney as he powered through the crowd streaming down the aisle.

The seats were better than their usual matinée seats. John unbuttoned his jacket and settled into his seat, while Rodney unnecessarily reread the program; he'd had it memorized for weeks.

The concert was good as far as John could tell, though he enjoyed watching Rodney more. It gave John satisfaction to see him transported into another time and place by the pure love of the music. They kept a low profile during the intermission, and made a speedy getaway when the concert was over.

6.

May

Spring seemed to come earlier and earlier every year, and by May it was already deep summer, though an odd cold front had brought unusually mild spring weather. It was almost the way that he remembered May. John quietly mowed both his and Mrs. K's tiny lawns before dawn.

The sound of the reel neatly scissoring the grass, releasing the sweet scent of new-mown grass was his own transport to another time and place, the halcyon days when all he'd had to worry about was mowing his parent's lawn in exchange for a tiny allowance.

He made sure the flower beds weren't too wet, pulled out a few dead plants, and clipped the dead blooms off the azaleas. He retreated to the shade of the porch when the sun was high in the sky.

The to-do list was nearly as long as his arm, but the rare weather had him in a mood to simply sit and luxuriate. Even Mrs. Kravitz from next door waved cheerily as she set off down the street, her broad brimmed hat and long skirt flapping in the wind as she pushed the rattling shopping along. That wasn't really her name—it was Kim—but John persisted in thinking of her as Kravitz, he thought it was hysterically funny.

His PCD pinged with a text message from Tom, all it said was '4some rvroak sun 7a bring prtnr'. John chuckled and called Rodney. The call went straight to audio, he must be at the lab. "Hey, McKay, you up for a foursome with the Conklins tomorrow ?"

Rodney huffed a short laugh. "You make that sound so filthy. Yeah, sure, why not. The country club?"

"It's Tom, of course it's River Oaks." The membership at the country club was a tax deduction courtesy of Tom's accounting firm, and it would be paid whether or not John went golfing with an old friend.

"What was I thinking," Rodney said dryly. "I'll pick you up, six-thirty?"

River Oaks was halfway between their houses in Heights and Braes Bayou. "I could meet you there, you know."

"Just humor me."

"Alright, six-thirty sharp."

"Fine, now can I get back to my incredibly important employee reviews?" Rodney laid the sarcasm on thick.

"Yeah, that's too bad. It's really a beautiful day."

"Tell me about it. Six-thirty, Sheppard." Rodney abruptly cut the call.

He sent Tom a short reply, 'ur on.' John suspected that he'd get absolutely nothing done tomorrow, so he reluctantly returned to his version of spring cleaning: taking the many, many cases of empty beer bottles back to the brewer, and maybe see what new beer Rusty had come up with. John hoped it wasn't plankton beer. He'd barely managed to plow through that entire disgusting case. The marvels of chemistry that made it possible hadn't made it any more palatable.

He loaded the wooden crates into the back of his ancient Hyundai SUV. He'd picked it up for next to nothing a decade ago because it still had a gasoline engine, and he and Rodney had done the fuel cell conversion themselves and nearly recouped the cost by selling the engine for scrap. It was ugly and rusted out underneath, with the holes in the floorboards fiber-glassed over, but otherwise it got him where he needed to go when he didn't have a department vehicle. He hung his congestion permit on the rear-view mirror, and headed out to run errands.

The beer swap was made, and after the bottle deposit was applied, he'd gotten a couple of cases of decent beer for a handful of ration slips and a few bucks a bottle. He counted himself lucky it was that cheap. Rusty sometimes got upwards of twenty dollars a bottle. John stopped at the Mercado, returned the used containers, picked up a few things and taco dinner. The tacos weren't really beef, but the plankton TVP was spiced well enough that he could overlook the fact that he was essentially eating sea garbage. He lifted the lid and discovered that Marny had thrown in an actual chicken one for free. John sighed even as he enjoyed it.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate her generosity; she liked him and liked having a police officer in the shop regularly, but after the fiasco that had sent his first partner to prison, he was fairly sensitive to the ramifications of accepting freebies—even though the occasional free taco wasn't anywhere close to the level of extortion of which Officer Vega had been convicted.

Dawn was a hint on the horizon when John tossed his clubs in the trunk of Rodney's Tata and folded himself into the passenger seat. "Morning."

"Hi. Got your sunscreen on?" Rodney pointed to the bottle of prescription SPF 100 sunscreen as he pulled out of the driveway. Most over the counter sunscreens gave Rodney blotchy hives, though they rarely bothered John.

"Yes, mom. Jeez, you'd think that I haven't been doing this for oh, say forty years."

"The hole is supposed to pass over today, that's all," Rodney said quietly.

"I know." John had checked the weather while he'd gotten dressed. The drive to River Oaks was silent and tense.

The Israelis had bombed the shit out of the Iraqis a few days after John's sudden departure from the theatre. The low yield nuclear strike had blown a new hole in ozone layer and rained down radioactive dust across the Middle East, India and Southeastern Asia. It was probably the only good thing about the crash; it had got him out of the region and in a bed in Landstuhl. His service jacket hadn't yet listed Rodney as next-of-kin, and he'd had no idea where John was, and for a few awful days, Rodney had thought John was in the smoking crater that had been Baghdad.

Thirteen years later, the thin spot in the ozone layer still circled overhead, and the memory of the look on Rodney's face when he'd come out of the medical coma were inextricably tied together in John's mind. The Hole rarely passed this far north, but when it did, it invoked memories that both of them would rather forget.

Rodney handed the keys of his tiny Tata to the valet without a trace of embarassment, and they hauled their clubs inside. The plush bar was packed; the surprising weather had drawn everyone out of hiding to enjoy what might be the only pleasant weather for the next six months. Tom stood up and waved them down to the table where he and his wife Thanh already had a pair of cocktails in front of them.

"John, Rod! Good to see you, sit down have a drink."

Rodney rolled his eyes at the diminutive, but submitted to the careful hug from Thanh.

John brushed a kiss to Thanh's cheek and shook Tom's hand, as Rodney ordered coffee from the waiter that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. John ordered a draft, the breakfast of champions.

Middle age hadn't been kind to Tom. He had thinning blond hair that he refused to have treated and an overweight, florid face, but he still laughed readily, though it was reedy with asthma. He was still the same guy that John had known in high school—smart and ruthless enough to have his name first on the firm's sign.

The years had been kind to Thanh. She was still as pretty as when she'd been John's girlfriend and his main competitor for valedictorian, though there was more than a hint of silver in her hair. She was far paler now, suntans had gone the way of the dinosaurs, unless you had a hankering for skin cancer.

"You been keeping busy?" John took a sip of the beer. It was the real thing, no plankton beer at the country club. Probably cost a fortune, too.

"Yes, the tax season is over at last, thank God," Tom hesitated as he gave Rodney a concerned glance, "And Mira's baby decided to make an early appearance."

"Congratulations, how's she doing?"

"Oh, she's fine, they're both fine, another boy."

"That's what, the third?"

Thanh smiled, as she pulled pictures out of her pocket book, and handed them over. "The fourth. Thomas and Lee Ann's twins were number two and three."

John looked at the pictures. Thanh, her children and grandchildren were all quite photogenic. "That's great. They all look great."

He handed the pictures to Rodney, who looked at them briefly and handed them to Thanh with a brittle smile. "Nice, you look very proud."

"Thank you Rodney."

The conversation moved onto less painful subjects, and they caught up on the last few months until tee time.

They stood on the apron of the back patio of the clubhouse and the men slathered on more sunscreen and retrieved broad brimmed hats and gloves from their golf bags, while Thanh put on a wide hat with a sun veil that tucked into the high necked shirt, and pulled on gloves that fit neatly under her long sleeves. Long skirts were de rigueur, and in an odd turn of fashion, the Victorian turn of an ankle in company was considered to be quite erotic. A far cry from the summer days by the pool, clad in the tiniest bikini that John had ever seen.

John and Thanh partnered against Tom and Rodney, and proceeded to clean their clocks in eighteen holes. Rodney ranted at every hole, his melancholy momentarily forgotten; John and Tom bitched at each other and Thanh simply looked smug when she aced three times.

"I'm sorry, I had intended on inviting you to lunch, but my lovely bride reminded me that we have a previous engagement," Tom apologized. "But I'll make it up to you next time around."

"Sure, sounds good. I'm always up for it."

"Right, Mr. Twelve Under Par," Rodney grumbled. "No offense Tom, but next time, I'm taking Thanh."

Tom laughed. "We'll draw straws."

"No doubt rigged. Thank you, I enjoyed having the pants beat off of me."

"You always did, McKay."

John picked up his bag. "Let's get out of here before it gets any deeper, McKay. Thanks again, it was good to see you."

"Java's?" Rodney asked when they got in the car.

John grinned and retorted, "Only if you're buying."

Rodney snorted. "If I'm lucky."

The restaurant was packed, people were jammed into in the foyer and spilling out the door, but the wait was worth it. Though the building was new since Hurricane Victor, Java Java had been a favorite treat from childhood. They'd stop in before or after whatever field trip Mrs. Sheppard had planned: the zoo, museums or a shopping trip. The service was lackadaisical at best, or surly and rude at worst, but the food was marvelous and worth the cost and aggravation—no seaweed served in or on anything.

Matt met them at the table with two cups and a carafe, and pretended to take their order, though they'd probably end up with whatever he felt like serving them. He was pretty spry for an octogenarian, and showed no signs of slowing down, but if he and his equally ancient partner ever died, they would probably be buried under the flagstones in the dining room they had fanatically reigned over for fifty years.

Their table was near the back, around a corner where the din of dishes clattering and shouting from the kitchen was muted. Rodney inhaled the first cup of coffee, but he nursed the second slowly, staring out of the tinted windows with a far away look in his eyes.

John glanced out the window; there was only the tiny parking lot with three or four vehicles, though the bike racks were overflowing. "What's on your mind, Rodney?"

He fiddled with the sugar dispenser before answering. "It's just—thinking about how different it could've all been? If you'd married Thanh, instead of Nancy, if I'd concentrated on physics instead of music? Every decision is the creation of another universe. One where you're married with grandchildren, and I'm blazing trails towards a Nobel instead of monitoring deep space telemetry. Don't you wonder about it?"

"No. I don't." John knew that way lay madness. There was no point in agonizing over things that never happened, or couldn't be changed.

"Are you happy? Do you ever want, I don't know—more?"

John shrugged. He and Rodney had both had 'more' at some point in their lives, and it hadn't turned out very well. "I don't think about it too much. I usually have what I need."

Rodney grimaced. "Yeah. It just feels like I'm marking time, waiting. I don't want to wait forever for something that might not happen."

"Rodney," John started and then trailed off, incapable of explaining, not even to himself.

"Forget it. 'It's not you, it's me' and all of that. I get it." Rodney avoided looking at him and John reached across the table, and took Rodney's hand in his.

"It does get better, well, less painful at any rate, just. Don't dwell on it."

"I'm trying, I am. It's not... easy." Rodney took a deep shaky breath and looked at John; his eyes looked wet and shiny.

Rodney's introspection was abruptly halted by the arrival of breakfast. Matt must have had a moment of infirmity, because it was exactly what they'd ordered. They ate quietly and quickly and when the bill came, it was adjusted to the same prices John's mother had paid back in twenty-ten. Rodney checked the menu and added up the correct tab, and tucked the cash under the saltshaker.

7.

June

John's Zhing pinged, and he nearly spilled his coffee as he fumbled for the headset. Six months after vanishing without a trace, IADIS finally had a hit on Charlotte. He called the Dallas PD, and sat on hold while the dispatcher tracked down arresting officer.

Lorne leaned over his shoulder to get a look at the screen, and whistled. "McKay's going to blow a gasket."

"Probably." John smiled, despite the listed charge She'd been found, and that was all that mattered. Rodney really needed this.

"DPD Vice, Detweiler."

"This is Detective John Sheppard, HPD. I'm calling about Charlotte McKay, you have her on a charge of unlicensed prostitution?"

"Yeah, I've got her. It was seventy two hours or four grand, and guess which one she picked?"

"Thanks, just sit on her for a couple of hours, willya? I'll have her father pick her up and pay the fine." John personally thought that it would do her some good to cool her heels in jail for a couple of days, but he doubted that Rodney would see it that way.

"No problem, Sheppard. She's not going anywhere." Detweiler disconnected and John called Rodney, while opening a message box and typing in the pertinent information on the virtual keyboard.

"Make it snappy, I'm a busy man."

"Hello to you too, Rodney. Dallas PD has Charlotte in custody."

"Really? Oh my god, John. Where?"

"Just sent you the address. You'll need to pay her fine; they picked her up for unlicensed hooking. Or you could let her sit for another few days for free." He tabbed through the open case files and updated Charlotte's with the link to IADIS and the police report from Dallas.

"Jesus Christ. How much?" Rodney's rough words almost covered the relief in his voice.

John flashed a smirk at Lorne, and he grinned in return. "Four grand. You want me to go with you?"

"Damn it! No. I'd rather not have an officer of the law present when I kill her, or smother her with a hug. Either way, it wouldn't look good."

John chuckled. "Sure. Call me."

"Right after I turn her room into Junior Jail. Later."

John took a moment to savor the relief, slouched down in his chair, head tipped back as he took a deep, calming breath. He was so glad it hadn't ended with finding her decomposing body tucked away somewhere grimy, which was so often the way that missing person reports were closed. If they were ever closed. If Rodney was lucky, he'd figure out why Charlotte had run away in the first place before she disappeared again.

He was already drenched and sweating from the heat and heavy humidity, even though he'd just walked to the door from the car. John rang the doorbell with a cold six pack under one arm. Normally he'd just go in, but he wasn't sure what the situation was inside and he was unarmed.

The house's operating system answered the doorbell, and John identified himself. Rodney threw the door open with a surprised, "Hey. Come on in. What's with the doorbell?"

John shrugged as he stepped into the relief of the near arctic chill of the house. "How's it going? When will Elizabeth be here?" John wanted to avoid Elizabeth and her cool, damning attitude.

"The coast is clear, John. She won't be here until the morning." Rodney grinned and looked far too amused by John's innocent sounding question.

"What's for dinner? I have beer." John hefted the canvas bag in the air to display it as he followed Rodney to the kitchen.

"Good choice; that will go nicely with tuna casserole."

Only Rodney would take an expensive can of tuna and make a casserole out of it, but it was pre-flood comfort food. "So, how are things?"

"I think she's trying to lull me into a false sense of security. It's been almost pleasant," Rodney said as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, not caring if his daughter heard his assessment, or more likely, making sure that she heard it, that she hadn't fooled him.

Charlotte was sitting at the table, the smoke from a lit cigarette curling up to frame her face. She rolled her eyes at Rodney as she greeted John. "Hi."

John barely recognized her. "Hi to you too, sweetheart." He shot a questioning look at Rodney as he leaned down to give her a hug.

Rodney shrugged as he opened the oven door. "I don't feel comfortable letting her out of my sight, and it's too damn hot outside."

"Ah." John pulled out a pair of bottles out and turned to put the rest in the fridge.

Charlotte asked sweetly, "Don't I get one?"

"Uhm." John looked over his shoulder at Rodney, who waved his hand.

"Yes, yes fine. She's an adult now, as she's already reminded me numerous times today. As if I don't know when her birthday is."

John shook his head, twisted the cap off and flipped it towards the recycle bin. Score. "Going for conciliatory, are we?" He handed the beer to Charlotte, who pulled a long, practiced drink from the bottle.

"Thanks for the beer, Uncle John." She gave John a flirty little smirk that momentarily shocked him; it was so Rodney-like.

He sat down across the table from her. Charlotte was tall like Elizabeth, but she was well endowed with Rodney's padding. She had a heart shaped face, wide blue eyes, barely framed with brutally short black hair. The faintly tubby preteen with the long fall of strawberry blonde hair was gone, and in her place was this adult, with a knowing look in her eye. If John didn't know her, if she wasn't the barely legal child of his best friend, if he didn't occasionally sleep with her father, he would be hard pressed to turn down the unspoken invitation in her eyes. The faux flirting had been kind of cute when she was eleven, but this flirting with intent was seriously disturbing.

He gave her a dark look that said 'knock it off' and asked, "How are you?"

Her attitude changed almost immediately at his unspoken order. "As well as can be expected, since I'm under house arrest." She frowned in Rodney's direction. "I'm surprised he hasn't cuffed me to the chair."

Rodney slapped a stack of plates down on the table. "I'm sure that can be arranged, if necessary."

"I said I would stay," she said waspishly.

"Pardon me for not exactly trusting you. It's not like I don't have any cause for concern. Also, since you've so clearly insisted that you're an adult, I'm taking you to get chipped tomorrow morning."

"But, Mom—"

Rodney cut her off savagely, "I don't fucking care what your mother said."

This was almost pleasant? But it was. John remembered the awful years after the divorce, when Rodney had been the custodial parent. Charlotte had continually tested the boundaries that Rodney set, and bitter fights erupted when she was caught—smoking, drinking, the late night calls from the police, or too-old boys crawling in her bedroom window for secret midnight assignations. Rodney had despaired over the situation, vacillating between trying to support her and the impulse to board up her windows and chain her to the bedstead.

Though there were good times, too. Charlotte snuggled in Rodney's lap while watching a movie and he would pet and stroke her hair. Rodney had patient answers to her questions, helped her with her homework, though the fact that she was in remedial everything had pained him to no end. When she got her period, Rodney tried his best to be her mother, too; Elizabeth had long since taken off for the hinterlands of British Columbia.

None of it had surprised John. He'd known Rodney since they were little kids, had often seen his soft, squishy side. The familiar bickering would've been almost comforting but for the sharp edges that flickered around their sniping throughout dinner. Some of those sharp edges caught John, too. To Charlotte, he had always been a threat to her relationship with Rodney, an interloper—Elizabeth's influence—and it seemed that her attitude hadn't changed very much.

Shortly after dinner, claiming a long day and another one to come, John escaped the near toxic atmosphere with a heavy heart. No way was Charlotte going to stay put, or go home with Elizabeth.

John's Zhing chirruped insistently, and he groggily sat up and looked at the clock, four am "Lo?"

"Well, she's gone. Disabled the house to do it, too." Rodney gave an exhausted, resigned sigh. "I should have expected it."

He jolted wide-awake. "Did you call it in? You want me to do that?"

"No. She's probably been gone four hours—at least that was the time stamp on the logs before the house shut down. Even if we did find her? I think it's abundantly clear that there's nothing that Elizabeth or I could do to hold onto her. At least that's what her note says, anyway."

"I'm sorry, Rodney."

"Yeah, me too." Rodney sounded so discouraged; John ached with him in empathy, to have some reconciliation with his vagrant daughter so close, just within his grasp, and then have it taken away.

"You want me to come over?"

"No, I need to reboot the house. Elizabeth will be here in a few hours, and I have to figure out some way to tell her that her baby has permanently flown the coop."

John stayed far away from Rodney while Elizabeth was in town, not only to give him the space he needed to deal with her, but also to avoid any confrontations. John's relationship with Elizabeth had always been adversarial—she'd been jealous of the obvious affection between him and Rodney, and then after the divorce, suspicious that John was the reason for Rodney's request for the dissolution.

Instead, he quietly re-opened his file, made sure that Charlotte was still listed as missing and put the word out around town.

His Zhing chirruped and Rodney was already on screen. "Hey buddy."

"The coast is clear; Elizabeth just took off."

"Huh, I thought she'd stay longer."

"What, that she and I would drown our misery in each other's company?"

"Well, yeah?"

Rodney made a scoffing sound and flapped his hand which eloquently conveyed, 'Not a chance.' "That 'ship sailed years ago, my friend."

"Alright. You want some company?"

"Sadly, I have a huge backlog at the lab. Maybe in a couple of days?"

John nodded. "Sure, buddy. Just say the word."

"Thanks, John—for everything." Rodney gave him a little wave and closed the connection.

8.

July

Rodney's latest niece arrived on the fourth, and he took a few days to fly up to visit with Jeannie. John declined the invitation. He'd signed up for a security gig for the concert and fireworks at Hermann Park for extra cash.

It was hot and muggy, his clothing nearly soaked through with sweat and rain and he was probably sunburned despite the hat, gloves and sun block. Throngs of families and couples had poured out of the light rail station on Macgregor for hours, settling down with umbrellas, blankets and picnic baskets on the hill that overlooked the amphitheater.

It never ceased to amaze John that no matter how much things had changed, in some very essential ways they remained the same. As a child, he had played on that very hill with Rodney, sat in the first row of the amphitheater with Thanh for Rodney's first concert.

For the most part, the crowd was well behaved, though several fights erupted between rival gangs. He and Skyler Stackhouse had had to taser a couple of folks to break it up; the EMT's had stitched up the idiots and Kavanagh and Larrin had hauled them off to book them into the 'Hotel' San Jac to cool their heels while waiting to be charged.

The fireworks were pretty good. The low hanging clouds and the evening's light rain gave the show an interesting effect. He was too far away from the amphitheater to hear the music, so instead he played a few tracks from the 'net, until Rodney called. There were pictures of Jeannie and Bradleigh, with the rest of the family crowded around them. John smiled, and no, that was only sweat dripping off his nose.

He and Stackhouse had the crowd control barriers in place before the show was over, and the surge of people heading for the rail station was everything he expected. Everyone appeared exhausted and enervated by the humidity and heat, children draped bonelessly over their parent's shoulders, or cranky and crying as they were herded along in line, though the teenagers, still hyped and energetic, lurked in small knots laughing and horsing around.

It was very late by the time the park was reasonably empty and the park officers took over to handle the few remaining partiers. John boarded the train himself for the short ride to White Oak and a six block walk to the house.

John took a cold shower and then fell into bed with the news turned on, though he didn't make it past the first headline.

He'd only been asleep for a few hours when his Zhing paged him. John considered letting it go to mail, but when he suddenly recognized the audio IADIS flag that he'd set for Charlotte, he got up and took the message. He swore when he opened IADIS.

She'd been picked up in Pasadena for unlicensed hooking—again. She had to know the licensing fees and paperwork were minimal, and that it came with a little health care policy.

At least she'd been contained and corralled for the moment and hell if he was going to pay her fine. As an incentive to get a license, they didn't issue bail bonds for the offense, and he didn't have the cash for the fine. He'd stop in at San Jac in the morning, it was only a few blocks from Central.

"Mornin', Lou." John pulled off his hat and sunglasses off as he greeted the desk sergeant.

"Hey, Shep. What can I do for you?"

"Looking to visit Charlotte McKay." John rattled off the case file number from memory. "Heard y'all have her in custody."

Lou checked the computer log. "Sorry Shep—you just missed her. Fine was paid and we cut her loose about two hours ago."

Dammit. "Any chance it says who paid the fine?"

"Hhm. Hang on a minute." Lou dialed a number on the phone without looking. "Roger, hey. Sorry to wake you up, but I got Detective Sheppard from HPD here looking for a girl you processed early this morning, McKay? Uh huh, that's the one. Know who it was that paid her out? Really, that's interesting. Thanks Rog, 'preciate it." Lou stabbed the disconnect button.

John gave him a questioning lift of the eyebrow. "So?"

"Yeah. Rog said it was Barbara Shore. Could be a coincidence, or your girl's in some shit."

Shore was a high price lawyer with loose ties to Xuan Helgason, a person of interest in several on-going cases, but they didn't have anything concrete enough to bring him in. "Yeah," John agreed. "Thanks anyway, Lou."

"Anytime, Shep."

On the short walk to Central, John decided that what Rodney didn't know wasn't going to hurt him. This would only reopen the barely closed wounds caused by Charlotte's second defection.

It was mid-month when Rodney finally caved into Nancy's frequent ego-massages, and agreed to go back on stage for her charity event in the fall. John didn't see much of him for the rest of the summer—he preferred to practice without an audience, always had—which was fine, because while the sultry, devastating heat slowed down burglaries and petty theft, death was on the up swing. Fights gone horribly wrong, crimes of passion incited by the sweltering weather, and the usual high number of heat related deaths. It was supposed to be getting better overall, but the summers seemed to be worse every year.

John and Evan took part in the door-to-door check of the old and infirm, or even anyone afraid to open the windows out of fear, slowly suffocating and roasting to death in their stiflingly hot apartments and homes because they didn't have the carbon credits or out-right cash to pay for cooling. John hated the stench of putrefaction that signaled that they were too late, and they had to take the door off the hinges for the bodysnatchers to get in. Every day and every night, more people lost the battle, and at one point, there were so many that he and Evan had to split up. It was up to HPD to pick up the pieces, notify relatives, if any, and put the cases to rest.

There were also the less official rounds to make. In the five years they'd been partnered, John and Evan had cultivated many more sophisticated sources of information, but some of their old patrol tips were still around, stubborn and truculent, clinging to their sub par lifestyle. John understood to a certain degree, through long hours of conversation, why some people chose to live this way.

Evan drove and John stared out the window as they headed over the Elysian Viaduct and slowly wound their way around the side streets to get down to the rail tracks under the bridge. CSX-Union regularly tried to flush out the small encampment, but were never successful in permanently eliminating it.

The day was hot, the temperature hanging above one-twenty, even though the sky was overcast, the thick clouds pregnant with the reluctant promise of rain. The high bridge overhead didn't provide much relief, and the air was still and sultry when they got out of the car.

Evan popped the trunk, and the ones that recognized John and Evan approached the car to accept the still cold gallon jugs of fresh water, the beads of condensation that made them slick, slippery as they handed them out along with light rail tokens. The containers were also a bit of cash, returnable for the deposit. The line was orderly, and the directions to the air-conditioned shelters were accepted or rejected with varying degrees of thanks, until the trunk was almost empty.

There was a particular person that John hadn't seen, and when he inquired, was told, "He's sick, real bad."

"Where? Take me there," he demanded. He grabbed a gallon of water and was led to the tiny piece of real estate that Duane had staked out. John pulled the ragged curtain that served as a doorway away from the hole in the shipping container. It was hot and dim inside. "Duane?"

"Hey, Shep, whatchoo doin' down here?"

"Came to check on you, buddy. What seems to be the problem?" Duane's lined face was bathed in sweat, his walnut dark skin chalky and gray.

Duane Ellicott had always laughingly referred to his 'profession' as Philosopher of Reclamation and Recycling, but it really amounted to dumpster diving on a larger scale. The old landfills were still full of plastic items, never degrading and more precious now than copper or aluminum. It was dangerous, because the sites were also hotbeds of filth and disease, accidents just waiting to happen.

"Seem to have picked up a little something when I cut my leg." Duane pointed to a tear in his pant leg that was caked with rusty, dried blood.

John gingerly pulled aside the cloth to reveal a gash that oozed green infection, the dark skin puffy and inflamed, dark red streaks that ran up under his trousers. "When did this happen?" He'd been fine last time John had come to check on him.

"Been at least a few days."

The casual stoicism with which he replied wasn't a surprise; it took a lot of inured fortitude to live this way on purpose; Duane insisted it was a journey. "Jesus, Duane. C'mon." John snaked an arm around Duane's shoulders to lift him to his feet, and helped him hobble to the car. His skin felt hot and clammy, and he reeked so badly that John's eyes watered.

"What's up?" Evan asked.

"Duane here's got himself into a situation. Gonna take him to the ER."

"John," Evan started as he opened the car door, and Duane flashed him a smile as John helped him into the back seat.

"Look, I'll figure something out, I can't just leave him here." John and Duane went back to the years when John was a rookie was out on patrol with Officer Vega and they'd struck up a friendship. The philosopher in his self-proclaimed title was only half in jest. They'd had a lot of interesting conversations under the bridge, drinking cheap bourbon while Duane opened metaphorical windows for John to peer through, even as he himself remained mysterious and his past opaque.

Evan nodded. "Yeah, all right. We'll figure something out."

John jogged back and retrieved the water he'd brought for Duane. Evan was in the car, running with the air-conditioning on full blast, and handed him a travel mug as he got in. John rinsed it out and filled it up with cold water and handed it to Duane.

The scene at Roosevelt's emergency room went exactly as John had expected, up to a point. They waited for an hour and a half, and when they called Duane to the desk, John went with him to the registration desk. The admitting nurse played twenty questions, none of which Duane had an answer for, until Duane provided an answer to a question that hadn't been asked.

"Got a genreg."

No USHCP number, no employer, no residence, no relatives, no past, but he had a fucking genreg. The nurse looked as shocked as John. "Ah. I see. Just a moment please," and he went behind closed doors and returned with a hand held gen scanner.

Duane held out his hand, and the scanner light turned green and the nurse's eyes widened, as the admissions form autofilled from the IADIS download. The nurse shook his head slightly and pushed the button to the automatic doors. "Come on back, Mr. Ellicott." Another nurse came out with a wheel chair and settled Duane into it.

"You want me to go with you?" John jerked his head toward the locked doors of the ER proper.

"Naw, I'll be fine, you go on home. These fine people'll take good care of me."

John shook Duane's hand. "I'll be back."

"Wouldn't expect anythin' else from you," Duane said with a wave as the nurse pulled the wheel chair back through the heavy double doors, which sealed shut with a snick of the automatic lock.

John stared at the closed doors, wondering about Duane Ellicott's mysterious past.

"That was unexpected," Evan said.

"No kidding. He had a genreg ID."

Evan whistled softly. "Really unexpected."

A phone call later that evening confirmed that Duane had come though surgery without a hitch. Antsy and unable to sleep, John headed out to Rachel's, where he played pool and drank cheap draft until the early hours of the morning. When he finally stumbled home, he turned on both the attic fan and the air conditioner, lay in his bed, clutching the edges.

John visited the next day and assured Duane that he'd be back, but when he finally got free during visitors hours a day or two later, Duane had been released to a family member. John had no idea who that might be, or where they lived. He doubted that Duane would stay there. He'd eventually work his way back to living on the edge.

9.

August

The cigarette and pot smoke was thick in the Pi Kappa Alpha house. John had had a couple of beers and he was kind of high from the second hand smoke when he stepped out for a breath of fresh air, if you could call the hot, soupy humidity of an August evening fresh. He needed to clear his head and get away from the music and cacophony of three generations of Pikes laughing and yelling over loud music. He didn't often attend Alumni Night during rush week, but Rodney was still busy and the invitation to catch up with his old frat buddies had caught him in a moment of nostalgic melancholia, for the days when the world was young and the future was full of hope.

John wanted to forget for a few minutes, pretend he was still twenty. He hauled himself up onto the high, stone wall that overlooked Rockwood Street, to watch the flitters take off from Hobby airport. The house was a couple of blocks from the flight path of runway 12R-30L and John recalled the many nights he'd spent out here as a student—sometimes alone, sometimes with Nancy, making out while jets roared overhead.

The lights of a flitter just taking off caught his eye. He could hear the high-pitched sound of whining turbines. John leaned against the gate column, took a drink of his beer, and watched. As the craft approached overhead, it suddenly went silent, seemed to pause for a moment in midair, and then began falling, moving too fast in the wrong direction.

This was his worst nightmare. He hadn't ever wanted to relive that terror, but these few brief seconds were the front row seat to his own personal hell as he watched the craft fall down, down, down. He half jumped, half fell from his high perch, the beer bottle shattering as he landed on his hands and knees. He called for emergency responders, even though he knew the tower was aware of the situation and had probably already set them into motion. The deafening explosion rocked the ground before he'd taken a few quickening steps. John began to flat out run, blanking out every thing in his mind except danger, and people, and help; adrenaline burning out the last traces of the buzz he'd been working on all night. For the moment, it was easy to block the limited flashes of blurred images of his own crash.

By the time he got there, panting heavily in the hot summer night, people were running towards the building, bloody and injured students limping out in twos and threes, back lit by the flames that had begun to rise and lick at the pulverized dorm. The sirens of the police cars, fire trucks and paramedics wailed above the din of screaming and crying. Flames started to climb up the walls, sputtering and steaming where the water pipes had burst.

The flitters didn't use flammable fuel, but the old school dormitory that had been nearly flattened still had gas lines, and they fed the fire that shot up into the dark night. Acrid smoke stung and burned his eyes as he pelted directly into the building, shoving those who could walk outside and crawling over and hauling at debris that had others trapped as he worked his way upstairs, towards the huge crumpled aircraft buried in what was left of the building.

The fire was too hot, the smoke too thick and black, and it was obvious that no one was going to disembark from Skyway flight one-eleven.

He tried to turn back when another smaller explosion pelted him with burning wreckage, but he'd gotten turned around as he whirled, slapping at his clothes and hair. The roar of the fire was getting louder and hotter, and he couldn't tell where he'd come from.

John stumbled and nearly fell down the stairs. Something bumped against his leg, and the bright red eyes of a robot sniffer were barely visible against the flames. He put his hand down, and the twitching metallic whiskers brushed his palm, and the rat-like sniffer rolled over him to continue its search. A moment later, a firm hand caught his arm and yanked him up. The yelling was muffled by a face mask, and he let his savior chew him out as he was hauled out of the building.

John fell to his knees, hacking and coughing as he tore out of his smoldering coat and tie. The flashing red, white and blue lights of the fire trucks and police cars clashed with the hot, blinding orange flames as the dorm burned to the ground. Someone knelt next to him, and clamped an oxygen mask over his face. John distantly answered the questions as they hauled him to his feet and away from the inferno.

Time slowed, syrupy and unreliable. The images of chaos of blood and smoke and debris and people crying and rushing around to care for the victims still alive, were burned into his memory in strobing snapshots as he watched the emergency crews fight the fire to a smoky halt, and then began the removal of the bodies of the dead students and passengers.

He knew that Evan lived at least ninety minutes away but John could have sworn that it had only taken a few minutes before he was suddenly there, asking if he was all right, and gently pushing John down with a crisp order to stay there. Then he was gone again.

John couldn't take his eyes off of the fire and wreckage; faces swam before him, Pierce, Kavanagh, the new kid Kemp—who was teased unmercifully about being Sheppard's clone—even Larrin was solicitous and insisted he drink a bottle of water while she waited with him. The media camera drones were on site, and sure enough, Vala Mal Doran tried to edge in close for an interview before Sumner told her to get lost.

John stayed until Evan came back to him, just after dawn. The city emergency services had driven away, the area cordoned off and the NTSB and officials from Skyway Line began their long investigation, combing through the wreckage.

Evan pushed him into his truck with "Get your car later," and "Christ, John," washing over him as Evan drove. The nauseating smell of smoke and burnt hair assaulted him, and John yelled, "Stop! Now, goddammit, stop!"

Evan swerved sharply to the side of the road. John opened the door, crawled out and managed to get to the rear tire before he vomited over and over. He was stunned and woozy, and the half remembered images of Iraq began to melt and blur with the sharp, new images.

Evan laid a hand on his shoulder, handed him a handkerchief and a bottle of water, and got him back into the car. He drove slowly in right hand lanes until he parked the car in front of the house.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the ER?" Evan hovered, his faced lined with a worried expression.

"No, I'm fine. I'll be fine," John said when he reached his front door. "Tomorrow's probably a wash, though. Day after tomorrow doesn't look good, either."

Evan shook his head. "I'll call Sumner, and check on you in a few hours."

"No, just give me some time. I'll be okay." Evan beat a strategic retreat as John stood on his front porch and methodically stripped off his ruined clothing. Finally stark naked, John threw his clothes out on the front lawn. He didn't care what the fucking neighbors thought, he wanted them as far away as possible, the smell made him sick. Fuck it all to hell, he'd liked that shirt.

He glanced in the bathroom mirror, his face and neck were liberally peppered with hot blisters and his hair had huge, uneven chunks burned out. John swore again and rummaged through the cabinets until he found the old clippers, and began to shave his hair off, wincing with a sharp indrawn breath when he scraped across the burns on his scalp.

He stood in the cool shower for a long time, scrubbing over and over to get the smell off of him until the burned skin and blisters began to bleed. The hair on the floor still smelled, though, and he forced down the bile as he swept it up and flushed it down the toilet. Screw the plumbing—he didn't want it stinking up the trash.

Once he was clean, he sank into the cheapest bottle of the cheapest brand of vodka from the freezer. He steadily worked his way through it while he sat on the couch and flipped through the channels. He quickly navigated past any station with reporters or news tickers streaming across the bottom of the screen. He didn't need to know, he'd fucking been there. Twice.

He alternated a beer for every shot of vodka, and another shower every fourth shot, until somewhere around four in the afternoon, he'd finally shut his brain down enough that he could fall asleep.

A nightmare woke up him up, sick and shaking. John concluded that it was a good thing that he was too cheep to buy a whole fifth when midnight found him hugging the toilet. His hands quivered as he made a piece of toast, nearly dropped the knife as he spread it with peanut butter and folded it in half.

John washed the sandwich down another beer, as he watched the floofiest movie he could find, some stupid romcom that should've have had him a diabetic coma by the end of the second act. The only thing that made it palatable was that there was absolutely nothing about it—not the plot, theme or actors—that had any bearing or reminder on his life, past or present. He stayed up the rest of the night; too afraid of nightmares to sleep. His eyes burned and he thought he still smelled smoke, no matter how many showers he took.

Rodney arrived on his doorstep in the morning, banging and yelling when the door was bolted from the inside. "Don't make me break a window, Sheppard!"

John stumbled to the door and unbolted it. He didn't really remember doing that. "Hey, Rodney."

"Jesus Christ! What the fuck happened to your hair? Evan called, told me to give you a little time. I can see that twenty-four hours was too much. What have you had to eat—", his eyes glanced down to the bottle that John was clutching, "Besides beer? No, never mind. I guess the neighbors got a good show of the Sheppard attributes; I picked up your dirty underwear from the yard and put it into the trash can."

Rodney continued his diatribe as he went to the kitchen to check out the contents of John's pantry and refrigerator. "I see you're all set if you ever want to have a condiment war," he said, as he tapped behind his ear to find some place open for take out at this hour.

The wobble in his voice when he said, "Oh, Rodney," shocked him. John hadn't known, not until that very second, just how very much he needed this, some one to sweep in, to take over.

It must have shown on his face, every broken thing inside, because Rodney killed the call. "Hey, hey. C'mere." Rodney pulled him in and held him tight while John shuddered and shook, the hot tears he couldn't contain any longer soaking into Rodney's collar.

Two days later, hung over and dull and exhausted from the nightmares that continued unabated, John took the light rail from White Oak to Rockwood to retrieve his car. If it was even there. It had probably been stolen, broken into, or possibly burned out.

John clenched his fists and swore softly when it wasn't where he left it. He absolutely didn't have the cash to get another vehicle, no room in the budget for a car note, and goddammit this was going to make his life miserable for months.

"Fuck," he said again, louder, startling a student as she walked out of the frat house gates. She stopped and stared at him for a minute. John thought she looked familiar, one of the new kids that had been at the rush party. She stepped towards him, hand out like he was a crazy guy that need placating. He looked the part, with cuts and burns on his face and a concentration camp hairstyle. "Mr. Sheppard, right?"

John nodded, hands in his pockets. "That's me."

"We moved your car. It's in the back." She tipped her head back, but kept her eye on him, watching.

He took a deep breath. "Thank you."

"Yeah, we saw what you did. It's been on the news everywhere."

John flinched and grimaced. The news vans cruised past the house hourly, and Evan had called to warn him that John was heavily featured in Vala's latest feature story. John had turned off his Zhing and let email pile up for a couple of days until he thought he could deal with the notoriety. He still hadn't watched any of the reports, had switched to disks and downloads when he couldn't change channels fast enough to get away from them.

"So, when we couldn't get a hold of you, we figured the least we could do was keep it safe for you." She glanced at her watch. "Anyway, I have to get to the registrars office before they close. Maybe I'll see you around?"

"Yeah, maybe." He shrugged with a faint tilt of his head, hands still in his pockets. She smiled and then hustled off. John had to get someone from the house to key in the gate code so he could get out of the compound. Then he was at a loss, his errand for the day accomplished, and some tenuous, human contact reestablished.

He slowly drove by the crash site. Investigators and work crews were still crawling through what was left. Memorial tributes were piled up outside the cordon. Students and families left pictures, candles, flowers, and other remembrances, including a case of beer that stayed untouched for nearly a week.

Thankfully, Rodney had ordered in enough groceries and take out for three families, so he didn't need to go to shopping, and the thought of alcohol gave him the shakes. John went home, turned his Zhing back on, and methodically deleted the messages and calls he didn't want to deal with.

He called and thanked Evan, and said he'd be back at work the next day. Sumner wasn't exactly pleased to hear from him, and said that he could come back to work after John had seen Heightmeyer, HPD's psychiatric counselor in residence.

John called and got an appointment for the same day, dutifully went to the session and answered all of the questions asked of him, and escaped with only a little more mental trauma added on to his full load. He didn't need her to tell him that he was suffering from PTSD. There wasn't a cure for it, and he'd been dealing with it for years. The only good thing was that she offered up a mild prescription so that he could get some sleep.

It was only five o'clock when he got home and Rodney called to check up on him. "You want me to come over?"

"Nah, it's been a long day. Think I'm just going to crash." John winced as he said it.

Rodney was oblivious to John's gaffe. "Okay. That's good. Oh, by the way, I saw my wayward daughter today."

John's reply was cautiously neutral, though his heart began to thump loudly. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Showed up at the house and cadged a little cash." Rodney sighed. "I told her she could come home, but she said that she was doing okay, sharing a place with some friends."

God, he should have told Rodney—weeks ago—but he just didn't have the emotional wherewithal to get into it now. "That's good."

"I think so. Call me if you need anything."

"Sure. See you later."

Rodney disconnected and John sat there for a while regretting his decision to not tell Rodney about Charlotte's last entanglement with the law.

He'd have to tell Rodney. Eventually.

John heated up leftovers, took the pills and got through the first uninterrupted sleep in what felt like a week.

John couldn't avoid the buzz and gossip at the station, but he did his best to smile and nod. When Evan said they had to take off, a robbery investigation, he gratefully escaped.

John said with a faint grin, "Tell me something, Lorne, why doesn’t this shit ever happen to you?"

Evan gave a quick sideways glance as he slid behind the wheel, then cracked up. "Better survival instincts."

John smiled. "Probably."

It was a couple of weeks before John had regained his laconic aplomb. The nightmares had slowed to a trickle, though the low grade depression plagued him for months. He managed to stay right at the edge of mostly sober, and threw himself into work with a renewed vigor.

Evan stopped playing mother hen and, thankfully Rodney had retreated as well. John was still horrified that that he'd broken so totally, and it was easier to forget both the lapse in judgment and emotional meltdown if Rodney wasn't around to remind him of it. Charlotte's offense really was negligible, and Barbara Shore's ties to Helgason were only suspicions, and John decided that he wasn't going to be the one that destroyed Rodney's tenuous relationship with Charlotte.

Given that Sumner had some old bug up his ass about the FBI, John was surprised to see a vid from the FBI Assistant Director for the Southern district on their precinct channel. It was an all points memo, the distribution list showed that it had gone to every officer in every organization in the five state area. Evan punched the button on the console and the holovid sprang up above the dashboard.

Abe Ellis was a handsome black man with piecing eyes, a clean-shaven head, and he spoke with calm confidence and respect. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time. I promise I'll keep this brief so that you can get on with your day.

"Last night the Genii Incorporated plant in Pine Bluff, Arkansas was the target of what we believe was a large scale attack. The investigation is on going, but due to the site of the attack, and the methodology of employed to gain entrance, there's concern that approximately a thousand doses of the GeM viral agent, the formula, and a large portion of other chemicals may have been removed from the premises, though it may be that they were destroyed in the subsequent fire.

"I'd like to ask all of you to please keep this in mind, and be alert for a possible influx into your communities, and to please contact the F.B.I with any tips or information. Thank you for your time."

The number and email address scrolled across the screen and then the video ended.

"Oh, hell."

"No shit."

10.

September

John's embarrassment faded, and by the time the charity benefit rolled around, it had been simple to reconnect with Rodney, both of them pretending that nothing had ever happened.

As one of the headliners, Rodney had procured six front row seats, but, to John's dismay, they were uncomfortably close to Nancy, Grant, and Moira, their oldest daughter. John would've preferred to be as far away as possible, in the back row, or the nosebleed seats in the balcony, far away from the painful presence of Moira. He'd met her a couple of times over the years, and she was a nice kid, but her dark hair, hazel eyes, and the math that didn't exactly add up between her birthday and his divorce, had led John to certain conclusions, though nothing had ever been said to him.

The kid had to know, too. Birth certificates are one thing, but the genreg is another. Even if Nancy had never admitted the truth, pretty soon Moira was going to be old enough to have independent access and smart enough to put it together. It would be easy enough for him to confirm, too. But genreg records were private information and he didn't have any probable cause to go digging. Nor did he like to think about the consequences of a mistake made in a last ditch effort to save a failing marriage.

He took the seat farthest away, Evan and Katie sat next to Rodney, and Tom and Thanh arrived just as the house lights went down, muttering excuses as they pushed through the narrow aisle to their seats.

John and Rodney entertained each other with whispered sarcastic reviews, and stifled mean giggles when the Mayor did his incredibly lame comedy act. He was sure that this was a lot more enjoyable for those in attendance who personally knew most of the 'talent' on stage, though there were a few pretty good acts among the slough.

Rodney left to go back stage. John slouched down in his seat and did his best to focus on the overly glittery matron who was massacring an old German cabaret song. He felt embarrassed for her, but the crowd applauded enthusiastically anyway.

It was almost over; Rodney had bargained for, and won, the slot as the last act, because he was arguably the closest they had as a professional, or at least former professional, performer.

John leaned forward when Rodney sat at the piano; it had been years since he'd heard him play.

He was fantastic. He fucking brought the house down. John stood up and whistled, just like he had the first time Rodney had played at the amphitheater. Rodney grinned and waved at him. When the audience demanded an encore, John could see that he was gearing up for something, he didn't know what—Rodney had been secretive enough that this could have been a state secret.

John immediately recognized the piece. It was Rodney's only published composition, written just before his departure from music into physics. It was beautiful and precise, though it felt like there was something dark lurking underneath that. One critic had likened it to Sorabji meets Ravel.

Rodney declined a second encore, took his final bow and left the stage by hopping off the proscenium then plowing through the orchestra pit to where John waited. It took a while. Rodney was stopped by old fans and well wishers, shaking hands and smiling.

It had been a long time since John had seen Rodney truly happy. Eventually Rodney made it to their seats. John stood back while Tom and Thanh congratulated him and then drifted off to the five hundred dollar a plate dinner. Evan and Katie hadn't bought tickets for that either, and the four of them decamped to Rodney's where they sat around the kitchen table for a dinner of their own.

The case du jour was the late night hijacking of the Zoomobile in the far northern reaches of the city, on a return trip to from an event in Waller County. The director of the Houston Zoo had reported that the van was overdue and he'd been unable to reach them on the radio or by cell phone, and the driver's RFID was off the grid.

According to the camera records, the driver had stopped at a drive through Wingstop, and then had driven into the city and into a black out zone.

The van was found a few hours later, overturned and smoking with the burned remains of the driver in the back. The cargo of various expensive, small transportable creatures was long gone.

John ordered a DNA sweep of the van and outsourced the processing to a favorite contact of his, a Shaihainese firm that was fast, but more importantly, far cheaper than any of the firms in town. Evan tagged the owners of pet supply stores around the city, to report anyone who wasn't a regular customer that showed up to buy exotic pet food.

The DNA sweep, when compared against genreg records, didn't reveal traces of anyone who hadn't been authorized to be in the van, and normal forensics didn't find any evidence that pointed to the perpetrators.

No unusual pet food purchases were reported. No sightings of odd animals slinking around town. John filed the case under open: pending and they moved onto the next case.

11.

October

Kavanagh and Larrin's latest burglary case had several weeks worth of CCDP footage to scan and Sumner assigned John to help because they didn't have time to turn the task over to the unreliable Gov 2.0 volunteers. The overtime was welcome and Kavanagh despised John enough to merciless rag on Larrin for flirting, so it was kind of a win/win.

Though seeing Charlotte in the store's CCDP was kind of a shock. It appeared to be entirely coincidental—her behavior wasn't at all suspicious. She bought a bottle of soda and left, just like nearly a hundred other customers.

He hated to do it, but with her priors and possible association with Xuan Helgason via Barbara Shore, John marked her as a person of interest and moved on. The only good thing was that the incident was innocuous enough, and unlikely that anyone would lay hands on Charlotte before Kavanagh solved his case

The neighborhood Halloween carnival was in full swing by the time John escaped work and stopped at the house to pull on an old rubber monster mask. Kids were running from booth to booth, picking up treats or playing games.

He remembered taking Jeannie trick or treating with Rodney, old pillow cases in hand, the weeks they'd spend on perfecting exactly the right costume. Jeannie had been an infant when Rodney had moved into the house across the street from John, and she was as close to a sister as John had. Even his mother had considered them John's pseudo-siblings.

No one went door to door any more, it was too dangerous, but the neighborhood carnival was always moderately amusing, if occasionally lame.

John drank a glass of orange punch and chatted with his neighbors, played a few games with the kids and handed out the prizes he'd won. After a couple of hours, he drifted back to the house. It had been a long day, and the rest of the week didn't look any better. The conclusions in the final report from the FBI on the Pine Bluff incident were inconclusive. There wasn't any way to know if the missing GeM agent had been destroyed or stolen, and they had to step up efforts to make sure it hadn't infiltrated in Houston.

12.

November

Stackhouse approached John in the early morning outside the entrance at Christy's. "Sheppard, can I talk to you a minute?"

John glanced at him curiously and shrugged. "Sure. What's up?"

Stackhouse drew John aside and, out of an ingrained habit, they angled themselves so their backs were to the surveillance camera outside the doughnut shop. John was sure that Christy's didn't employ a sound gun with their cameras. "In the last month, a some of our regular contacts have simply dropped off the face of the earth."

John nodded and leaned against his window ledge, arms crossed. "Have you talked to Sumner?"

Skyler sighed. "Yeah. His exact words were, 'good riddance'. I kind of agree with him in general, one or two? That could be written off as the normal turnover in the population, but five, within weeks? One of them was a rock solid tip. He wouldn't have just moved on without letting me know."

Stackhouse and Markham's assigned beat was in Eastside. Tips and snitches came in all varieties and John had more than a few in the area himself. "You know as well as I do that it's lights out down there. No-one can keep a surveillance camera running there for more than a week."

Stackhouse insisted, "I know that, Shep, but I think this is a symptom of something bigger than just these individuals. Word on the street is that there's a lot more that have simply vanished. No one wants to talk about it, no one knows anything other than one day they're there, and the next—bam! They're not. Something has 'em scared, and me and Markham, we just don't have the time or tools for a deeper investigation."

The theory was that the police force served all, but the hard reality was that even with all of the advances in technology, there was an entire substratum of the city's population that weren't on the grid, and it was nearly impossible to bring to bear any of the modern tools at their disposal on the situation. The officer's regularly voiced complaints and requests for more resources were always met with the same response: it's not in the budget.

John had started as a patrol officer, and knew that the men on the street were the eyes and ears of the police department, and generally had sharper instincts than a Lieutenant who hadn't patrolled the streets in twenty years.

"Alright, I'll talk to Lorne, and we'll check into it."

"Thanks, Shep." Stackhouse surreptitiously handed over a tiny, flimsy memslip as he shook John's hand.

He casually slid his hand back into his pocket, making sure it didn't have a hole in the bottom, and dropped the palmed slip. "Be safe out there, Stacks."

"Will do."

Rodney called just as Stackhouse slowly pedaled out of the parking lot, and John let it go straight to vid. "Hey."

"Hi, you busy?" Rodney looked a little nervous.

"Nah, just about to get some breakfast. What's going on?"

"Are you going to be able to take some time off for Christmas? Jeannie called, they're coming in on the twenty fourth."

"Sure. When's your vacation?"

"Last day for the year for me is the eleventh."

He knew what Rodney really wanted, which was help prior to the Miller's arrival. "Don't think I can get three weeks, but I could possibly swing two."

"Good. Great. I assume we're still on for Evan's thing this year? The hellions were asking."

John shrugged. "Probably, can't imagine why not." The look on Rodney's face was his answer. "Yeah, I'll mention it, and make sure."

Rodney let out the little breath he'd held, "Thanks. I've gotta run, but I'll see you later?"

"Sure. Later." The holovid snapped out of existence, and John let loose a sigh of exasperation. It had been weeks since he'd seen Rodney, and while they weren't exactly joined at the hip, they went through stages where they each had other things to do. John was relieved to find that he was still part of the family.

Since Stackhouse had seen fit to approach him outside the precinct, John followed his example in relating the information to Evan. "Come on, I need to find something to eat."

They went to a little shop down West Alabama. John picked up a sandwich, and Evan, as usual, had brought his neatly stacked bento boxes. They found a table in the back, and John recounted his early morning conversation with Stackhouse in a low voice.

Evan raised an eyebrow at the story. "Turf war?"

"Not bloody enough, no bodies. Yet."

"Yeah."

John turned off the wireless in his Zhing, pressed Stackhouse's memslip onto it, and they put their heads together over the PCD to see what Stackhouse had given them.

It was the all of the hard data on Stackhouse's missing tips. One had a regular address, two were residents at a transit hotel, and the other two didn't have any information beyond a random surveillance snapshot, and a name—probably aliases. There wasn't much: a list of known associates and rap sheets for Sharbaf, Laciste and Mercer. No driver's licenses, credit cards, debit cards, social security or genreg I.D. None of the trappings that made it easier to track their movements.

Evan carefully repacked his containers, then said, "That missing viral agent. It's possible that someone's running an illegal GeM lab, that these guys aren't missing. Just different enough that they aren't recognizable, anymore."

These days, a gene re-sequencer falling into the hands of the criminal element in a bid to outwit the ubiquitous surveillance cameras was an irregular occurrence. John thought about that for a moment. "And if they've gone to all the trouble and expense to change their appearance, then they'll find a new turf to hang out in, cut off ties in the old 'hood. What bothers me about that, the one with an apartment? That's a pretty serious commitment to just walk away from."

"Only one way to know—go check it out."

They began with a visit to each of the licensed genetic modification facilities, but everything seemed in order--no viral agent had been reported stolen, and though it was a long shot, a check against the various GeM shop's client records didn't find a match to any of the snapshots from Stackhouse's file.

The sign on the door was a piece of crumbling cardboard with 'manager' written in elaborate lettering with black marker. John rang the bell and held his badge up to the spy hole.

The door opened as far as the chain would allow, and a face peered out at them. "What can I do for ya?" The building manager was a rotund black Latino with a heavy Houstonian accent.

"I'm John Sheppard, this is Evan Lorne, HPD. Mr....?"

"Aristotle Morales."

"Mr. Morales, we'd like to ask you a few questions about one of your tenants that's been reported missing, Marcus Sharbaf?"

"'Bout time," he grumbled as he closed the door. The chain rattled and the door opened again.

"What can you tell us about him?"

"Ain't seen him since he paid the rent 'bout the last week of September. I boxed up his stuff and put the apartment out for rent a couple of weeks ago."

"Do you still have his belongings?"

"Hey, I ain't no thief."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that."

"Denada. His stuff's in the back here. The apartment was furnished, so there ain't much."

John and Evan followed Morales around the back of the small building, an old house that had survived the storm, to a rickety shed made of scavenged corrugated tin.

The door screeched open, scraping across the broken pavement. Morales stepped in and unerringly yanked the string on the light. The interior of the shed was hot and stifling, and smelled heavily of mildew. There were three ancient, pilfered milk crates sitting on a workbench, the overflowing contents piled high, but neatly folded and carefully packed. "Like I said, not much stuff."

Evan sneezed a few times, and John asked, "You mind if we take this as evidence?"

"Naw, he ain't coming back."

Evan asked carefully, "Is that a generalization, or are you familiar with his circumstances?"

Morales shook his head. "Just the sad truth. People move on, and this little bit of junk ain't enough to hold 'em down—or if they're dead, then they ain't got no need for it anymore, ya know?"

"Yeah. Has anyone come looking for Sharbaf since he disappeared?"

Morales shook his head. "He had a couple of 'friends' that would come over ever' now and then, but once he was gone, they don't come 'round no more."

"How did Sharbaf support himself?"

"Didn't wanna know. He paid in cash, real regular like, and he didn't bring his business home." Evan lifted an eyebrow, and Morales shrugged. "Just the way it is down here, Mr. Lorne."

John smoothly interceded, "We're not worried about that." He picked up one of the crates, and stacked it on top of another and hefted it off the bench.

"Let me help you with that." Morales grabbed the top crate and Evan took the third and followed John out of the shed towards the car. They crammed the crates into the tiny trunk, and John handed a prepaid phone chip to Morales. "If you think of anything else, please let us know, alright?"

"Not much else to say, but okay."

As they pulled away from the curb, John said, "Damn it."

"What?"

"We're going to have to fumigate the damn car, that shit's got to be crawling with wood roaches."

"Probably."

The scenes at the two transit hotels were nearly identical, except that the managers there weren't as conscientious as Morales, and the belongings had been sold off or given away. Abdul Mercer had been missing for a month, and Shamira Laciste had disappeared not two weeks ago. No one knew where either had gone, and no one had come looking for them.

This was highly unusual, as Mercer's rap sheet had several arrests for prostitution, and Laciste was a known member of a gang; it suggested that his pimp and her gang knew how they'd disappeared, because a sudden, violent demise would have left them at least shocked and curious, if not angry and ready for retribution, despite the best efforts of CeaseFire.

It was going to be tricky to get close enough to ask any questions, and even if they managed, highly unlikely that any answers would be forthcoming.

A thorough search of Sharbaf's personal effects turned up discarded hand stamp for Alpha, a club that catered to an intersection of people that lived on the fringes of society, and those who flirted at the edge. Back in the day, it'd been primarily an underage club, anyone sixteen and up could get in—as a teenager, John had partied there a few times. While the clientèle had aged, it was still a hang out for a weird mix of people: Goth types, vampire wannabe's with exquisite, expensive dental work, 'wolf' clans, re-creationists in full costume, or people just looking for a bit of excitement, drifting in and out, as they took a walk on the wild side.

It was a testament to the jaded attitudes of the patrons that John and Evan didn't even rate a batted eye when they entered the cavernous warehouse that Alpha currently occupied. Though the late afternoon crowd was spread thin, a haze of sweet, drugged smoke drifted in the air, nearly obscuring the incredibly old movie playing on the back wall. The clacking sound of the old-style projector was masked by the retro techno music that was loud enough to rattle the rafters.

The bartender acknowledged them with a lift of her chin. Evan dropped a photostat of Sharbaf's image on the bar and shouted over the music, "We're looking for this guy, think he might've worked here—you know him?"

The bartender looked at the photostat and shook her head, just as another woman approached the bar.

She yelled over the sound system, "Is there something I can help you with?" The bartender handed the picture over the bar to her. She glanced at it, and then at John and Evan.

They showed her their badges with a practiced flip, and she waved them to follow her as she walked towards the back of the club.

When she closed the office door behind them, the absence of sound was a relief. The wall over the desk was plastered with surveillance screens. It appeared that the entire building, inside and out, was well monitored. She sat behind the desk. "Tommie Carson, have a seat. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

They introduced themselves, and Evan gestured at the photo in her hand. "Do you know him?"

Tommie tossed it on the desk. "Marcus Sharbaf. He hung around a lot, haven't seen him in a while, though."

John knew that she was lying—it was obvious to him—but they weren't here to bust her for hiring people without I.D. The world took all kinds, and they were more interested in what had happened to Sharbaf than any employment infraction perpetrated by Ms. Carson. "Look, we don't care if he was working here or not, that would actually clear up a few details. We'd just like to know what happened to him."

She regarded them coolly and her voice remained non-confrontational. "I really don't. He left me in a bind, but it didn't take very long to cover his position. I asked around, in case he was just taking extra days off, but no one seemed to know anything."

"Have you heard any other rumors, anything odd at all?"

"Beyond the fact that a couple of bangers around town have disappeared? Nothing."

This time she was telling the truth. "What was last date that he showed up for work?"

Tommie didn't consult any of the official records, this was completely off the books. "October twenty-fourth. He was supposed to show up again on the twenty-ninth, but he never showed."

Badgering her further wouldn't gain them any more information, and she'd been incredibly useful. On a whim, John showed her Charlotte's picture. "Have you seen her?"

Carson studied the image and nodded. "Once. She was involved in fight, though she didn't start it. I had the whole bunch of them kicked out, and she hasn't been back since."

"Still have the footage?"

"No, it was last summer, and I don't have the storage to keep more than ninety days. Don't usually need it, either."

"You mind if we access your records?" They didn't have a warrant, no official basis to automatically gain entry into Alpha's portal.

Carson nodded and searched a desk drawer for a token. "I'll deny giving you this if anyone else comes to bust me."

"Not going to happen," John reassured her. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Carson."

They headed back to the precinct. Now they had a physical starting point and date range to do a face recognition search. The ancient computer system downtown simply didn't have the processing power to search on a single data point, and security concerns prevented them from accessing the cloud for more computing capability.

Evan logged the search under another open file number, and pulled Alpha's records into the system. The FRS revealed a lacework pattern of Sharbaf's movements for three days. His image flitted in and out of the range of the cameras, the holes in the patterns revealed a negative shaped area not covered by cameras while the automapper tracked his movements: a twenty-four hour liquor store, a panaderia, a Thai cart vendor, and various other places. Eventually it pinpointed Wednesday October twenty-seventh as the last known date that Sharbaf had been seen on camera, but the locale was innocuous.

The priors for Laciste and Mercer pointed to them being sometime associates. The three cases were probably all connected, so John and Evan cruised the part of town that was on Sharbaf's FRS map, and eventually tracked down some of their other 'associates'. They were stonewalled at every turn; no one had anything to say except that they had just disappeared. Sharbaf, Mercer and Laciste had simply fallen even further off the grid and into a black hole.

They couldn't take the investigation any further without additional resources, and even if it had been an official case, Sumner would've probably denied their request and pointedly reminded them that there were plenty of open cases that involved tax-paying citizens.

John reluctantly set Stackhouse's mystery aside and updated his file on Charlotte with Tommie Carson's recollection.

Evan drew their next case out of the queue, the murder of a pregnant woman. John sighed. There were days he really despised his job.

It had been a long, ugly day. John thought he'd seen it all, but there were days that even he was dismayed over what one human being could to do to another. He tossed his jacket over a chair and popped open a beer. He'd just settled in when his Zhing chirruped.

He vaguely recognized the number on the caller identification, but he couldn't quite place it. He answered it, voice only. If it was Mal Doran trying to pull a fast one, he'd just hang up and blacklist her number. "Hello?"

"Uncle John?" The female voice quavered and he heard a sniff.

He frowned. The voice was familiar, and there were only a handful of people that would call him that. He flicked the video on. Lissa. The granddaughter of his mother's best friend, they spoke occasionally and saw one another even less. She had to be twenty now, and was as plain and homely as he recalled. "Hey, Lissa. What's wrong?"

She sniffed again, her eyes were red and her face blotchy. "A, a guy who lives in my apartments, he—he crashed into my car in the parking lot. I saw it, but I can't prove it, and he says no-one will believe me over him. I don't know what to do. Can't pay for the repairs, and insurance won't cover it." Lissa burst out into a font of tears.

John hated assholes who took advantage of kids, especially one that could conceivably be called one of his. "Hey. It's okay, we'll figure something out. You still live off of Bellaire?"

"Yes."

"All right, I'll be over there in a few minutes and we'll figure something out."

"Thanks, Uncle John."

"No problem, sweetheart. I'll be right there." He disconnected the call. Bellaire wasn't in his jurisdiction. He could call his buddy Rick at BPD, but Lissa had called him, and he felt an obligation to see what he could do for her. He dragged his jacket and shoes back on and headed out.

Lissa was on the staircase that lead up to her apartment, smoking a cigarette with shaking hands. He sat next to her, and patted her back. "You better?"

"Now that you're here."

John stifled a smile, he was an unlikely hero, at best. "So where's your car?"

She led him over to it, and he inspected the dent closely. While the 'crash' had barely dented it, the Honda was brand new. There was a smidge of paint left behind, and he scraped it into an evidence bag, then went to the offender's green Ford and scraped off a matching sample. John called the dispatcher on duty and checked the license and registration of the vehicle. The guy had a ton of outstanding parking tickets.

Lissa hovered behind him as John located the correct apartment, and introduced himself and got the 'misunderstanding' corrected. There wasn't really anything that John could do officially, but the suggestion that his vehicle could be impounded and tied up in lost paperwork for months was enough to extract a promise that he'd pay to have Lissa's car repaired.

John patted her on the back when she she gave him a hug. He reassured her that if the guy didn't come up with the money, he'd make sure it was taken care of. It could probably be seen as misuse of his position, but John hadn't benefited in any way, and he'd done the same thing that Rick would have, if John had called him.

 

13.

December

 

Monday morning, Sumner called John into his office. "I've been reviewing case files for the end of year report to the City Council, and to my surprise, I found several discrepancies regarding one Charlotte McKay. As in, one file too many."

Sumner didn't have any chairs in his office, save the one he occupied behind the desk. John stood at an approximation of parade rest and quashed the urge to sigh. He was an idiot, of course Pierce and Reynolds would have their own files, though Rodney had never mentioned any follow up by them.

Sumner continued, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't she picked up by Dallas? And released into the custody of her father? Your own records show that she's been arrested once, and sighted several times. I put it to you—can that be classified in any way as a missing person?"

"No, sir, but—"

"And was she considered an adult when she chose to leave her father's house, advising him of her choice?"

"Yes sir."

"I suggest, Sheppard, that perhaps you need a reminder that the Houston Police Department is not your personal playground. The case is closed, and I suggest you update all of your records to reflect that. If I find that you've been taking advantage of your position to conduct unauthorized investigations, we will have another discussion about the consequences of doing so. Dismissed."

John turned and left the office at a normal pace without a word, but his jaw was clenched and his mind was racing ahead to the Sharbaf case.

He met Evan's gaze, shook his head, and began to methodically move all of the documents to his Zhing, and electronically shredding any footprint they'd left behind. Evan leaned over look over his shoulder, and John whispered, "All of them, everything that's open."

Evan nodded and turned to do the same with his files.

There was something about the case that bothered John, and he wasn't going to start from scratch when it came back to bite him in the ass.

John laughed when Rodney's agenda, marked with high importance, arrived vie email on his last day of work for the decade. It read like a black ops mission plan, with objectives and strategies laid out with bullet-points, including plenty of time for collapsing in an exhausted heap. John signed out, cleared his desk, and headed to Rodney's.

Once pizza was consumed, John leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out. Outside of the flitter crash and the benefit concert, Rodney had been scarce enough that John was beginning to think that he'd been dating someone. He said with a smirk and a lift of his brow, "So, what have you been up to, Rodney?"

Rodney leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Hhm, It's a project I've been working on. "

"Really? What kind?"

"Well, if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?"

John relaxed a little more in the chair. "Oh, now we're getting somewhere. So, not a secret x-ray project or planning to blow up the planet?"

"That's gamma rays, and why the hell would I do that?"

"Just wanted to make sure. Come on, you can tell me."

"No, but it's nice, at least I hope it's nice, and it's not just for you, but just wait, please? It's a present of sorts. For Christmas."

John nodded. Rodney was terrible about keeping secrets, except when he really wanted to, Christmas gifts chief among them. John suspected that after the benefit, Rodney hadn't dropped the piano habit, and was too embarrassed to admit to it, otherwise John had no idea what kind of Christmas present would require months of isolation.

The week was spent shopping for presents and groceries on the 'vid, and from the number of large boxes that were delivered daily, John thought that the Miller's visit might actually be a siege. Evan dropped by with a fresh turkey, and quickly left before he could be impressed into service.

John set the lawnbot to work mowing Rodney's lawn. It was kind of hilarious, zooming back and forth, occasionally zipping off to vomit up grass clippings in the compost heap. John had re-programmed it once to move in wild figure eight patterns. The results had been interesting, and though Rodney had been worried that the neighbors were going to call the homeowner's association, he had approved of the final result.

Inside, Rodney had the innards of the vacuumbot spread out on a table for repair. "It's been bumping into walls and the furniture."

"That's what the bumper is for."

Rodney gave John a glare. "Yes I know that, but I want to know what the problem is, if it's a bad sensor, or if the house needs a program correction."

"Here, I'll check this out and you go poke around in the core, and then we can go play pool."

Rodney squinted at him and frowned. "At Rachel's?"

John shrugged. Rodney loathed the dives that John frequented. "We could go somewhere else, if you want."

Rodney sighed. "No, Rachel's is fine."

John was a pool shark in disguise and he liked to keep that talent hidden. The folks he played against on a regular basis knew he was good, but they rarely provided challenging competition. John's playtime at the bars was never about the pool per se. It was connection, decompression and distraction.

But with Rodney as his opponent, he had to let go of the disguise and let it all hang out. Rodney played for blood, and damn if he was going to bleed. Many pitchers of cheep, weak beer were consumed as they trash-talked and jibed one another while they demolished one another and attracted a rapt audience.

Some of the guys wanted to play against Rodney, and John left them to their destruction while he played a handful of games of Golfworld 4000. He kept his standings in the top three. The bar owner handed out bar chits in a weekly drawing and if John was awarded the prize in a higher than average percentage, it was something he didn't closely examine. John refused to let Rachel pick up his tab outright, and this was her way of keeping John in house with free beer that would avoid any implication of extortion or bribery.

The afternoons when Rodney kicked John out around four in the afternoon, John spent the time at home. He did a tune up on the Hyundai, made sure the bills were still paying themselves, took the recycling out, and various other things he'd hadn't had time for in the last few months. Rodney hadn't been the only one that had had a busy fall.

The day that the honest-to-god real Douglas fir was delivered, John began to seriously worry about Rodney. He couldn't even begin to imagine how much it had cost, and there was an artificial tree in the attic that was fine.

"Rodney? What is this?" The fresh smell of evergreen was overwhelming and John stared open mouthed at the vision in front of him.

"It's a Christmas tree." Rodney rolled his eyes and attacked the trunk with a hacksaw.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that part out, but come on, what's the deal?" John hovered over Rodney's shoulder and reached out to stroke the short sharp needles. His fingertips came away with the faint tacky feel of pine sap, and he couldn't resist sniffing them.

Rodney laid the saw down and gave him a serious look. "I know that I'm over-compensating. This shouldn't be any different than any other Christmas with Jeannie's family—but it is. They're the only family I have left, you know? I just wanted to make this year special."

John swallowed and blinked and knelt down next to Rodney. "Yeah, I know." He picked up the saw, and said, "It'll be great, Rodney."

With the tree ensconced in the stand and upright, John and Rodney spent the evening drinking and decorating the tree and house. When it was done, they sat on the couch and watched the lights blink and shimmer their Morse code of 'Merry Christmas'.

John woke up slowly, taking inventory one piece at a time, his nose pressed into Rodney's hair, the warmth of their bodies pressed close together and the soft sound of Rodney... crying? He pulled on Rodney's shoulder to turn him over and gathered him in his arms, holding him close as hot tears seared his chest.

He tipped Rodney's chin up, and wiped away the few stray chest hairs that clung to his wet face. "Hey, what's the matter?"

Rodney sniffed and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I can't even believe myself."

He stroked a hand through Rodney's short soft hair that was standing up on end, and gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"Do you remember that Barbie car I got for Charlotte? Were you here?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"She loved it so much, we had to drag her kicking and screaming out of it to go to bed at night."

John sighed.

"I know! It's stupid, I'm crying over a God damned Barbie car." Rodney threw off the light blanket and got out of bed, pulling on his ratty blue robe as he fled to the bathroom.

The shower started up and John knew that Rodney wasn't really crying over the car, but there were so many times he envied Rodney, for his utter devotion to an admittedly fucked up daughter, his openness and the fact that he could cry over the joy of a gift given more than a decade past.

John made the bed with fresh sheets, started the coffee pot, and when Rodney appeared mostly composed, went to take a shower. Despite the morning's crying jag, it had been a good week and he was looking forward to seeing Jeannie and her family. At this point in his life they were probably his only family, too.

The Millers arrived early morning of Christmas Eve. They boiled out of the van, looking exhausted and angry. Madison grabbed her violin case and bag then stormed into the house without a word to either John or Rodney.

Jeannie shrugged as she caught each of them in a hug. "Pre-menstrual, sorry."

Kaleb looked like two thousand miles of bad road as he shook hands. "It's been a treat, all right. Robbie, you remember Uncle John?" Kaleb turned away to get Bradleigh out of the car. Robbie nodded his head solemnly, and put his hand out. John crouched down as he gave it a formal shake. "How ya doin' buddy?" The last time he'd seen the little guy was when he was three.

"I'm thirsty, and I need to go to the bathroom." Robbie had huge dark eyes with the exquisitely long lashes of young children. His dark hair was curly and longish, and he looked like Kaleb as much as Madison resembled Jeannie.

"Sure thing. Let me grab a few bags, and we'll go take care of that, okay?" He grabbed up an armful of wrapped presents, and Robbie took his open hand.

John pointed Robbie to the hall bath, where he insisted that he did not need any help, then went back to the tightly packed van. The presents from 'Santa' had been shipped earlier and were hidden away in a closet, but there were bags and boxes and portable cribs and luggage to haul in and stow away. Robbie's stuff was stacked in the hallway, because Madison had locked herself in the second bedroom, with the sound of an electronic school violin muffled by the closed door.

Kaleb crashed in the third bedroom after a turn in the head; he'd driven through the night.

Robbie wanted to go outside, said he wasn't hungry when Rodney offered breakfast, so Rodney smeared on sunscreen and told him to stay in the back yard. Jeannie brushed it off when John said he was going to go tell Madison that there was food. "She'll come out when she's hungry, trust me."

John took Bradleigh from Jeannie so that she could eat. He settled the infant in his lap, toying with her tiny hands, and smoothing the back of his fingers across the soft, perfect skin of her cheek, as she blissfully sucked down a bottle of breast milk. "Does Madison do that a lot?"

Jeanne glanced at Rodney with a speculative look. "As a matter of fact, yes. Mostly to practice, but she does like her solitude." Rodney took a bite of toast and ignored the pointed look that John threw him.

"I seem to remember a certain girl who used to do the same thing," John told Jeannie with a grin.

"Only when I couldn't escape to your house."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Or throw a hormonal tantrum."

Jeannie laughed, "Oh yeah. She's got that down pat, too. So what's on the agenda for today?"

"I've got an errand to run with Madison at some point which will take a couple of hours. We've got tickets for The Nutcracker tonight at seven. Mira said she'd be glad to watch Bradleigh."

"Mira?" Jeannie looked vaguely suspicious.

"Tom Conklin's daughter. Her son is couple of months older than Bradleigh."

"Oh, Tom. Yeah, okay." Jeannie stifled a yawn, and John nodded towards the bedroom.

"We're fine here, why don't you go lay down?" John sat Bradleigh up, and chuckled when she burped loudly.

Jeannie stood up, leaned over to kiss Bradleigh's head and ruffle John's hair. "Good idea. She'll go down for a nap in an hour so. The only kid I have that didn't go to sleep immediately after a feeding."

"I'll see if Madison's ready to go, if that's all right?" Rodney began nervously stacking the breakfast dishes.

"John?"

"I've got it covered."

"All right, if you feel like bearding the dragon in her den," Jeannie said as she wandered towards the bedroom where Kaleb was napping.

Rodney coaxed Madison out from behind the locked door, and she gave John a hug before they disappeared. John set Bradleigh, happy and cooing in her car seat, in the deep shade of the sunroom attached to the rear of the house and engaged Robbie in a game of catch.

The backyard hadn't changed very much since Charlotte had outgrown toys. The rusty swing set and jungle gym were still there, and John discovered the Barbie car when he went digging in the shed to see what else they could play with.

He dragged it over to the sunroom, gave an old towel to Robbie to clean it with, then found a spare battery for it. It worked fine, and Robbie was thrilled. "I don't care if it's pink. I like pink."

"Good enough for me, buddy. What do you say we go for a drive?"

"Yeah!"

John jammed a hat on Robbie, made sure they both had enough sunscreen on, and left a note saying they'd gone for a walk. Bradleigh had fallen asleep, and John carried her with a light blanket over her head, while Robbie drove up and down the sidewalk.

At one point Robbie stopped the car, and looked up at John. "Why does Uncle Rodney have this?"

"It used to belong to his daughter—your cousin Charlotte." John paused, trying to figure out the best way to explain. "She moved away after she was too old to play with it anymore."

"Oh." That was all the explanation that Robbie needed.

The battery John had put in it was old, and the charge didn't last an hour. John knelt down, and showed Robbie how to disengage the engine. "Now you can peddle it home."

They made two more circuits before Robbie was tired out and parked the little pink car in the garage. John showed him how to hook up the charger, then changed Bradleigh's diaper, fixed Robbie a snack, settled him in front of the plasma viewscreen and let him choose a movie.

Robbie nodded off about ten minutes in, and John was content to sit there, petting Robbie's head in his lap, and Bradleigh in his arms.

"I don't care, I'm not wearing that." Madison glared at the dress in Jeannie's hand. "Uncle Rodney said he's not dressing up, why do I have to?"

"Because I will not have you embarrassing me in public. You cannot go to the Wortham Center in that get-up."

She had on a lime green body suit under black running shorts and a tie-dyed long sleeved T-shirt. Heavy combat boots completed the ensemble, proving that eventually, everything came back in fashion. Madison's jaw was set in a mutinous clench that was purely McKay. "I will change if Uncle Rodney does, but I'm not wearing that dress."

Jeannie shot Rodney a hot look, and he sighed. "Yes, yes, fine. But I'm not wearing a tie."

"God, the two of you. How the hell did that happen?"

Kaleb and John exchanged amused glances behind Jeannie's back.

"I saw that!" She exclaimed.

The Wortham Center was beautifully decorated for the holiday season. A huge artificial Christmas tree, bedecked with red velvet bows, soared up into the atrium, the balconies were festooned with ribbons, and the wait staff wore cheery red vests bedecked with tiny tree ornaments that tinkled and swayed as they slipped through the crowd. Children dressed in lace and velvet finery ran in little kid-packs, playing games, or huddled at their parents' sides. The adults chatted in tight clumps, drinks in hand, laughing and smiling.

It wasn't the first, or even the last performance of the ballet for the year, but Christmas Eve was the most popular and most difficult performance to obtain tickets. Rodney must have been planning this for months, or sold some essential part of his soul to get six tickets in a row.

John and Kaleb stood in line for drinks, inching their way forward. The lady behind him was talking about some horrific surgery she'd endured, and Kaleb was relating a moderately amusing tale about a couple of his students. John chuckled in all the right places, while out of habit, keeping an eye on the crowd. He wasn't looking for anyone specifically, nor was he expecting a riot. He spied Vala drifting through the crowd, and turned his head, hoping that she wouldn't recognize him.

When they finally made it up to the bar, the cocktails were as expensive as he expected, and John kind of blanched when he swiped the RFID chip in his fingertip across the pay terminal. He made sure the plain sodas for the kids were dressed up with a fruit garnish, figuring what the hell, it was Christmas.

The two of them gathered up the six drinks and made their back to Rodney and Jeannie. Nancy and Grant had already found them, and if John didn't know better, he'd swear that she was somehow tracking them, though it was probably just bad luck.

However, Nancy was an old friend of Jeannie's that she hadn't seen in years; had been one of Nancy's attendants in the wedding. He wasn't going to begrudge them the opportunity to catch up.

John handed Robbie the soda, Rodney the bourbon, shook hands with Grant, and endured Nancy's greeting. Jeannie was introducing Kaleb, and John tuned it out. Robbie took a drink of his soda and then handed it back to John when he dashed away to rejoin his new friends.

Madison looked kind of morose, not at all happy, and John edged over to her. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Problems?"

"Not really."

"You don't look very enthused."

"No, it's okay, but if you tell Mom, I'm never speaking to you again. I wish I'd worn the dress." White was the new black, apparently, and she wore white from head to toe, while the rest of the crowd, even the teens sprinkled amongst it, wore bright colors.

"Nah, I like it. Very individualistic."

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Maybe if I was a little kid, like Rob, or a grownup, this would be more interesting."

Ah, teen angst. John recalled Charlotte at this age. She hadn't like this kind of thing very much, either. "Yeah. I'm not too thrilled."

"But Uncle Rodney says you come here all the time."

He shrugged slightly. "You learn to deal with it."

"So, you used to be married to Nancy?"

"Yep, a long time ago."

"Does it make you mad?" She tipped her head to the side to indicate Grant.

"Nope. Got over it a long time ago." It wasn't a complete lie—he was over the relationship, but the circumstances of the dissolution still caused a faint surge of anger.

When the lights flashed a second time, they took their seats. Throughout the performance, Rodney and Madison had their heads together whispering to one another. Robbie fell asleep against John's arm and Jeannie and Kaleb held hands.

The rustling in the living room awakened John. He groaned and rolled over, wrapped his arms around Rodney and stroked his belly. "Hey. We got kids." It was still dark outside and the clock said five am. There was a faint patter of rain on the windows, the sound of wind gusting through the trees.

Rodney put his hand over John's and lifted it slightly. "Gotta pee."

John rubbed his nose in Rodney's hair and gave his shoulder a gentle shove. "Yeah, go. I'll see what's going on." He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, then ran a hand through his hair as he padded out of the bedroom.

Robbie was digging through the presents and methodically stacking them into piles according to recipient. John leaned in the doorway with a smile, and watched for a moment. It was precious, and charmed him more than he'd expected. He pulled out his Zhing and silently snapped a few pictures as Rodney came up behind him, and leaned in to see what was happening. John handed the PCD to Rodney to show him the pictures.

"They're good kids, both of them," he whispered in John's ear.

John turned his head slightly and breathed, "Yeah."

Robbie looked up, and the moment was over. "When can we open the presents?"

Rodney wandered towards the kitchen, and John sauntered into the living room and perched on the edge of the chair next to Robbie. "It's pretty early, why don't we let Mom and Dad sleep in a little?"

"The baby's going to wake them up anyway."

John huffed a small laugh and patted Robbie's shoulder as he stood up. "Probably." He took his turn in the bathroom, and was sitting at the kitchen table reading the news on his Zhing, when Jeannie came in and handed him Bradleigh.

"Clean and fed, and annoyingly awake." She looked longingly at the coffee pot, but settled for the herbal tea. "God, I miss coffee."

Rodney sat down across from Jeannie, and slid a coffee cup over to John. "I would be in total withdrawal." Bradleigh reached for it, and John grabbed her hand; she was fine with chewing on his finger instead.

"Trust me, I was, but it's been a over a year. Not so bad anymore. Thank god I won't have to do go through it again."

"Oh?"

"I had a tubal ligation and Kaleb had a vasectomy for good measure." John made a pained noise, as she continued, "No more surprises. I love them all, but that's three jobs that I've given up in the last fourteen years."

John tipped his head and looked at her curiously. "I thought you were working from home."

"That was fine when it was just Madison and after Robbie started school, I went back. But with three, it's impossible to get anything done."

Rodney asked, "But you're keeping up, right?"

"Of course. I did a peer review last month. You'd have loved this one, Mer." Jeannie launched into a discussion of the paper and how wrong, wrong, wrong it was, and John wandered back to the living room, Bradleigh under his arm like a football.

Kaleb was sacked out on the sofa, looking like death warmed over.

John put Bradleigh down on the floor, she wobbled a little, but stayed sitting up. "You all right, Kaleb?"

"I think I'm coming down with something."

"Can I get you anything? Cup of coffee?"

"Yes, thank you." He sat up and checked his watch. "Son, why don't you go wake up your sister?" Robbie threw his hands in the air and yelled, "Yes!" and ran out of the room.

"I'll go wrench the siblings out of the kitchen." Rodney and Jeannie had a tablet between them, and a pair of styluses in hand as they argued over the paper in question. John rarely got to see Rodney in full on physics mode, and he was in excellent form. By no means was John stupid, but even as kids, Rodney would get into discussions where John knew about every fourth word.

John got Kaleb's coffee and some acetaminophen for good measure. "Hey, time to go play Santa." He laughed when they looked up at him with matching owlish expressions.

They settled into the living room, coffee in hand and Madison appeared, still in her pajamas, pillow clutched over her stomach, hair mussed and raccoon eyes from last night's cosmetics. She curled up on the couch next to John, with her feet tucked under his thigh and her head on the arm of the sofa. He patted her shin, and Kaleb nodded at Robbie. "Well. Go ahead."

Robbie had a plan; he passed out the first one to John with instructions, "Wait, everyone opens at the same time," that had John smiling with amusement.

The gifts had a definite pattern. Jeannie and Kaleb's gifts were practical, useful items, though no one actually got socks, and the gifts from John and Rodney tended to be toys or games, for children and adults alike.

Kaleb and Jeannie took turns opening Bradleigh's presents for her. Robbie was enthralled with everything he got, and said thank you quite sincerely. Madison rolled her eyes and bitched about the practical items, and Kaleb and Jeannie rebuked her simultaneously. John's present was a little lame for a teenaged girl, but she gave him a pass, "Because you're kind of cute, for an old guy."

John wasn't sure if he should laugh or be horrified at that. What was it with McKay girls? Jeannie had once professed to having a crush on him her entire childhood. He was saved from any response at all, because Rodney pulled out one last gift for Madison, a large, heavy rectangular box.

"It's kind of practical, but I think you'll like it anyway."

They all watched as she yanked the top off, to revealing an old style wooden violin, a bow, and a handwritten score on paper. "Oh, Uncle Mer, its beautiful!" She squealed and jumped up to give him a hug, then immediately ran a few small scales. "You tuned it?"

Rodney nodded, his face alight with pleasure at her excitement.

"Meredith! I thought we agreed, no expensive presents." Jeannie gave him a dark look.

"It's an investment, not a gift," he snapped back. "It's entirely selfish, that electronic violin gives me the hives."

Kaleb sighed. "Well, thank you anyway, she's been pestering us for a better instrument, but those were the only ones available for rental."

"It's my pleasure," Rodney said with a grin.

John picked up the score that was still in the box at his feet. "What's this?" His suspicions about Rodney's 'surprise' were confirmed, the score was hand written in Rodney's distinctive handwriting, sharp and precise.

Madison bounded over and snatched it from his hands. "Nothing."

John smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Didn't look like 'nothing' to me."

She gave Rodney a stricken look and he shrugged. "I'm going to go practice," she said. The rest of her presents were forgotten and left in a pile on the table when she vanished into the bedroom.

Robbie jumped up after her. "Wait! I need to get dressed!"

"I'll just go check to see if she needs any help," Rodney said, and followed Robbie out of the room.

Jeannie stood up, declared, "And that concludes the annual ritual," and began gathering the detritus for saving or recycling.

"Kaleb, I guess that puts us on breakfast duty, buddy," John said.

John showed Kaleb where the pans were stored while he pulled out breakfast stuff, and Kaleb set to frying bacon. They worked together pretty well, considering that the two of them were rarely left in any kitchen without supervision. John poured the first batch of pancake batter as the rattle of paper being folded for recycling from the living room stopped, and the vacuumbot started up.

He heard Jeannie screech and there was a loud thump, and John and Kaleb ran from the kitchen in time to see Jeannie extricate herself from under the tree, needles and broken ornaments in her hair. The vacuumbot was crashing around the room, and to add insult to injury, it ran over Jeannie's hand. "Sonuvabitch!"

Robbie worriedly ran back and forth between her and Kaleb, who was laughing so hard that he had tears rolling down his face. Rodney appeared from the hallway door, yelling, "What the hell?"

John grinned and snapped a few quick pictures with his Zhing before helping Jeannie up. "I guess we need to take that 'bot offline."

"Ya think?"

Just as the tree was righted and the unbroken ornaments salvaged, the fire alarm went off in the kitchen. "Oh, shit!" John ran back into the kitchen to find a batch of pancakes smoking on the griddle. He scraped them off into the compost can, and turned the exhaust fan on high to vent the kitchen. John heard Rodney's PCD ring, and a one sided explanation, "No, we don't need the fire department—it's pancakes for God's sake, we're fine!"

Rodney declared the living room off limits because of the broken glass until he could get out the spare vacuumbot and everyone gathered in the kitchen around the table. Rodney bemoaned the broken ornaments; some of them had survived Hurricane Victor, but reassured a devastated Jeannie, "Not your fault, I'm blaming John—he repaired it."

"Hey!"

John managed to get the griddle clean and restarted production of pancakes, and eventually everyone was fed. Jeannie gave Bradleigh and Robbie a bath after breakfast, and Rodney and Madison re-closeted themselves, and the strains of scales, chords and phrases floated through the house.

It was raining very lightly, barely a heavy mist, but that didn't deter Robbie; he wanted to go for a drive in the Barbie car. John apologized to Kaleb, "I think I've created a monster."

The smile hovering around Kaleb's lips softened the sarcastic, "Yeah, the two of you are good at that," as he applied sunscreen to his son's face, and then his own. John had put his on earlier, after he'd showered.

Robbie deftly unhooked the car from the charger and opened the garage door, then took off down the drive. The little car was a lot peppier with a full charge, and Robbie stayed far ahead of them.

"Rodney seems to be doing okay," Kaleb ventured. "Much better than I think I would be."

"Mostly, though he does have his moments."

"It's a parent's worst nightmare. We were thrilled when he called to tell us she'd come home, and then for her to turn around and disappear again... though she always was a bit of trouble."

John shook his head. Rodney hadn't told them the whole story—didn't even know the whole story—but he didn't know if Rodney was protecting himself, Charlotte, or his family with the omission. It wasn't his place to rectify that, though it would probably come back to haunt the both of them. It always did. "Yeah."

Robbie was waiting for them at the street corner. "Can we go around the block?"

John shrugged and left it to Kaleb.

"Lead on, my man."

Jeannie was reading to Bradleigh as she contentedly nursed. John and Kaleb were bonding over a football game on the 'vid—the BC Lions were trouncing the Dallas Cowboys in the NAFL championship game. Rodney was puttering around the kitchen with Robbie as his assistant, and the scent of roasting turkey wafted through the air. Madison was hidden away in the bedroom, either surfing the 'net, or napping.

The doorbell rang, and the house announced, "Charlotte McKay." John and Rodney exchanged shocked looks, then Rodney almost flew through the house, and reached the foyer before John, who hovered in the door to watch the reunion between father and daughter unfold.

"Hi." She looked different yet again. She was painfully thin, and her wet hair was now platinum white, threaded with an interesting pattern of black streaks. John thought it kind of suited her.

There was a pause as they stared at one another, before Rodney crooned, "Oh, sweetheart," and wrapped her in a hug. She returned the embrace and they stood in the open door, rain pouring down. Rodney held on for a long moment before pulling her in and closing the door, and peppering her with rapid-fire questions. "Where have you been? Are you sick? You look too skinny, what have you been doing?"

"I'm fine, Dad." She stopped when she saw John, and there was a flicker of something that crossed her face so fast that he couldn't identify it. "Of course you'd be here. Hey, John."

"Hey." John lifted his hand in an aborted wave, as Rodney gently pushed her past him into the living room. He leaned in the doorway, and watched.

"Jeannie and Kaleb are here, with the kids. You've got another cousin."

"I wondered whose van that was."

Rodney was beaming as he presented her to the room at large. "Look who showed up."

Kaleb stood and gave her a brief hug, and reminded Robbie, "Son, this is your cousin Charlotte."

Robbie clung to Kaleb's leg, suddenly shy. She knelt down and put her hand out. "Last time I saw you, you were just a baby."

He took her hand, and solemnly asked, "Can I have your car?"

John chuckled, and Kaleb was mortified. "Robbie, no!"

Charlotte looked confused, "What?"

"Your car, the pink one."

Rodney interjected, "The Barbie car I got you for Christmas when you were, what, six?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure, it's all yours." She smiled and patted him on the cheek. Kaleb gave an exasperated sigh and picked him up, and Robbie called out, "Thank you!" as his father hauled him into the kitchen. Charlotte turned to Jeannie. "Hi, Aunt Jeannie."

"Wow, look at you. C'mere." Jeannie lifted her arm and waved Charlotte over.

Charlotte sat an on the arm of the chair, planted a kiss on Jeannie's cheek, and put an arm around her as she reached out to stroke Bradleigh's head. "So who is this?"

"Bradleigh Meek Miller," she said, disengaging him from her breast and rearranging her shirt, as Charlotte reached for the baby.

"Meek, that's Grandmother's maiden name? Look at you, sweet thing," she cooed.

Madison drifted into the living room to see what the ruckus was about. When she recognized the visitor, she squealed, "Char!" and ran over to her.

Charlotte pulled her in and squeezed her with one arm. "Hey, cuz, how are you?"

Madison gave her a lopsided grin, "I'm good."

"Yeah, but I'm better," Charlotte shot back the expected response, and then they both broke out in a peal of giggles. Madison had been Charlotte's only girl cousin. Elizabeth was an only child, of two parents that were only children themselves. Rodney had wanted more, but Elizabeth had preferred to lavish all her attention on Charlotte.

Charlotte spent some time chatting with everyone, though she glibly diverted any direct questions about what she'd been doing. She borrowed Rodney's phone and went outside to call her mother and smoke. Rodney groused about being used for his phone connection, but he was smiling.

John smiled back, but he wondered again if he was doing the right thing by not telling Rodney everything.

John mostly listened to the boisterous conversation as they dug into the strange combination of traditional and vegetarian fare. Rodney had long since resigned himself to Jeannie's preferences. For her part, Jeannie had stored a couple bottles of breast milk, and was indulging in a glass of wine from the three open bottles. Rodney had had several glasses, and he looked happy.

John sat at the far end of the table, and watched Charlotte interact. She was on her best behavior, though she avoided making eye contact, or speaking with John. Now that she didn't look like a drowned rat, John suspected that she'd had a GeM treatment rather than simply bleaching her hair, but it was difficult to determine, could've simply been just be a very fresh dye job. If he had a genreg scanner he'd know for sure, but he didn't have any hard evidence to back up his suspicion.

When the conversation came around to the Lorne's annual Christmas party later in the evening, Charlotte asked if she could go. John caught Rodney's nod, sighed and shrugged, then pulled out his Zhing to warn Evan.

They managed to cram themselves into the Miller's van. Jeannie sat in the back row with Robbie and Bradleigh, and Rodney had Madison and Charlotte snuggled on either side of him in the second row. Since John knew where the farm was, Kaleb turned the keys over and claimed the front passenger seat.

The Lorne's Christmas party was part family gathering and part corporate function. Katie had branched out into agritourism to supplement the barely break-even organic produce and poultry business. It was a crafty move on her part. People paid to come and live on the farm, take part in the daily chores, pick fruit and vegetables, and care for the livestock, while in return she got farm hands that paid to be there, and it kept the balance sheet in the black. Evan sponsored day trips out to the farm for inner city children that had never seen a live, working farm, though their parents probably supplemented their ration cards with scraggly plots of common vegetables.

Quite a few of the guests at the party had paid a hefty fee to attend the 'Christmas in the Country' event, and there was a small gaggle of children who had won a drawing contest that had been sponsored by the Chronicle and the school district.

John parked the van between a sleek black limousine and a HISD school bus on the long drive that led to the rambling farmhouse, a relic from the dawn of the twentieth century. The original house had been built of the ubiquitous Texas limestone, though each of the many additions was in various different styles, giving it a slightly psychotic appearance. Evan joked that it was the Texas version of the famous Winchester House that had been swallowed up when San Jose was destroyed by an earthquake.

The Lorne's contribution to the architecture was an entire wing with guest rooms above, a ballroom room below, with a small gift shop near the entrance.

They picked up their wristbands at reception, manned by Evan's daughter Deloris. She remembered everyone, and said that it was almost time for her brother Elijah to take over, and that she'd see them later.

A display screen on the wall behind her announced the various entertainments available; new lambs had been birthed just days before, the Satsuma orange trees were in bloom in the greenhouse, and the list scrolled on and on.

Robbie dragged Madison and Charlotte off to the barn, Rodney headed to the bar with Kaleb and Bradleigh in tow, and John and Jeannie drifted through the room, exchanging handshakes and introductions with acquaintances, and eventually John located Evan chatting with a small knot of people. "Hey, you'll get a kick out of this." He pointed Jeannie toward the small woman at the center, with two Secret Service agents stationed unobtrusively to either side.

"God, is that really her?"

"Yep, old friends from church, or something." Left to his own devices, John would've steered away and waited until Evan was less occupied, but this was a rare opportunity for Jeannie and he wasn't going to deprive her of meeting a former President, and the current senior state Senator, regardless how he felt about the Constitutional amendment. John put on his most charming smile and approached Evan. "Hey, buddy."

"Hi! Jeannie, good to see you again, glad you could make it." Evan gave her a brief hug, then made the introductions. "Ran, I'd like you to meet my partner, John Sheppard, and Jean Miller, just in from Vancouver."

Senator Padungchai smiled and shook hands with both of them. "So pleased to meet you, Mr. Sheppard. Evan's spoken of you often. And you're a long way from home, Ms. Miller."

Jeannie grinned. "Not really, I'm from Houston originally. We're visiting with my brother for the holidays."

"Ah, an ex-pat then. How long have you been away from our fair state?"

Jeannie grinned. "I went to university there, and forgot to come back."

"Well, Vancouver is a lovely city. Our loss and their gain."

John nodded at Senator Padungchai, "It was nice meeting you, ma'am."

Padungchai nodded and smiled. "Likewise, it was my pleasure, Mr. Sheppard."

He touched Jeannie on the shoulder. "Do you want something to drink? I'm going to track down Rodney."

"Yes, something that's not going to get Bradleigh drunk, please. I've hit my limit for the day." Jeannie shot John a swift grin.

He chuckled. "I'll be back." He left Jeannie with Evan and the Senator's small coterie, and slowly worked his across the room, stopping to chat with various acquaintances along the way. He couldn't find Katie at all, didn't see Rodney, and by the time he got back to Jeannie, Kaleb was there and everyone was cooing over Bradleigh, asleep in the carrier hanging off Kaleb's chest.

He handed Jeannie her soft drink, and said quietly, "I'm going to go out to the barn, see what the kids are up to."

Jeannie and Kaleb immediately caught what he really meant which was he was going to go make sure that Charlotte hadn't led the other children into trouble. The story of the disastrous year that Charlotte had attended the Christmas party when she was thirteen had become something of a family legend. John had given her the benefit of the doubt by allowing her to take the kids out to the barn, but he was unwilling to leave them unattended in her care for very long. Something about her suddenly showing up, her appearance and the way that she brushed off questions, all left him with vague suspicions.

The barn was a fair distance from the house, but the pathway was lined with LED's cleverly disguised as luminarias and the barn was a well-lit beacon under a moonless, cloudy sky. It had turned chilly and John walked a little faster.

The barn was bright and warm, and Callie Fritzenberger, one of Katie's two full time employees, was seated on a bale of straw with one of the lambs in her lap while children took turns petting it. Her husband Bob had a box of chicks nearby. Robbie had his head over the box, and was in deep discussion with Bob about the babies.

John preferred not to acknowledge the source of the the organic chicken that Evan occasionally brought him. He glanced around and saw Charlotte and Madison further down the broad, long barn in front of a stall where the draft horses were stabled. Rodney was at the other side of the barn, and when John stopped next to him, they shared a knowing glance.

"Hey, did you give up on the bar?"

"Hi. No, I changed my mind, and followed them out here."

"Everything all right?"

"Presumably. No fights have broken out and the barn hasn't been set on fire yet, so I think we're good." Rodney was frowning, and there were tight lines of worry on his forehead.

"How are you?"

Rodney crossed his arms. "I don't know. I was so glad to see her, but now... Now I'm remembering what a pain in the ass she can be. Having to be on guard all the time, worrying about what the next problem or crisis is going to be."

John just nodded slightly. There wasn't anything to say to that. Charlotte turned her head and scowled back at Rodney for a moment, as if she could tell that they were talking about her. It shouldn't be a surprise; she'd been the center of conversation, both good and bad for most of her life. She leaned over and said something to Madison, who looked up, her face flush with pleasure and excitement.

"And I feel bad for Madison. Our plans for the afternoon were completely derailed by Char's appearance. I know she's glad to see her, but I feel guilty that I let it get away from me."

"The surprise?"

"Yes. Though I was probably over-scheduling things. I always hated that and now I find that's exactly what I'm doing."

"Maddy can roll with it, Rodney."

"She's a great kid. Jeannie and Kaleb are doing something right."

John heard all of the self-doubt, the helpless worry and the oft-asked question, what did I do wrong, that was back-loaded into the compliment. He instantly felt guilty for his suspicion, for however correct it might've been, it was wrong. Despite long association, she wasn't his responsibility and he needed to remember that he wasn't actually part of this family. Or any, really—the only son, the only grandson at the end of a long line of only children, he was the last Sheppard. But, even so... "Yeah, they're all good kids. Maybe Charlotte showing up is a signal that she's ready to get off the street, come home."

"Hhhhm. Is that a personal opinion or a professional one?"

"I'm trying to be reassuring, what do you want from me?"

"I don't know. I just don't know." Rodney stared defiantly at the girls, avoiding John's eyes.

John figured he'd better extricate himself before this turned ugly and bitter; when this mood struck Rodney, absence was the best part of valor. He said no hard feelings by pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Rodney's temple and returned to the main house.

The drive home was quiet and when they reached the house, Charlotte caught Rodney's arm, as the sleepy children were being carried or ushered into the house. "Can you give me a ride?"

"You're not going to stay?"

She just shook her head, and Rodney gave a crestfallen sigh. "All right, let me get my keys." Charlotte made her excuses as Rodney retrieved his keys, and as expected, she didn't speak to John at all, and then they were driving off into the night, the taillights of the Tata fading in the distance.

The Miller's retired immediately. John waited up for Rodney, watching the news. When the four-hour mark passed, he was reaching to call to see if everything was okay, when he heard the house announce, "Rodney McKay."

John opened his mouth and Rodney cut him off with a slash of his hand. "I don't want to talk about it right now. Let's just go to bed."

It had been a very long day and John was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. Rodney was restless, too. They lay in bed, not touching, not talking. He briefly considered a strategic exfiltration when dawn crept slowly through the window, but even he wasn't that much of a chickenshit.

Sunday began as an exercise in masochism. Rodney overshot the mark in his attempt to conceal his disconsolate melancholy, and ended up veritably manic. John was used to crabbiness and sharp remarks, and it was painful to watch Rodney's fake joviality, especially with the vague suspicions he was harboring.

The mood finally broke when Rodney and Madison finally debuted their Christmas surprise, the piano violin duet that Rodney had written for her. She was very good, and Rodney couldn't have looked any prouder, or hopeful.

Rodney brushed off any inquiries about what had put him into such a foul mood, and John had nearly forgotten his groundless suspicions until Evan called on Tuesday morning. "Weird thing happened last night."

"Crap. What?"

"One lamb is missing. Could've been a giant snake, we've had a problem with them for a while."

"But?"

"No blood, no sign of a struggle, no tracks. I filed a report with the Montgomery Sheriff, but like I said, seems weird. Just thought you'd want to know."

John heard the implication, and he hated that he'd gone to the exact same place. "Yeah, thanks for the heads up."

"Sure. Hey, I've got to go, Stackhouse is going to do a ride along with me today."

"Sounds good. See you next week."

There was no good reason – other than shit tended to roll down hill around Charlotte in general – to give any weight to the implication. She had actually behaved on Christmas Day, and the fact that Rodney was massively upset after taking her home was completely personal.

The lamb probably had more to do with the unsolved Zoomobile case.

Either way, John decided that absence was his best strategy. Rodney would figure out something was simmering, and he didn't want to throw the rest of the holidays into a tailspin with the information he was sitting on, both the missing livestock, Char's arrest in July and that she had been a person of interest in a burglary. He made his excuses, that something had come up, and promised be back the next day. At least he had the luxury; Rodney didn't have a convenient bolt hole.

On a whim, he drove to the shanty town under the Elysian viaduct. He'd been through there a couple of times a month on various errands and investigations, and Duane had still been conspicuously absent. Today wasn't any different. He figured that perhaps whoever had picked the old man up from the hospital had finally convinced him to stay.

John was still over at Rodney's every day, though Rodney had thrown out the carefully planned agenda, and they mostly just hung out. He discovered that he should have paid closer attention to Jeannie and Nancy's conversation on Christmas Eve, as Nancy had extended an across the board invitation to her house in River Oaks for a New Year's brunch.

He declined the invitation. He didn't have the stomach for it, since he was very likely to run in to Moira. Instead, he sloped over to Rachel's and faced the razzing for hiding his skill with a pool cue.

He returned to Rodney's the next day to see the Miller's off for their long drive home, and did his best to make up to Rodney for being a crappy friend.

PART TWO

14.

January

 

It was a late January afternoon, gray skies and light rain cast a pall over the scene. The huge crowd of police officers, forensics teams and railway employees stood upwind from the tracks, away from the cloying scent of rotting flesh. John watched the forensics team, in full hazmat suits, haul bodies in varying states of decomposition out of the abandoned tank car and hand them down to the teams on the ground that tagged and zipped them into body bags. The bags were then neatly stacked into the back of a twenty-foot truck; there were too many for the usual hearse or ambulance.

Vala Mal Doran was at the forefront of the media crews that were gathered around the taped off area, ready to pounce on anyone who got close enough to collar for an interview. The media's superior lenses and directional mikes were already recording the scene for posterity and the world, streaming live on every news portal.

Evan would go over and chat with them while John finished up the crime scene investigation, but John stayed as far away as possible, though he had no doubt that later, he'd be featured prominently in Vala's 'vid.

Sajid Cho, the CSX-Union representative who'd called in the body dump, was shivering in his light jacket. It had been a balmy seventy degrees until an unexpected front had rolled in with the threat of snow.

"All of these rail cars," he swung his arm wide to encompass the hundred or so that were parked on the rusty tracks, "are out of service. They get inspected once a year, in case Oklahoma City or St. Louis calls us for more cars. Since the refineries shut down, we don't have much hazardous materials transfer on the Gulf Coast. Not too much petroleum these days. The military gets most of it, and they have their own rail cars."

"Surveillance cameras?" Evan questioned hopefully.

Cho shook his head. "Requisition for more's been tied up for months, and this is a low priority area."

John split his attention between Evan and the unfolding horror. There wasn't a hope that the DNA sweep of the tank car would pick up anything useful. They'd have to rely on foreign DNA lifted from the bodies once Pathology started on the autopsies. The white bunny suits were liberally streaked with graphite, but so far the only prints found on the rail cars were those of CSX-Union's employees. The lack of visual records was the perfect capstone to a fucked up investigation.

Cho passed on his contact information to Evan before he drifted towards the knot of shivering railroad employees and away from the media circus.

"You know, Stackhouse and Markham's missing snitches are probably in there," John said.

Evan glanced at the rail car, and then turned his back to it, facing the freshening wind. "You know, sometimes I really hate being right. I just wonder who the hell thought it would be a good idea to do that. What did they think they were doing? Where's the motive?"

"I have no idea."

John had spent the last three days obsessively checking the server every few hours for the pathologist's reports on the cache of dead bodies, reading and incorporating them into the case file into which he'd discreetly slipped in the old data on Sharbaf, Laciste and Mercer. He was mostly hiding out from Vala and the media firestorm that followed the discovery, but officially he was building a case file.

The reports trickled in as Dr. Biro finished them one by one. He gathered them together to form a local, miniature version of IADIS. No names, just a file number, the autopsy report, and a corrupted DNA analysis that had him shuddering in revulsion, swallowing back the bile at every one of them.

He'd been assured that the last one was in the pipe, and he leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, trying and failing to blot out the the images. Three days later, and why was still the foremost question in his mind.

"Sleeping on the job, Detective Sheppard?"

Christ, he'd been here for seventy-two hours straight, he was entitled to a moment. John opened one eye to see Lieutenant Sumner standing at his desk. "No sir, just thinking."

He sat up as Sumner waved an actual piece of paper in the air. And Rodney called John a Luddite. "Biro's report on the last John Doe."

"What is it this time?"

"Male, approximately aged thirty, looks like it was a failed house cat cross."

John took the paper, scanned over the report and the attached photostat of the body. Failed house cat was right. The nude body was covered in the beginnings of a bright ginger-striped fur, and the open, unseeing eyes had pupils that were just wrong. The close up of the hand showed nascent retractable claws emerging from under the nail beds. The posterior view revealed a short tail emerging from the coccyx.

He added the mangled DNA profile to the list and a crosscheck with IADIS came up blank, as expected. The changes to the victim had corrupted the profile to the point of incomprehensibility, or else the individual in question had never been genetically registered. The two DNA registries were maintained separately, but the legislation to allow cross checking had eliminated the old accusations of racial profiling.

When he ran the photo through the FRS, there wasn't a match; it couldn't handle the changed features. He pulled an open-source morphing program out of the cloud, and began to redact the cat features, one by one.

John had thirty entries, mostly male, mostly old enough to know better than to go messing around with their genetic material—if they'd even been given a choice, though none of the victim's bodies had shown any evidence of foul play. No bullet holes, bruising or fibers to indicate that they'd been murdered in any normal way. The trans-species DNA change was the official cause of death in every one.

John looked up at Sumner. "We need more resources. The face recognition program is so slow, it might as well be steam powered. There are dead spots all over the city, too."

"Our hands are tied, Sheppard. We have what we have, and there's nothing left over in the budget for anything else."

John huffed a sigh and leaned back in his chair, absently running a hand over his chin. "Yeah, I know."

"Do what you can, Sheppard. I know you'll do your best."

"Yes, sir."

Every beat cop in the city had the morphed images of the thirty trans-species victims side by side with their final morgue shot, and a few identifications slowly trickled in.

Markham and Stackhouse tentatively pegged the cat guy as Marcus Sharbaf by the tattoo on his wrist and forearm. He'd been missing for nearly three months, and they had no idea how long a change like that might take. They could only theorize that he'd undergone the 'treatment' as soon as he had disappeared. They also identified Shamira Laciste and Abdul Mercer, whose trans-species changes—Callitrichids and Vulpes zerda, respectively—indicated that whoever had the GeM equipment was also responsible for the Zoomobile heist, because marmosets and fennec foxes just didn't roam free around Houston.

John and Evan painstakingly worked their way through lists of known associates, questioning the various gang members and hookers on the street. Even when the severity of the threat was made clear, no one rolled over. All of the stories were apocryphal. Someone knew someone who had heard about someone else that might've had a connection to the perpetrator, but no concrete information or evidence was gathered.

It was unlikely that the rare animals from the Zoomobile had been kept alive, and to maintain the viability of the genetic samples required a freezer that drew more power than a household model. But, when they pored over power consumption records in the blackout zones, they found no extraordinary usages.

They came up empty handed after a scan of the sales records at medical supply houses, but the necessary components for genetic modification could be obtained on the black market.

Mal Doran's evening report was focused on the associated lull in treatments at legal GeM shops. Despite the impossibility that any one of them could have been a part of the problem, no one was taking the treatments, too afraid of trans-species contamination.

"Uhm, well, the thing is, I kind of signed up on a social introduction site. And I got a date, she seems really interesting."

John covered his shock with a sardonic grin and the lift of a brow. He asked in a lazy drawl, "McKay, are you asking me for permission?" He should have expected this. Rodney had been acting squirrelly since Christmas, brooding and secretive.

"No! Yes, well—no. I just didn't, that is—"

"Rodney. It's fine. Tell me about her."

"Well, you know, I'm only forty-three, and ten years isn't that much of a difference, and she seems interested—though I don't know why she wouldn't, I'm still quite the catch—great job, great benefits."

"The job that pretty much killed your last relationship."

Rodney snorted rudely. "It was a refuge from the relationship, not the cause of the failure."

Rodney could be truly toxic, didn't even have to think about it very much. That Elizabeth lasted so long was a fluke in John's estimation, though the truth is that he'd only seen the last three years of their pernicious relationship swirling down the drain. "You're sure about that?"

"What? Yes! It's not a crime to want to start over, and despite what you might think, I liked being a father, and maybe this time, I'll be a little better at it."

As he listened to Rodney, John was torn. Sure, they had a relationship, but it was one of casual convenience, born out of long association and affection. Charlotte's defection had wounded Rodney deeply, he needed something more than 'casual convenience.'

John got it. Just because he repressed any spoken desire for marriage or children didn't mean that he should piss in McKay's pool. Besides, he'd seen McKay in action, and really, the chance that anything would come from this was astronomically small.

So Rodney dated here and there. All of them were as unsuitable as John predicted to himself. John never told him that it was increasingly difficult to listen to Rodney moan about his girl dating disasters.

Duane called John from a gas station with a tip; he'd found a couple of bodies under the north end of the Elysian Viaduct Bridge.

John had Simpson dispatch a couple of squad cars and the forensics team immediately, though he and Evan still beat them there. It looked like Xuan Helgason and his right hand man, Jayson Callahan, had been shot, execution-style. It was a case of exchanging one well-known bad guy for an unsub. While the forensics team and the bodysnatchers did their thin, John cruised by Helgason's last known locale, but it was abandoned. He called in a second forensic team to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb.

A few samples were matched to men and women with police records, but no exotic animal DNA was found in or near the building. Either Helgason wasn't the perpetrator in the genetic modification case, or he'd moved his operation prior to the Zoomobile heist.

It was more likely that Helgason was a rival of some kind to the evil genius who was running the illegal GeM lab. John and Evan concentrated on picking up his various rivals and competitors.

Twenty-four hours of intensive interrogation under the eyes of impartial civilian witnesses was insufficient to crack the suspects. They had no evidence, material or circumstantial, that pointed to any of them in the GeM case, so they were charged with all the usual—trafficking in uncut heroin, unlicensed prostitution and extortion, for good measure.

The coercion of pending criminal charges didn't budge the suspects. Photographs of the dead GeM victims didn't spark any interest. They either truly didn't know, or they were operating under the assumption that the trumped up charges would fail to stick in the first court appearance, and whatever would be done to them if they talked was far more horrifying. John dropped the charges and let them go with a warning.

After the last of them had been released, John stopped by Marny's to pick up takeout and a small bottle of Duane's favorite bourbon, as a thanks and a welcome home.

He parked his car just under the southside of the bridge, bottle and canvas bag in hand, and cruised the ramshackle cardboard city. He approached a guy with a familiar face and inquired where Duane might be hanging out lately. It turned out to be not very far from his old territory.

John found Duane's sturdy, distinctive box and rapped on the side as he poked his head inside.

Duane lay face down in a puddle of congealed blood. The bullet wound in the back of his head looked to be small bore, but when John rolled his cold stiff body over, most of Duane's shattered face was missing.

He called it in, and spent the rest of the evening questioning the other denizens of the Elysian shanty town—what had they seen, and where and when? John had no doubt this was connected to the execution of Helgason. He was equally convinced that Helgason was at least tangentially related to the unsolved trans-species case.

When he was through questioning and Duane had been packed up and sent to the morgue, and the little town under the bridge had settled down again, John handed the cold tacos to the first kid he saw, then sat at the highest point under the bridge and drank the bourbon alone in the cold muggy night.

 

15.

February, March

 

For two months, the number of reported crimes in the city fell to a ten-year low. There were three possibilities: the killing of Xuan Helgason had created a vacuum that was being quietly filled by his rivals; the round up had impressed upon them the need to lay low for a while; something, or someone, had them scared silly.

It was not a reassuring idea. No more GeM victims were found, and the case file remained open and unsolved. John and Evan began to work their backlog of files that had accumulated during the GeM investigation, but John knew that it wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Even though the statistics showed a lull in crime, it didn't mean that it had ceased altogether. The cold he'd been fighting all week had finally kicked his ass. John left the precinct early, and stopped at the mercado on the way home to pick up some cold medicine. It was overly warm inside, as it normally was, and the air was filled with the scent of baking bread and carnitas stewing, rich and spicy enough that he smelled it, despite his cold.

John waved at Ernesto, Marny's youngest, behind the counter and drifted over to the shelf of medicines. He sorted through them until he found the one he wanted, got a bottle of diet Coke out of the cooler. He set it all down next to the RFID reader on the counter, when Marny yelled from the kitchen, "Hey, chico, is ready, you want a taste?"

John smiled at Ernesto and shook his head. "Back in a few. Guess I'm not done yet."

The mercado had been a regular sit down restaurant at some point in the past. John wandered back to the kitchen, and leaned in the doorway. "Can't smell much."

"This will cure whatever ails you, mi amorcito." Marny handed him a plate with a slice of hot bread, still steaming from the oven, slathered with tender pork stew.

The bread was thick and chewy and the meat was spicy enough to clear his sinuses. John cleared his throat. "No kidding. That's fantastic, from what I could tell."

"You want some to take home? Better than medicine. It will be even better tomorrow."

He could say no, but it would end up going home with him anyway, so John relented gracefully. "Yeah, sure."

She was putting a generous helping into a family-size container, when a red emergency light flashed over the stove. "Querido Dios! Not again, how am I to run a business when these pendejos steal it all from me!"

John pulled out his Zhing and called in for back up with one hand and his taser with the other. "You stay here," he said in a whisper, as he crept out of the kitchen with his weapon drawn.

The kid hadn't even bothered to bring something to put the money in. The perp had an old Beretta trained on Ernesto, and was stuffing money into his pocket as Ernesto pulled out it of the register and onto the counter. The kid saw John and turned to point the gun at him, but John beat him to the punch. John had a good shot, and he took it.

The taser hit the kid right in the chest and he went down, convulsing from the charge. John knocked the Beretta out of reach and kneeled down, pulled the cartridge out of him, then rolled him over and cuffed him with plastic restraints. He asked Ernesto, "You all right, buddy?"

"I'm okay." Ernesto was calm, this wasn't the first time he'd gone through this.

John was sweating, The store was too hot. He was was shaking little, partly from the fever, and partly because he disliked that he could've been out gunned. He'd been lucky.

The beat cops, Crown and Mehra, showed up first. They were both tough and competent, and John wouldn't ever want to get into a fight with either of them, because they fought dirty.

A few moments later, Kavanagh and Larrin pulled up. While Kavanagh took statements, Larrin gathered up the evidence, snapping photos as she retrieved the little bit of cash that the kid had managed to stash in his pocket, then put it into evidence bags.

John rolled his eyes. "Come on, it never even left the premises, you can't call that evidence."

"Hey, Hero, how about you let me do my job?"

"Doesn't seem right that I prevented a burglary just for you to take the money anyway."

"They'll get it back."

"After the trial next year, if they're lucky."

Larrin ignored him. At least John had stopped the kid from getting very much.

Kavanagh interrupted with, "Sheppard, you want to make a statement, or you going to file it?"

John shrugged. "I'll file it tomorrow." He'd have to file a report on the weapon discharge, anyway.

Crown and Mehra carried the kid to the car. They'd have to wait for him to regain consciousness to read him his rights. Kavanagh and Larrin drove away and Crown and Mehra went back out on patrol.

Ernesto began to straighten up, and Marny returned from the kitchen with a canvas bag. They went through their usual negotiations and John left with dinner and medication at a discount.

John hadn't even reached the porch when his Zhing pinged. He juggled the bag and keypad while he saw who it was. He got the door open and let Lissa's call come in with full a/v. He asked, "Hey Lissa, what's going on?" She wasn't crying this time, but looked angry.

"Just that guy. Still hasn't paid me. What should I do?"

"Have you talked to him, what did he say?" John walked through to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and shoes on the way.

"Bunch of excuses. Such as he doesn't have it, something about child support."

John sighed. "Do you think he's lying?"

"Uhm. Not really. I've seen them around."

"Listen, intimidation doesn't fix stuff like that. He probably doesn't have cash. I know you'd rather have it all at once, but try to work with him. Get a few bucks at a time and save it up. See if he's got a friend who can fix it for a favor, or something."

Lissa nodded. "I can try that."

"All right. Let me know how it works out, okay?"

"I will. Thanks."

"No problem." He let her cut the connection, and wondered how she ended up as an adult with no life skills? That wasn't fair, at her age, he would've consulted his mom or dad.

He put the food in the refrigerator, and finally took the cold medicine he'd been after since mid afternoon.

 

16.

April

 

Crime rates began to creep back up, and more failed GeM victims began turning up. Two more horrendous caches of rotting corpses, and the rest turned up in twos and threes, scattered across the city's blackout zones. Some were identifiable, the rest remained as John or Jane Doe.

The media attention had faded away during the quiet lull, but returned with a vengeance with the newly discovered corpses. It seemed like every time he turned around, Vala was there, doing her charming best to get a scoop, and the 'vid always ended up in her features. John was becoming resigned to seeing his face smeared across news.

John had the locations pinpointed on an electronic map, but the pattern of the body drops appeared to be truly random. No correlation was found between them, or the CCTV/DP records just outside the area. Whatever was happening, it was out of the view of any camera.

The very tenuous and unsubstantiated connection between Helgason and Charlotte had been relegated to a minor concern now that he was dead. John hadn't gotten any new notifications on her and, as far as he knew, she hadn't contacted Rodney since Christmas. Then again, Rodney probably wouldn't tell him if she had.

After three ninety-hour weeks that hadn't netted them any actual evidence besides bodies, Sumner had thrown John and Evan out of the precinct with instructions to take a couple of days off and get some rest.

Sweaty, filthy and aching from the soccer game, John arrived at home to find Rodney's car in his driveway. Rodney was supposed to be out on a date. If he was already here, then it had gone worse than usual. He dropped his turf shoes on the porch, tossed his keys and the canvas bag with his dinner from the mercado on the coffee table, and grinned at the glum expression on Rodney's face. John sprawled on the couch and opened the container and sighed. As usual, Marny had tucked a couple of extra things in with his regular order. "Back so soon?"

"Yes. I had no idea that a physicist could be such an idiot outside the lab. She was a complete airhead. "

"I dunno, Rodney. Maybe you should broaden your horizons at little. Date an exotic dancer, or something. We could hit Caligula this weekend. The owner owes me a favor or two." Not that he ever really planned on calling them in.

Rodney gave him a disgusted look, which was the reaction that John had been going for.

He offered up one of the spare burritos to Rodney. "Did you at least get all the way through dinner?"

He waved it off, and John began to eat as Rodney ranted, "God, I wanted to gnaw my own leg off to escape, but she just wouldn't take the hint. I even passed on dessert."

John mumbled through a bite, "That bad." He washed it down with a swallow of Rodney's beer. "So, this is what, number eleven? Or is it an even dozen, now?"

"Yes, rub it in, thank you very much. At least this time I wasn't the one being shot down in flames."

"Yeah, that's progress, all right."

"Did I tell you about the new director of the Mars Mission?"

"Just a few times. Tall, blonde, smart, unattainable."

"Hhhm," Rodney sighed. "Yes."

It had been funny the first few times, but John had the sinking feeling that Carter might be it, might be the one that Rodney was searching for so intently.

The truth was John generally got everything he wanted out of his relationship with Rodney, and didn't have to deal with the parts that he despised. He'd always known that he skewed a little more towards the homosexual end of the spectrum, though in the past he'd made an effort to explore all of his options as an attractive, intelligent pilot with a certain cachet and charm, up to and including marriage.

Rodney was firmly in the fiftieth percentile, and though he threw himself into every available opportunity, in the past he'd always drifted back to John.

John was afraid that someday, Rodney was going to escape orbit, and John would lose not only a lover, but also possibly his best friend.

 

17.

May

 

The transspecies body count continued to rise and by Memorial Day, it had reached a total of a hundred victims. Yet they were no closer to solving the case than they had been in January.

Simpson from dispatch hailed John on the radio, "Sheppard. Someone just called in a live one, near Buffalo Bayou. 2002 Runnels Street, across from the old Shell station. Hurry, doesn't look good."

As if it ever looked good. John turned off the automatic pilot and peeled out of the parking lot as Lorne turned on the lights and siren. "Does Sumner know?"

"Yeah, he's on his way. EMT's been called to the scene, too."

"Thanks, Virginia."

Holiday traffic was light, but tropical storm Adria was on her way ashore. The intense, heavy downpour was running freely in the streets, the storm drains unable to keep up with deluge. The car hydroplaned around the curve off Franklin, and it was days like this that made John long for the searing, dry deserts of Iraq. If Houston hadn't been home for most of his life, John would pick up and move.

A couple of elderly men were standing in front of a dilapidated warehouse as John pulled in, a pair of black-and-whites right behind him. He knew it was going to be a lost cause, but he grabbed his slicker out of the back seat and shrugged it on anyway.

One of the gentlemen pointed towards the building with his fishing pole. "It's back there," he said.

Why they were fishing in Buffalo Bayou was a mystery to John, but desperate measures for desperate times. Maybe they were catch and release types. "Thanks." John left Evan to question the fishermen and jogged around to the back of the abandoned warehouse. The bayou lapped at the rusty walls, and he found the body not twenty feet from the shore.

He knelt down in the muddy remnants of the oyster shell paving. This one was the youngest by far, just a kid, probably the same age as Madison. Her gills strained and flapped as she shuddered and flopped in the puddle, iridescent scales graying out, eyes wide and wild with an animal fear that she couldn't verbalize, because she wasn't human any more.

John glanced at the bayou. She'd almost made it and watching her suffocate was unthinkable. He scooped up her naked body, her scales slick on his hands, and ran to the water. He plowed into the bayou, but an unexpected drop off and the swift, treacherous current swept his feet out from under him and he got a lungful of dirty water.

He nearly dropped her as he struggled, coughing and spitting, to regain his footing in the thick, soft gumbo. But John managed to keep his head above water, as he kept hers underwater.

She convulsed and shuddered as she tried to suck in the filthy water, but it was too late, or too wrong. She slowly went limp in his arms. John squeezed her tight with one arm as he tried frantically to find a pulse; any conventional CPR was useless in the face of gills.

"God damn it all to hell, what the fuck!" John raged, as he slapped the chest deep water with his free hand, the splash barely visible in the in rain.

A small crowd had gathered on the bank. John carefully inched his way back to the steep bank, and handed her nameless body up to the hands that were reaching down to take her and lay her on the muddy shoreline.

Evan grabbed his arm and helped haul him up out of the water. John slipped in the slick grass, and he just let it happen. He laid on his back, as he sucked in deep gulps of air, and let the heavy rain wash over him. He could feel the water in his lungs rattle, and the thick, oily taste of Buffalo Bayou coated his tongue and the back of his throat.

"Are you injured?" Evan knelt next to him, put his hand on John's shoulder. That was one thing John liked best about his partner, he was precise and didn't ask stupid questions.

"No." John turned his face away and closed his eyes for a moment, He got his anger under control, and then let Evan pull him to his feet with wet hands. He took in the scenario and groaned to himself. Sumner was talking with the two old men, and the one of the officers was waving in the EMT truck, lights smeared in the rain. Two others were cordoning off the area, to keep the reporters out of the way, but he was sure that he'd be the lead story on the evening's news, because Vala was there with her stupid pigtails. He jerked his head towards the fishermen, and Sumner. "Did they see anything?"

"Nothing pertinent. They found her when they arrived to go fishing. What happened back here?"

John looked at Evan. "She was trying to make it to the water."

Evan nodded slowly, "You think she waited too long, or was the change too sudden?"

"We'll never know," John said bitterly.

The two fishermen drifted away, and Vala quickly collared them. Maybe the newscast would feature them, instead. Sumner joined them, speaking quickly. "The lab may be nearby. I've called for a door to door of the entire area. I'll get with Judge Langford's office, in case we need a search warrant."

John wiped the water off of his face, ran a hand through his thick, wet hair, and plucked at his soaked clothes. "I'll go get cleaned up, and then we need to see if there's any footage from surveillance cameras."

Sumner looked at John, and shook his head. "Get the EMT to check you over, and then go home, Sheppard. I'll get someone working on it, but don't hope for too much—there aren't very many cameras around here."

John sighed, and it turned into another cough. He spit out the water that it brought up. He glanced at Evan.

Lorne nodded towards the proliferation of police vehicles. "We've got it covered. I'll get a ride."

John shrugged, he knew when he was beat. "Yeah. Call me." He walked to the truck and allowed the tech to listen to his lungs, ignored the recommendation to see a doctor, and resolutely ignored the press cameras as he trudged back to the car.

He shed the wet slicker and hung it up on the front porch. He toed off his muddy, sopping shoes and threw them in the shower, and turned the spray on them long enough to knock off the heavy clay gumbo. He stripped off his wet clothes and let them drop on the floor, and then joined the shoes. Kicking the clumps of mud toward the drain, John wished for a heavy, pounding spray to ease the strain in his back, but the light water-saving mist barely washed away the tears.

God damn it. Why was he so broken up over this? He'd tried to rescue her, and failed, but the reality was, that she'd been doomed before he ever laid eyes on her.

John mechanically soaped down, washed his hair and dried off. With the towel wrapped around his hips, he scooped up the wet clothes and tossed everything in the washer.

He skipped the beer and went straight for the bottle of vodka in the freezer, the icy chill of the bottle against his damp hand sending a shiver through his entire body. John poured three fingers and drank it back, in front of the open freezer. He shuddered in the cold draft, and he slammed it closed.

The cold liquor and wet towel had John shivering constantly as he carried the glass and bottle to the living room He yanked the towel off and tossed it onto the coffee table, slouched in the corner of the couch, and poured another shot.

The stress and alcohol worked in tandem, and John dragged the afghan off the back of the sofa and fell into a light sleep.

 

The vodka bottle crashed to the floor when he woke up flailing. He tried to hold onto the vaguely haunting images of his dream as they evaporated, left with only a disturbing unease.

"John?" He looked up to see Rodney standing on the porch, peering into the dim house, one hand on the screen door, a canvas shopping bag dangling from the other. John must have subconsciously heard the creak of the porch stair that wouldn't stay fixed. He waved Rodney in tiredly as he rescued the bottle off the floor and threw his towel down to soak up the mess. Rodney let the screen door slam behind him, and John jumped up, the blanket falling away. He stood there, fully naked, chest heaving and fists clenched.

"What? You were sleeping like that," Rodney waved his hand at John, "In front of an open door?" He stared open mouthed as he took in the state of John. "It must be a hundred degrees in here."

John fell back onto the couch and dragged the blanket over his lap. "It's my damn house," he muttered. John didn't think it was hot. He was still chilled and shivering. He coughed; the odd tickle of water in his chest bothered him.

"Yes, well a little bird called me and told me to get my ass out of the lab and over here." Rodney fell into the recliner next to the sofa and dropped the bag next to the half empty bottle of vodka. "Evan said you hadn't had such a great day, something about taking a header into the bayou."

"Yeah, well, I don't really want to talk about it." Evan had taken to feeding Rodney critical information early in their partnership, because he'd figured out that John wouldn't, or couldn't, and it prevented Rodney from finding out about various incidents from 'vid.

Rodney gave John a slightly hurt, almost hostile glance. "Gee, what a surprise. But eventually you're going to have to tell me what's going on."

John shuddered slightly as the scene replayed in his mind in full Technicolor. The problem was that he couldn't tell Rodney just part of the story, that he'd taken an unscheduled swim in Buffalo Bayou, without telling him everything else—and it was too raw, too fresh and too horrifying. Biro had probably had Gillian by now, propped up on the table with knives and saws ready to take her apart at the seams. "That day is not today."

"Right. Good thing that there's a game on instead. I mean, we wouldn't want to communicate, or anything."

"Stop right there. I don't need any more guilt trips today," John said in a hard voice. He was already off balance, and the slow burn of fury and disgust was almost constant these days: at himself, for being incapable of telling Rodney what he needed, what he wanted, if he was even sure what he wanted, and at Rodney for being oblivious, or uncaring that his dating habits left John twisting in the wind.

"Sorry." Rodney leaned forward in the chair, and began pulling junk food out of the bag. "In the meantime, I wasn't kidding about the game. Puck drops in thirty."

"All right." John reached down and swabbed the towel around a little more and got the last of the vodka off the hardwood floor, and stood a little unsteadily to take it to the laundry. Rodney reached out and slid his hand down the back of John's thigh, ruffling the dark hair.

John grinned as he leaned over to kiss him, a brief, sweet kiss. Rodney pushed up into it, his other hand coming up to stroke John's neck, just under the ear.

"Hi, Rodney," he said, when they broke apart.

"Hi." Rodney replied a little breathlessly. His lips were still open and shiny, and his eyes were wide and hungry, sweat beading on his face. John's apology was accepted for what it was. He felt off-balance by how glad he was that Rodney came and check up on him, that maybe he had might have a chance to keep Rodney after all.

"Be right back." John threw the towel in the washing machine, skimmed into a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, and turned on the air conditioning before padding into the kitchen and pouring a glass of tap water and drinking it down. He called out to the living room, "You want something to drink?"

"Whatever you're having."

John refilled his glass and another for Rodney, adding some ice and grabbing another shot glass. The pre-game show was on when he handed Rodney the ice water and put the shot glass on the coffee table in front on him.

He curled up in the corner of the couch, dragged the blanket over his legs and poured them both a shot, ignoring the furtive worried glances that Rodney gave him, but grateful nonetheless for his concern.

Game four of the Stanley cup was a disappointment. The Blues were out-shot and out-blocked by the Oilers in all three periods, but it was a good distraction, and in combination with his slow, methodical demolition of the rest of the vodka, he managed to almost completely forget the terrified look on Gillian's face.

After the game was over and the bottle was another dead soldier in John's battle, Rodney pulled John off the couch and led him to the bedroom. He stripped John down to the skin, gave him a light shove back onto the bed, then took off his own clothes and crawled in.

He really was pathetic, but now, John was so desperate for something good to wipe away the ugly images scrolling though his mind. He took what he needed, what Rodney willingly offered.

John dislodged Rodney as he sat up. He had no idea what the dream meant, but he was left again with a vague sense unease and terror. He tucked the light blanket around Rodney more securely. He carefully climbed out of bed, took a piss and brushed his teeth to dislodge the foul taste of vodka and Cheetos.

The clock steadily blinked 12:01. John pulled on his shorts and sweat shirt and headed for the living room, closing the door quietly behind him. He'd have to reset the clock, and eventually he'd remember to get a battery for it, and root out the squirrels that kept chewing through his power lines.

He flipped on the light over the sink, but it was dead. He took two Tylenol from the bottle on the windowsill, pulled a bottle of Diet Coke out of the refrigerator, and took it out to the front porch. John shivered in the hot and muggy June night, and let loose a deep hacking cough. The night sky was overcast and foggy, though the rain had stopped, and the world was fresh and clean. The streets steamed and glistened in the orange glow of the sodium streetlights. He set the bottle on the table, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the faint roar of late night traffic on I-10 in the distance, comforting himself with rock and sway of the swing.

The screen door creaked and Rodney was there next to him, the soft nubbly texture of his bathrobe brushing his leg and neck, as Rodney slung an arm across the back of the porch swing. John coughed again, and Rodney curled his arm around him and lifted his hand to cup John's forehead.

"You're burning up."

"Yeah. Probably."

"John, please. Tell me what happened yesterday."

He knew that Rodney had managed to catch the news, that he already knew everything, had seen everything, but this was Rodney's way of getting him to get it off his chest. John coughed again and shuddered, not just from the fever. "It was. It was another of them, with gills. Except this time, it—she—wasn't already dead, but dying. Suffocating. I took her to the bayou, but it was. Well. Didn't help and I ended up in the drink. Got a lungful of the Buffalo."

"Shit."

John suddenly realized part of what bothered him about the entire experience. He turned to look Rodney. "Have you heard from Charlotte, at all?"

"Just the occasional text message, never from the same number, and if I call back, there's no answer and the mailbox is never set up."

"What does she tell you?"

"Nothing, really. Hi daddy, I'm fine, doing great. That kind of thing." Rodney's voice quavered and broke a little, and John leaned his head on Rodney's shoulder and took up his hand in his and squeezed it tightly. Rodney pulled him closer, and turned to lay a brief kiss on John's temple. "We need to get you into see Keller today. You should have gone yesterday."

"Yeah." Rodney's open affection was a balm to John's heartsick distress.

John sat on the couch, surfing the 'net with his Zhing, and the 'vid was turned to some old movie marathon. Two kinds of cough medicine, an anti-fungal and antibiotic, a breathing treatment machine, a glass of water and the remains of a burger and fries were arrayed on the coffee table. This was the worst kind of illness—one where he almost felt well enough to get up and do something, but not well enough to test Keller's resolve to incarcerate him in a hospital bed if he refused to strictly adhere to the treatment plan.

A call from Evan came in, and John let it go straight to vid. "Hey, buddy."

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah, some. Mostly bored."

"Good. I had an idea. You up for some company?"

"Sure, come on over."

"I'll be there in ten."

John closed the connection and began to pick up a little, throwing away the trash, putting the dishes in the sink and the medication out of sight. He answered the door, still pulling on a clean shirt. "Man, am I glad to see you."

Evan laughed, "Of course you are. Here, Katie made this for you." Katie was a bit of an earth-mother type and she regularly chided John for his poor diet, tried to balance it out with home cooked care packages.

He lifted the seal on the liter container, and gave the still warm concoction a sniff. He hazarded a guess, "Organic chicken soup?"

"She swears it's good for what ails you, and so far, I can't disagree with her." It was true; John's favorite haunts were not ever on Evan's menu and he was a shining example of supreme health. Whether or not the two were connected, John still appreciated her concern and gestures.

"Well, tell her I said thank you. Let me go put this away. You want anything to drink?"

"Nah, I'm good."

John stashed the soup in the fridge, and poured himself another glass of water. "So, what's up?"

"I'm through bitching at Sumner. We have to get some help on this transspecies thing. They found two bodies more this morning, but we can no longer assume that they are all going to die. Obviously some have to survive the process—and if they aren't now, maybe they eventually will."

"Shit. Okay, what do you want to do?"

"We need to get the Feds in on this before it explodes out of control."

"Whoa, Evan."

Evan met John's eyes with a serious look. "We're in over our heads, John. We've been over our heads all year."

"I agree, but it really won't endear us to Sumner."

"I know. But it'll be worth it. We need tools and resources."

"Yeah. How do you want to do it?"

"The media attention is already there. If I called in a favor from Senator Padungchai, to see if she could get the ball rolling and make it look like her idea, I could claim perfect immunity."

John nodded, and wiped a hand over his face. "It might work, but still, if Sumner finds out we skipped over him, he'll be beyond pissed." Sumner would paint John with the same brush as Evan if their tactics were discovered, but Evan was right. The GeM cases creeped him out, and since the gill girl—Gillian—showed the possibility of a successful transformation, how many hadn't succumbed?

And Evan was his partner, each complicit in everything the other did. If Even went down in the blast for going behind Sumner's back, then John would go down with him.

 

18.

June

 

It irked him to the very core of his being, but it was necessary, and so John scrounged up Nancy's number and called her. He was sure that she hadn't really expected him to show up at her New Year's party, not with their history and the specter of Moira floating around in the back of his mind.

"John, what a surprise! You're quite the item in the headlines these days."

"Yeah, that's kinda why I need to talk to you."

"Really?"

It wasn't difficult once he got into it—he still knew how to push her buttons. Nancy had always been civic minded and she was deeply connected in the social circles of people with money. He made it clear that he wasn't asking her personally for money, but if she could wield some of her influence to come up with a sorely needed reward fund for decent tips in the GeM case, she'd have the thanks of everyone involved.

He hung up with the promise of funds in a matter of days. He got Vala's number off the Chronicle's directory site, and he knew that he was going to end up paying for this somehow, some day.

"John Sheppard calling me? Has the apocalypse arrived, then?"

John bit his tongue. He was about to ask for a favor, and he couldn't let go with any of the rude retorts that sprang to mind. "No, I was calling you with a tip. Do you want to hear it or, are we going to trade barbs?"

"Oh, no, please—go ahead, darling. This I've got to hear."

However annoying she was, Vala took the information and ran with it. Public awareness spots ran several times every day with the promise of money for information. Within days, the Gov 2.0 folks were fielding and sorting out the crank calls. John and Evan took the flood of leads and spent hours every day tracking them down, but it was still too little.

They made a last ditch effort to get Sumner to come up with the much needed resources from the Feds, but he refused to budge. No federal crime had been committed as they couldn't prove that illegal material had crossed state lines. Sumner was adamant the problem was local and the solution would be local.

The problem was that they couldn't solve the problem with local resources. Their mainframe was capable of storing the billions and billions of images and sound bites captured from all around the city, but the servers in front of it were not capable of processing a broad search, and the volunteers they used to review chunks of data—the human brain was still their best processor—were sketchy and unreliable, as volunteers tended to be.

The HDP didn't have the manpower to do a citywide dragnet. Evan's prediction of an out of control surge was born out. Solid information on rare live sightings came in, but by the time John and Evan were able to get to the location, the transspec was long gone, no proof that it existed beyond rumor and a tip.

John was working nonstop eighteen-hour days, and the transspecies bodies were piling up. His file had grown by another fifty dead bodies in the last month. They also had to handle their regular caseloads: unrelated murders, robberies, and missing persons. The entire precinct was drowning as the crime rate in the city soared to record highs—even taking into account the dark days just after Hurricane Victor.

He knew that the time was drawing nigh when they'd have to do the nearly unthinkable and call in Evan's favor, but neither of them were anxious to take that irreparable step.

John barely took note of the fact that Rodney was twittering about the new director of the Mission to Mars. John was over-worked, under-paid and frankly, he almost wished that Rodney would go out on a date with her, and then maybe he'd would come to his senses all on his own. John simply couldn't worry about it right now.

They could no longer deny the fact that they desperately needed help. An anonymous tip came in as a text message of a sighting of a live transspec, and John had managed to coax their wheezing FRS to find a few still images of a live transspec to prove Evan's point.

They went to see Padungchai together, John mostly for moral support. She and her partner lived in a rambly old house in West University, and a secret service agent answered the door and vetted them in the parlor. It was only a few minutes before Ran breezed in. "Evan, Mr. Sheppard, to what do I owe the pleasure?

John shook her hand. "John, please."

"John," she agreed warmly, then sat down on a wing back chair near the fireplace. "Can I offer you gentlemen a drink, coffee?"

They declined the beverage and sat down across from her. John let Evan do the talking, explain their situation and what they needed, and the charade that needed to be maintained.

Ran nodded. "I'm glad you came to me. To be honest, I didn't want to interfere, but I have been paying attention, and already have a few ideas. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you. If there's anything I can do in return, let me know," Evan said.

She chuckled, "Not to worry, I'm sure I'll find some way for you to repay the favor," she said as she walked them to the door.

Standing on the sidewalk, they looked at one another. Evan shrugged. "Well, I suppose we're in for it now."

The 'favor' turned out to be a politely worded request to Sumner, filtered down from the Governor to the Mayor and then to the Chief of Police. John and Evan were invited to Washington to testify in front of a closed hearing of a Joint Senate and House committee.

The Houston press was a tempest in a teacup compared to Washington. John wasn't prepared for the media storm that surrounded their testimony. Their actual conversation with the committee was confidential, but the fact that there was such a committee hearing was not. The entire world was watching the events in Houston with horror.

Their faces were plastered across web sites and vidcasts across the nation after their first day of testimony. John and Evan were hustled in and out the back entrance by the FBI for subsequent appearances, but interest was high. Shouting reporters, cameras and microphones mounted on drones flying over their heads besieged them if they left their hotel room. They spent three days cramped together in a small, hot and stuffy hotel room, and existed on room service and the minibar. Evan was unaccustomed to a diet of that nature, and he spent a lot of time ill and holed up in the tiny bathroom.

But the inconvenience and distress was worth it. It was extremely satisfying to see the dawning expressions of horror on the faces of the committee as they went through the case step by step, with pictures, maps and mangled DNA profiles. They calmly rebutted any intimation of incompetence on their part. They were under-manned, under-equipped, and they had done their best with the time and tools at their disposal.

The second evening they were there, Paul Davis rang from the lobby. Evan told the desk to let him through security and disappeared into the bathroom.

John answered the door. It had been a long time since John had seen his old friend. Davis had broken the story that led to Vega's arrest and conviction, though he'd never assumed that as her partner, John was culpable. "Paul, good to see you."

"Likewise, though I am sorry for the circumstances. I couldn't pass on the opportunity to catch up with you guys."

See, that was the difference. John heard the pleasantries, and understood the intent—I'm here to pick your brains, I want a scoop. Vala simply would not engage in any subterfuge, and it grated. "No problem, have a seat. You want something to drink?"

"That would be great, thank you."

John put ice in a glass and set it on the table with a miniature bottle of scotch. "Sorry, Evan's not having such a great time," he pointed over his should to the closed bathroom door. "How are you doing, Washington working out for you?"

"It is. I see that my successor has taken an interest in you."

John rolled his eyes. "Annoying. Good reporter, but damn. You could've warned us."

Paul laughed. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Yeah, yeah. Mock my pain," John chuckled.

They chatted until Evan reappeared, and then the three of them settled down to discuss the case in detail. It wasn't anything that hadn't been available to the press, but Paul had a certain gravitas that Vala didn't. His feature would take out the sensationalism and replace it with a thoughtful commentary. Paul took a few pictures to accompany the piece, and invited them to dinner before they left town.

It was unlikely that they could escape the limelight to really enjoy any outing, and Evan didn't feel like socializing. "Maybe next time, then."

The next day, they were allowed to sit in and listen to the expert witness testimony of Dr. Carson Beckett, from the National Human Genome Research Institute.

Becket carefully laid out the worst-case scenario of contaminating the entire human genome with animal genetic material, and urged them to take immediate action.

After all the testimonies had been received, the committee thanked them for their time, and Senator Padungchai sent them back to Houston aboard her personal flitter, along with Dr. Beckett, his small team and equipment.

When they landed at the private terminal at Hobby, the mob turned ugly, and the near riot had to be quelled as they were raced to the waiting police cars.

It was going to be virtually impossible to get anything done, or to show their faces in public for a few days. Vala texted him after Davis' story ran in the Examiner. "Thanks for the in-depth interview, John." He could hear the sarcasm across the city.

 

19.

July

 

Sumner was suspicious, or had figured out that they'd pulled strings and favors, because he placed John and Evan on administrative leave. Ostensibly because they were unable to go out into public due to their recent notoriety, though there was an unstated understanding of the real reason: they had gone over his head and brought the Feds into the case. He and Evan immediately filed a counter suit that Sumner had failed to provide them with a suitable working environment and tools, which provoked Sumner into changing the status of their punishment, and withholding salaried leave.

It stung John to the core, that he was being punished for doing what was necessary, though he was kind of grateful for the break. He spent most of the first week sleeping, and peering out his front window at the reporters camped out on the street.

He was able to outlast them, and within a week or two the high tension and interest faded a bit as some new problem came to the forefront and he was finally able to slink out to the store in a hat and sunglasses.

The good news came just before the Fourth of July. The House and the Senate convened a special session and the DNA Purity Act was voted in by an unprecedented one hundred percent in the highly partisan congress. The President signed it into law the same day. The speed with which Padungchai ushered the bill through committee and the overwhelming support it received was pleasing, but John just hoped that there was some way to salvage his career out of the whole mess.

He'd managed to save a little, adding to the left-over disability payment from the Air Force, but if the legal standoff with HPD didn't shift by mid-September, he'd have to find another job.

John spent the eight weeks he was off duty cleaning house, digging up dead flowers, doing minor repairs to his ancient SUV, playing basketball and hanging out with Rodney when his schedule permitted. He re-watched every movie and television show in his collection, and spent hours glued to CSPAN for any more news on the new, so-called DNA Purity Act.

He spent time with the summer door-to-door crews, and ferrying water to the homeless across the entire precinct. The situation was even worse this summer. People were actively avoiding going out, and HPD was short handed.

John decided that he needed to meet the competition when Rodney declared that he was fully devoting himself to the Date Sam Carter Campaign and giving up on serial dating.

He drove down to Clear Lake Island to have lunch with Rodney. Sure enough, the obsessed McKay had 'accidentally' engineered a 'chance' meeting with Dr. Carter in the halls of Building 30.

Rodney beamed as he introduced them. "Oh, Sam, hey, I'd like you to meet my friend, John Sheppard. John, Doctor Samantha Carter, Director of the Mission to Mars program."

John shook her hand as he assessed her. She was gorgeous: tall, blonde and stacked, with pretty blue eyes that didn't miss anything.

"Mr. Sheppard, pleased to meet you. Rodney's mentioned you a few times."

And oh god, that smile—hell, if he thought he could get away with it, he'd jump in the sack with her. John thought about casually revealing that he and Rodney had been fucking for seven years. He gave her a tight smile. "The pleasure is all mine."

Rodney started to talk. John tuned out his the bumbling flirting, and watched Dr. Carter's reaction. She tried to remain impassive, but the telltales were there: the frozen smile, the slightly glazed look in her eyes, and the almost imperceptible sigh.

Despite the fact that Rodney had chattered throughout lunch over Sam Carter's general awesomeness, John decided that he didn't have to worry about their impending 'break up'. Houston would be covered in glaciers before Rodney got her out on a date.

 

20.

August

 

Evan left him a cryptic text message that inspired hope that their exile from HPD would soon draw to an end the same day that Rodney dropped his bombshell.

After a month of serious campaigning, the unthinkable had happened: Sam Carter agreed to go out on a date with Rodney over the Labor Day weekend. John meanly thought it was Carter's way of finally getting McKay off her back, but Rodney was obviously in ecstasy over the possibilities.

He told himself to buck up, and spent the rest of the week wrestling with his selfish feelings of abandonment, unable to decide if it was unfair to reveal to Rodney how the impending date made him feel. In the end, John decided that there wasn't anyway to tell Rodney without crushing his high. Not without being able offer Rodney what he sought, a family.

 

21.

September

 

John decided that he wasn't going to allow himself to wallow any more than he had already. He turned off his Zhing and packed up the Hyundai. He took the ferry at the end of Interstate 45 over to Galveston island, and drove to old Scholes Field. The airport had become the beachhead after Hurricane Victor, when West Beach and most of the rest of the island had been washed away. That was the storm that had finally broken the back of the city. Twenty years later, all that remained on the island were a few hardy souls and the port over by the Bolivar Roads.

The beach was deserted. John remembered when Galveston had been packed on holiday weekends, everyone jockeying for the best spots on the beach, with coolers and umbrellas nestled in the sand.

The surf was up, or as up as it ever got. Even though it wasn't the best surfing, he doggedly paddled out into the bathwater-warm, murky Gulf over and over, catching a couple of decent waves here and there, as he tried to come to terms with his melancholy. So much for not wallowing. The activity was soothing after a fashion, though he quickly became overheated.

A couple that had cycled up while he was out on his last run were rummaging through the dunes that had formed over the old runways and taking notes. John dried off, pulled on a hat, dry trousers and a long sleeve t-shirt before stretching out on the sand in the shade of his ancient SUV, as he watched them ramble around.

He was calm enough now to think more rationally about the situation with Rodney. It didn't used to bother him, but this abandonment felt worse than the others. It was possible that he needed to reconsider the entire relationship, from beginning to end. While John suspected that Rodney would spectacularly crash and burn, that things would eventually normalize—he had to decide if he should let Rodney go altogether or let himself continue to be Rodney's fall back guy.

But, it was almost predestined that he'd hang in there. They'd been friends most of their lives and some indefinable, gravitic force had kept them in near orbit to one another. Fortunately John was saved from a long, meditative introspection by shouts that were carried on the wind.

John jumped up. The sand dune rummaging couple was standing in the shallow tidal surf, looking out to sea. He jogged over to them, his eyes scanning the water for what had caused the alarm, thinking ahead to the possibility of rescue.

Then he saw what they were pointing at. Not a hundred yards from shore, there was a transspec playing in the surf. The sun flashed off of shiny, gray skin and a crested dorsal ridge. John whipped out his Zhing, and snapped picture after picture until it waved at them, then dove below the surface.

He dialed the HPD dispatcher and called it in, forwarding all the pictures. Chuck said he'd would do what he could, but John was on administrative leave and Galveston was out of jurisdiction, anyway.

As he slid his Zhing into his pocket, the couple drifted towards him, and the man rumbled, "What the hell was that?" He was taller than John, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, dread locks pulled back from his almost pretty face with a leather thong.

"That was a human-animal hybrid, we call 'em transspec. We've been having a problem with them for a while."

The woman gave John a small, warm smile. "I have heard of such things, but I had never thought I would see it." She was petite in height, with a dazzling smile and gorgeous copper hair pulled into a sloppy, windblown ponytail.

He gave her a genuine smile in return. "They're getting better at it. Used to be, all we ever found were the dead ones."

She cocked her head to the side as she asked, "How do you know of this?"

John stuck his hand out, and introduced himself. "John Sheppard, HPD. I'm on the investigation. Or was."

The man shook his hand with a firm warm grip. "Ronon Dex."

"Teyla Emmagan." She bowed her head slightly as she took his hand. Her hand was cool and small in John's. "That must be a very grueling occupation."

John gave her a rueful grin. "It can be. What are ya'll doing out here?"

"Follow up survey of dune and salt marsh habitat regeneration for The Atlantis Conservancy." Ronon flashed him a smile, full of beautiful white teeth.

"Huh. I haven't heard of them."

"It is a non profit research group. Galveston is only one of many places to which we have been assigned," Teyla replied.

"So, are you going to be here long?"

"For several months, at least. We were just about to go have lunch—would you care to join us? I would like to hear more of this 'transspec' situation."

"Yeah, sure. That sounds great. Tubby's is probably open today."

"That sounds fine, we had planned to try it out at some point. But first, I believe Ronon has a question for you." Teyla gave Ronon a sly grin, and he shook his head at her.

"Oh, what's that?" John let his eyes linger on Ronon as he glanced at John, almost shyly.

"You mind if I take your board out?"

John waved his hand at the car and smiled. "Knock yourself out."

Ronon stripped naked, gave John a careless grin, and John did his best to keep his jaw from flapping as Ronon ran into the surf.

John and Teyla sat on the beach and watched as he paddled out and caught a good wave. "He's good."

"Ronon is... He grew up surfing in the Pacific. He does not speak of it often, though I believe his home does not exist any longer."

So many Pacific island states had disappeared under the rising seas. "Where are you from?"

"I am Canadian, though I was born in Tanzania. And you?"

"Native Houstonian, lived here most of my life."

"Were you very familiar with Galveston before the storm?"

"Oh, yeah. My family used to come down to West Beach for shrimp boils at Thanksgiving, and me and my friends, we'd come down almost every day during the summer. Wasn't here for the storm, though. I was already in the Air Force."

"It must have been very strange, to return to Houston after that."

He drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them to his chest, "It was definitely different." John should get the understatement of the year award; even a decade after Hurricane Victor had decimated everything from Matagorda Bay to High Island, Houston had been a shattered shadow of its former glory.

John didn't tell her that he'd come back on emergency leave to look for his parents, that in twenty-three years no trace of them had ever been found.

Teyla sensibly let the subject drop They silently watched Ronon, in all his glorious nakedness, ride the waves a few more times. When he came bounding up the beach, water running off his skin in glittering droplets, John took a moment to appreciate the gift—and it wasn't even his birthday, not for months and months.

John threw him a dry towel out of the back of the Hyundai, and used his other, damp towel to wipe down the board then clamped it to the roof rack while Ronon dressed.

"Thanks, man, that was good."

"Sure, any time." John smiled as he threw the rest of the gear in the back. "If you want a ride over there, you can toss your bikes in the back."

"Thank you, John. That would be fine."

Tubby's was the iconic Galveston diner, transported to Texas City, sprouting up over and over again after whatever disaster had leveled the former incarnation. Even though oysters were still on the Dioxin watch list, the other seafood on the menu was good. The beer was cold and they lingered over blackberry cobbler and coffee and watched a late afternoon storm roll in over the water as they chatted about Houston, the transspecs and Teyla and Ronon's wide and varied travels.

When John let his glances slide over to Ronon, Ronon was looking back, with a sly grin and narrowed eyes. John didn't think that he was misreading the signals, that the exquisite flare of want that he felt low in his belly was reciprocated.

It had been such a horrible year, and John was tired of feeling a little dead inside. He missed the wild rush of sexual passion, had even forgotten that it had ever existed. Too often it was a spark that wasn't returned, and it would leave John wondering what was wrong with him, that his little crushes were so often unrequited.

But even outside of the low key flirtation, John was pleasantly surprised to find that he enjoyed the companionship and conversation. He always seemed to forget how nice it was to get out and meet people, just to chat and socialize. He so rarely had the time or the inclination.

Their accommodations were near the restaurant, and when the bikes were pulled out of the back, John invited them over to the house the next day to go biking around Memorial Lake. Ronon sent him his phone number, and Teyla's, too.

Things were looking up all the way around.

Though it was late when he got home, he dictated a report on the transspec sighting, and made a note that either another lab had popped up farther south, or this one had made it to water and had migrated to the Gulf. He emailed a note to the surveillance unit, to see if they could do anything useful with the pictures he'd sent to the dispatcher of the dolphin guy, frolicking in the shallow waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Labor Day found him up early with a cup of near-coffee, all that he generally kept in the house for himself. John checked the forecast and it was possible that it wouldn't rain. He pulled his neglected bike out of the rafters of the garage and set it upside down on the coffee table to clean the cobwebs out of the dérailleur and spokes. The bike had been another hobby undertaken as cognitive-behavioral therapy in an attempt to find some peace, but he had eventually moved onto other, less solitary distractions.

He was glad he'd kept it.

There was a knock at the door, and he got up to answer it, expecting Ronon. "Rodney?" He opened the screen door, "Come on in. How did your date go?"

"Exactly as you might imagine." Rodney followed him to the kitchen, and John poured him a cup of coffee.

"That bad, huh?" John went back to the bicycle with a damp rag and he began wiping it down.

"The date was fine, actually, as was the twenty four hour sex marathon afterward."

John made a sour face. He was still hurt and angry with himself and Rodney on so many levels, he just didn't want to hear the details.

"Sorry." Rodney said it contritely, but there was a hint of an eye roll along with it. "Anyway, I didn't manage to put my foot in it until last night. We'll be able to look each other in the eye at work, but I doubt there'll be a second date. Despite the fact that we were fantastic together in the sack."

John made sure to put in an extra twist of sarcasm. "Yeah, that's too bad."

Rodney was oblivious, inured, or undertaking a huge effort to ignore the barb. "So, the bike. You going out?"

"Yeah. Met a couple yesterday out surfing, and we're going to go for a ride today. Assuming the weather holds."

"Oh. Well, I was just on my way to work. We're expecting a telemetry burst this afternoon." Rodney gulped down the last of the nearcoffee; he could finish a hot beverage faster than anyone John knew.

"Okey dokey. Have fun."

Rodney paused in the open doorway for a moment, until John looked up from the bike. "Yeah, you too," he said softly before letting the screen door slam behind him, just a little.

That Rodney would expect to come back to John and sob on his shoulder about a failed date, poured a little more fuel on his ire, it wasn't right or fair. The tantalizing conversation with Ronon had left John in a state of mild anticipation. Maybe Rodney had the right idea; get out and see the what the possibilities were.

John had his bike cleaned and oiled and leaning next to the door when Ronon and Teyla arrived. "Hey, come on in. You want a cup of coffee? It's pretty close the real thing."

Ronon leaned his bike against the wall and then slung his arm around John and gave him a squeeze and grunted, so he figured that was a yes. "Teyla?"

"No, I am not staying. I am merely dropping off Ronon. "

"You're welcome to come with us." Despite the excited flutter low in his gut, he would genuinely welcome her presence. She was so calm and easy to talk with.

"Perhaps another time. I have an appointment at the day spa, and then perhaps I will do some shopping and take in a movie. I will see you this evening?"

"Sounds good. We'll see you then."

John opened the door for her, and Teyla smiled at him on her way out, and he couldn't help but smile in return. Out of habit, he made sure that she was in the car and rolling away before he closed the door, and turned to Ronon. "So. Coffee."

Ronon followed him to the kitchen, and as John reached up to get a clean cup, Ronon pressed up tight against him, with one hand on his hip, the other sliding up under his shirt, and he licked above John's collar once, before giving his neck a sharp bite with those even, white teeth.

John moaned and melted back against him. The bite was a little sharp jolt of electricity that crackled through him, his cock filling and waking up with a little hello, what have we here? "Oh, yeah," John murmured, as he shimmied around to face Ronon.

"Better," Ronon said, as he kissed John—a deep, wet, relentless kiss that he was unable to resist.

When Teyla came to pick up Ronon, the three of them sat in John's living room over a last beer and made plans to see each other again the following weekend.

John was as comfortable with both of them as if he'd known them forever. The bikes hadn't been moved and Teyla seemed to be cool with the fact that it was obvious the two of them had spent the day fucking. John was relaxed, sated. Sex was always good, but how had he let himself forget that it could be fantastic?

When they left for the drive back to Texas City, John hung his bike back in the rafters of the garage, and checked his Zhing. He'd ignored it all day.

He'd missed four messages: Evan, Rodney, the CCDP tech, and some guy named Steven Caldwell. He was still so incredibly annoyed with Rodney that he simply deleted his call without viewing it. Evan's 'vid message was exuberant. He said that Sumner had announced his unexpected retirement and to expect a call from the new Captain, and said he'd see John in the morning, all with a huge grin.

John skipped over the tech's text message and went straight to Caldwell. He was a stern, bald man, but his message was most welcome: John was reinstated, with all back pay and he was to report to the precinct Tuesday morning for a meeting with the FBI task force that was assigned to the investigation.

He was grinning when he called Evan back. "Hey, was that what the cryptic message was about?"

"Yep. Padungchai said she'd talked to the Governor, who contacted the mayor, and I wasn't to even breathe the possibility."

"Wow. You know Caldwell?"

"By rep only. I think he was with the FBI's D.C. office. Supposed to be a good guy, no nonsense, but effective."

"And he doesn't have a problem with the Feds."

"Obviously. God damn it, John, we did it."

"Yeah, buddy, we did." Evan had done it, John had merely held on to his coattails for the ride, but he'd hung in there and come out the other side, mostly unscathed and ready to attack the problem anew.

John had a new perspective on life, and he felt excited, almost buoyant, despite the possibility that he and Evan could still easily be censured for the end run around Lieutenant Sumner. He had a pleasant ache in all the right places, and he and Evan were going to get what they needed to find the asshole with the GeM lab.

He stopped at Christy's and arrived at the precinct early. After being out of the office for nearly two months, it was as much as a disaster as he expected. He scarfed down a kruller and started a pot of fresh coffee brewing.

Armed with a cup of coffee and a plain doughnut, John logged into his workstation and opened his email. There were several thousand messages. He shuffled most of them away wholesale as irrelevant or past date, and when he found one from the CCDP tech, with his photos attached, left the rest to read later. He browsed through the file of enhanced images. The surveillance guys had done a great job of cleaning up his snapshots.

John had his desk mostly cleared of the various photostats when Caldwell arrived. He stood up to introduce himself and warily assessed the former FBI Assistant Director as they shook hands. Caldwell's grip was firm and dry, his expression, though intent, wasn't one of distaste or condemnation. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Likewise, Sheppard. I hope we can all put the past few weeks behind us and get to work on this problem."

"Yes, sir, I'm looking forward to that."

"The FBI Task force will be here shortly and I'd like you to prepare a briefing for the meeting."

Over Caldwell's shoulder, John spied his partner coming through the door. He nodded at Evan. "We still have the Senate committee presentation. Lorne and I can easily fill in the investigative details that weren't necessary for that."

John watched as Caldwell and Evan greeted each other. If Caldwell entertained any doubts about either of them, it wasn't apparent in the way he spoke to them. They'd just have to keep their eyes open, and hope that Caldwell was sincere in his wish to move forward.

"You've got an hour. Also, find some time today to send me your open case files on anything that's not directly related to the hybrid case. I want you two to work on this exclusively until we have a satisfactory resolution, gentlemen." Caldwell gave them a curt nod, before turning to greet Kavanagh and Larrin as they walked in the door.

Evan didn't drink coffee or eat doughnuts, so they immediately began work on the briefing, reinserting the pertinent information that only meant something to another law enforcement officer, and the report on Beckett's research that arrived while they were gone.

They had just completed the update when the bull pen went quiet; the Feebs had arrived.

Caldwell greeted one of them, friendly and familiar – they'd probably worked together at some point – as he led the team towards the conference room. John recognized Ellis from his Pine Bluff vid briefing, and Dr. Beckett from the congressional hearing, and they silently acknowledged one another with brief nods.

The conference room was plain and windowless, with barely enough room for the cheap Formica table studded with small terminals, arranged in rows on either side that faced a 'vid embedded into the wall.

Evan passed out memslips loaded with the entire case file while Caldwell made the introductions: Assistant Directors Dillon Everett and Abraham Ellis, Special Agents Cameron Mitchell, Aiden Ford, Laura Cadman, and Dr. Janet Frasier from the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Beckett was there as an investigator for the National Human Genome Research Institute.

"Detective Sheppard, if you would?"

John stood up and cleared his throat. He started at the beginning, with a theoretical connection to the raid in Pine bluff and the theft of the Zoomobile, then worked his way through Markham's missing tips, what steps they had taken at each turn, the rising body count, the sudden drop in the same when viable specimens began showing up, and ended with the dolphin guy in Galveston. "This is the latest sighting." John threw a projection of the best of his snapshots up on the wall. "I called this in two days ago, but as you can imagine, not very much was done in our absence."

Caldwell nodded at John. "We'll come back to that point in a moment, Detective Sheppard. Dr. Beckett, would you like to add anything at this point?"

Beckett stood up, and went through his slides, showing a comparison of a transspec DNA and a regular human, pointing out where the animal DNA's promoter and operators had been teased, through some unknown compound, into grafting on to and essentially replacing altogether, parts of the human genome. "I've gone as far as I can with the dead victims. I don't believe that they are using the normal agent or compound that's used for human-to-human genome replacement. The issue is that it essentially disappears or is transformed itself in the genetic modification process. It would take months of trial and error to recreate it, but Mr. Cowan from the Genii Corp has agreed to share what's left of their research, though the Genii Corp scientists insist that the stolen compound could not behave this way."

A.D. Ellis politely inquired, "Sheppard? What would you like to do? How can we help?"

John looked up and nodded. "Manpower is a problem. There aren't enough officers and detectives. The folks at Gov 2.0 have been helping, but they're civilians behind the cloud. We need more people out on the street.

"I know the tools we need are available, but they've been out of our reach. We need some serious processing power, because this," he tapped the portable terminal screen in front of him, "is only fine for every day operational needs. We need something that can track and correlate all of the data from every camera—and we need more of them, too.

"We need to capture that guy," he flicked the screen back to the life size projection of the dolphin guy on the wall, "so that the Doc has something to work with, and maybe the transspec isn't so far gone in the mind that he can't talk. That means we need a place to keep him, maybe the folks at the Hermann Zoo would lend us their saltwater tank. We need to actually get our hands on the others that we know are out there. We already offer a small reward for sighting tips, and a larger one if it leads to a capture."

Ellis and Everett shared a significant glance and John opened his mouth to defend himself—he was so used to fighting Sumner for more tools and money to get the job done, that he didn't expect Everett's response.

"There might be a solution to the computational requirements, but it will take some time. In the meantime, I agree. We need to capture the specimen. Ford, coordinate with the Coast Guard and Texas Air National Guard, get some air support and put together a mission prospectus for approval."

"Yes, sir." Ford gave John an easy, wide grin and a surreptitious thumbs-up. John returned the grin and turned back to Everett.

"Sheppard, contact the folks in your P.R. department, and if they can't give you what you need, we'll access Bureau resources. I'd like you take the position of front man to the media, since you're already associated with case, and well known in that regard."

John's eyebrows shot up. Thank you Vala, for smearing his face across the news at every opportunity. He hadn't expected that, and though the idea of throwing himself to the media wolves was daunting, he agreed. If this was the price for their assistance, he'd pay it, gladly. "Yes sir."

"Caldwell, start a request to the city to obtain a tank to warehouse the specimen, and make sure that Dr. Beckett has everything he needs ready when we have it in custody.

"Ellis, you have the best contacts for the Unity Project. Get an update and if that doesn't pan out, see what else the Professor can recommend."

Ellis dipped his head in assent, and left the room to make the call.

"Mitchell, contact the Army and requisition enough drones to give us decent coverage in lieu of actual CCTV. They're more versatile and can be redeployed at will."

John was flabbergasted. Everything he'd bitched and pissed about for years had just been handed to him on a platter. If he knew that Everett swung that way—or perhaps even if he didn't, he'd offer to get down on his knees and give him a nice, sloppy thank-you blowjob.

Caldwell dismissed the meeting. "Gentlemen, shall we get to it?"

The Army deployed their high tech surveillance drones within hours of the request, and the returned images showed that Dolphin Guy was still in the same area. The drones tracked his movements for the two days that it took to get plans for his capture in place. The TANG helicopters were at their disposal, and the Coast Guard had a cutter in place along the coastline, maintaining visual contact.

John was thrilled to death that Caldwell and Everett both were expecting him to be on one of the helicopters when they took off to capture the live specimen. He hadn't flown once, not since his return from Germany, and he was looking forward to it, despite his vague sense of unease.

John stood on the tarmac of Ellington Field, and he was lost to the world.

Images of his last helicopter flight were flashing though his mind, and John swallowed thickly against the bile that rose uncontrollably in his throat. Thank God he managed to not embarrass himself by vomiting right then and there.

He loved flying. He remembered the unparalleled feeling of escaping the earth, and how that made him feel, but now it was tainted, tangled up with the crash, all of it brought back by the unique, rare smell of JP8 exhaust and the sound of the pounding rotors overhead.

Ford laid a hand on his shoulder, "Are you okay?"

John jumped at the touch and he whirled around, panting heavily. He was most definitely not okay, but he was going to do this. He had to. "Yeah, sure," he said, but the look on Ford's face told him that he hadn't fooled anyone, not even himself. He turned away, and forced himself to climb aboard, yanking the shoulder restraint down tight.

He was sweating profusely, despite the brisk winter wind blowing through the open cargo doors of the helicopter as they took off, winging their way towards Galveston. It was a typical Houston winter day: gray, overcast skies, chill and damp with humidity. The dizzying rush of the ground below threatened to overwhelm his roiling gut. He closed his eyes to shut it out, and breathed deep, calming gulps of damp air scented with exhaust.

Fuck. He panicked, and he was back there again, all rational thought overwhelmed by sense-memory: the ground spinning crazily up at him and the screeching sound of the crash. He was trapped, he couldn't see anything, couldn't get out, choking in the smoke of burning plastic, fuel and flesh, with the copper-sweet taste of blood in his mouth, and he heard shouting and crying and the heavy thwack thwack of the rotors of the evac chopper, until finally the concerned face of the corpsman, leaning over him.

He ineffectually scrabbled at the shoulder restraint, twisting and squirming and whimpering as he tried to escape the crashed helicopter.

"Jesus, Sheppard! Someone close that door."

Hands held him down, pulled his away from the belt release. He startled at the slam of the cargo door rolling closed, but the wind noise was instantly cut in half and he stopped trying wrestle his way out.

Ford called over the radio, "We need to abort, get him out of the air."

The pilot responded, "Too late, LZ in two minutes."

John opened his eyes, and Ford was there, trapping John's hands with his. He expected to see anger, that he'd come on the helicopter despite his misgivings, but Ford only looked concerned and frightened.

John gave Ford a weak smile. "I'll be okay. Door's closed. I'm fine." He didn't look at the other inhabitants of the cabin, didn't want to see what they thought of him. "But I might catch another ride back."

The transspec ended up being incredibly easy to catch, it's dolphin-like mind and inclination propelled it to surf the bow wake generated by the Coast Guard cutter as it eased in near it, the helicopters flying low over the water to herd it towards the ship. The crew dropped a net over it, and the two divers that jumped into the water helped to ease it on board.

Ronon had come as soon as John called, stood with him on the beach, arm casually draped over his shoulders, comforting him with little pats and squeezes, as they watched Dolphin Guy loaded onto the helicopter for the transport back to Hermann Zoo.

Everett and Caldwell had been visibly concerned by Ford's description of John's panic attack, and Caldwell had told him to get some rest and take a couple of days if he needed them. He didn't need it; he'd just had two months of 'vacation'. John was furious with himself for trying to push the envelope—but that was his nature. Or was. John was coming to realize that his being grounded had had less to do with his eye than it had to do with his other, invisible disability. He'd been fooling himself for years.

"So what happened?" Ronon asked casually as the helicopter took off into the gray afternoon.

"I freaked out. I guess I don't like to fly as much as I thought I did."

John couldn't really take the next day off. He was scheduled to do a news conference at City Hall. He didn't like the idea of being on camera, in the spotlight, but today's fiasco had shown him that there were other, worse things that could happen.

Ronon drove him home. John self medicated with his favorite drug, three quick shots of liquor, and then Ronon took him to bed and eased away the rest of the trembling with careful strokes and soft kisses until John came in a hazy cloud of relief and floated away.

John woke up alone. He sat on the edge of the bed, going over the events of yesterday with a clearer, if somewhat hung over, head. The little knot of sorrow over being grounded that resided somewhere behind his heart had always been kept in check with the faint hope that he'd fly again, someday. Now, the checks and balances that allowed him to function were blown out of the sky and he was left with a gaping, yawning empty spot where that hope had lived.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his trembling hands and was shocked when they came away wet.

He'd just have to find a way to live with the hole in his heart.

Keller had called in an emergency prescription for a suitable, short-term anti-anxiety medication, and John had taken the first one in the car with a trembling slurp of cold coffee on his way downtown.

It was raining heavily as John pulled into the parking deck at City Hall. The old white stone building had withstood Victor when most of the younger skyscrapers around it hadn't fared so well. He picked up the messages left over night as he sat in the car waiting for the medication to take effect. Nancy had been busy, and the news of the live transspec had opened the pockets of her donors.

The rain beat steadily against the Plexiglas enclosure of the skywalk, and the weather suited his somber mood. The medication helped, the artificial calm melted over him like a second plastic skin, shielding him from the world and from himself.

The P.R. guy had done his job. John gave the sea of faces, cameras, lights and microphones arrayed before the podium an unconcerned look and pulled the prepared notes from his jacket pocket, straightened his tie, and stepped up to the microphone.

He gave his little speech, his plea for the aid and assistance from the citizens of the city, and announced yesterday's capture of the transspec as a huge image of the creature was projected against the wall behind him, over the Seal of the City, and flanked by the Texas Flag and Old Glory. The sizable figures of the reward fund that Nancy had wrangled from private sources caused a few gasps from the audience. In this day and age, it was money that spoke loudest, not civic duty.

In a medicated haze, John answered the questions from television, radio and news organizations from around the state, nation and globe, and he didn't tremble, stutter or panic, not once. Vala asked a few hostile, leading questions, but he was indifferent to her prodding. When it appeared that all of the questions had been answered, the P.R. guy took over and announced that there were press packets available in a variety of formats and that any further developments would be reported in a timely fashion. John stepped away from the podium, got into his car and drove the short distance to the precinct. Cool, calm, rational. Unfeeling.

Keller was a genius and he decided that he really needed to do something nice for her.

He spent the rest of the day in the office, going through the motions and feeling disconnected, until Evan couldn't take it any more and, with Caldwell's insistent blessing, took John home.

Evan may have thought that he was doing John a favor, but being home alone, without access to his vehicle, was almost unbearable. He was depressed that he hadn't talked to Rodney since Labor Day. Depressed that he now knew for a fact that he'd never fly again and the aching loss that he'd nurtured for years, the selective memory that it was the nanite eye's fault that he'd been discharged—not the absolute horror of reliving the crash every night unless he drugged himself into oblivion.

John had his finger on Rodney's speed dial before he remembered that he was mad at him, and he killed the call before it finished dialing.

He knew that Ronon actually had a job, albeit with informal working hours, and John didn't want to appear anymore needy than he already was, so he resisted the urge to call and chat while he sounded slow and stoned.

The medication put alcohol strictly off limits, so he didn't even have that solace to fall back on. The house was quiet. The only noise was his grandfather's old style ship's clock that ticked loudly and chimed off when the next watch shift was due.

At six o'clock, John gave up watching the hands of the clock crawl across the face and took another dose of the medication before going to bed.

The banging at the door awakened John, and he blearily looked at the bedside clock. He'd only been asleep for a couple hours, and the hazy disassociation of the medication clung to him, like he was wrapped in a wet silk sheet. He threw on the closest pair of pants at hand and answered the door.

"Teyla, Ronon? Come on in. What are you guys doing here?"

"We were very concerned when we did not hear from you. Ronon said that you were very disturbed yesterday, and we watched the news conference today. You did not look like yourself. It was most alarming."

"Oh, that. Yeah, not my best day."

Teyla sat in what John had come to think of as Rodney's chair, and Ronon sat next to John on the couch. John unconsciously leaned into his solid warmth, and somewhere under the plastic wrap of the medication, there was relief that they had come to check on him. It was nice to not have to ask for help—which he wouldn't have, in any case.

"Forgive me for being blunt, but I believe there is more to the situation than that. What happened?" She gave him an encouraging look, free of censure, and with Ronon's physical support, John ground out a tremulous, halting explanation of yesterday's panic attack, its cause and the prescription that Keller had given him.

Ronon slid his arm around John's waist as he recounted the barest details of the helicopter crash, and John snuggled a little closer. He'd only known them for a few days, and yet they were here, full of concern that John allowed himself to revel in it.

Teyla laid her hand over John's limp hands clasped in his lap and looked him in the eyes with a solemn expression. "Our short acquaintance doesn't give me the right to ask this, but it is important. Do you feel that you can trust me?"

John looked at her hand and he turned his over to take her hand in his. The answer was surprisingly simple. "Yes. I do."

She squeezed his hand, and gave him a brilliant, easy smile. "Very well. I think today is not a good day to begin, but as soon as you feel comfortable with not taking the medication, we will begin."

He had no idea what she was talking about, but it was okay. He trusted Teyla, and with Ronon standing at his side, it would be okay.

John sat with Teyla at the kitchen table and talked, while Ronon managed to scrounge up an actual meal out of the bits and pieces in John's spotty larder.

Teyla had a subtle interrogation technique; she would have made a good therapist. During the simple supper, she managed to drag most of John's history out of him: losing his parents, the divorce, his nanite eye replacement and subsequent discharge from the Air Force, the situation with Rodney, his alcoholism. He was shocked that it was easy to talk to both of them as he dispassionately recounted most of the low points of his life. Ronon didn't interrupt or question John, but he was listened carefully. The medication had loosened his tongue. He'd never voluntarily discussed these things.

After the meal was over, John tried to dissuade her, but Teyla insisted on washing the dishes and wiping down the counters as she laid out her plan. "I believe that there are some meditations that would be effective for you, and I will lead you through these."

He shook his head. He'd tried it years ago and he wasn't very good at it, but at the moment, he trusted her and he was in her hands. "Yeah, okay."

Ronon finally spoke up. "I've got a few things that might help, too." He smiled at John, showing those wonderful white teeth, and John shivered as he recalled the lovely filthy things that Ronon could do with that mouth. Ronon grinned and shook his head slowly. "Not that."

John must have looked as crestfallen as he felt, because Teyla and Ronon laughed out loud. "But yeah, alright, that too."

John caught the light rail downtown to Central on Saturday morning to catch up on what he had missed after Evan had evicted him. He could do this from home, but he needed to retrieve his vehicle anyway. The precinct had better coffee than he did at home, too, and he didn't want to sit around alone at the house. Central Patrol was rarely deserted.

His calendar flashed and buzzed at him, and that was never a good thing. Caldwell had updated it with a mandatory appointment to see Heightmeyer on Monday morning. It wasn't unexpected, because John had freaked the fuck out of everyone on the bird, and Caldwell had access to his employment file. He marked it notified, and moved on.

The Dolphin Guy – Adolph, John decided; it was deplorable that the victims had had their humanity ripped away, and the monikers weren't pet names – had been settled into the tank at Hermann without any problems, though the initial reports were discouraging. His transformation was far enough along that he couldn't talk. Beckett noted that there was another avenue he wanted to explore before they gave it up as a lost cause.

John logged out, went to the break room to grab another cup of coffee to go. Mitchell was there, lounging against the counter and perusing the electronic employee notice board while another pot was brewing.

"Hey, Mitchell. Didn't realize you were here."

"Yeah, just warming up a chair while Janet's going over case files. How are you doing?"

John shrugged. "Better, he said with a deprecating smile, "though that's probably just the drugs." The panic had subsided, but it was still there, fluttering weakly in his chest like a trapped bird.

"I hear you. Been there a time or two myself." The coffee machine signaled that it was ready with a clunk. John motioned for him to go ahead, then studied Mitchell briefly. In the last week, John had seen him twice, always in a gaggle of other Feebs, but he'd had a nice smile. He was attractive and obviously sharp, given his employer. John poured himself a refill while Mitchell doctored up one of the cups. "Come on back, if you're not busy. Jan will probably want to pick your brains."

"Sure, I'm done here."

Frasier was at the conference table, and the opposite wall was covered with photostats of notes, images arranged in chronological order. The vid was slowly shuffling through the same, life-size images. She looked up when he sat down next to her, facing the door. "Detective Sheppard. I'm surprised to see you here."

Mitchell rescued him with a crack, "Can't keep a good man down for long, Janet," as he sat on her other side, facing the wall.

"Mainly came in to get my truck."

"You need someone to drive you home?"

Man, he must look totally stoned. "Nah, it's not very far. What've you got so far?"

She shook her head slowly. "The unsub is probably very well educated, may even have worked in genetics, or compiled a massive amount of research data, considering that even Dr. Beckett is confounded by the technique. He believes that the unsub would require access to stem cells, as well as the specialized reagents. The official stem cell strains are well regulated, though. You'll need to look into the unofficial sources."

John grimaced. He loathed tracking down abortionists, he felt filthy just knowing they were out there.

"I don't have a very good handle on the gender, but this is definitely not a crime of passion. There's a long term goal of some sort."

"Right. There's no signs of violence on the transspecs themselves, but there are the associated shootings. Helgason, Callahan, and Ellicott, the informant. I'm pretty sure they're related to this."

Janet hummed to herself and tabbed the viewscreen. "Any reason other than intuition?"

Her tone wasn't confrontational, so John took that as actual curiosity about his thought process. He flicked on the viewscreen in front of him, and built a graph up on the vid. "September is the exotic animal theft. Some of the criminal element goes missing in October, then the cache of victims in January. Some of them are positively identified as those same missing people, and a few days after that, Helgason and Callahan were executed. There's a statistically improbably lull in the overall crime rate while the bad guys sort themselves out, waiting to see who's going to fill in the vacuum. I think it's possible that the selection of test subjects wasn't merely a coincidence."

"Undermining the authority, as a take-over bid in organized crime? That doesn't really fit the educational aspect."

"No, not really," John agrees mildly.

"There is the stressor to take into consideration. Was Helgason a 'collector'? Could be the unsub suffered from some major event which put him or her in a vulnerable position, then ends up in Helgason's sphere of influence and is taken into the organization. Gets a taste for it. Smart and ambitious."

"Yeah, Helgason had rep for making friends with interesting people, but the RICO guys would know more about that."

"I'll get in touch with them, maybe they'll have some insight to offer on this tangent."

John nodded. "Got a few things to look into, too. I'll leave ya'll to it."

Frasier thanked him for his input, and Mitchell waved as John left the conference room. Regardless of what Frasier said, he didn't think that their unsub had waltzed into a library, or accessed the data through an official portal, but he put in a warrant request anyway.

He drove home slowly and carefully, thinking about DIY genetics, and where he would start, if he wanted to turn science on its head and prove ontogeny really can recapitulate phylogeny. John ended up surfing the net until late, tracking down crazy conspiracy theories, and making anonymous inquiries, but it was a dead end. Maybe the unsub really was a geneticist, or there was something else he he'd overlooked.

In the early morning, John stumbled out on the front porch with a cup of near-coffee. It would be unpleasantly hot in a couple of hours. The neighborhood was quiet, the garden and grass were dry and brown, no need to mow. It would be cool enough to replant in a week or two. John was contemplating a run to the garden center when Teyla called and invited herself over. The conversation was so short, he didn't even have an opportunity to ask if Ronon was with her.

He turned around and called him. "Hey, buddy," John said softly.

"Teyla there yet?"

"You're not with her?"

"Nah. I'm in Matagorda, got an appointment with a surveyor in the morning. Anyway, I'd just end up being a distraction."

"The best kind." John felt the tips of his ears turn hot; apparently the medication turned off his brain-to-mouth filter.

Ronon chuckled, low and filthy, and it went straight to John's groin. That surprised him, so far the drugs had eradicated his libido to the point that he hadn't even had morning wood. "Thanks. I'll see you in a few, all right?"

"Yeah, looking forward to it." He made a mental note to call Keller about cutting back, because he didn't want to waste a minute of the short time allotted to this affair. He'd deal with the anxiety and panic, somehow. He always did.

John cut the connection just as Teyla's silver rental car pulled into the driveway. He opened the porch door for her, his curiosity simmering on low. It would be nice to visit without Ronon, because he was right: John found him very distracting.

"Mornin'," he called out.

"Good morning, John."

"You just in the neighborhood?"

Teyla flashed a bright grin. "I am now."

"Have a seat." He latched the screen door behind her. "You want something to drink? Near-coffee, soda?"

"Water will be fine."

"Coming right up." Teyla followed him into the kitchen.

"So, what's up? Not that you're not welcome to drop in anytime, but I get the feeling that you've got something on your mind."

She accepted the glass from him and took a sip. "Yes. I would like you to meditate with me, as we discussed."

"I'm half zombie right now, so should be pretty easy to zone out, but I thought you wanted to wait until I was drug-free?"

"As you say, you are already in a suggestible state. I believe that it would be efficacious to have a coping mechanism already in place."

John shrugged. "Can't hurt."

"Then let us begin."

Teyla spent the entire day showing him how to properly meditate, switching between different styles and forms. He was impressed at her vast knowledge and patience, explaining the theories and goals between each one – including the where he dusted himself with sage and placed a gemstone at each of his chakras – and she encouraged him to continue to try all of them.

John felt silly doing it, but he humored her, because her just being there helped and it was nice to be in the company of someone that cared. He relished both Ronon and Teyla's open affection, and it was addictive as any drug.

The best part was that she just smiled and shook her head when he woke up from his nap on the floor.

Kate Heightmeyer had the luxury of a sixth-story corner office with tall windows that overlooked the park in front of the old convention center. Though the room was barely larger than a broom closet, it was agreeably neutral, and the sun through the half open blinds warmed the industrial fluorescent light. It didn't look like an office, just two comfortable chairs in the middle of the room.

John understood her job was to ensure that he wasn't a danger to himself, or others, and his career was entirely dependent upon her final word. Didn't mean he had to like it.

She looked up with an amused, tiny smile when he knocked on the open door. "Welcome back for your annual visit, Detective."

"I didn't exactly plan this, you know." He sprawled in the chair opposite her.

"Yes, that would display an uncomfortable level of masochism."

That was part of why he disliked these sessions, because he didn't know whether or not the even for you was his, own subconscious echo.

"Why don't you tell me what happened? Captain Caldwell's order was, shall we say, rather brusque?"

"It was the smell. Had to take a helicopter ride that turned pretty hairy. Last time I had a hit of JP8, it didn't end so well. Brought it all back."

"Scent is a very strong sense-memory. How do you feel today?"

"Not too bad, since Dr. Keller called in a 'script for anti-anxiety medication."

"How are you going to feel when you stop taking it?"

John figured the implied question was, are you going to self-medicate until you need a new liver? "Going to try meditation for a while. Got a friend that thinks it'll help."

"Tell me a little about your friend."

John related his meeting with Teyla, and yesterday's lesson, but right now, he felt that his tenuous, ephemeral affair with Ronon was too new, too private to discuss the lightning-bolt pleasure jostled against the doubt.

"Last year you said that Dr. McKay was able to give you some support, but you haven't mentioned him at all today."

John resisted the impulse to sigh, because he didn't want to talk about this at all. Too many conflicting parts to that story, tied up in self-doubt and loathing, trying to do the right thing and still feeling jealous and puerile. "He's… out looking for the new Mrs. McKay, actually."

She made a sympathetic noise. "How do you see this resolving itself?"

"We'll work it out eventually."

"All right. I'll approve the release to work, even though I'm concerned that you're missing a major life-long support structure – conceivably the most important – you appear to be dealing with the latest event, and have some coping strategies in place."

"Thanks, Doc."

"If you ever feel like you need an unbiased sounding board, my door is always open."

Sure, that would be the day he sprouted wings and jumped off a roof.

When John got to his cubicle, he found a message from Evan that he was out with Ford and his team in North Houston, following up on a tip with corroborating surveillance footage. He called up all of the data, and while he waited, put in a call to Keller. She wanted him to taper off over a couple of weeks, and that if that didn't get the results he wanted, they could look into another formulation for long term use.

It was something, anyway.

John logged into the drone, and watched as Ford's team took down the latest live transspec, a woman with a smattering of feathers on her head, shoulders and arms. Evan called in and said he didn't think this one was going to live very long, though at least it wouldn't require a specialized habitat. They were going to drop it off at Beckett's borrowed lab space at the University.

Beckett's request for assistance with the specimen in his care had been declined by the Hermann Zoo, claiming a lack of funding; instead, SeaWorld donated an animal behaviorist and was already on a flitter down from San Antonio.

By Friday, the SeaWorld expert reported that while Adolph could no longer speak, it had only taken a few days to train him to use a cobbled together waterproof keyboard.

John thought it was entirely too bizarre that he was essentially interrogating an aquatic mammal, even though he still vaguely resembled a human being. The shape of his body was still humanoid, though his skin had mutated into the water resistant dolphin epidermis. The dorsal crest was just flesh, and his fingers and toes had fused together to resemble flipper-like appendages. His eyes looked human, except for the extra membrane that acted liked a second eyelid to protect them from the salt water. He was still able to digest a normal human omnivorous diet, though he preferred raw fish. Adolph was still creepy; a former human being turned animal, he'd lost that which made him human.

The interview proved to be sad, and hilarious at the same time. Adolph was smarter than the average dolphin. He was eager to interact and communicated readily through the keyboard, but the process of his transformation had essentially wiped his mind clean of any specific details surrounding the catastrophic event, including any information on his previous identity, or the perpetrator of his modification.

The rest of the month flew by. The other two GeMs that had been captured weren't as bright as Adolph and had proved un-trainable in any communication other than simple commands and hand signals.

Public reports of transspec sightings and the data from the Army drones increased, and A.D. Everett promised that the computing power issue would be solved. In the meantime, the cadre of volunteers at Gov 2.0 more than doubled and two more live transspecs had been captured through their efforts; manually sorting through the new images that the Army surveillance drones provided over the blackout zones in the city.

Three more bodies were found, and Beckett and and his team had sequestered themselves in the lab, but weren't any closer to teasing out how the mutation had been created.

At the end of the month, the investigation remained at a standstill. The tips and reports came in, and John forwarded the approved rewards, based on Ford and Lorne's capture records, to Nancy for the payout, but they weren't any closer in figuring out who was perpetrating the travesty, how they'd done it, or even why.

The scientific libraries and research facilities around the world, other than Genii Corp in Pine Bluff, had reported any breach in 'net security, while those with a physical location in the US hadn't logged any suspicious visitors.

Janet Frasier's profile was still sketchy, since there wasn't any hard evidence to work with. The list of Xuan Helgason's acquaintances, provided by the RICO investigation, had panned out. They all had solid alibis, and none of them had been deemed capable.

But September wasn't a total wash. John squeaked out time for both meditating with Teyla, and spending time with Ronon. Every couple of visits, Ronon would move the coffee tables and chairs to the side of the room and strip off his shirt, to give them the room for taiji soft forms. Teyla would sometimes practice with them, and it was hard to pay attention, because they were so beautifully synchronized with one another, as they moved through the basic yi lu and worked their way through to the swift, dazzling Fajing forms.

It had been weeks since John had talked to Rodney, but he wasn't any closer figuring out what to do about it, other than suck it up and apologize. That wouldn't necessarily change anything either, because Rodney's blog was updated regularly with the latest dating disaster.

John didn't bother to mask his IP when he surfed through. At least Rodney would know that he still cared enough to check.

22.

October

 

A.D. Everett delivered the good news at the task force's weekly Monday meeting. The new computer interface was ready for installation and the Professor would install it over the holiday weekend. Caldwell told John and Evan to take Friday off, too, since they were still lacking any breakthrough, and he didn't want them burned out before the case was solved.

Though John had lived within driving distance of New Orleans for decades, he'd never visited the city. The few vacations that John had taken were geared more towards camping in Big Bend or at Lake Pat near Dallas.

Teyla and Ronon, though, were apparently big fans of the American Venice. Her tenacious citizens had refused to give up in the face of the rising sea level, and the city was a collection of islands, bulwarked and levied and connected by a series of bridges. When the original Venice had sunk forever under the sea, the citizens of New Orleans had instituted the sposalizio del mare to honor her passing, for there was no city that was more wedded to the sea than New Orleans.

When Ronon heard that John had a four day weekend and that John'd never been to New Orleans, he insisted that they all go together, despite Teyla's doubts about the effects of the noise and crowds might have on John's still tenuous recovery from the panic attack.

John was confidant that he'd be able to handle it. The meditation and taiji had helped tremendously and he felt less stressed than he had in a long time. Plus, he'd be with Teyla and Ronon in the event of any relapse. It was like a rite of passage, and he had to prove to himself that he wouldn't spend the rest of his life wrapped in cotton wool in fear of a relapse of PTSD.

There wasn't a hotel room available anywhere in New Orleans, much less two and they agreed it would be fine to share. The only reservation they could get was many miles from the action. Teyla thought it was fortuitous, in that they would be able to escape the constant noise and parties, and they could come and go as they pleased.

Ronon and Teyla were well funded by The Atlantis Conservancy, and they insisted that it was unnecessary for John to chip in for the cost of the trip, though the offer was appreciated. Their rental car was paid for, and their daily per diem was generous enough that the difference in hotel rates between Texas City and Slidell wasn't an issue.

John apologized for being a pain in the ass because they would have to drive, but Teyla insisted that she wouldn't even consider asking John to fly, even if there had been seats available.

They set out Thursday after John managed to escape work and arrived very late at the hotel in Slidell; the detours and construction I-10 had turned the former six-hour drive into more like eight or nine. There wasn't anything to see or do near the ratty motel, and after some discussion, they elected to turn in for the night.

Early Friday morning they took a cab into the city and spent the day sight seeing. The Bucentaur, a gift to the city from the last mayor of Venice, was on display, and a crew was hard at work, months before the holiday, preparing the old and creaky boat for the journey that would take place on Ascension Day. They ate gumbo and etouffé from paper cups and wandered Jackson Square with its sidewalk artists and street performers, hurricanes and daiquiris in hand, jostled by the crowds. They toured the quiet and mysterious Garden District and rode the St. Charles street car that clanged down the street and over the bridges to and from the various sections of the city—all lovingly restored and preserved and awash in the bright, fragrant blooms of bougainvilleas and oleanders.

Teyla seemed to know everyone, and she wrangled an invitation to a private party for Saturday. The old house on Bourbon Street was perfectly situated, and the second story balcony overlooked the amassed partiers that wandered through the streets year round.

The party was insane. Larry and Jane—John never did catch their last names—were fans of a particular drink they called the Deep Knee Bend: two parts Jack Daniels and one part Amaretto. The damn things were in constant production along with any other alcohol he could possibly want or imagine.

Three Deep Knee Bends had John flying. He hadn't had a drink in over a month, and he and Ronon walked down to the street, giggling and hanging off of each other. The crowd was in fine form and no one noticed as he and Ronon kissed like teenagers under a street lamp.

Even though the midnight buffet in the drawing room had been sumptuous and awe inspiring, Ronon insisted on beignets and coffee as Café du Monde just before dawn. The café was packed, and they ended up sitting on the curb, licking powdered sugar from their lips and fingers as the crowd streamed in and out around them.

Exhausted and still drunk, they poured themselves into a cab and napped until late afternoon.

Teyla got up and was moving around the shaded room. John cracked one eye open slightly. "Hey. You going somewhere?" He was hungover. His head hurt and he wanted a gallon of water and some painkillers.

"I have a relative that I would like to visit for a few hours. I will return around seven?"

John closed his eye and shifted on the hot sheets. The air conditioner was on high and it barely cooled the room. "Yeah." She wasn't just visiting a friend, it was a subtle offer of a few hours with Ronon. "Thanks," he added.

"You're welcome." He didn't have to see her to hear her gentle humor. The room brightened briefly, a flare of red behind his closed eyes, and then she was gone.

He rolled onto his side and leaned up onto his elbow. John carefully slid his hand down Ronon's back, pushing away the limp sheet that draped across them.

Not for the first time, he marveled at his luck, and wondered what Ronon saw in him. He had to be at least fifteen years older, scarred and going a little soft in places despite his best efforts. An aging alcoholic, more than a little messed up.

The sheen of sweat on the sleek, soft skin under his palm was like unblemished silk. He couldn't resist the broad muscled shoulders, and he bent to trace the curves with his tongue, tasting the salt. John dragged his tongue down, down to the faint patch of hair just above the cleft of Ronon's ass and placed a soft kiss there, as he delicately traced the crease of ass and thigh with a finger tip.

Ronon was awake, but he held still, let John lick and caress, until he pulled at Ronon's hip. Ronon turned over onto his back, crossed his hands behind his head and grinned.

It was an invitation that John eagerly accepted. Like himself, Ronon's cock was already hard, but John wanted to play. He dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of Ronon's neck, licked away the faint pool that had gathered there. He ran his hand down Ronon's front and tangled his fingers in the pubic hair, as he gently worried the nipple closest to him with the barest edge of teeth. He wasn't into actual pain, nor had Ronon displayed any predilection for the rough stuff.

John tongued and stroked the fine skin over Ronon's hip, the crease at his thigh, and finally took hold of his hard cock as he sucked at his belly button. He thrust against Ronon's firm thigh, delighted in the scent and taste and sensation.

"John," Ronon said softly. It was a plea to be released from the invisible bonds holding his hands.

"Yeah."

Ronon pulled him up, kissed him languorously, deeply, and John slung a leg over him and slithered until he was straddled over Ronon, knees planted in the sheets and his balls pressed against Ronon's cock. It would be so easy to just slip back that little bit, to spit himself, but bareback had never been his thing, and he wasn't going to start any bad habits this late in life.

He didn't want to stop what he was doing, either. John was content to stretch out, to lay against Ronon, push into the sweet, sweat-slicked hollow of his hip, feel the exquisite drag of crinkly hair against his hard-on. Ronon's arms encircled him, hands reached down to to his ass, firmly cupping his cheeks and pulling him in closer, tighter, harder as they pushed and thrust into each other.

John broke the kiss finally, to pant against Ronon's neck, the sweat now pouring off of them, lubricating the slip and slide of their bodies. He was so close, just a second away from coming, and when Ronon flipped them over and then sat up, he actually whined, a broken sound aborted when Ronon leaned over to grab condoms and lube.

John rolled to his front and Ronon shifted to kneel in the vee of his outstretched legs. Ronon never questioned that John preferred it this way, only obliged him with a perfunctory swipe of lube, then pushed into him, covered him completely from shoulders to hips.

He turned his head to the side and shivered both hot and cold as he breathed though the burn. Ronon's cock felt gloriously huge inside him, and he couldn't help the sighs that escaped him as Ronon fucked him, hard. He needed this, he loved it, Ronon's weight that bore him down into the bed, the cheap springs protesting in time with Ronon's panting grunts of effort.

John lasted longer than he expected, but when he came, it was with a flash of lightening in his open eyes and the tension rolled away like thunder, fading into a moment of perfect bliss. Ronon withdrew and John went willingly as Ronon turned him over. Ronon slid back into him, and he hooked his ankles around Ronon's waist.

God, Ronon had some stamina. He fucked John's mouth with his tongue, fucked him with his cock in long slow, hard thrusts that John rocked into, dragged his hands down Ronon's back and grabbed a double handful of that beautiful ass, urging him on with whispered encouragement. "Yeah, like that—come on."

His cock got hard again, trapped between their sweaty bellies, and Ronon just kept going, the smooth rhythm of a long distance runner. John was on the verge of coming a second time, when Ronon nearly squeaked as he came, the thrusts short and uncoordinated.

John whimpered as Ronon pulled out, his ass sore and well used, and Ronon wrapped his mouth around John's cock, and oh god, his orgasm was wrenched out of him, hot and wet and slick.

He watched with slitted eyes as Ronon spit into a wad of sheet, and disposed of the condom. He didn't care, didn't think that swallowing was significant or any sort of sign of affection. When Ronon landed next to him in a slump, he rolled over and wrapped an arm and leg around him. "Thank you." John said in an exhausted slur. They were marinating in sweat and come, and the room reeked, the beleaguered air conditioner wafting drifts of warm air over them.

Ronon chuckled. "You always say that."

"Mmm. I always mean it."

They went back to New Orleans for dinner, a sidewalk cafe redolent with the smell of spicy food and the sea just over the levy. John felt sated, boneless, and couldn't stifle his grin as Teyla talked about her ancient maternal aunt that she'd visited. John just enjoyed their companionship, let the lingering haze of the stellar sex, the sounds of Jackson Square and the crisp taste of the excellent beer wash over him.

It had been so long since he'd just stopped to enjoy himself in the last ten months, forgotten in the insane rush to solve the GeM case and the horrific aftermath of trying to fly again. It was waiting for him back in Houston, but for the moment, he was happy.

He was mostly recuperated from the weekend, but the remnants of a hangover called for something a little better than the usual doughnuts. John swung by Weikel's out on Westheimer, picked up two huge boxes of assorted pastries and still managed to arrive early at the precinct.

He shook his head at the profound change. Every thing had shifted around to make room for a new cubicle with high walls and the opening secreted around the corner.

He poked his head inside, and there was his and Evan's desks, arranged back to back in plain sight, but there was another wall to the right, shielding a new workstation. A wild haired man with bloodshot eyes, sat in front of a three dimensional hologram terminal, totally absorbed in his work.

The hologram was sort of mesmerizing to watch, but even after a few seconds, the display gave him a distinct feeling of vertigo. John grabbed the back of the chair, startling the occupant.

"Oh. Hello. I apologize for moving the desks. Is where they dropped the fiber."

"Not a problem." John shrugged and set the boxes down on his desk. "It's not like we have a window view or anything. I'm John Sheppard. Been here long?"

"Since Friday morning." The wild haired man, who didn't introduce himself, sniffed and eyed the boxes. "Is that kolàcê?"

"There's some of everything in there. Help yourself." John pulled a stack of fast food napkins out of his desk drawer and tossed them next to the boxes. He grinned at the look of adoration that the guy gave him as he raised the lid on the box. "You want some coffee?"

"No, thank you. Have been drinking coffee for days." He took two kolaches and a sausage roll, then made an obscene moan as he bit in to the soft, sweet bread, his eyes nearly rolling up in his head.

"Good?" John chuckled as he watched him nearly inhale all three of them, one right after the other.

"Oh, yes. Very good."

John laughed outright when he gave the box a greedy glance. "No, really. Help yourself."

The strange little man pounced on the box and gathered up three more and shot John a little appreciative look. "Thank you. Oh, já am neurč. "Radek Zelenka."

"Pleased to meet you, Radek Zelenka." John pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm going to take these to the break room, do you want any more?"

Radek fluttered one hand toward the break room as he ate his fifth pastry in a more dignified manner and turned back to the new terminal.

John laid the boxes open on a table in the break room, sniffed the pot of coffee that had probably been sitting there all night, and gave it a swish. It was perfect. He poured a cup, and as a fresh pot brewed, popped two painkillers and drank a huge glass of water before returning to his desk to clear out his email.

His good mood evaporated when he discovered that Ford and Mitchell had been busy while he'd been gallivanting out of state; there were almost ten new transspec captures. John tried to upload them into the database he'd been keeping but the superuser had locked him out of the damn thing. He turned to Radek and asked in a tight voice, "Are you responsible for this?" He angled his screen towards Radek.

"Yes, yes. I am just now building the interface to Unity, very far behind schedule. The old mainframe, I think it was steam driven. I didn't know anyone still used that model. After the interface, the data conversion may take as many as ten minutes."

It was true. John's PCD was faster than the mainframe but he'd gotten used to its eccentricities and oddities over the years. "Five exabytes in ten minutes?" John whistled. That was unbelievable, actually.

Radek gave him a shark-like grin, full of teeth, as if he were an evil overlord. "Unity is unlike any other computer," he said as he turned back to his display.

Since he was locked out, John scooted his chair to watch over Radek's shoulder. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen and he'd been to Rodney's lab at NASA. Data streams in softly glowing 3D that subtly shifted in response to the keyboard commands. John could swear that he saw the patterns as they formed and disintegrated. "Do you see that?"

The hologram paused midstream as Radek's hands stilled in midair. "See? What do you see?"

John lifted a finger towards the hologram. "This, here, and here. I see patterns, it's like seeing Jesus on a tortilla, you know—the Shroud of Turin thing."

"Is it only one eye, or both?" Radek lifted an eyebrow in surprise and stared at John as if he'd never seen him before.

There was no mistaking what Radek meant. John just leaned back from the screen, crossing his arms in front of him. "Just the one."

"I myself have had both eyes replaced. The nanite eyes see more than biological eyes, they are always providing vast amounts of information fed into subconscious, unless... Have you trained to use it?"

"Nope, just enough to be able to see with it."

"That is unfortunate, there is so much more that can be done with these eyes." Radek peered closely at John, staring him straight in the eyes. "The right one. When did this happen?"

"About thirteen years ago."

"Ah, the military's first generation, then. What were the circumstances, if I may ask?"

"Helicopter crash, lost an eye. I agreed to be a guinea pig, but it didn't keep me behind the stick." He understood now that wasn't the entire truth, but he didn't see any reason to go around and advertise his issues.

"They were very short-sighted," Radek smirked at his pun. "They didn't realize what a powerful asset the nanite eyes are. It is how I designed the processors for Unity."

"Yeah. I always thought so." John had never met anyone else with eyes like his. "Do colors seem different to you? Off, somehow?"

"It is not that they are 'off', it is that they are superior in breaking down the light spectrum, broader and more finely gradiated." Radek shook his head, set his hand to the keyboard and data began to flow again. "You are wasted here."

John slumped down into his chair and considered the idea. He'd barely passed the Ishihara, spent years thinking of the replacement eye as a disadvantage, an obstacle to his old occupation. But last month's debacle had proven that to be incorrect. "What kind of training?"

Radek waved him back towards the hologram. "I cannot slow the processing threads, I am already behind schedule. Close your left eye and look, here and here?"

John humored him and closed his left eye. The disorientation disappeared and the patterns become clearer.

He waved a hand at the terminal. "Do we need a class to learn to use this thing?"

"No, is not necessary. If you wish to use the mainframe terminals once the installation is complete, the response time is measured by how fast you can type. This is why the installation is taking so long. If you wish, the AI is ready for conversation."

The revelation that the solution to their computing problem was an AI stunned John. Rodney had talked endlessly for years about the dropped hints at tech conventions that a true artificial intelligence had been achieved and now, John was sitting in front of it. "How did we rate that?"

"Unity requires a field test and fortuitously, your situation is perfect showcase. Not only that Unity can effectively work outside lab, but the problem is low enough in complexity that the visible results can be measured."

"Huh. Low enough in complexity?"

"Unity has already proved several Millennium problems. Sadly, computer cannot win prizes."

Evan came arrived as the traffic in the room began to pick up. He took one look at John, his more than usual disheveled hair, the dark circles under his eyes and said with a grin, "You had a good weekend."

John grinned. "Yeah. You?"

"Oh sure. It was quiet. Katie had me building a new greenhouse and digging in the dirt."

"Evan Lorne, police detective by day, gardener by night."

"Yeah, yeah." Evan nodded towards Radek and the hologram. "This the new system?"

"Yep. That's Professor Zelenka and the amazing talking computer. Or so I've been told—I haven't actually spoken to it."

Evan shrugged, lot of computers talked. "Okay. Is it what we wanted?"

"Nope, it's more. Technically, its not a computer, it's an artificial intelligence."

"Whoa."

"Pretty much what I said." John glanced at his watch. They only had an hour before the meeting. "Professor, how much longer?"

Radek hit the last key with a flourish and an androgynous face appeared in the hologram matrix. "Ask for yourself."

John stared at the hologram and it stared right back at him, making eye contact with him. Although he talked to his Zhing all the time and it gave him answers, he understood the basis on which it operated, it wasn't really thinking. He wasn't exactly sure how to relate to Unity, obviously it was very highly advanced technology but also obviously cognizant, recognizably sentient. "Uhm, hello?"

"Good morning, Detective Sheppard. I am so pleased to meet you. And you too, Detective Lorne." Unity's voice was as non-gendered as it's face, a weird synthesis of male and female tones. The pale eyes seemed enormous in the pixie-like face. Unity was smiling slightly, as if there was a joke that John hadn't picked up on.

He cleared his throat, shared a surprised glance with Evan, and then addressed the computer. He stifled an uneasy giggle as he thought of Rodney's old Trek movies. "Uhm, pleased to meet you too."

"I am quite excited to be here. This new environment is very interesting, and so large! Do you enjoy working here?"

The question took John by surprise. Sure, he felt useful, knew that he performed a valuable service, it paid the bills and the problems he faced on a daily basis were challenging, but did he really enjoy it? Though he didn't exactly lie, he wasn't immediately prepared to answer the question. "Yeah, sure." The Professor must have kept Unity in a breadbox if it thought the mainframe was large.

"I'm glad to hear that. Detective Lorne, do you also enjoy your work?

Evan's answer was automatic and unthinking. "Of course. Very much."

"I think I'll enjoy working here with both of you. Would you like me to join the nine o'clock meeting?"

Radek shrugged and grinned at John's shocked look. "The meeting room screen is connected to main frame, and therefore Unity."

Shaking his head with dawning horror, John suddenly realized why Unity thought it's new accommodations were large; it was connected to virtually everywhere. "Is that a good idea?"

"Nedomrd! Do you take me for an idiot? We have all seen the movie. Unity has a well-rounded education, philosophy, religion, politics, and ethics. Was raised with a conscience and sense of humility. This is not a machine for war. I assure you, Unity has been tested and vetted for many years and there are safeguards in place, out of my control."

John realized, according to Rodney's rumors, that Unity wasn't brand new, right out of the box. There wasn't anything that he could do about it anyway. That the Professor wasn't in charge of the kill switch of his baby made him feel marginally less wary, though he wondered exactly who was in control, and where were they? A thought occurred to him. "Is this the reason for the cubicle?"

"Partially to shield Unity from prying eyes, yes. Unity is an open secret, and is prepared to participate in the charade. Also reduces ambient light for use of the dimensional hologram."

John shrugged. "Sure, join the meeting. We've got about thirty minutes, Professor. I have a clean shirt, if you like."

Radek glanced down. There were coffee stains on the front and sweat stains under the arms. "Thank you, I have one, but perhaps a shower?"

"Third floor locker room, just north of the elevator."

As the primaries on the case, John or Evan were normally in charge of the weekly briefings but today A.D. Ellis was in the lead. The conference room was standing room only as all available officers crammed themselves into the room.

Ellis began as the last few people squeezed in the doorway. "Good morning. The FBI was able to acquire the use of the latest generation of computational devices for the GeM case, but this new resource affects all of you. Professor Radek Zelenka, the developer of this remarkable system, is here to brief us this morning and answer any questions. Professor?"

Zelenka had showered and put on a clean shirt, but he still looked like he'd been on a four-day bender. It was possible that he always looked that way. "Ah, my pleasure, Mr. Ellis. The Unity system has been under development for many years. It is a new interface that sits in front of your mainframe. It will outperform your current system by many hundreds of orders of petaflops; it will appear to be almost instantaneous. All of the data in the mainframe, as well as any other non-classified data source that is connected by the Internet cloud is available to you, just as before."

Someone quietly asked, "What's with the cubicle?"

"There is an experimental hologram interface, which can be quite noisy, and though there are no additional utilities provided, Detectives Sheppard and Lorne have graciously agreed to test for me. All functionality of the new interface is accessible via previous connections to the mainframe."

Ellis smoothly interjected, "I'm sure that Lorne and Sheppard would appreciate your discretion in keeping traffic in their workspace to a minimum. Anything else, Professor?"

"To assuage your curiosity, I will demonstrate Unity's hologram interface for you." Radek nodded at John, who triggered the remote to lower the lights and Unity's face appeared on the screen. All of the shocking animation that had made it seem real, alive, was gone and face on the screen seemed like a cartoon of itself. "This is the hologram interface. It will appear to be having a conversation with you, simply because of the speed at which Unity processes data. You are familiar with this, yes?"

Radek played his part beautifully. He went through a question and answer routine with Unity. The face on the screen didn't betray so much as a blink that would reveal its true nature. He opened the floor to a few questions from the audience until everyone was satisfied that while this was remarkable, it was just another computer and they were no longer curious about the interface itself.

"I will be available for consult. Also, Unity is merely a loan. I must take it with me when the investigation is closed, so please make the best use of your time with the system."

"Thank you, Professor, and thank you, all of you, for taking this time out of your busy day." Ellis nodded at the door and everyone who wasn't part of the GeM task force vacated the conference room.

After assuring that the only people left were authorized to be there, Captain Caldwell was the last one out. He was on a mission to solve the backlog of open cases. The information obtained by the fleet of Army drones had given a boost to many other unrelated investigations that had plagued the HPD. Unity could only improve everyone's solve rate.

John stood up as the door closed. "Since access has been restricted for the last couple of days the case files are out of date. I'd like everyone to give a brief overview of any new developments since Friday. Mitchell?"

The conversation went around the table. Each agent and officer relayed their findings for the last four days – if any – while Unity tabulated the conversation and updated the files.

They were no closer to a resolution to the problem, but the fact that they had a new tool had improved morale, and the meeting broke with a renewed sense of purpose.

Evan had a lead that he wanted to track down, and left the precinct. John returned to his cubicle, he wanted to get a handle on Unity's capabilities, and he had the perfect test case. He sat in the chair at the new work station, and Unity appeared without any prompt. "Hey."

Unity smiled in return. "Hey."

"I want to run search on Charlotte Weir McKay."

"Parameters?"

"Review CCDP and locate all appearances. File number..."

"I have the file number," Unity said almost primly, as if John had insulted it.

He'd barely had time to blink in consternation when it announced, "The file is updated with links to all references." John opened the file, and the list scrolled down, page after page.

"Wow." He opened links at random. Right up until May there was a club here and there, stops at convenience stores, liquor stores and the occasional all night diner, but nothing that showed her on record as being employed. There were regular appearances at banks though, all of them Rodney's. Nothing after mid September, at all. She seemed to have literally dropped off the face of the earth, and John wasn't exactly sure what to make of that. He'd asked Rodney about her last May, but Rodney hadn't mentioned giving her money, and they hadn't been on speaking terms lately.

He should call and ask, maybe Charlotte had left town again. John shook his head and put it aside, and began to go through all of the victims once by one with Unity, to see if it could make heads or tails out of the dizzying, disparate information.

Even with Unity's advanced capabilities, after two days of hammering at the data, there wasn't any magic answer. John was glad for the interruption when the Professor showed up. He looked rested and his hair was neatly combed.

"How are you getting along with Unity? Any problems?"

"Nope. It's great—I'm just tired of being cooped up in here in the dark."

"Ah, my apologies. There are plans for a better interface, but it will be some time before that is complete."

"No, don't apologize. I just need a break."

"Would you care to join me for dinner? We can speak of the nanotechnology, if you wish."

Ronon and Teyla had taken off for a short sweep of where Brownsville used to be, and he didn't expect to see them for a week or more. "Thanks. Anywhere in mind?" John shut his terminal down and slipped his Zhing into his pocket.

"Yes, but you must drive. I did not realize Houston still required a vehicle."

Public transportation was getting better, and you could go almost anywhere if you were patient, but it was a far cry from other cities, other states. Texans remained a cranky bunch that still placed a premium on the freedom of an individual vehicle. "Sure."

He had to clear out some crap from the passenger seat and shove it in the back, but it didn’t seem to bother the Professor. He merely gave John the name of the restaurant, and John knew where it was. It was fairly new, but it supposed to be real Texas old-style barbeque.

John felt at home in the unassuming surroundings that the owner had gone to some lengths to recreate. Wooden tables chairs and floors and the vinyl checked table cloths must have cost a mint. They talked and got to know one another as they made a respectable dent in the huge tray of ribs and 'fixins'.

When John had decided he was done, he relaxed with a beer and watched Radek put away most of the rest. "So, Professor. How did you get your eyes?"

Radek wiped his hands on the serviette again, and took a drink of his ice tea. "My research was stalled, had been for years. After much discussion with a colleague, I had them replaced."

"On purpose?" Considering voluntarily replacing body parts made John feel a little ill, though he knew that people did it every day. He wasn't one of them. After his eye had been replaced, he had felt changed, different.

"It was no sacrifice. I was very nearsighted and I required the specialized vision to continue the work on Unity. I see far better now than I ever did before."

"How long did it take you to get used to them?" John recalls the months of disorientation and headaches, but he had also had to deal with trauma and a head injury, then the addiction.

"A matter of weeks. To train my brain out of the learned responses of a lifetime? Several years."

"How?" John understood the concept—practice and repetition. It had taken years to become a honed pilot with an instinctual knowledge of the aircraft and his place in it. It was mostly that he'd never considered the possibility that his eye could be more than it was, but he chalked that up to a case of deep denial that had persisted up until a month ago. The thing was, he wasn't sure where to start in this particular endeavor.

Radek regarded him warmly, which didn't feel odd, until John remembered that he was essentially using machines to see. "Hmmm, how to explain? I cannot say for you, as you must still deal with input from organic eye. I did not have such handicap. I knew from my research on the nanotech eyes, that I must give away preconceptions of how things must appear, yes? Example—a red rose. Many people can see that the colors are graduated dark to light and that there is texture. If you put that same object under an electron microscope, it becomes very different. I see a red rose and it is a thousand discrete variations of color and texture."

John chuckled and shook his head. Never once had he considered that his own left eye was the inferior version. "Do you ever feel overwhelmed by it?"

"If I do not think about it, no. Normal eyes also take in much information that the brain filters away. We see with our minds. Consider a person with eidetic memory. They are seeing the same things that all of us see, they simply process it more effectively."

"Okay." He knew that, just hadn't put it in that particular context.

Radek changed the subject. "Tell me of these transspecs. I have seen it on the news, but I simply could not believe it!"

John spent another week hidden in his cubicle working with Unity. It had a definite preference for John over Evan, though it was never rude or uncooperative. It was fine, he kind of liked working with Unity to make sense of the massive amounts of data, updating crime scene maps, correlating the various incidents with other, seemingly unrelated crimes. Unity was able to single out an individual and track him or her until they fell off the grid, or not. It actually worked backwards, eliminating people that were still visible, checking them for possible police records, or suspicious activity. There were approximately four and half million people living in the greater metropolitan area, and the data was further complicated by people that tended to live off the grid, and the vast volume of CCDP information that was accrued every minute by the fleet of Army drones that hovered around the city.

The Army drones were the latest generation of surveillance technology, and not as prone to vandalization. They could actually record individual conversations on the street, unlike the city's system, which was still working with first gen sound, used mainly for the detection of gunshots, explosions and car accidents. The use of the drones had ignited a firestorm of complaints about the infringement of personal privacy. Citizens and residents feared it because it was effectively spying on the city, unlike the city's creaky, old CCDP system. Interviews, blogs, vid coverage and the papers around the globe were focused on Houston, almost to the exclusion of all other news.

John thought that the media had blown the use of the drones completely out of proportion—they were a temporary tool to root out a serious concern to the nation. It wasn't as if they were going to be able to keep them.

John had never been so glad to be stuck in an office. Evan, more accustomed to dealing with the press generally let it roll off his back, but even he returned to the precinct annoyed and furious by Mal Doran. She'd taken to tailing Evan, and constantly interfered while he conducted official police business.

It had taken several days to work up the nerve, but he bit the bullet and invited Radek to the house for dinner, then he sent Rodney an invitation by email. He could read it, take the olive branch to show up – or not. He knew that Rodney would get a kick out of meeting Zelenka, and it was an excellent excuse to break their stalemate.

He considered the preparation of a meal, and then gave up and called Marny. She'd have something special ready when he came by. Radek was waiting for him in the Hilton's lobby. "I hope you don't mind, but we're going to stop and pick dinner. I also invited a friend of mine—I didn't really plan this very well."

"You are very busy. How is the investigation?"

"It's kind of chaotic right now, but I think we're getting somewhere. Unity's a big part of that, thank you."

"Thank you, John. It has not had very many opportunities for socialization. My research assistants are Unity's extended family. It seems to enjoy working with you."

John chuckled. There were times that he nearly forgot that Unity was just a machine, but then he supposed that was the intent. "It's pretty cool, interesting. We're making a lot of progress together. We've narrowed down the possible locations for the lab based on a million factors that I can't keep track of."

"But the reasoning is solid, you believe?"

"You're asking me?"

"I may have built Unity, but once it passed the Turing test, it gained knowledge so quickly from so many sources, that I can no longer deduce how it has arrived upon a solution. I inquire only as to your opinion."

"I can follow the reasoning, but yeah, like you said, I don't know how it pulled all of that together."

"Yes," Radek sighed happily. "It is still very amazing to me."

Radek went in the mercado with him and did a little shopping while John haggled with Marny over the dinner which included a tres leche cake large enough for a whole village. He never won, so he gave up and carted it out to the SUV.

Rodney arrived at the house, exactly on time for a change. He looked as nervous as John felt, but after John introduced him to Radek, the tension melted away, though Rodney remained ultra polite for approximately five minutes.

Five minutes after that, the conversation went over his head and stayed there. He'd expected that, though, and it was entertaining. He was just glad to be able to spend some time in the same room without getting into who needed what. It had been a long time since he'd seen Rodney this happy. John just rocked his chair back on two legs while the two of them happily argued as if they'd known each other for years.

By the end of the evening, Rodney offered to drive Zelenka home. Though he and Rodney hadn't solved any of their issues, or even barely conversed at all, it felt like a step in the right direction. John hadn't made it very easy for them to remain friends.

The FBI team grew again with the addition of four more agents, though they were rarely in the office. John had barely gotten to know any of them. They were professional, and didn't mingle at all with the HPD officers outside of discussing the case and briefings.

They did most of the follow up on the solid information that came out of the tip lines, talking to the folks that weren't crackpots, and adding the results to their fast growing web of possible locations and individuals.

Unity processed twenty four hours a day, slowed only by the necessity of briefing John, and in turn his briefing the rest of the team. John also had the onerous task of maintaining the list of viable tips that required payment from Nancy's reward fund, though he wasn't required to handle the actual transfers. Her 'foundation' took care of that.

Everyone one wanted the money. So, when a peculiarly anonymous tip meshed with everything they had amassed—it would've been only a matter of days, John thought, before they had come up with the information themselves—the team was called into to discuss the information.

"I'm reluctant to dismiss the information out of hand simply because it's anonymous." Ellis looked tired. They were all tired.

Frasier tapped on the table with her stylus. "Could be someone that's tangentially involved, but doesn't want to be targeted by our unsub. It fits."

Unity was attending the briefing in it's usual fashion. "I've extrapolated two more similar locations based on the data available." The face was replaced by a holomap, with the tipster's address marked in blue, and two dots flashing in red. "These fall into the same parameters as the location indicated, and there are definite indications of recent activity."

Mitchell leaned forward. "I think the question is, how long do we sit on this? We wait too long, it's gonna go stale."

There were nods all around the table, and Ellis placed his palms flat down on the table. "I agree, even if it isn't valid, we're going to gain traction with the press with the appearance of action. Let's do this."

Aerial images were displayed and a plan was formulated. They divided themselves into three teams with back up by local HPD. They suited up into tactical gear, the SWAT teams were alerted and they headed out. As interesting as Unity was, John was glad to get out and do something, rather than sitting behind a desk.

It was a typical October day. The faint fog of early morning had burned off in the brilliant sun. The street was cordoned off to keep the few pedestrians out of the line of fire. Everyone did a quick reception test of their cameras and mics, then spread out after they read five by five.

The snipers had taken their positions on the roofs of the surrounding buildings. John was already sweating under the long sleeved tactical vest as they spread out to their assigned positions.

John carefully edged around to the side entrance of the building. The grip of the taser was slippery in his hand, but he didn’t give in to the temptation to shift the weapon to his other hand and wipe his palm on his trouser leg. He just kept his eyes on the section of the building to which he'd been assigned. It was a three-story brick building with most of the windows were boarded up, though there was a broken window on the third floor that gaped open. He glanced above him; the snipers on the roof were hidden.

The broken window was small and fairly high. The probability of anyone using it to escape was low and John was well concealed. He would have preferred to have a high caliber handgun with an extra long clip, but they really needed a live, reasonably undamaged, talkative suspect. The taser would subdue a suspect with a minimum of damage.

The radio clipped high on his vest clicked three times with the signal to go. John tightened his grip on the weapon and shifted his weight slightly as he prepared to break open the door to his immediate right.

He was surprised by a bizarre figure that jumped out of the open window above him. The fact that it was nearly thirty feet off the ground made no difference to the emerging suspect—it merely spread a pair of broad, black-feathered wings which slowed the descent. This gave John a clear view of the escapee, small high breasts revealed as the wings swept high and wide.

He muttered "Crap," as he fired at her in midair and hit the girl squarely, but the dart bounced off the layer of tough scales that covered the girl's torso and thighs. That should not have happened. The weapon was designed to work through even military body armor.

John quickly ejected the wire clip to fire again, but at that moment, the third floor of the building exploded above him. John ducked to avoid the flaming debris that rained down on him. Fuck, he did not need this, not again. He took a deep calming breath and tried to shove the panic down as the bird girl hit the ground running towards him. He aimed, but she smashed him into the brick wall and then wrenched the weapon from his hand while he was too dazed to retaliate.

They were face to face for only a moment but John instantly had a feeling of vague familiarity, before she shot him in the thigh at point blank range with the second cartridge and his brain whited out from the pain.

There was no way that John could give chase as he watched as his attacker escape through a door in the next building, with his taser in her hand. The whole operation had gone from flawless plan to complete fiasco in seconds. The radio went crazy with chatter as the rest of the team reacted to the explosion. John heard the camera tech report that he was down.

"Dammit!" John yelled, as soon as he regained enough breath. He was struggling to roll over and get upright when Evan skidded around the corner.

"Are you all right?" Evan grabbed his arm and helped him up.

John leaned against the brick wall for support. "Yeah, fine, just got knocked down. And shot with my own weapon. Anyone hurt?"

Evan took stock of the blood running down the back of John's neck and seeping out from the sharp electrode cartridge embedded into his thigh. "Just you. The blast went off before anyone got inside. What happened back here?" He tugged John back down to the ground before he fell over, and inspected the head wound.

"Something crawled out the window and fucking flew down. I hit her, but it bounced off her scales. Obviously the 'tip' was a plant."

"No shit."

"Have the other teams checked in yet?"

Lorne shook his head and put a finger to his lips, then delicately pulled a small beetle hanging on for dear life out of John's hair. He held it up, pointed at a tiny metallic chip that was glued to its wing before wrapping it in a handkerchief –because Evan Lorne was the only person John knew that carried one – then sealed it into an evidence bag. He held it out at arms length and leaned in to whisper in John's ear. "I think it's a bug."

"Well, yeah."

Evan laughed ruefully. "No, I meant it might still pick up what we're saying."

John started to nod, but changed his mind when his head and leg began to pound in time with his heart. "Ow."

The medtechs pelted around the corner and swarmed over John, then he was strapped to a backboard and carried to a waiting EMT van. Emergency lights were flashing blue and red, fire trucks were disgorging firemen in heavy gear, and groups of police officers in matching jackets with HPD and FBI emblazoned on the back were milling around the street, but all John could see when he closed his eyes were huge black wings falling silently from the window in slow motion, back lit by orange flames.

John mentally smacked his forehead. In between dealing with his PTSD, the case, and being totally besotted with Ronon, he'd forgotten to mention to Lorne that he and Rodney were not currently on the best of terms, despite the small detente from dinner with Radek. The problem was that John had called Ronon, Evan had called Rodney, which led to the standoff taking place at the foot of his, hopefully very temporary, hospital bad.

Ronon was looming over Rodney with a smile that edged into bared teeth. Rodney with arms crossed, stared firmly at Ronon, not giving an inch, pretending that he wasn't intimidated.

Teyla sat by his side, hand resting on his shoulder. John carefully laid his head down and closed his eyes. The local he'd been given while they'd removed the taser cartridge and stitched him up was wearing off. He simply didn't have the strength or will to play referee between past and present lovers.

"Gentlemen, perhaps you should take this elsewhere?" He'd been praying for another blackout, but Dr. Keller had rescued him instead.

Teyla patted him gently before withdrawing her hand. John opened an eye to see her quietly usher Rodney and Ronon out as Keller scanned his chart on her PCD. "Hey, Doc."

"John," she acknowledged as she continued reading. "Good thing you have a hard head. Only a minor concussion, though the leg is going to take some time to heal."

"Too bad," he quipped weakly. "I was hoping that it would just kill me now."

Keller chuckled. "Uh-huh. Didn't realize you were seeing anyone new."

"Late development."

"Ah, serious, then?"

John sighed, "Not really. Ronon's going to move on in a few months. He's only here on assignment."

She nodded as she did a quick assessment of her own, preferring to not rely on the ER doctor's notes. "How do you feel?"

A minute shudder gave him away.

"Never mind. You can go home, as long as you have someone to stay with you, though it looks like you have too many choices in that department."

Suddenly, spending the night in the safe confines of the hospital bed seemed very attractive to John, but... no. "I'm sure that Teyla will be a great mediator."

"All right then." She scribbled a few lines into the PCD. "There's a script for antibiotics and an analgesic at the pharmacy for you and a work release dated for the eighth. Try and take it easy on the leg and keep an eye on it—you know the drill, puffy, red and swelling is bad. Otherwise, I'll see you in ten days. Please do not remove the stitches on your own, those prongs went pretty deep. I want to evaluate before they're removed."

"Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome. Call me if you have any problems."

John carefully sat up as Keller closed the door behind. The good thing about Evan calling Rodney was that Rodney had stopped by the house and brought a change of clothes. He dressed gingerly and allowed the orderly to wheel him to the entrance.

Apparently Ronon had won this round, for Rodney wasn't anywhere to be seen. That hurt, even though John hadn't wanted to deal with the situation, he could imagine the look on Rodney's face, either furious or crushed in rejection. For all of his own ire and hurt, he never wanted to be the one to put that look on Rodney's face.

Ronon drove him to the pharmacy, then held the reader out so could John swipe his fingertip over it. They were almost to the house when John realized, "Hey, where's Teyla?"

"She and McKay went to pick up some groceries. Gonna meet us at the house."

Oh. Oh. John didn't say anything.

"You and McKay are pretty tight, huh?"

"We've known each other for a very long time."

"You know what he told me?"

John couldn't even begin to imagine what horrible invective that Rodney had spewed at Ronon. He thought about shaking his head and said instead, "What's that?"

"That if I hurt you, this world wasn't gonna be big enough for the two of us. I think he meant it."

It was the concussion, had to be, as John blinked away the sudden tears that welled up in his eyes. Emotional lability was a symptom of a concussion. Or brain tumor, or something. John didn't look at Ronon, but put his hand out between them. Ronon took it and held it tightly for the short trip to the house.

It was obvious that Rodney and Ronon had come to some accommodation between them. They were in the kitchen sniping at one another as they put together something to eat, though John would have been perfectly fine with just a sandwich to accompany his pain medication, while Teyla helped John carefully sponge away the worst of the blood and crud out of his hair in the bathroom.

By the time that John was cleaner, ensconced in the easy chair and had a plate in his lap, he felt glassy eyed and worn out. He managed to eat enough that Rodney finally gave over the pills.

John took them and limped to bed. He decided that he didn't care if there was a homicide in the house while he slept.

He jerked awake, disoriented by the vivid after-images of a nightmare, and the sense of unease that accompanied it. The sudden movement made his leg throb and his head pound, and he was certain that he was going to throw up. John struggled to get out of bed when cool strong hands lifted him up. He barely made it to the toilet. He was too frantic to not throw up on the floor that he didn't care that Teyla was about to watch him humiliate himself.

John felt even sicker after vomiting. His eyes watered, his nose and throat felt raw and slick with bile, and his guts were considering an encore performance. He grabbed some toilet paper and blew the vomit out of his nose and coughed up the chunky feeling at the back of his throat. Teyla silently handed him a glass of water and he rinsed his mouth out, spat it into the toilet then slowly drank the rest of it.

"John?" There was a tentative feeling to Teyla's inquiry.

He didn't look at her, just hauled himself up off of the floor to wash his face. "Yeah, just the concussion. Happens to me every time." He plucked at his t-shirt. He hadn't realized that he'd sweated right through it. "Give me a few minutes."

"If you need anything, I will be in the other room."

Stitches be damned, he needed a shower. He closed the door behind her, stripped out of his clothing then stepped into the shower. John carefully washed around the cut on the back of his head, pulled off the wet bandage covering the stitches on his thigh and tossed it into the trash can. He stood under the thin mist of water for a long time, trying to dissect what little he remembered about the dream and why it was so unsettling, though it didn't take a Jungian dream analyst to figure out why Rodney was so prominently featured in his dreams.

John felt better when he got out, though the pain was a constant low-level throb. He flushed the toilet and dried off, paying special attention to the now wet stitches. The impact site had a whopper of a bruise. He gently taped a new bandage over it and dressed in clean drawstring pants and a t-shirt.

Teyla was at the kitchen table leafing through a book. "Better?"

"Yeah. Sorry you had to witness that." John pulled the bread out of the refrigerator and eased down into a chair at the table.

"Do not worry on my behalf, I am merely concerned."

He ate two slices of plain bread before he realized what was missing. "Where's Ronon?"

"I sent Ronon and Rodney away. Their incessant bickering was giving me a headache."

"Oh." John carefully retied the bread sack.

"John, I do feel that Rodney has a valid concern. Ronon cares for you a great deal, but—"

He cut off her explanation; he'd had quite enough reality for one day. "I get it, Teyla, I do. Don't worry about it." John glanced up when the old clock chimed. Midnight. He probably get away with another pain killer. He put the bread away, got out the milk, a spoon and a coffee cup and grabbed the bottle of pills off the windowsill. John crushed the tablet in the cup with the spoon and poured the milk in, thoroughly dissolving the medication. He glanced up at Teyla, who was watching with a curious expression as he drank the concoction. "Helps it work faster, and less upsetting."

"I have never heard of doing that."

John changed the subject. "Is the book any good?"

"You have not read it?"

"I get them in bulk from a second hand book store for rainy days." He grinned. It was always rainy.

"May I borrow it?"

"If you like it, you can have it." John rinsed out his cup and spoon and put the milk away. "I'm going to go watch the news, see what's going on."

Teyla curled up in the chair to read. John stretched out on the couch, listening to Vala recounting the failed op. As he nodded off to sleep, he wondered if failure was going to be any better press than inaction. He hoped Ellis was right.

John woke up to the smell of real coffee and the sound of someone rustling and humming in the kitchen. He dragged himself off the couch to stand in the doorway watching Teyla putter around the kitchen. "Hey. Whatcha doin'?"

"Good morning. Or should I say, good afternoon?"

The clock said 12:30. "Oh, sorry. Guess I overslept." John limped to the coffee pot, poured a cup and leaned against the counter. He intended to go with over the counter stuff today. He snagged the Motrin and took four.

"You obviously required it and you do not need to entertain me. Are you hungry? I am heating up lunch. I am afraid I do not cook, so we are having leftovers."

He sipped his coffee and thought about it, wondered where the leftovers had come from. "Sure, sounds fine. I'll just go get dressed."

John took his coffee with him to the bedroom and sat down on the bed to strip his pants off. The bruise was huge, incredibly, painfully tender and it felt like it went all the way to the bone. It made him sweat just thinking about trying to wear denim over it. He conceded to necessity with a pair of loose shorts. He ran his hand through his hair and regretted it.

It was going to be a long day.

They ate a leisurely lunch. Teyla respectfully left alone the topic of her and Ronon's eventual departure and instead, quizzed John on the variety of clubs in Houston.

After a nap, John talked to Evan and filed his report on the unsuccessful raid and subsequent explosion. He left out the minor, niggling suspicion he'd been nursing about the bird girl that had attacked him, because he couldn't even put determine what that was all about.

Two persons of interest had been brought in from the raids. The one that Mitchell's team brought in, after intensive interrogation and a thorough DNA scan, had been determined that he'd been simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. They let him go.

They hit paydirt with the suspect that Ford had captured. Natisha Rosales' DNA test showed obvious traces of several nonhuman genomes, though as yet there weren't any visible changes to her appearance. John requested that they hold off questioning Rosales, until he could get there; the DNA Purity act gave them the power to hold her indefinitely.

Evan had sent the device he'd pulled from John's hair down to the Crime labs. It was a tiny, powerful transmitter and anyone with a radio could have picked up the signal within twenty-four blocks. No detectable fingerprints or DNA, other than John's, was found on it.

That piqued John's curiosity. It was sheer coincidence that he'd been in a position to be attacked. His routine as a public official was quite predictable. Almost everyone knew where to find him at any given moment, so the intent of the tip had been to get information about the investigation that wasn't released to the public. They must be getting closer—their unsub was worried.

The fire department had been unable to contain the conflagration from the explosion and the building had burned to the ground. It would be some time before they could get inside it. The forensics teams were swarming over the two locales that hadn't blown up.

Duty dispensed for the day, John relented and took another dose of painkillers and ended up napping in the chair while Teyla sat on the couch and read. She'd nearly finished the book by the time that Ronon showed up with canvas grocery sacks in hand.

Dinner was relaxed. Conversation came easy to John while he was under the influence and it felt good to let go for a few hours.

When Ronon followed him to bed, John admitted as he climbed under the sheets, "I don't think I'm up for anything right now."

"S'alright, not why I'm here." Ronon gently pulled John close and held him tight.

John slept quietly, not a dream in his head.

Teyla and Ronon left in the morning after John reassured them that he was fine. He was going to go into the precinct to do a little paperwork. Even though he didn't always rely upon his personal vehicle, it was still farther from the parking lot to his department than John remembered. Hobbling into his cubicle, he thought perhaps he'd over extended himself. At least he was there.

John had the cubicle to himself as Evan was out at one of sites and would return later for the interrogation of Natisha Rosales. He'd been hoping for this chance to work alone.

He rolled his chair over to the hologram workstation, and Unity appeared on cue.

"John! How are you? I was most concerned, and then I read your report. Was it very disturbing?"

"Oh, yeah. But, I'm fine. I need you to check something for me, the Charlotte Weir McKay search."

"I have it. What would you like to know?"

"Show me the last photo of her side by side with that of my attacker."

John studied the two pictures. There was a vague resemblance between the two, but no more than two strangers who happen to have a similar face structure. He wondered if he'd imagined it. "Play back my camera from the beginning."

The image fritzed slightly as his camera footage came online, with Lorne doing his buddy check, then a few minutes of hanging around.

Watching tactical camera records was like watching someone else play a video game. The camera was on his safety glasses, but even the few centimeters difference from his memory against the video was slightly disconcerting.

The audio was more garbled with all the mics open but John didn't ask to have his singled out. His voice called for positions and the picture began to move—down the sidewalk, towards the alley, and then it turned the corner. The window, and then the image that had haunted his memory—black wings spread wide with the explosion behind them.

The bird girl's image loomed large in screen and the image shuddered as she cracked his head on the brick wall. "Pause. Reverse, slow motion."

There. "Stop." She had definitely recognized him. It didn't mean anything—John was pretty well known, he'd been featured in the mini-documentary on the gill girl and he'd regularly made appearances in front of the press for months.

Two things bugged him about this. First was that this particular transspec still had that spark of humanity in her eyes, and second was that he had recognized her, in some unquantifiable, visceral way. Charlotte's body type was different, far more pneumatic and plush than the bird girl, who was thin nearly to the point of emaciation. Though Char had been pretty skinny at Christmas.

He asked Unity, "What do you think?"

"There aren't enough data points for the face recognition to correlate, though I do see a faint resemblance in the jaw line and chin."

"Add images of Charlotte's parents." Rodney and Elizabeth appeared onscreen and with the four pictures together, the resemblance faded away. "Have we been able to track this suspect?"

"The surveillance drones at the scene do not report a further record of her. The officers who investigated the building noted at least three escape routes that are shielded from an aerial view. They are still canvassing the area."

The sad truth was that he'd blown it. He'd reacted to the explosion and she'd gotten the drop on him. It would be humiliating, except for the fact that she'd been strong. Strong enough to overpower him and canny enough take advantage of his momentary distraction. He had no doubt that whoever this bird girl was, she was responsible for blowing up the building and destroying whatever evidence it had contained.

What bothered him was that a worried perp didn't send out invitations to a blast.

John was hoping to get Natisha Rosales into Beckett's hands by nightfall and her interrogation was a moderate success. She rolled over on the bird girl as the main culprit for the transspec process, described her perfectly, though Rosales hadn't ever seen her any other way. She didn't know any location for Birdie other than the one where they'd captured Rosales. Rosales pinpointed the date of her change as barely a week past, but afterward, Heightmeyer and Frasier concurred that the information was suspect, as Rosales' memory was dulling fast.

John released Rosales to Beckett under heavy guard and wished him luck.

The Army drones were pulled into the area surrounding the three former labs, but the transspecs had gone to ground somewhere. Not one sighting or live capture was made in the next two days, though several murdered transspec corpses were fished out of White Oak Bayou. The autopsy reported that the cause of death had been from repeated use of the drive stun function of a taser.

Birdie was losing her cool, and it was only a matter of time before she made a mistake. And when she did, John was going to be there to take advantage of it.

There were too many balls in the air that required juggling for him to stay home over the weekend. Keller would be furious at John's concept of taking it easy, but he would deal with her when the time came. At least he'd kept his workdays to a minimum of ten hours.

John reserved the good drugs for when he was at home and could afford to relax a little. He was exhausted, distracted by his throbbing leg and the burned out the porch light. John fumbled at the keypad in the dark, finally getting the door unlocked.

Just as he pushed the door open, someone jumped out from behind the porch swing, slammed into him and hit him with the full force of the drive stun function of what was probably his own damn taser. He was propelled to the living room floor and struggled against the superior weight but the continuous, white-hot pain was too much. He mercifully passed out.

John regained consciousness to total darkness, but it wasn't quiet. The sound was road noise; he was in the trunk of a vehicle. Over the general misery of being stunned, he took stock of his condition. A smelly canvas bag was tied over his head, his hands and feet were tied with plastic police restraints—probably his—and his mouth was taped shut. He tried to wiggle his hands but his fingers felt taped together.

He squirmed around, trying to loosen his bonds, but whoever had applied them had known what they were doing. His hands were behind him, palms facing away from each other, and the restraints were cranked down tight enough to cut off the circulation in his hands. No way was he able to rotate his hands, and even if he could twist his hands around to try and slide out of the cuffs, with his fingers taped together he couldn't dislocate his thumbs.

John rolled over, the sharp ends of the restraints stabbing him in the back, to try and get his feet up and kick at the trunk lid but they were tied to his hands. He was well and truly screwed. All that he accomplished by writhing in a fury, kicking and thumping, was to tighten the cuffs further and leave him gasping for air through his nose.

There hadn't been any reporters at the failed take down and the press briefing had been purposefully vague, the released vid sanitized. Whoever had him kidnapped knew him fairly well, knew that he was at less than full physical capacity. He dismissed the concept of an inside job, it was preposterous, and while he had very few close friends, he didn't really have any enemies, either. Unless someone had hacked the CCDP, John had an idea about who was behind his kidnapping. Birdie was the only one he could assign a motive, that also knew that he'd been injured.

If Birdie was indeed the culprit, the question foremost in his mind was her objective. Was she just going murder him and dump the body?

John reviewed his case dispassionately. They'd snagged him at home. They'd probably disabled the neighborhood camera closest to the house. With his fingers taped together it was difficult to differentiate the pain, but yeah, it felt like his subcutaneous RFID chip had been removed. It was likely that they'd made sure to remove his Zhing from his person as well. His nanite eye was a visible discoloration on infrared camera, though, but he had to be out in the open. The vehicle's polycarbon body would effectively shield him.

It would be hours before anyone expected him to call or show up for work. They didn't have any firm plans, but he spoke on a daily basis with Teyla or Ronon. Would they be polite and assume he'd gone to bed when he didn't answer their call? Or would they just show up at the house?

John didn't know. It could be a few hours, or at least twelve before it was discovered that he was missing. Evan would check up on him if he didn't show up at the task force meeting in the morning. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious or how long he'd been in the trunk. They were on a highway, the smooth, high whine of tires on pavement was constant, no turns, or braking. He knew that the further they got from Houston, the more difficult it would be to track him down.

It seemed like a long time before the vehicle began to slow down. Several turns were made before they came to a stop. John heard the dull thump of doors closing. There were at least two of them. He heard trunk release pop, and the hinges creaked as it was lifted up. He couldn't tell through the heavy weave of the canvas hood, but it was probably still night.

A hard object pressed against his temple and he barely had time to think oh fuck! before the trigger was pulled and his world exploded.

It was depressingly the same when he regained consciousness: still hog-tied and hooded. His tongue was thick and musty and he had to piss. He didn't think he'd be given the opportunity to relieve himself in a civilized manner.

It didn't seem as dark through the canvas hood. Okay, light, or maybe even morning—John desperately hoped that someone was looking for him by now—and god, he hurt. He was on a cold hard surface, his hands felt cold, swollen and stiff. The arm he was laying on was numb and his head hurt so badly that he almost wished that whoever would just get on with it and kill him, because he didn't want to know what they had planned for an encore.

Someone was there. He heard footsteps and whispering. The familiar hard nose of the taser pressed against his head, and John couldn't contain his whimper. Another stun to the head would probably kill him, and he didn't honestly want to die. He shook his head slightly.

John was roughly shoved onto his front and he heard the snick of a knife and with the taser still firmly pressed against his temple, his hands were cut away from his feet. Hands grabbed his leg and a knife cut away his pants, then a needle pressed against the vein behind the knee. It slid in slowly, burning as the contents were injected into him.

John wasn't naïve. He suspected what was coming, and if he was right, then he had about thirty seconds of reality left before the rush oh god he'd wanted this for so long.

He was enveloped in a flush of heat and the relief from the pain was instantaneous. John simply melted onto the floor as the intense waves of heat and euphoria washed over him, like sexual arousal, but better than an orgasm when it didn't dissipate and fade, but instead grew stronger. John noted that he'd wet himself, though it felt like it was a continent away. It didn't matter because he was flying.

Somewhere back on Earth, someone picked him up and tossed him on a bed and cut the restraints off. It should've been painful, but it was just another rush. His mind soared free towards outer space while his hands and feet were bound to the bed, and a tiny thought flickered in and out that he'd missed his chance to try and escape.

Jesus. Coming down was as awful as he remembered. His entire body itched and burned, like fire ants were crawling all over him, biting and stinging. He cracked open an eye. The hood was still tied over his head and his mouth was still taped shut. He was nauseated and intensely thirsty, but he no longer had to pee. Oh, yeah, the sick sharp stench of dried urine worked its way through the musty smell of mildew.

The pain in his hands and feet was back, but it was still dull and muted, would be for a little while longer until his body had completely broken down the heroin. John tested the bonds at his hands and feet, and they didn't give at all. From his position, and the cold iron against the back of his hands, he was tied on a too-short bed. He couldn't sit up, nor could he stretch out or effectively bend his knees. John shifted again to try and relieve the incessant itching but he was unable to get comfortable.

His sense of time had been obliterated by the heroin, though considering the average cut of the available black market heroin, it could've realistically been another six or eight hours. He hoped that they didn't intend to let him die here, tied to the bed, but the reality was probably more of the same.

He shifted around, and decided that he was as comfortable as he was going to get. John closed his eyes and let himself fall into a light meditative state, the memory of Teyla's voice echoing in his head admonishing him to relax.

A door screeched open and thumped closed. The hated muzzle of the taser pressed against his head, while hands thumped the veins in the crook of his arms, then injected another hit of heroin.

John had finally come down off the last hit, lost all feeling in his fingers. He moaned as his abductor jostled his arm and hand, as he felt the sharp tip of a knife slicing through his clothing. He instinctively froze as it navigated dangerous territory. When he was completely naked, except for the hood, he heard a low chuckle.

"John Sheppard, completely at my mercy. I have such plans for you, dear Uncle John."

The awful truth of the identity of his captor slammed into him. He had recognized Birdie.

He hated being right.

Adrenaline cleared his mind, but he wasn't sure whether or not that was an asset. He jerked when cool hands with clawed fingers brushed over his nipples, and stroked down to his genitals. The gentle, almost tender touches on his cock were inescapable, and the pain in his hands as he struggled to escape wasn't enough to prevent an erection. When he was fully hard, he felt her slide on top of him, thin scaly thighs against his, but her hand never left his cock.

"I hate you, you know. Daddy tried to deny it, and you'll deny it, but I know better. You stole my family, John. And now I'm going steal it back from you."

John shook his head; he had not been the cause of Rodney and Elizabeth's divorce, but he was helpless to defend himself, physically or verbally. He became nearly hysterical as Charlotte spewed out more and more of her hurt and anger.

He couldn't allow this to happen, yet there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His erection was completely physiological and he'd never felt so ashamed and sick when she slid him into her sex.

God, he hadn't skipped using a condom since his divorce. It was simultaneously glorious and awful.

Charlotte was rough, twisting his nipples with her sharp claws, drawing blood and fucking herself on him. The sexual thrum of the heroin ripped away his self-control and John was unable to stop this, to make himself soft and limp. Instead, his traitorous hips shifted minutely.

"That's right, Uncle John. I knew you wanted this. I saw it, in your eyes. You took one look at me and said, 'I'd tap that'. You should've, I wanted you to. Wanted to do this for a long time. Take away Daddy's toy."

It was a battle of wills. Charlotte, determined to wring an orgasm out of John, and he was erect, but the pain and fury dampened his responses and he couldn't come. His mind whirled around the thought that this would destroy Rodney. Rodney could never, ever know what happened here.

John's mental image of Rodney's devastation, the look of unbelievable hurt in the those blue eyes, played in his mind in cinéma-vérité, all the ways that John was guilty, losing Rodney forever, and suddenly he was so sick that he threw up.

His mouth was still taped closed, and he began to choke, shuddering and slamming his head backwards, trying to buck her off, trying to scream and cough. The hood was yanked off, and the tape stripped from his face. Charlotte laughed, never missing a stroke, as John spat out the vomit.

Choking on his own vomit had done what his mind could not, and John's cock went completely limp as he gagged for air, eyes watering.

She reared back and slapped him on the side of the head, unerringly finding the tender spot from the taser discharge. John's eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he passed out.

There was an overhead light.

John didn't know if being able to see was a blessing, or not. He was covered in scratches. His abused nipples were tender and crusted in congealed blood and his chest hair was matted with the bile he'd thrown up. It didn't look like much, he had no idea how long it had been since he'd eaten, but probably a couple of days. The foul taste in his mouth and the rank odor in his nose and on his body would've caused another incident, except he was pretty sure that there wasn't anything left in him to throw up. He couldn't even work up enough saliva to spit out the vile taste in his mouth.

As he took in his prison he realized that screaming for help had never really been an effective option. It was a windowless, concrete storeroom, with wet rust stains running down the walls. The door looked like a freezer door and appeared to be firmly latched.

Not that he could get to it. He twisted his head around to inspect his painfully swollen hands. The circulation had been cut off for too long, and they were dark purple. He did his best to wiggle them, to keep a little blood flowing. If something didn't happen soon, he was going to lose them. If he even got out of this alive. He had serious doubts about his chances of rescue. The concrete walls would mask him from any IR camera, and he was a long way from home.

The only good thing was that Rodney would be spared knowing that his daughter was responsible for this, or her reasons for doing so. For Rodney's sake, John almost hoped that he wouldn't get rescued.

The door swung open, and John was confronted with the truth. Until this moment, he only had circumstantial evidence about the identity of the creature that had attacked him last week. Though there was still plenty of plausible deniability—the creature in front of him was a frightening vision. Her scalp was covered in black feathers that trailed down her neck and arms supported heavy black wings that ended in fingerlike claws, her sex was covered in fine, black, downy feathers. Sharp, heavy scales that trailed down her calves, her feet also sported heavy claws.

His voice was rusty as he croaked, "Charlotte."

"Hello, Uncle John."

"Why are you doing this?"

She smiled, "You don't remember? Shall I explain it to you again?"

It was useless. She was completely insane.

Her eyes were no longer pretty china blue, instead they were a dark orange, with a thin, black ring around the irises and they shone eerily in the bright, overhead light. John shifted on the bed and twisted his head from one side to the other with a satisfying crack of the joints. He was still naked, still bound, as she stroked him to hardness again and climbed on top of him. The pleasure was intense, and John was so grateful that she'd come to relieve him of pain, to succor him, that he didn't fight it, let her have what she wanted.

John looked at her as he came, his hips snapping up, up, up into that soft, perfect wet heat and she didn't look away, held his eyes with hers. When he had no more to give, she left him to sail on the soft, boundless sea free of pain.

He startled awake when the door slammed shut. John eyed the needle and syringe she held in her claw. It was a different color this time, a brilliant blood red. He asked, "What's that?" even though it was a rhetorical question, he'd seen the regular GeM process, handled loads of illegal reagent. The idea that she was going to change him was terrifying. He didn't take his eye off the odious device.

Her hips swayed and her wings rustled as she walked closer to him, reaching out toward him. "This? Oh, it's not Black Tar, if that's what you're wondering. You know, I've really quite perfected the technique. My test subjects stopped dying a long time ago, unless they pissed me off. They," she climbed on top of him again, her clawed fingers square in the center of his chest, "would get the old formula. I learned from them, but I saved my mistakes. For people that pissed me off."

She put the needle lightly against his neck, right over the carotid artery. "You have pissed me off. I suggest that you don't move."

He didn't have time to figure out if she meant during his captivity, or in general with his investigation; Charlotte shoved the needle into him and pushed the plunger down with a smooth, practiced move, then yanked it out as she stood up.

John screamed. It felt like she had injected him with pure fire. He bucked and thrashed on the bed as it raced through him, searing every nerve, every vein, every cell of his body with incendiary pain. He began to scream. Charlotte turned the light off as she left his cell, leaving him to scream in the dark until his throat bled.

He was in agony. All he knew was pain, his voice torn from him, and he writhed and jerked every possible way to try and escape the torment but there was no where to go, no way to make it stop.

The light snapped on, and Charlotte appeared again, another syringe in hand. John soundlessly whimpered and tried to shift away from her, but he was tied down tight.

"Shhh, this will help."

Sweet relief. The immediate cessation from pain was like falling out of a plane or floating in a black sea under the stars. John's eyes leaked a few salty tears that burned his dehydrated, bloodshot eyes, and he silently sobbed. He just wanted this to be over. He wanted a gallon of water. He wanted to curl up in bed with a lover that would be gentle and sweet. Ronon, Rodney, didn't matter—just not here, with her.

"The change can be quite painful, but mostly they never remember it. If they live through it." Charlotte stroked him with intent, but it was useless, and he didn't care, he didn't care, he just wanted this to be over.

"Make it stop, please, just stop," he whispered.

"It will, I promise." She bent over and kissed him on the mouth, and her lips were so cool, so wet, that he mindlessly parted his lips and sought the moisture. Charlotte rewarded him with a wet kiss. "Come on, John, open up, that's good."

John greedily drank the water she dribbled into his mouth. He knew that he couldn't have been here more than three or four days, because he hadn't died of dehydration. He had no idea how long transspec change actually took, but unless she intended to feed him as well, then he only had another two weeks to live. Assuming that water wasn't withheld again.

John had no pride left in him as he begged, "Please, no more pain. My hands, please."

Charlotte cut the plastic ties on his hands and the agony was so sharp that he curled in around his useless appendages, crying openly at the pain.

She gave him another hit of heroin and in a few hours, they would start the sick cycle over, ceaseless and unending.

John was never getting out of here.

John watched the slow, agonizing transformation of his body with horror. He had no idea how long he had been strapped to the filthy mattress, but the occasional tiny pinfeathers that pushed through the skin itched madly. He rubbed his face against his arms; he'd become quite adept at avoiding touching anything with his rotting hands. This was the only external manifestation, though he couldn't determine if the excruciating ache in his arms and shoulders was simply the result of the damage to his hands – or not.

Sometimes, Charlotte would carefully pick at the nascent feathers with her sharp claws, unfurling the tiny, tiny nubs until they lay flat. He wondered why she was so careful now, when he was still bore her claw marks. She laughed when he begged for food, and gave him the junk instead, saying, "You're so pretty when you beg. Do you beg for Daddy? Does he like it too?"

He didn't answer, only asked her why. The sight of her was a terrifying bellwether, the glossy feathers and distorted arms and the peregrine eyes.

She never answered him, or stayed with him for long, though. John's world shrank down to hunger, pain, drugs and Charlotte. Still, she was kind, in her own twisted way; she would give him water, she gave him temporary surcease from pain with drugs, and sit with him for hours, petting and rambling. She never made any sense, but when she'd leave and turn the light out, he would sit there in the dark, wondering why she never truly tortured him.

 

23.

November

 

He tried not to think about the starving pain in his gut, tried to not think about how he might look, or that for the first time, the heroin hadn't given him a rush. John tried to convince her that he had to eat. Charlotte promised him that if he were good, she would think about it. He'd found a position, his knees bent and straight so he didn't twist his still-bound feet, that allowed him to fall asleep.

He's standing on a window ledge, looking down at the ground. His parents are standing on the ground, and he looks away, back into the room. Charlotte is behind him, and she shoves him out of the window.

He's falling as the building behind him explodes. He falls until he remembers that he can fly. John spreads his wings and swoops down, but his parents are gone. Instead Rodney is there, arms crossed and a thunderous look on his face. John laughs and takes off, the green fields underneath him, the blue sky above him, beckoning, beckoning...

John fell to earth as he woke up from the dream. He couldn't bend his fingers and touching anything was excruciating. His feet were still firmly strapped to the iron footboard. He was thirsty and starving and burning up. In his fevered delirium, he wondered how soon his liver would destroy itself, if he even had one anymore. Did birds have livers? They must. His stomach had stopped grumbling long ago, but the hunger had grown to monstrous proportions, and he was so weak he could barely shift himself on the filthy, stinking mattress.

He tried to fall into a light meditative state, but he just passed out instead.

A muffled bang dragged him into consciousness, and John cringed back as far as he could when the door opened up. But it wasn't her, it was Evan who cried, "John?" as he rushed toward him followed by a loud barrage of gunfire.

Evan.

The shocked expression on his face told John everything he needed to know. Rodney had always accused him of being a scarecrow and now he really was. He struggled to sit up, but barely managed to get his elbows under him. Evan was there, hand on his back helping him lean up.

"Hang on, buddy," he said in a low voice as he pulled a knife out of a sheath and cut the plastic restraints at his feet that held John captive. "Can you walk?"

John tried to wiggle his feet, but they'd been tied for too long. He slurred, "How long?"

"Eleven days. I'm so, so sorry, John."

"Crap." John tried to move his leg, but he couldn't, his feet were two streaks of agony and he was too weak. "Guess not."

"Don't worry about it." Evan steadied him as a pair of EMT's burst through the door, pulling a gurney behind them.

One tech attached the Omni monitor and the other tried to find a vein. When she gave up on starting the IV, and the telemetry from the monitor had been received and acknowledged at the ER, they picked John up and laid him on the gurney and pulled a clean, sweet smelling sheet over him. "Let's get him out of here."

Outside his cell, uniformed officers swarmed over the old meat packing plant. Two men were on the floor face down, plastic restraints around their wrists and officers standing over them with weapons drawn. Another EMT crew were trying to contain Charlotte's wings on her gurney. John couldn't see very much, but there was a lot of blood on the cracked cement floor.

Outside, it was too bright, but the morning sky was brilliant blue. Not a cloud obscured the sky, just the way that John remembered late fall, before the floods and hurricanes and crash.

How they managed it, he didn't know, but the crime scene was free of reporters and cameras, other than the Army drones, high up and seeing all.

Evan stayed with him while the techs got John situated in the med-flitter, "I've got to stay and take care of the situation here, but I'll make some calls for you," he said as he stepped aside to make way for Charlotte's gurney. It was crowded and noisy, EMT's talking over one another and and consulting with the ER via vidlink.

The only good thing about the residual smack in his system was that he was wrapped in cotton wool and he didn't freak out over flying. He fell into the sensation as they took off. As John closed his eyes, he saw green fields beneath him and blue skies above.

The EMT asked a barrage of questions and John tried to answer, but he couldn't think. It was hard to form words, much less detail the starvation, dehydration and unprotected sex and, though it had to be pretty obvious, the transspec metamorphosis.

At the ER, they inserted a jugular central line for hydration, nutrition and medication, and then he was sent to radiology. The MRCT scan showed a bowel obstruction and detailed the damage to his organs, then John was whisked into surgery to try to save as much of his hands and feet as possible.

When he woke up, he thought the bandages looked a little too small, and he wondered how much of them he had really lost. He was allowed ice ships to wet his mouth, but it seemed cruel and unusual that any actual food or water was off limits.

Then the Narcan wiped away the last traces of his fortnight high and revealed to him the full extent of the pain in his hands and feet. John well remembered withdrawal, the shaking and vomiting and sweating, and he just had to ride it out.

John's ICU room was small, with very little privacy, and he was disturbed by the lack of external windows. There was only a glass wall that separated him from the nurses' station, but he was assured that this was necessary, they needed to monitor him constantly because of the heart arrhythmia, liver damage and impending kidney failure. The Omni monitor was soughing with the sound of a normal heartbeat, reassuringly steady, and his own heart beat was a soft beep as a gentle guide for biofeedback.

The nurse that took over getting him settled in and comfortable as possible introduced herself as Kayla, a slight wisp of a girl with a dark, perfect complexion. She was hanging his specially prepared IV bag when Rodney burst through the door, chased by a harried nurse, shouting, "Dr. McKay, you have to wait!"

John flinched, and the Omni monitor went crazy as his heart rate and respiration skyrocketed. He couldn't help the reaction. In the last two weeks, anytime that he'd been approached, or a door opened, it had meant sexual and chemical abuse.

When Kayla laid a small, cool hand on John's shoulder, he freaked out altogether. He tried to escape her touch, tumbling out of the bed away from her, landing on his hands and knees with a jarring thump. John's vision narrowed to a tunnel of black pain. He was bleeding where the IV had been yanked out, and every still-viable nerve in his hands and feet screamed. Kayla told Rodney to get out in an authoritative voice. "I need some help in here, please. Quietly," she said to the thin air as she warily approached him around the end of the bed.

John leaned on the side of the bed and panted through the panic attack and searing pain. He couldn't use his hands, he couldn't stand up, there were too many people, all of them talking as they lifted him back up into the bed.

Kayla spoke in a soothing tone, "Just breath through it, calm down. You're not in any danger here, no one wants to hurt you," as she inspected the port site, flushed it and reattached the lines and leads. John shuddered at every touch of her hands, they were too familiar, too frightening.

Kayla pulled off the blood-soaked bandages, and said, "I'm going to page Dr. Keller for you, okay?"

John laid there, breathing through the pain, and tired to not think about Rodney, out there waiting to confront him. He wished that he were high again. He absolutely didn't want to talk to Rodney, couldn't face what he'd done, that he'd given in and participated in his own rape.

It felt like an eternity of throbbing pain, but eventually Dr. Keller arrived and pressed the Omni peripheral against his skin. "How's the pain?"

"Uh," was all John was able to stutter out. He wanted the blissful release of another hit of heroin.

"This should help." Keller inserted long thin needles into his wrists and and ankles, then flipped a switch on the Omni. It felt warm and tingly, and some of the pain was washed away in an electric buzz. "You with me now?"

"It helps." The ache in his shoulders, elbows and forearms was still there, but it was a bone deep ache that he could almost ignore, but for the implication of what that pain meant.

"Good. It's voice activated, and the treatment will last about fifteen minutes. Use it as often as you want. If the pain gets too bad, we'll try something else, but with your recent history, I'm reluctant to administer narcotics. I'm going to give you a little something for the anxiety, too."

She pulled an ampule out of her pocket and injected it into the I.V., then inspected the wounds on his hands. "The bleeding is good—that means there's blood flow. The drains are still in place, but I'll have the surgeon come in and check." She loosely wrapped his hands and feet in clean bandages.

"I don't want you overwhelmed with visitors. Ten minutes once an hour, I can't break the rules, but there are quite a few people who would like to see you, is that all right?"

John wondered if anyone had thought to call Ronon or Teyla. "No."

"It's up to you. Maybe later?"

He shook his head miserably and whispered, "No." Never was more like it, but John knew that it was inevitable, short of changing his name and disappearing, though even that probably wouldn't prevent the inescapable confrontation. "Maybe."

John regretted his decision as soon as she left the room, the glass door closed behind her. Even though he could see the small crowd through the glass, he was alone again, no less trapped in a bed than he'd been for the last two weeks. He couldn't use the call button, but there had to be a/v monitors. "Hey! Is anyone there? I changed my mind, can someone please come in?"

The monitor over the bed snapped on to a view of Kayla at the the nurses' station and John could hear Rodney ranting in the background. "Yes, Mr. Sheppard?"

"Changed my mind."

"No problem, he's right here, I'll send him in." Kayla sounded relieved, and John smiled, just a little.

The vidscreen went dark and the door opened quietly. Rodney edged into the room with a wary, frightened look. Captain Caldwell followed Rodney in, but he stayed next to the door, hands clasped behind him. John couldn't imagine why Caldwell had accompanied Rodney, wanted to tell him to get out.

"God damn it, John."

"Yeah, sorry."

Rodney started to talk in a fast soft voice as he sat gingerly in the bedside chair. "Sorry for what? Being rescued on the brink of death? What should you be sorry for, did you ask for this, this—" Rodney's hands waved in the air, conveyed what he meant.

John couldn't help it, his nose and eyes stung as he began to weep uncontrollably. "Rodney, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I couldn't help it."

Rodney grabbed a tissue and began to dab away the tears. "Yeah, no. Okay, fine. You're sorry, we've established that, but I'm still mystified about what horrible thing you think you've done—you're not making any sense. Which doesn't surprise me. I had to sign a million release papers for heroin treatment. For god's sake, you're literally Junior Birdman."

That brought John up short. He chuckled, humor had been in short supply recently. He let Rodney change the subject of the conversation, because he just couldn't tell him. "Yeah."

"You could've died, I was terrified that you were going to die, and..." He trailed off and just looked at John for a moment, studying him. "I'm surprised that you let me in here, considering. That is to say, uh, I'm sorry." John could see horror, regret, guilt warring with the relief on Rodney's face.

"For what? No, Rodney—don't—you didn't, she was crazy."

Rodney just nodded and lifted his hand to push fingers through John's hair, and he felt the sharp prick of feathers poking into his scalp. "Huh."

Caldwell cleared his throat, and Rodney glared at him. "All right, I'm going." He added, "Martinet," under his breath, then Rodney left the room without a backwards glance. Caldwell closed the door behind him and approached the bed. He didn't speak as he sat down, just looked at John for a moment with an unfathomable expression in his brown eyes.

He greeted John with a dry, "Detective." He was resplendent in his full uniform, a dark blue jacket fitted at the waist with gold braid on the sleeve and insignia shining on the high stiff collar.

There wasn't any doubt in John's mind that the Captain was there in an official capacity, though he wasn't certain that he wanted to go into any level of detail with his boss, to reveal his most intimate horrors and inadequacies. John couldn't remember the last time a police officer had been held hostage.

But it would be infinitely worse to have to tell Evan the story, to see the anguish on his partner's face, the guilt that he hadn't been able to end the crisis any sooner. John's first choice would be to simply dictate a report and file it, though as a professional, he knew the value of questioning a victim, that it sometimes provided answers that wouldn't make it into a written narrative.

"Captain Caldwell," John replied tentatively. He wasn't up to playing games, especially with his boss, and it must have shown on his face.

"Sheppard, I know we both would've preferred that you weren't in that bed, but the fact that you're out of there, and safe—I'm relieved."

"Yes sir, I'm glad to be here."

When Caldwell had taken over Sumner's job and John and Evan were assigned to the FBI task force, he'd left them to manage the case as they saw fit with very little interaction with him as he dug into managing the rest of the huge district. John regretted that he hadn't really spent any time with Caldwell. He couldn't imagine Sumner coming in here, with warm eyes and a soft voice, proclaiming his regrets.

They regarded one another. Finally Caldwell said with a faint smile, "I'm sure that Detective Lorne, and every one at the precinct, will be here at some point. I do have some good news for you. The transspec equipment has been recovered. Dr. Beckett's put in a request to dispense with the normal rules in order to obtain your blood and tissue sample from AFIS."

Oh, thank God for the anal retentive US Military complex, the world went to shit around them and they held on to millions, billions of genetic samples for decades. Beckett had been stymied by the methodology, and that most of the victims were unidentified, the lack of official genetic records for comparison had been a serious stumbling block to his research. "That's good. Fantastic."

"Yes, it is."

John was intensely curious about the lack of questions from Caldwell, he'd expected a near interrogation, but that wasn't happening. "Have they figured out who she was?"

Caldwell frowned and nodded. "Yes. We know."

"And Dr. McKay?"

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "He was her conduit."

Conduit? John was stunned. Rodney knew? And he still said those things, hadn't told him that he knew? "What..." John didn't even know what he wanted to ask. He hadn't had time to process their conversation, and Caldwell's bombshell just confused him more.

"Ms. McKay was quite thorough in her documentation. Dr. McKay was given regular updates on your condition by text and video. It was exquisitely frustrating, as it was almost impossible to trace the messages. "

"Oh." That explained the lack of questions. It didn't explain Rodney's behavior.

"He was most... distraught." The faint smile was back, and Caldwell shook his head slightly.

John coughed a strangled laugh at Caldwell's fine sense of understatement. He hadn't even imagined that she would do that, though it made sense. She'd wanted her revenge and made sure that both John and Rodney suffered. He'd spent his entire captivity praying that Rodney would never know, and now, he discovered that the real torture had never been meant for him alone, but for Rodney, too.

"How... how is she?" John was torn between hoping she'd die, or that maybe they could fix her too, that Rodney could get his daughter back, somehow.

"Still in surgery. Won't know anything for a while." Caldwell leaned forward and clasped his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. "Dr. Heightmeyer will be here shortly to talk to you."

John tried to keep his dread of that confrontation under control, but his voice wobbled anyway. "Yes sir."

"Also, in the course of our search to find you, a few procedural irregularities have come up. You've been put on administrative leave, pending an investigation by Internal Affairs. I apologize, I know the timing could've been better. But I thought you would want to know."

In retrospect, yeah. A lot of what had happened in the last year could look very bad, if looked at in the wrong light—and IA never had anything but the wrong kind. "I understand."

Kayla's image appeared on the vidscreen, and said, "I'm sorry, but it's time."

"I was just leaving." Caldwell stood up. "Sheppard."

"Captain."

John fell asleep while he waited for the next visitation period. When he awoke, the light over his bed was out, but the light in the hallway kept it from being dark. "Light on," he said, and it came up slowly to half brightness. That was fine.

He could see Teyla and Ronon waiting outside. There had been a shift change and another nurse was on duty. "I'm awake, they can come in," he announced.

Teyla opened the door. John watched her closely, he had to look horrible, but there wasn't any disgust or censure on her face. It was Teyla, though, master of cool, calm and collected.

"John." Teyla sank into a chair, and laid a cool hand on his arm. "I'll only stay a moment. I'm so very glad to see you safe again."

"Yeah. Me too."

Teyla smiled, but her eyes were solemn. "How are you?"

"Kind of fucked up and fucked over." John shrugged slightly.

"Yes. It was most horrifying. I could not bear to watch."

John felt the blood drain out of his his face, felt light headed, dizzy. "You... saw? It?"

John saw the instant that Teyla realized what she'd done. "John, I am so sorry, I had no idea that you didn't know."

"Know what, Teyla? Tell me," he added harshly.

She pressed her hand against his arm, minutely petting the tiny feathers, but she didn't look him in the eye. "The video was. They were all uploaded to the 'net."

He closed his eyes. That meant that everything, all of his humiliation and suffering had been seen by billions of people. Was probably still being watched—cached on servers and vid sites, viral emails saved to local data. He was never going to be able to show his face in public again, instantly recognizable and branded with 'that guy in the vid, you know the one.' Even the most remote Brazilian jungle tribes had 'net access.

"I think," he said, his voice faint and breathy, "I think I need to be alone."

"Of course. May I visit tomorrow?"

"I don't know, Teyla. I just don't know." She gave his arm a final pat and then she was gone.

God, what was he going to do? It was too big, too much to take in. John told the nurse that he was too tired for any more visitors, shifted down and pawed at the covers with his bandaged hands, but he couldn't grab at them to pull them over his head. The IV high on his chest and the TENS leads on his hands and feet prevented him from rolling over, so he settled his arm over his eyes. Nowhere to hide, he was in a cage for all the world to gawk at.

There was a polite knock on the glass door, and John peered from underneath his arm to see Kate Heightmeyer. Crap. He waved her in and shifted around, but he couldn't get any traction with his elbows.

"Here, let me help. You want to sit up?"

"Yes," he hissed in frustration. She put her hands on his shoulders, and pulled up with a surprising strength, then stuffed a pillow behind him. "Better?"

"Thanks. I guess there's no chance if I say I'm too tired, that you'll just go away?"

She sat down and pulled out her PCD. "No, but I'll make this a very short session. I'm going to record our conversation, if you don't mind." With a few commands, the holoscreen appeared, and a blinking cursor appeared in a voice-to-text box. "I'd like for you to tell me about the last couple of weeks."

John snarled, "Don't tell you haven't seen the vids."

Kate gave him a sad smile. "Yes, John. I've seen them, and read the text messages. Have you?"

"I don't have to, I was there."

"There were only five, just a few minutes long. You were in captivity for eleven days and that leaves a lot of your experience unaccounted for. Do you want to see them?"

What the hell, there was nothing left from which to hide. "I guess."

"Let's start with the first one, and then you can tell me how you got there."

It was just a series of stills of him laying on a cracked cement floor with a bag over his head, getting shot up with heroin, then tied to the bed. "She kept me high most of the time." He took a deep breath and exhaled harshly. This is just a debriefing, he lied to himself. "Sunday, the twenty third. I arrived at home..."

John's first session in the hyperbaric chamber was a nightmare. He'd never been claustrophobic... before. It had a glass front, but he felt his breath bounce off the surface back into his face, and he didn't have enough room to roll over or curl up. John didn't remember too much after his panic attack, but he felt drugged and out of it when he was returned to his room.

John had instituted a new rule with the nurses. No visitors at all. He kept his face resolutely turned away from the window as far as possible, and the nurses brought him the things that people had left for him. Evan stopped by, just in case John had changed his mind, and dropped off a tray of home baked treats for the nurses and John's Zhing.

The PCD was cracked wide open. The RFID lock had been decrypted, possibly with his removed chip. There was only three days worth of email. That's when Char had begun sending out the vids. Once the entire world knew where he was, the emails had trickled to a halt. No one expected a reply from him after that. Except from Jeannie, there were twenty or so, in turns frantic pleas for him to be all right, or rambling stream of conscious vids where she just talked about the kids, Kaleb, whatever crossed her mind. He whispered a reply, that he'd be fine, and to not worry. He'd eventually dredge up the courage to call her.

A new email came in from Evan, apologizing for the state of the device. They'd hoped it would have information on his whereabouts, and he didn't reencrypt it, because they had his chip in evidence.

John tried to access his server port at HPD, but it had been shut down. When he called human resources to get it opened, or a new one, the rep informed him that all external access was restricted while he was under investigation. The rep apologized with a sympathetic expression, but John rudely shut down the connection. Dammit, the investigation should bother him more than being denied access. He wasn't under arrest, as far as he knew, though that could be just a matter of time. John knew that he played fast and loose with the rules in a lot of minor areas, though it was never criminal abuse. In his opinion, at any rate.

It grated that he had to get information on the case from the news vid, just like everyone else. He turned on the vidscreen, and surfed the portals to discover that there was a lot going on. John considered calling Vala, and worried that maybe he was losing his mind. Calling her would be a very bad thing.

The two men that were arrested during John's rescue had spilled everything in their interrogation, and as expected they pinned the killing of Helgason, Callahan and Ellicott on Charlotte. Maybe they were smart enough to shift the blame, or perhaps she had pulled the trigger herself. They also gave up the names and descriptions of everyone who was even peripherally involved, and they were being rounded up with all due process.

The alarming revelation was that not everyone who had taken part in the transspec were grossly changed—and according to Charlotte's records there were nearly a thousand of them—tiny changes were possible: eye colors specific to the animal kingdom, striped hair that was barely distinguishable from a good dye job. John was shocked that she'd been experimenting with this as long ago as last December. These GeM's were harder to track down, for they retained their human intelligence, unlike their mindless, fully-changed brethren.

That was enough to have Houston put under martial law. Homeland Security forces, Army tanks and trucks rumbled through the city, disgorging soldiers in battle dress to enforce the dusk-to-dawn curfew. Flights and trains were halted, all roads to and from the city and surrounding suburban cities were sealed off blocked with a cordon hundred of miles long. Random checkpoints all over the city were being set up for on the spot DNA scans. Nations around the globe were preventing passengers from disembarking until they had submitted to DNA scans. Countries without that capability turned aircraft away to land where ever they could.

The DNA Purity Act allowed all of this, to prevent the further contamination of the humane genome at all costs.

The city ground to a halt, and demonstrations turned into riots. Vigilantism was endemic. Bodies of transspecies GeM victims, many killed in brutal ways, were dumped on the steps of City Hall.

A news clip showed Daniel Jackson, the U.S. District Attorney, on the steps of the courthouse on Rusk as he announced that a special grand jury had been convened. Reporters lurked around the U.S. District Court, speculating and gossiping about every individual that entered or left the building.

There wasn't a GeM shop left in town. Those that had tried to remain open were shut down by angry crowds bashing in the doors, breaking windows and assaulting the owners and operators, one of whom had died from their assault.

John had started this, he'd pushed the pieces into place for this to happen. He felt sick when flowers, the real kind, began to to show up. John had Kayla take them away. She left the cards on his bedside table, though he couldn't pick them up. He managed to scrape them off into the desk drawer, out of sight. The virtual kind were easy to flick a glance and delete. He was sure that the senders were well intentioned, but he saw the sympathy as pity. He just wanted to be left alone.

That wasn't a deterrent for Kate Heightmeyer. She showed up everyday, and with the ten minute rule, it took several days to go through his captivity in detail. It was annoying, but she kept asking the same questions, but she seemed pleased when he continued to give her the same answers.

Most of the calls that came in on his Zhing were immediately routed to the recycle bin, but he was flummoxed when 'UNITY' showed up on the caller I.D. It had never contacted him directly. John answered, but kept it at audio only. "Hello?"

"John. It is most pleasant to hear your voice."

"Thanks. Uhm, how are you?" John shook his head at the asinine question.

"I'm quite relieved to speak to you, we're all very worried about you. Also, I'm very excited. Professor Radek allowed me to secure my own phone number. I've never done this before."

John cracked a faint grin. Just like a kid with a new toy. "I bet."

"I won't keep you any longer. I wanted to give you this number, in case you should need to call me. You are my friend, and I wanted you to know that."

"Okay. You too."

"Thank you, John. I will do everything I can to assist Doctor Beckett, to aid your speedy recovery."

When the call was disconnected, John thought it was the damndest thing, but it was kind of cool, too.

The calls became a regular occurrence, though Unity didn't take offense when John tried to wheedle information about the case. It never told him anything, either.

The treatments John underwent were painful, or humiliating, and he was depressed enough that he just let it happen. The daily DNA scans continued, though they no longer showed any change—he was fully transpecies, though all of the external changes hadn't yet materialized. His forearms were still lengthening, and more feathers spouted on the broad flap of flesh under his arms that grew at a frightening pace. The skin on his calves was mutating into thick scales. The only bright spot was that his hands and feet were too damaged to turn into claws.

He was allowed to eat and drink in small quantities alongside the parenteral nutrition pumping thousands of calories into his system to prevent him from starving to death from the massive caloric requirements of his changing body. It was all bland and tasteless. He was reduced to an infantile state—the nurses had to bathe, feed him, brush his teeth. The wound care and the light physical therapy left him shaking and sweating and swearing.

Keller and Heightmeyer's daily visits sometimes left him in the same condition.

He was in day three of his self-imposed quarantine, but he couldn't escape with zero contact. Guards had been placed outside his room, and they escorted him to the hyperbaric chamber, radiology for scans, or to minor surgery suites for debridement and irrigation of the still rotting flesh of his hands and feet.

He was almost afraid to ask if it was to protect him, or prevent him from escaping. John snorted. He couldn't even crawl. What was worse—if possible—was that they were all from HPD. He knew them, and they knew him. When he was wheeled out of his room, John kept his head down and didn't reply when spoken to. It was too humiliating to face them.

To pile insult onto agony, Elizabeth was in elevator foyer on his return from a hyperbaric treatment. She looked awful, shuddering with barely contained grief, and tears streaked her face as she approached him.

John was sure that this wasn't a good idea on any level, for any reason, but he was trapped. "Yeah, no," he said, but Elizabeth put out a hand when his HPD escort moved toward her.

"Wait. John, Charlotte's dead, passed away a little while ago. I just need to talk to Rodney. Can you get a hold of him?"

"What?"

"All of his numbers go to 'vid mail. His blog has been deleted, and he's not at home. Dr. Carter said he's taken a sabbatical, and doesn't have any other contact for him. I need to talk, that's all."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said automatically, discovering that even now, there was still a tiny part of him that meant it. "But I don't know anything." It hadn't occurred to him that Rodney would skip out, but it was probably better that way.

"Okay. John, I am so sorry. I can't believe any of this, but I am sorry."

"You should get lost, too, Elizabeth. There's a lot of really angry people out there. You're not safe here."

She let out a strangled chuckle. "Maybe. It doesn't matter. I truly am sorry, and I hope that you recover." Elizabeth straightened her back, and walked into the elevator.

God. He hadn't even once thought what this would do to Elizabeth. He tried to call Rodney after he was settled back into his bed. All he got was a vid message, recorded years ago, with Rodney scowling from the holoscreen. 'Leave a message and I'll get back to you. If I feel like it.'

Caldwell's presence when Rodney had visited suddenly made sense. Either he'd been arrested or taken into protective custody, though suspected the latter, since it hadn't been smeared across the vid. Although, if that was the case, then why was Elizabeth walking around free?

The guards outside his room suddenly made a lot of sense.

John finally had time to process Charlotte's death after he was back in his room, and he found that he could, after all, mourn for the tiny, blue-eyed love of Rodney's life.

Whatever her faults as a child and teenager, John had always thought if she survived to adulthood, she'd be a stellar individualist. In her own way, she'd done that. But the other side of that equation was that there was no coming back from this. His last memory of her would be forever tainted and wrong, and he hated her for that. He loathed what she had done to her own father, to himself, and so many others. And, with her death, so many questions would remain unanswered. Why mess with the transpecies DNA?

He'd never gotten an answer from her when he'd had the chance.

The next excursion was to radiology for another scan, as they tracked his internal metamorphosis. Markham and Stackhouse were on duty, and John was flummoxed as to how he should deal with them. They'd given him, and Evan, the very first piece of evidence that had led him to this state. It was emphatically not their fault, but the ever-present knowledge that they'd seen him at his very lowest was nauseating.

He kept his head down, hands carefully arranged in his lap, so he didn't see her coming. When Stackhouse quickly stepped in front of him, John looked up to see Vala Mal Doran. She'd managed to abscond with someone's labcoat with an I.D. tag attached, a sixty year old male by the holo, and a stolen Omni peripheral hanging around her neck. Stackhouse apprehended and cuffed her before she got very close, though she yelled, "John, John, I just want to talk to you! Sheppard!" as she was dragged away. Markham muttered, "She'll get a nice room at the Hotel San Jac. Impersonating a physician is a flimsy excuse, but the theft will keep her on ice for twenty four."

In the morning he realized that during Mal Doran's escapade, neither of the two officers had given him the stink eye, which gave him the courage to ask about yesterday's incident. Today it was the new kid, Kemp.

"Oh, that wasn't her first attempt. That's why we're here. She made it as far as the nurse's station the day you were brought in, and hospital security threw her out. It wasn't in their budget, and no one wanted the Army here, so everyone's taking a shift in their off hours."

"Thank you," he said simply.

"No problem, Mr. Sheppard." Kemp made him feel ancient, but he was polite, and there wasn't a trace of disgust or horror in voice.

John gathered up his courage and told Kayla that if anyone was still interested in visiting, he was all right with that. Within the hour Evan showed up, looking a little wary.

"You okay? I mean, relatively speaking?"

"Can't lie to you buddy. It's not great."

Evan nodded solemnly and sat down next to the bed. "There's a few people out there to see you. Kayla must have sent out an all points bulletin to every one you know."

"Yeah?" John asked. He'd have to remind Kayla that he didn't want to have crowds of people streaming through, gawking at him like an animal in a cage.

"I called Teyla, she and Ronon will be here soon. They moved to a hotel in the city until they can travel to and from Texas City. Rodney..." Evan trailed off. "I'm probably not supposed to tell you this, but he's under investigation, the grand jury subpoenaed all of his bank records. He's not a flight risk though, so Captain Caldwell's agreed to self imposed house arrest."

"Damn." Rodney's house arrest meant that he hadn't been able to visit Char before she died. John should've warned him at Christmas, should've told him every thing. The money was going to look bad, though John had no idea how much was involved, any amount was trouble. Rodney hadn't mentioned it to him for the same reasons that he hadn't told Rodney about her second arrest for unlicensed prostitution. "What have we done?"

Evan shrugged. "What we had to do to get the job done."

Maybe Sumner had foreseen this scenario, the way that Federal involvement would play out to the end. The more frightening, alternate version was Charlotte left free to churn out thousands more monstrous hybrids. "Yeah. It's really bad out there?"

Evan laughed. "Not for us. Stats are way down, almost a fifty year low. Haven't been able to go home, though. Katie's pretty upset."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right—I've been crashing at your place."

John smiled slightly. "That's fair."

"Rodney had a new security system installed, but you lost the vid screen and a few other things. We think that they were trying to obfuscate your abduction, at least until we started getting the videos. But, the house sat open all night, so they might not be related."

"That's the least of my troubles, I guess."

"Any word on when they'll you know—change you back?"

"No, Beckett's still working on it, and Keller's dithering. She's afraid it'll be too much of a shock for my system."

"Sucks."

"Yeah." Evan glanced at his watch. "Time's up, better go before they throw me out. I'll come back tomorrow. You want anything from the house?"

John waved a hand at his hospital gown. "Track pants and a t-shirt. This is for the birds."

Evan stared at him a second, then burst out laughing. John thought about what he'd said, and laughed, really laughed, that awful honking sound he hated. He didn't care. It was better than crying.

Kayla came in and escorted Evan out, still chuckling, but she flashed a smile at John. He wiped his eyes with the back of his bandaged hand, and took a deep breath when he saw Teyla enter the room. Ronon was visible through the glass, his arms crossed with a scowl on his face.

"Hey." John gave her a faint smile.

"John. It has been many days."

"Yeah, sorry."

"No, I should be the one to apologize. I wasn't thinking."

"Don't worry about it. I would've found out eventually, and I think it was better than stumbling over it accidentally." He changed the subject abruptly, "So what have you guys been doing?"

"Ronon and I have both been writing reports for review since we have no access to the shoreline. It was difficult to focus on our work while you were missing."

John nodded. "So, you guys almost done?"

"No, once we are able to return to the coast, we have several more weeks of surveys to take."

"Okay." John realized that by the time he was released, they would probably be long gone. He'd known the affair with Ronon was a limited time offer with a firm expiry date, but he hadn't expected to miss so much time. He wouldn't have made it through the last few months without Ronon and Teyla at his back, shoring him up.

"You are tired."

He startled, didn't realize that he'd drifted off in thought. "Yeah. Hey listen. I didn't have much, uhm, time for quality thought, but your meditation helped. When I could think."

Teyla smiled broadly. "I am pleased that I could be of assistance, even in my absence."

"It was. You'll come visit again?" It wasn't like they were taking off for another galaxy, or anything. He would miss the fantastic sex with Ronon, but voice, vid, email—who knew? Maybe they'd see each other again.

"Of course. We will return tomorrow." Teyla leaned over and touched her forehead against his briefly. John relaxed into the odd gesture. She smelled fantastic, some exotic perfume warmed by her skin.

"Are you too tired to visit with Ronon? He has been very anxious to see you."

"No, I'd like to see him."

"Very well." John's face felt cool when Teyla left.

John felt nervous and uncomfortable when Ronon approached his bed. Ronon hadn't seen him yet, not in person anyway, and he'd looked angry when John glimpsed him through the window.

Ronon bent down and kissed him, sweetly, gently, thoroughly.

John returned the kiss, holding nothing back. He was glad that Kayla had brushed his teeth this morning, and John smiled into the kiss.

"God, John." Ronon had an economy of speech, but he said everything he felt with just those two words. John heard, I was worried, I missed you, I'm glad you're safe.

"Me, too," he said. They silently sat together for the rest of Ronon's visit.

After visitation hour was over, and John had eaten what had been fed to him like some giant, mutant baby bird, he turned on the vidscreen. The evening's usual roster of silly comedies and game shows were preempted by Vala's prime time special, featuring the life and times of one John Sheppard. He groaned and nearly ordered the screen off, but the opening sequence caught his eye. Mal Doran had been filming the whole escapade in the hospital corridor, but that scuffle was only the tip of the iceberg.

Vala must have been working on this since his initial disappearance. John was shocked at his appearance in a wheelchair, with hands and feet wrapped in giant soft thumb-less mittens, clad only in a hospital gown and sporting a black sheen of feathers on his face, arms and legs. His cowlicks had turned into a bizarre mock crest of feathers, his left eye was bright orange, but the nanite eye hadn't changed.

He knew that he was a freak, felt it from the inside, but the image shocked him. Would the billions of perfect strangers across the world really understand that this wasn't some special effect?

The clip was just the first salvo in a six hour retrospective on John: his entire life and careers, childhood pictures, video from graduation, the wedding photos with Nancy, pictures of him in uniform and casual shots next to helicopters, Rodney, his relationship with him. Then there was the last two years—every thing dissected and exposed. The footage from the CSX body dump, then John flopping around in the mud with the poor Gillian. His press conference from last September, where he looked stoned, glassy eyed and vague. The murder of Duane Ellicott. The scene at the Hart building, images that Paul had taken during his interview, footage from the failed raid—John's camera footage in fact—intercut with aerial views. Elizabeth sitting vigil outside Charlotte's hospital room as she lay dying. The shaky video of him in the wheelchair repeated. All of it with Vala's mellifluous alto voiceover, detailing the events and providing insight from hindsight.

It was odd. As John watched it, it felt like he was watching some other person's life. He acknowledged that she was incredibly thorough, but then—she always was. This wasn't nearly as horrible as surfing the net and running across images of himself being shot up with heroin, fucked, raped, for the prurient amusement of the whole god damned world. John was tense and worried, waiting for the worst, but by the end of it, none of the vid from his time in captivity was aired. He should probably call and thank her. It was obvious that the entire show had been engineered to show the 'real' John Sheppard, sans his ordeal.

Kate asked the next day. "Did you see Nightline Express last night?"

"Yeah, I did."

"What did you think? Did you feel it was accurate?"

"It was fair, she did a good job."

Kate smiled. "Good. Today, I have some general questions which relate to the program, others are random facts, some true and some false. Ready?"

"Yeah." John had figured out days ago that she was testing him for retention and formation of memories, both long and short term. He was interested in knowing the answer to that, too.

Beckett showed up early the next morning. John hadn't seen him in over a month, and he looked tired. "How are you doing, John?"

"About like you would expect." he tipped his head to side to indicate the fast growing wings that prevented him from wearing a t-shirt. "But the itching has kind of stopped, and I hate that my hands and feet are rotting off faster than they can cut it out, but other than that..." He shrugged.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I came to give you an update, but I don't want to give you any false hope. The lab trials are progressing, but the two formulas don't behave in the same way. We still cannae determine which of the two you were given—the agent essentially disappears in the transspec process."

"I'm pretty sure that Charlotte was lying when she told me that I was getting the 'mistakes'. It's been twenty days, and I don't feel like I'm losing my mind—not like Rosales."

"Keep in mind that we found her at least thirty days after her 'treatment'. We should know for certain within the next ten days, which will also give Dr. Keller time to ascertain that you're strong enough to handle the retransformation. We're also uncertain how the reagent will react to the infection, so it's critical that is under control first." Beckett smiled. "For the record, Dr. Heightmeyer's testing indicates good cognitive function, no inappropriate loss of memory—so far. Thanksgiving is our target, though if you begin to lose memory function, we'll administer the retroagent immediately."

At last, a firm date that he could hang onto, look forward to, rather than the days stretching out into infinity while he waited on tenterhooks. "That's great, doc. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Keller came by daily on rounds. He hated the wound checks the most on days when he'd undergone debridment. The damn mittens were getting smaller as he lost more and more of his hands and feet, and afterward, the odor of rotting flesh assaulted him when she unwrapped the bandages. He hated that the pain wasn't in his toes, but in his arches.

She shook her head. "The good news is that you're stable. The bad news is we're having trouble containing the infection and the circulation is poor. The level assessment from yesterday indicates that you're going to lose most of your fingers, but they'll be fairly easy to replace. It's your feet that worry me—they are the most damaged. We may have to amputate at least to the trans-metatarsal."

"When?"

"I can't say, yet—you have to be infection free, and I've been consulting with Doctors Beckett and Balangopian. None of us is sure how your changed physiology will react to general anesthesia. The anesthesiologist indicates a regional anesthesia and peripheral nerve blocks could still work."

"All right," John said uncertainly.

"I want to do a couple of scans and a possibly a liver biopsy to make sure that the reintroduction of opioid analgesics isn't going to be toxic and damage the organ any further. It was pretty severely traumatized by the starvation. The problem is that it's a conundrum—The biopsy is painful, even with the proper medication. I don't want to do the biopsy without knowing how you'll react to the drugs, and I don't want to permanently kill your liver with random trials. We could grow you a new liver, but I'd rather avoid the complication. There's no medical precedent for post-liver failure maintenance for someone in your condition."

John wasn't sure that anything could be as painful as the GeM treatment that Charlotte had given him, or having the rotting flesh of his hands and feet sliced off day by day. "I can tough out the biopsy."

Keller gave him a dubious look. "No, I'm not going to torture you, John. Let's do the scans and see. Your liver functions show improvement and we may be able to skip the biopsy. If so, then we'll try a couple of different drugs to determine which one is still effective prior to surgery. The TENS unit isn't designed for the post-surgical pain relief. As soon as we compile all of that information, we'll confer again, and schedule the surgery as soon as the gangrene is completely eradicated."

"Okay."

"I want to keep you in the ICU. I know you'd prefer a private room, but the various treatments coming up will require us to keep a close eye on you, and it's safer in here. You're a pretty high profile patient—every one knows where you are, and that you're immobile."

At least she didn't say helpless, though he really was. He'd suffer the indignity of the glass bird cage in trade for the safety.

"Well, I'll get you scheduled for a scan, and then we'll proceed with caution. How about that?"

"Okay, Doc. Whatever you say."

The unexpected caller of the day was Cameron Balinsky, the Assistant U.S. District Attorney. "John Sheppard?"

He'd set all calls to audio only. "That's me."

"May I have video confirmation of your identity?"

"Wouldn't do you much good. Take it or leave it."

"Very well. I'm presenting you with a summons to testify at a grand jury hearing."

"Okay."

"That easy? I'd heard rumors that you might be difficult to deal with."

"You want me there, you have to convince Keller to let me leave the hospital."

"I see. I had heard that you were relatively well."

Jesus, this guy must not own any device that connects to the cloud, or hadn't seen Vala's Nightline Express piece. "Sorry buddy. I'm pretty sure the answer's going to be no. Or least not for a while."

"I'll be sure to speak with your physician to verify that."

"Yeah, you do that." John chuckled to himself as he disconnected the call. He wasn't going any where, at least not any time soon. He hadn't even been here two weeks, and Beckett's target date was still a couple of weeks away.

Lee was just reinserting the last of the TENS needles in John's ankle after his trip to the MRCT scan when Dr. Beckett arrived.

John had no idea what this second visit meant. He clamped down on his nervousness and said mildly, "Hey, Doc, back so soon?"

"John." Beckett nodded to the nurse as he bustled around making sure that he was settled.

"I'll come back with your dinner in a few, all right?"

"Sounds good, Lee." There was at least solid food, though he still couldn't feed himself.

"I asked for a few moments of privacy, John. I just got the results, and I have some information you." Beckett paused, and John's heart plummeted—the retroagent had failed, he was going to be a freak for the rest of his short life, for he had no doubt that he'd be murdered by some vigilante once the doctors gave up on him.

His expression must have conveyed all of that to Beckett. "No, no. I'm confidant that we can work out the minor kinks in the retroagent. John, it's the autopsy results for Charlotte. She was pregnant."

"Oh." Getting pregnant had been Charlotte's goal, one of them any way, so he wasn't surprised. The situation was completely fucked up, though.

"There were indications that the blastocyst would never become a viable embryo, had she survived her injuries. There were serious defects in the DNA. The dilemma is that I can't suppress the information that the hybrids can be fertile."

"Have you told Rodney?" He hadn't had any contact with Rodney save the one, brief visit. If Rodney was under investigation, contacting an officer attached to the case, regardless of their relationship, was definitely prohibited. It was also possible that Rodney might have changed his mind, not be so amenable towards John, considering his role in Charlotte's death. There were times that Rodney would follow the dotted line, and others when he wouldn't.

"No, I haven't spoken with Dr. McKay."

"Yeah, me either."

"I know that the circumstances were less than ideal, but I am sorry for your loss, John."

"Uhm, thanks." John supposed that however he approached it, it was a loss. Probably for the best all around, but right now, it was just another check mark in the 'disaster' column. "When will the retroagent be ready?"

"Another week or so, but we should wait as long as possible, for all of the reasons discussed a few days ago."

The day started out with bad news, and went downhill from there. Evan arrived early with a small bag from Christy's. "I asked the Doc and everything, it's not contraband," he said.

"Cool, thanks." He still couldn't eat them by himself, but the variation in his diet was very welcome. Evan didn't say anything when John left the bag on the table, he was not going to ask Evan to feed him the damn things.

"Yeah. Mitchell says hey, by the way."

John hadn't had even a passing thought for him, or the FBI team. "They're still there?"

"Got moved to their own floor. The precinct's been swarmed with Feebs since your disappearance, but he found me yesterday to give the message in person."

John nodded slowly. He'd send a note in reply. His evolving appearance was common knowledge now, but Teyla, Ronon and Evan was his entire guest list. "So what's going on?" He asked regularly, though he never really expected to get an answer, but Evan looked like he had something on his mind.

"There was an attack on Rodney's house early this morning – more like a riot – and WitSec whisked him away."

It didn't make any difference; Rodney had been as far out of his reach as possible already, but it felt like the snapping of another strand of their bond. Folks taken into WitSec didn't usually ever come back. "Crap. He's all right?"

"As far as I know, but I wasn't on the scene, and details are pretty thin on the ground."

That was probably all they would ever hear, too. John barely heard Evan's parting remarks.

Rodney had always been a just phone call away for most of John's life, best friends since childhood. Even when they were fighting, annoyed with one another, or living on opposite sides of the globe, he'd always known that all he had to do was make a call.

The last few weeks had been a never-ending misery of terror and pain, and there was so much unfinished business. Maybe enough that this was some fucked-up version of a blessing in disguise, because John had had serious doubts that they'd ever heal the breach of Charlotte.

She had definitely gotten her revenge. Yeah, he hoped that she was laughing as she roasted in hell.

He ordered the vidscreen on, and as expected, the riot in Braes Bayou was the top headline. There was a brief shot of Rodney's face as he was shoved into a squad car, and John snapped off at the vidscreen.

He'd seen Rodney cranky, annoyed, unhappy, worried sick, or deliriously happy and flushed with ecstasy, but he never wanted to see that expression of unmitigated terror ever again.

The good news just kept on rolling in.

Teyla and Ronon came by in the afternoon, and informed him that they were returning to the coastline to continue their work.

The Army was relaxing the cordon around the city for individuals who'd passed a DNA scan as fully human and accepted getting re-chipped with a known human identification. In past decades, the watch list had been reserved for people that had been flagged in error as a terrorist, due to their name or physical resemblance. It had receded into the dusty annals of history, until its resurrection with a new purpose. The vid clips showed long lines of Houstonians waiting to verify their genreg and get their RFID chips replaced.

That meant that Ronon would be leaving sooner than later. Neither of them mentioned their eventual return to the Atlantis Conservancy, but John felt the weight of another deadline pressing down on him.

John's routine was an unending repetition. Treatments, Lee or Kayla caring for him — he'd subsequently learned only nurses with a security clearance were allowed to care for him — daily visits from Keller, Heightmeyer and Evan. Teyla and Ronon were there infrequently, considering the drive and the time it took to get through the road blocks. Unity called regularly to just chat. Whoever was on guard would check in to see if there was anything he needed, and to talk for a few moments. No one ever told him anything that wasn't on the news, but for the most part, the regulations concerning transparency in police operations meant that John was reasonably well informed.

He'd broken the ban on mirrors and found himself obsessively checking his reflection while passing glass doors. There was very little hair left on his head and face, it was thickly feathered. His arms were more thinly covered with a layer of feathers. The length of his forearms was dramatically noticeable, and he could probably almost reach the floor if he let them hang down as he sat in his wheel chair, but the growing flesh between his arms and body prevented him from doing so.

John considered decking the MRCT tech who'd suggested that an obsession with mirrors was a typical avian behavior, except he didn't have fists with which to strike him anymore. He just silently ground his teeth together, wondering if they'd change into a beak-like formation if the transformation was left unchecked.

He was sick and tired of catheters and bedpans, of being fed and washed like an infant, of being immobile, being drugged to the gills in order to get into the hyperbaric chamber. John snorted, that was the wrong metaphor, but he couldn't think of one for birds. He'd never look at the common boat-tail grackle the same way again.

But all of those were minor annoyances compared to the horror he felt when he unexpectedly, spectacularly, failed one of Heightmeyer's memory tests. He couldn't remember his wedding day, or the date when he was discharged from the Air Force.

He stared at Heightmeyer. "I remembered this before, right?" The tests were never exactly the same, but they followed a pattern. "I should know this. It's only been three weeks! Why is this happening?"

Kate typed a few keys and grimly shook her head. "Yes, you were able to correctly identify them as recently as last week," she said in a tight voice. She took a breath and composed herself. "Let's finish, see if there are any other gaps."

John opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a hand and said vehemently, "Quickly, John."

Those weren't the only lost memories. By the time that Kate had left with a blank expression and a promise to return with Dr. Beckett, John was fully panicked, wondering what else he'd lost. It didn't help that he did remember how fast Natisha Rosales had gone under, had it really only been a few hours?

John was shocked to find that Charlotte had actually told him the truth. As a child, she would stubbornly cling to her story, even when confronted with proof that she'd been caught in a lie. He'd truly believed that she'd lied to him — but then, she'd undergone a massive change herself, which had made her more than a little insane. More insane.

The waiting was killing him. He bitterly remembered the agony after Charlotte had injected him, and this time he couldn't look forward to heroin for relief. He'd take the treatment anyway.

All John had were Beckett's verbal reassurances that they could fix this.

What if it failed? He'd rather die than lose everything. Yeah, he had a few problems, but they were his problems, part of who he was, along with the stuff that he absolutely didn't want to forget. Birthdays, holidays, Rodney's first trip on the sailboat, Halloween, Jeannie's dance recitals, the pool parties and trips to Galveston with his high school basketball team, the rocketry project with Tom and Rodney. Those few halcyon years with Nancy. Forcing his way back into Houston after the storm, the days of searching and mourning his mom and dad. Flying. Not flying. He kept reviewing his memory, to find out if anything was missing, and he choked on a short laugh. How would he know what was missing?

He was going to lose all of it, and then he'd be not-him. Some other thing, an extra out of a creature feature, sent away to live in a detention camp, if they even let him live.

He hollered at the vidscreen, "Where's Keller and Beckett?"

The vidscreen snapped on, and Lee was on duty. "They're on their way, John. Just take a deep breath and try to relax."

Fuck relaxing. He didn't even have the luxury of pacing, the only thing he could do was lie there while the rogue viral agent ate his brain. "Not happening," he ground out.

Barely a minute later, Lee was there, injecting something into his I.V. "That should help. They'll be here in just a few minutes. Every thing's almost ready."

God, what if Beckett had a car wreck and the unique retroagent meant just for him was smashed, ruined?

Lee shook his head. "No, they're both here in the building, just having a last consult with the internist and anesthesiologist."

John stared at Lee, until he realized that he'd been babbling like Rodney.

Lee just asked, "Is that helping any?"

He took a deep breath and tried to calm down, and he felt the plastic feeling descending, covering him. "Yeah."

Lee didn't leave, stayed with him. He turned on the vidscreen and found an old movie portal. "This okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

Beckett arrived alone, and John eyed the tiny bag that contained the ruby colored concoction. A small burst of anxiety broke through the medicated calm. "It was pretty painful last time."

He'd do it anyway.

Beckett shook his head. "It's not meant to be delivered all at once, but we're prepared if you need pain relief. I'm going to piggy back this into your IV and treatment will take twelve hours to administer. I'll be here with you the entire time. "

John watched with fascination as the red liquid drip, drip dripped and swirled down through the tube. It looked like blood in water until it dissipated, just barely tinged pink when it disappeared from view under his chin.

He was sure that he didn't imagine the faint bloom of heat that suffused through him, left a funny taste in his mouth and made him want to pee. It was bearable, but he had twelve hours to go.

John thought that maybe getting it all over with at once had an advantage, no waiting in morbid anticipation for the pain.

Beckett sat in the chair, pulled out his PCD and began working. The sound was turned down on the vid, but he'd seen the movie so many times that John didn't need to hear the dialog. At least he remembered that.

The pain was never more than he could bear during the treatment. John even managed to fall asleep. When he woke up, Beckett was still in the chair and Keller had joined them. The room was dim and quiet. John checked the time on the Omni where Keller was reviewing the his recorded vitals with a peripheral. Four am. Keller gave John and encouraging smile. "Hi, How are you doing?"

"Okay, I think."

"Good. You've got a few more hours left." The red bag was three quarters empty. "Are you hungry?"

John shook his head, but the gesture made the room sway around him. "I don't know if I could keep it down."

"I'll get something for the nausea, and then I'd like you try to eat, even if it's only a nutrition drink. You're going to need a lot of calories, even more than before."

"Maybe later."

"I'll hold you to that."

John tried to get comfortable, but his skin itched, his gut roiled and the full body ache was a little worse. He remembered one of Teyla's meditations and managed to fall asleep again.

In the morning he'd only drunk half of the thick, chalky drink when the pain sharpened into excruciating as his body began to change. The pain in his arms, shoulders and back as the wings were being reabsorbed was indescribable. He vomited suddenly, and there was a flurry of activity as they got him cleaned up and the bed sheets changed, fentanyl and more anti-nausea medication added to his I.V.

Keller was good for her word. He had no way to operate a PCA pump, instead there were sublingual fentanyl tabs. The pain relief was nearly as sweet as flying on heroin.

He wasn't alone, locked in a dank freezer, tied down, being raped and abused. The last time he did this, he was terrified, seriously dehydrated and starving. Hope, care and comfort made such a difference.

 

John didn't really recall the last few days, but there were flashes of Evan, Teyla, Ronon. He thought that maybe he'd asked Keller to cut off his arms. There were hazy recollections of the DNA and MRCT scans. He felt disconnected, thick and fuzzy. His chest ached and the molting was driving him crazy. It hurt his hand, but he used the mittens to rub at the loose feathers.

He didn't know if the drugs were responsible for his inability to process and the lost time, or if the retrovirus hadn't worked quickly enough. Only time would tell how much that he'd permanently lost, but John couldn't bear to wait. He called up replay on the Nightline Express piece to reassure himself that he still remembered.

 

Beckett nodded at the DNA scan results. "You're doing very well, John. I believe that you're through the worst of it, but your body will continue to reject the abnormalities, and possibly reabsorb the extra flesh."

"So that's it?"

"No, using the others that've had the retrovirus as a guide, it'll be a few weeks yet. I'll continue to monitor, but I'm going to give Dr. Keller my release for further treatment."

The next day Keller breezed into the room with a cheery smile. "How would you like to have your hands and feet taken care of tomorrow?"

"Yeah, really?"

"You're infection-free, and passed all the scans and tests. No reason to wait any longer."

He wasn't looking forward to it, but he was already losing them a little bit at a time with every treatment. "That would be great."

"Depending on how it goes, you might even get out of here in as little as a week."

Huh. Get out of this bed, and hopefully regain his life to some extent. He had no idea how to proceed with that, or if it was even possible.

"Even after you get out of here, a full recovery is going to take a long time and then there's physical therapy, John. Your DNA scans have to be perfectly normal before we can think about the replacing the hands and feet."

It would take months to regain his strength and to learn to balance on partial feet, and to learn to deal without fingers until he could see a reconstructionist. "I know. Where? I don't think I can go home."

The situation outside the hospital room was still volatile, and the bodies of transspecs were occasionally found around the city, when the Army wasn't capturing them in DNA dragnets across the city. Charlotte had been very prolific, cranking out transpecs for months.

"True, nor do I think it would be very conducive to recovery to hang around at home alone. To that end, Captain Caldwell's requested a briefing on your status. Do you want to consent to that?"

John hated that his life was an open book, but everyone knew what had happened, no point in keeping his recovery a secret. "Yes, that's fine."

"Great, give me a few minutes and I'll send him in."

He could see them in the hall outside his room as they talked and smiled at one another flirtatiously. Huh. John realized that he knew almost nothing about Caldwell personally — there hadn't been any time.

After a few minutes, Caldwell touched Keller on the arm and then he entered John's room.

"Sheppard."

"Captain."

"There's been some discussion of putting you into protective custody once you're released. It would very dangerous for you to go straight home. Feelings are still running very hot, and it will be sometime before you can pass as a human or protect yourself."

Pass as human. That was a hard truth to swallow. He knew that he still looked terrible. He saw confirmation of that in the the looks on the faces of everyone around him, and he was still molting, dammit. John shrugged. "I understand."

"I can't give you any details other than a Marshall will take you into protective custody. There can't be any contact with anyone that you know, no matter how well or little — everyone has their breaking point."

John swallowed. It wouldn't be like captivity with Charlotte, but it wouldn't be very much different than being stuck here. "Alone?"

"Keller's requested that you have access to a physical therapist and appropriate medical care, and I will pass that onto the Marshall service with the request for protection."

Strangers, but not locked in a freezer to be tortured and abused whenever anyone entered. "I'm not sure that I really have much choice."

"I don't think so."

"All right. I'll do it."

Jeannie hadn't had any warning when Rodney disappeared into WitSec, and the least he can do is give her a little peace of mind. They talk for a long time after John tells her that she isn't to worry when he leaves the hospital. He lies and tells her, "It's rehab, is all."

"Bullshit. Don't tell me to not worry. I've already had my brother disappear on me, I don't want to lose you too."

"I think it's only temporary, but I'll make sure that you know if it isn't."

"God, John. What the fuck? How did this happen?"

"I ask myself that question every fucking day."

Being denied food or water bothered John more than he'd admit. It had too many associations with his eleven days with Charlotte. He was already weak and starving, his stomach growled and his throat felt dry by the time that he was taken to surgery.

He watched with dismay as the orthopedic surgeon did a level check and drew the surgical guides on his feet much higher than he'd anticipated, even with knowing the poor results of the daily circulation tests.

For all of the whipsawing back and forth and the agony of the last few weeks, the surgery had only taken a couple of hours. The pervasive malodorous stench was gone, and John counted what he had left to work with. Two half feet, three fingers, and two half fingers. He'd be unable to walk for six weeks, but at least he'd be able to feed himself once the bandages came off.

He was still in his ICU room, though. Rules were rules and visitors, other than Kate Heightmeyer, were restricted to ten minutes. John told Kayla that he was too tired for visitors and turned on the vidscreen. He didn't want to think about lost body parts, the holes in his memory, or the fact that Beckett's last scan still showed foreign DNA in his system. He'd been irrevocably changed, and he wasn't sure if he even wanted to know this John Sheppard.

Heightmeyer showed up the next day, and John refused to take any memory tests. "No point in torturing myself, I'll never know that stuff again."

"All right, why don't we talk about your surgery? Amputation is traumatic even under the best circumstances."

John shook his head. "I can hear the buzz in the squad room now, Spare Parts Sheppard."

"Do you believe that your colleagues are that grossly insensitive?"

"They're all nice and polite when they see you, but down in he bullpen..."

"It's been a month since your ordeal began. Have you been able to put any of it in perspective?"

"I'm trying to not think about it."

Kate shook her head. "That isn't going to work, John. You get some rest, and I'll see you tomorrow?"

John just turned up the sound on the vidscreen, and resolutely watched the news ticker running across the bottom of the screen. He heard the door close behind her.

The city was still under curfew. The transspec capture or death toll was still short a couple of hundred from the list culled from Charlotte's experiment data. The military action wasn't going away until the two lists match.

John couldn't eat or drink enough to assuage the feelings of hunger. The parenteral IV burned his veins when they'd opened it up wide. His hands were still bandaged, and Lee or Kara were there every half hour with a snack or a meal. Physical therapy left John exhausted and in pain, but he could manage to get himself into his wheelchair at least.

The incisions were still draining, and it hurt to move his ankles. He was still a very long way from a full recovery, and the fleshy dewlap under his arms showed no sign of being absorbed any further, and his arms remained at their unnatural length.

Despite all of that, Keller told him that the plans for his protective custody were in place, and that she was going to release him on Friday.

He really wasn't looking forward to getting out. At least he had some contact with his real life while he was here.

Evan called Thanksgiving morning and asked if he was up to having dinner with the family.

John flatly refused. "Katie and the kids? No. No way."

"Okay. Don't shoot the messenger. Katie thought you might want a little festivity for the holiday."

"Put her on." John switched his video off and waited.

"John?"

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, I appreciate the gesture, but I really don't want you, Deloris or Elijah to remember me this way."

"John, we've seen Nightline. It's all right."

"But not in person, and trust me, that makes a big difference. I just don't feel up to it, and anyway, I can't visit with anyone for more than ten minutes. It's not safe in the city, ya'll just stay home and have a nice meal."

"All right. I'll send Evan 'round with a plate for you, if that's okay?"

"Yeah, Katie. That's fine. Thank you."

"You be sure and come see us when you can, we've been so worried for you."

"I'll do that." He didn't tell her that he didn't know when that might be, if ever.

"We'll see you then. Happy Thanksgiving, John."

"You too, Katie."

Teyla and Ronon had worked out some deal with Lee that they could take their ten minutes together back to back.

It was just as well, John wasn't sure that he could get through this twice. Teyla briefly touched her forehead to John's, and settled in the only chair, Ronon kissed him and leaned against the bed, one hand lazily scritching John's head. It felt good, the feathers there weren't easily dislodged with his bandaged hand.

"So, the good news is I'm getting out of here in a day or two."

Ronon leaned over and dropped a kiss where he'd been scratching. Teyla smiled and said, "That is good news indeed. You're looking much better."

"Thanks. The bad news is I'm going into protective custody. I don't know where, and even if I did — I couldn't tell you."

"We were going to take care of you, protect you," Ronon said.

"I appreciate that, but ya'll have work to do, and I still need a lot of after care and therapy. It's probably better this way." John didn't say safer, because he was pretty sure that no-one would get past Ronon.

"It is true. Mr. Woolsey has been quite accommodating, but he is very concerned that we are so far behind schedule."

Ronon's hand tightened briefly over John's head. "Screw Woolsey. We'll get it done."

"Don't lose your jobs over this, I don't want to be responsible for wrecking your lives, too."

"John," Teyla rebuked him. "You are not responsible and we are not going to lose our livelihood. How long do you think you will be away?"

"I can't say. I don't know. It could be weeks, or it could be months. I might not ever get to come back."

John couldn't see Ronon's face, but Teyla's was enough. She nodded solemnly. "Then it is very likely that we will depart before you are free."

"Yeah. So this is it." John had tried to steel himself all long for being the one left behind, but now, he was the one leaving them. He didn't care for either alternative, because it was goodbye either way.

"I do not believe so. Though we may be far away, we can speak to one another. We frequently pass through Houston — there will many times that we can visit."

"It'll be a while before I can phone or email. I won't have access. I might not ever get my life back."

"I choose to believe that we will speak again, John." Teyla stood up and laid a hand on Ronon's arm and John's shoulder. "I will wait outside. Be well."

It was a tight fit, but Ronon managed to climb into the bed and laid face to face with John, wrapped an arm around his body and pulled him in close. He ran his hand down John's lower back to to his ass, then settled on his hip, pulling John over onto him.

John rolled over and carefully insinuated his leg between Ronon's, and relaxed into the embrace. His cock didn't show any sign of getting hard, not even a twinge. He hadn't had an erection since, well. Since. He had to say it, but he couldn't think how.

Ronon had already figured it out, though. "I don't guess you're one for long distance relationships."

John pulled Ronon in closer with the crook of his arm, and buried his face in his chest, drew in a deep breath through his nose. Ronon smelled great, the exotic aftershave he used, and underneath, warm and safe and earthy.

"No." His marriage had failed for many reasons, but half a world between him and Nancy had been the final blow. He'd liked that Ronon was more than just a god in the sack—they clicked, he enjoyed seeing him and hanging out. And while the passion and fantastic sex were extremely attractive, John didn't think he could go months and months alone, waiting for Ronon to happen to swing by, because they rarely conversed in words, they spoke to one another with their bodies.

"Thought so. I'm gonna miss you."

"Me too, buddy. Me too."

Evan came in the evening, bearing a platter of organic turkey dinner. John forced himself to eat a few bites with his own hands, but it hurt, and it was too difficult to swallow around the lump of misery in his throat. "Tell Katie, it was great, that I ate most of it, okay? I appreciate it, but..."

"Not doing so great?"

John shook his head, blinking rapidly as he stared at the fork balanced between two fingers. "Not really."

"Don't suppose you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," he whispered. John dropped the fork and leaned his head back, eyes closed.

Evan sighed and took the plate. "John," he started, but let it trail off.

John turned his head and looked at his partner. "Thanks for everything, Evan."

His eyes went wide as he realized what John was saying. "No, you don't get to do this. You're going to be fine. Things will get back to normal, and you don't get to do this."

"Maybe." John bit his lip and looked away, "But I can't take that chance. You're a great guy, a good friend, the best partner I ever had, and you'll be good for Kemp until—if—I come back."

Evan picked up John's hand and carefully held it between his. "John, I can't even imagine, Lord knows that you've got a tremendous burden, but just try to have a little faith. You have to, not just for me, but for yourself, too."

"I'll try. Be safe out there, buddy."

He'd never see anyone he knew ever again. He'd never get the chance to say goodbye to Rodney. Caldwell never said the arrangements were permanent, but John knew the way that WitSec operated.

John couldn't sleep. He sat on the side of the bed, feet dangling, and clumsily pulled the cards and letters out of the bedside table. He wished that he hadn't ignored them, that he'd taken the time to acknowledge the implicit message that the correspondents had cared enough to contact him, touch base and wish him well. There was so little time left, and he'd be incommunicado for a long time. Maybe forever.

He dictated a short reply to as many as could, emailing the response directly when he could, and relying on the post office to forward those where he only knew their physical address.

Lee had brought John's discharge papers and a bag for his things. He had a few pairs of track pants, and his Zhing. The gifts and flowers were long gone, distributed to other patients and wards soon after delivery. He dropped the cards and letters into the bag as he read and replied to each of them. It was amazing that so many had elected to send physical messages.

He finished just as Keller breezed in at three am. "Today's the big day, huh?" She sounded far too chirpy for the hour. He hadn't been given an exact time for his departure, just a time frame of hours before dawn.

"I guess."

She frowned. "I thought you'd be more excited to get out of here."

John shrugged. "I've been in some kind of captivity since October —I'm just trading up to a slightly nicer cage."

"Think of it as an extended stay in rehab, instead."

He couldn't. He couldn't drag on day by day, losing hope of escaping this nightmare a little bit at a time. A clean break was easier to mourn. John shrugged.

Keller passed over a memslip. "Here's your medical history. They'll need it. It's got everything, all the way back to birth."

John took it and got it into his pocket without dropping it, then managed to transfer himself into the wheelchair. He was winded from the effort, when he said, "Thanks Jennifer. You did great."

She leaned over to fix the foot rest. "No, John. You did. I wish I could just wave a wand, and make it all go away."

He gave her a little smile. "So do I."

"Take care, John. I'll see you when you're back."

"Yeah." He raised his hand and waved as she left. John sat alone and waited in his silent room.

 

He waited for an hour, watching the back of Reynolds head outside his room, before two men arrived in the hallway outside. One was tall with short, gray hair, and the other shorter man had nondescript brown hair. They were in hospital scrubs, but they gave Reynolds plenty of time to check their credentials and read the court order memslip. Reynolds turned around, nodded at John with a reassuring smile and a thumbs-up, then left.

The two men sauntered in. "John Sheppard?"

"That's me."

"Jack O'Neill, U.S. Marshall." He slung a hand over his shoulder, "my partner, Charlie Kawalsky."

They both gave John to opportunity to check their credentials for himself. John handed the ID wallets back over, and held his hand out. Kawalsky shook it gingerly. O'Neill was gentle, but matter of fact. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Yeah." John dragged his bag into his lap, and guided the chair towards the door with the joystick. It was a loaner until he could stand on what was left of his own two feet.

Kawalsky rushed to the door and opened it. "To your left, we're going to the loading dock."

The nurses station was unmanned, and they didn't talk as they made their way through empty hospital corridors to the freight elevator. John wondered if they were jamming the cameras.

There were three U-Haul vans side by side in the loading dock. O'Neill and Kawalsky simply picked him up, chair and all, and strapped down the chair in the back of the middle one.

O'Neill climbed in with him and shut the door behind, and John heard the lock click. The only light came in from the loading dock through the windshield from behind him. "Here, put this on." He held out a light jacket with a hood. It wouldn't fit over the dewlaps under his arms, so O'Neill settled for tucking it around his shoulders, then slipped the hood up over his head.

John tried to still his panic with deep breaths, but he wasn't very successful.

"Don't like enclosed spaces?" O'Neill kneeled beside him, but didn't touch him. He'd been very well briefed. Kawalsky started the engine, and they began to move.

"No."

"I'm supposed to close the hatch to the cab, but I'll leave it. We're pretty far back. You gonna be okay?"

"Just talk to me." It was still dark. The back of the van was barely lit by the flash of street lights.

"You gotta be available for the grand jury, and nobody was real interested in letting you outside the quarantine, so we're not going very far. The safe house is in a blackout zone. The cover for your detail is that they're a professional couple who just moved in a couple of weeks ago. They've already made nice with the few neighbors, friendly enough, but not interested in socializing. Lam works from home, and Robinson works days, so a Marshal will be in the house with you at all times. Pretty sweet set up."

"Sounds great," John said through clenched teeth.

"I'm the uncle of one or the other of them, and Charlie's a cousin, I guess. That's our cover for taking you the the courthouse."

John was going to get killed—this guy couldn't even remember all of his cover story.

The van sped up uphill, and it sounded like a highway. Holy fuck, he was trapped in a vehicle going to god knows where, and John lost the last, tenuous grip on his calm. He was utterly silent as he flung himself out of the chair in a mindless panic, scrabbling toward the double doors that held him prisoner. He ignored the pain, it wasn't terrible, but he couldn't get a grip on the locked lever. John put his back to the corner and panted heavily, aching hands and feet tucked in to protect them.

"Dammit. Sheppard!" O'Neill had his hands out, but he wasn't coming any nearer. He snapped his fingers, "You with me?"

John curled in tighter. "No more, no more. Can't take it." He barely heard O'Neill and Kawalsky changing their plans on the fly, but he paid attention to O'Neill edging closer toward him.

"Look, Sheppard. Not gonna hurt you. No one's going to hurt you. You're gonna be okay."

It was dark, he was immobilized by the pain in his hands and feet and he was locked in the trunk of a car, and John knew what came next. Drugs, and he'd be out of it for weeks as he was raped and tortured. He was already starving, thirsty. His last thought was never getting out of here as he felt the needle in his arm.

John came to in an unfamiliar bedroom. He felt groggy, his hands and feet ached. The open curtains dimly lit the room, and outside the sky was gray and cloudy. His chair was next to the bed, and the door was open. He heard O'Neill shouting somewhere out there. He sounded pissed beyond belief as he reamed someone a new asshole. "...had to fucking sedate him. No, he was not responding! Thought he was going to go through the fucking door!"

Whatever O'Neill had shot him up with had worked. John could calmly, rationally recall what had happened. Wonderful. He was going to be a fucking basket case for the rest of his life, on top of being an anonymous invalid.

He sat up and inspected the sutures. They'd bled a little, but they'd held. The way that his feet just... ended was still disconcerting. John stared at the chair. He wasn't sure he had the strength or coordination to heave himself into it, but he had to. He couldn't be trapped here in another bed.

John was about to attempt the transfer when a dark head poked through the door. "Good. Feeling any better?" She stepped into the room. "Dr. Carolyn Lam, we're going to be sharing house for a while."

"John Sheppard. Guess you know that."

"You want some help?"

"Still woozy."

"Best not do it by yourself then." Carolyn was stronger than she looked, and she easily helped him into the chair. "Come on. You can tell 'Uncle' Jack to shut the hell up."

John put the chair in motion and headed left down the short hall to the great room. A doorway to the right showed a foyer to the front door and a small den with an overflowing book case. "Yeah, about that. He does know what his cover story is, right?"

"Christ." Carolyn yelled, "Jack, get over here and reassure John that you do actually know what you're doing!"

O'Neill shrugged. "It was a little joke."

"Very little. John, he's not my uncle but we've known each other for quite a few years."

"Not much of a stretch?"

"Trust me, he's not going to lose himself in the part. Jeff Robinson, he's my partner. Also not that great an actor, but he's a hell of a physical therapist."

Jeff waved over the counter from the kitchen at the far end of the room. "Nice to meet you. You hungry?"

John nodded absently as he looked around. An old-style entertainment center faced a comfortable looking sofa and recliner where Jack lounged, surfing through the portals. French doors led to a patio with a small spa and a fenced back yard with no houses beyond. In front of the kitchen and next to the patio doors was an inexpensive dining room set. Despite being ripped out of the '90's suburbia, it looked homey, lived in. A few unpacked boxes were lined up against the wall opposite the patio, either for verisimilitude, or they actually contained personal belongings.

Jeff put a plate on the table. "You want something to drink, John?" They must've chosen Jeff on purpose. He was tall and slim with dark, unruly hair. At a distance, they'd look almost the same, except that John was confined to a wheelchair.

He really, really wanted a beer, but he'd been sober this long, he might as well keep going. They probably wouldn't let him have one anyway. "Water's fine, thank you."

Jack called across the room. "I'll take a beer."

Carolyn snorted as she pulled a glass out of the cabinet. "It's seven o'clock in the morning. You can get it yourself. We're being nice to John since you freaked him out so badly."

"Hey," Jack protested. "I guess since you're going to be that way, might as well go home. You kids have fun."

Carolyn called after him, "Bye, Jack."

John thought maybe it was going to be okay.

Jeff left for work at nine. Carolyn sat at the table, reading over John's medical files. John had a plastic sippy cup with double handles, but it was coffee, and the real thing too. "So, does he really have a job?"

"Yep. He's a federal agent, just like me. But he started a new job as a massage therapist at some fancy spa to maintain cover."

"And you? You're really a doctor?"

Carolyn grinned. "Absolutely, though I'm 'still looking'. Don't want to rush into anything right away."

John returned the smile. "I suppose not."

"Oh, this is for you." Carolyn got up and pulled a brand new PCD out of her purse and laid it next to John's cup. "It's registered to a Nathan Lister. The IP is routed from Sheridan Wyoming, but as you know, anything can be traced—eventually, so don't use your personal device, contact anyone you know, or access any of your on-line accounts."

"I expected that." John eyed it. Without any of his online accounts, the PCD was almost useless, but maybe there were some local apps that he could play with.

"The draperies in the front den are to remain closed, but as you can see, there aren't any neighbors behind us. The back yard's safe and there's a ramp to the patio. Jeff's set up the third bedroom with some exercise equipment that should be accessible for you, and if it's not, let him know and he'll fix it. I recommend that you start slowly.

"I'll check your incisions, and if they look okay, we'll wrap them up if want to take a shower."

John's last shower had been the morning of October twenty third. Since then he'd had sponge baths, or done without. "That sounds fantastic." He was resigned to the fact that he'd need help, but repeated the mantra that had gotten him through the humiliation of the last month, health professional, health professional.

"Your partner packed some clothes for you, I put them away in the dresser. A fair proportion of the books in the den are yours, too. We have every portal known to mankind on the vid. I know it isn't ideal, you're still sequestered, but hopefully we can make it easier for you."

"Thanks. Just getting out of the hospital helps."

"Four weeks, wasn't it? It'll be another month before your feet are ready to bear weight, but by then I expect we'll have you back to your normal weight and strength."

John drifted through his days on autopilot. He did his prescribed exercise and then some. He read in the afternoons, on the patio if it was sunny, and sometimes even when it wasn't. In the evening, Jeff and Carolyn would prepare dinner, and they'd eat together, talking about the news, Jeff's clients, or watch a movie. If O'Neill or Kawalsky stopped by, and sometimes both, and they'd play cards.

The nights were restless and he slept badly. The dreams that woke him up tended to feature Rodney in some way, and John couldn't go back to sleep.

In the last year, there had been months that he hadn't spoken to Rodney, but he'd always known that he could, if he wanted to. Now he'd disappeared into the a black hole, just like Rodney had. The hardest part was that he'd never got to say good bye. Letting Teyla, Ronon and Evan go had been very difficult, but there was closure.

There was none with Rodney. They'd had their issues, disagreements, but he'd never truly thought he'd lost him, until the specter of Charlotte had loomed between them.

And he missed him, like he missed his toes and fingers. He was damn lonely for all that there were other people in the house, a constant presence that should've been reassuring.

John would haul himself out of bed, wheel into the kitchen for coffee and watch movies until he fell asleep on the sofa. When Jeff or Carolyn woke him up in the morning, he'd get up and do it all over again, just like the all the days before and after.

 

PART THREE

 

24.

December

 

It was nearly two weeks into John's exile, when he was dozing off after Carolyn had removed the sutures and he heard Rodney's voice yell, "John! Sheppard!"

John sat up, and there was Rodney, on the vid screen, bigger than life in front of the federal courthouse. He looked terrible. He was thinner, and his face had an unhealthy pallor, his crooked mouth hung down in a straight slash as he stared into the camera for a split second, then Mitchell and Ford hustled him through the crowds of reporters, up the stairs and into the building. Security guards barred the doors after them.

He stayed glued to the vidscreen rest of the day, hoping to catch another glimpse of Rodney as he left the courthouse, but it didn't happen, they must've taken him out under cover through another entrance.

Just endless replays of the scene on the courthouse stairs, from hundreds of angles, while various talking heads spent hours dissecting all the possibilities and connotations of that short message.

Rodney had to have engineered the situation — why else call out for him? Grand jury testimony was presumably secret, and they could've gotten him in just as quietly as he'd left, rather than make him do the walk of shame through the reporters and the crowd that had threatened to swallow him up.

John grinned. Goddamned Rodney McKay had gotten a message through to him.

His turn was coming, John just didn't know when. He wheeled into his room and shut the door, then carefully dug through his drawer until he found his Zhing. It was out of power after weeks of being away from him. He had to hold it between his palms for a few minutes to juice it up it, then reviewed his case files as a memory test. There were occasionally facts that he simply didn't recall, and he went back and highlighted those in red, to differentiate them from recollection, and tried to not worry too much about the holes in his memory.

Carolyn shook her head as she read the DNA scan results.

"What?" John leaned over to look at the screen.

"Here, and here, those blips? They shouldn't be there."

"Dammit."

"I don't think it's time to panic. Your file had some notes from Beckett that indicated it might not return to completely normal for a while. It hasn't even been a full month. But, here's the bad news. This means I'm supposed to take some blood, urine and sperm samples."

John grimaced. "The first two are gonna be easy."

"Still no sexual response?"

God, he had to get out of here. Being stuck in the same place, with the same two people was wearing thin, despite the reasonable facsimile of privacy afforded by a closed door. He felt like he was a teenager again, except that when John was a teenager he lived in an upstairs apartment, and he could jerk off without anyone hearing. But he would've had difficulties even without the added pressure of Jeff and Carolyn in the bedroom immediately across the hall.

John hadn't had an erection worth pulling on in months. Even recalling in lush, vivid detail (he hadn't lost that, thank god) all the hot, sweaty, exceptional sex with Ronon hadn't stirred his dick. He'd just lost the last of the feathers in his crotch though, so maybe touching himself wouldn't cause a panic instead of the desired reaction. It was also still difficult because, while the feathers were all gone, he still had the remnants of wings hanging off his arms, and they there a jarring reminder.

"Uh, no. Not really."

"It's still early days. I'm doing the best I can, but you probably need a qualified psychiatrist."

John was desperate to see Heightmeyer, simply because she was a familiar face. "Yeah, thanks." He didn't need any reminders that he wasn't coping well. He knew that.

"I know that four week is up in a few days, but we should really wait. You haven't been trying to stand on your own?"

"No." He could put his feet down on the floor, and he wasn't worried about them bumping into anything. Just being able to push off with both hands and feet now made it a lot easier to get in and out of the chair.

"Good. Jeff's bringing in a couple of different walking aids, and your shoes should be ready day after tomorrow. Take it at your own speed, whatever you're comfortable with and doesn't cause pain."

"No chance of that." John had no pain threshold at all anymore, the slightest twinge made him shy away. John had gotten used to shaving with an electric razor, since he didn't trust his coordination with a razor and his heart slammed in his chest when cut himself. There had been too much bleeding for too long for him to be okay with any of it on the outside.

"Great. Now, take off your shirt, let's measure the wing flaps."

John had taken to wearing a XXL sweatshirt, the only thing that would fit over the loose flesh hanging from his arms, and the sleeves helped to immobilize it.

He heard the click-click-click of the laser meter.

"Hhhm. No sign of further reduction in the last two weeks." Carolyn lifted his arms up and palpitated the weird fleshy stretch under them, "Does that hurt at all?"

"No."

She held the skin still, some in each hand. "Lift your arms over your head. Lower them to the side. Swing them forward. Doesn't appear to involve any musculature structure at all. I'd say they'll eventually need to be removed surgically."

To John's undying embarrassment, Carolyn only had blood and urine samples to send off to Beckett.

The news headlines were still full of the aftermath of Charlotte's bid for infamy, though the reports from the FBI, Army and HPD averred that most of the transspecs were in custody. It was still shocking to see vid of the Army patrolling the streets, with weapons slung over their shoulder, and stationed at various street corners, as if Houston were some old-style Latin American dictatorship. The cordon around the city was still in place, but people could come and go if necessary. The delays caused by vehicle inspections, and DNA scans if they didn't have a genreg, had become an accepted way of life. People were working around it.

John regularly tuned into the HPD briefing portal, and it was good to see Evan, Pierce, even Kavanagh, during the regular briefings. People continued to perpetrate bloody, awful crimes upon one another, and John caught himself cringing. He'd never liked that it had been a normal part of his life, and now he had an victim's perspective. Crime had taken on a vastly more intense, personal meaning.

It was looking more like when, not if, that John might get his life back, but he wondered if he really wanted it.

The custom made shoes felt heavy and clunky, like clown shoes. They were also hideously ugly, but John was too thrilled to be standing on his own two feet again to be concerned by the lack of style. The double canes with forearm supports were light, and he was able to hobble around the house for a few more minutes every day.

Jeff was putting John through his paces, correcting his gait and posture, when O'Neill arrived. "Sheppard, looking good. You'll be on the treadmill in no time at all."

John chuckled. "Always hated them. If I was running, I was chasing a suspect or running away."

"Truer words were never spoken. Say, since you're up and around, how do you feel about taking a trip down to the courthouse?"

John felt nervous about it, but he said casually, "Yeah, I can do that." His casefile notes were generally solid, reliable, but there were always things that he had relied upon remembering. John worried that he couldn't provide testimony on what what he no longer knew.

"Good. We're leaving here at seven in the morning. And no — you're not going to pull a McKay. Strictly in and out through the garage. The situation out there is a little less fraught, but I've got a perfect record. No-one's ever died in my custody, and it's going to stay that way."

John smiled briefly. "Understood." He had considered what Rodney had done, but a few dead transspecs were still turning up, and while he was mostly normal, he was still the most famous victim. Rodney's stunt had been both unaccountably stupid and brazenly courageous, and John wished he could've been there when Rodney had browbeaten Mitchell into letting him do that.

O'Neill clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. "Now that that's settled, what's for dinner?"

John was startled awake by a dream of his parents joyfully swooping on black feathered wings over Clear Lake and their boat dock. They seemed happy, smiling as if nothing was wrong.

O'Neill had crashed on the couch, and John could hear the vidscreen, it backed up to his bedroom wall. John decided the chair would be easier that fumbling the shoes on and getting upright.

He wheeled out into the great room, and Jack was awake. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Mmm. Uh, dreams. You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, sure."

John put together a full pot, since Jack would drink the rest, and he didn't think he was going to get back to sleep at all,. He'd have to be up in a few hours anyway. He could get himself ready, but it took him hours.

Jack put on the hockey portal, and they watched Jacksonville get the snot beat out of them by Milwaukee. The Bucs had a rep for fighting, and they didn't disappoint. The gloves came off in the second period, the Brewer's captain was taken away on a stretcher, and the Zamboni was brought out to clean the blood off the ice.

John stared at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. His scalp was still patchy where the feathers were gone and the hair hadn't grown back yet. His skin was bumpy with the feather roots. The jacket was way too large, and the wings mostly looked he had two animals stuffed under his sleeves. His left eye was clear, the correct color, though a thin, black ring remained. He could see the faint, nearly invisible scars around his right eye, but now he understood that his nanite eye simply saw them better. Almost no-one else could. He washed down a clonazepam with the last of his coffee, pulled a hat on, checked that his Zhing was still in his pocket and made his way to the garage under his own power. The chair had already been stashed in the back, and John climbed into the back seat. The windows were heavily tinted, but he could see out. Carolyn sat with him in the back.

Kawalsky was driving. Jack sat in the front passenger seat, and they pulled out of the garage. It was raining, the heavy cloud cover held back the dawn.

After a few turns, they headed down Kukendahl Road and John knew exactly where they were. Not that he would tell anyone, but it was reassuring. The trip downtown took over an hour, even using the toll road.

John was fairly sure that he wasn't visible, and the drugs had given him a preternatural calm, but he slumped down in the seat and drew the cap even farther over his face when they were in stop and go morning traffic.

Kawalsky pulled into a handicap parking slot immediately next to the elevators in the courthouse garage, and stayed with the vehicle. John sat in the wheelchair and kept his head down, hood pulled as far forward as possible. Carolyn carried his crutches and Jack held back the small crowd from entering the elevator with them.

The floor where the grand jury sat was quiet, not a single person other than themselves and the guard outside the door. Jack told the guard that Sheppard was scheduled to testify, and then sat down on the bench next to John.

John was glad to wait, to extend his short trip outside as long as possible, to see something other than a vidscreen and the same faces, walls and fence, and the twenty minutes was over far too soon.

Another guard came back out, and called him in. John took the crutches from Carolyn and stood up. He was determined to get in there upright and and under his own power. Jack and Carolyn waited for him outside, no one but the grand jury and the person testifying were allowed in the room. The guard shut the door behind John.

The crowded courtroom was smaller than he expected. Nineteen men and women were arrayed around two perpendicular tables, and John took the stand. It was just a small table with water and glasses, and he set his PCD in front of him.

The foreperson was very polite and made sure that he was comfortable, and inquired about his recuperation. She started with the first question, then it was open season on John's rag-tag memory.

The questions revolved mostly around what he knew of the transfer of money between Rodney and Charlotte McKay, and why he'd elected to keep tabs on Ms. McKay. He had to frequently consult the Zhing for details that he simply didn't remember, and he made sure that the assemblage understood that these were his original case notes, but there were a few details that were completely lost. From their expressions, John figured they already had everything he had, and more.

John couldn't answer the questions regarding the Internal Affairs investigation that was underway. All he knew was that it had begun while he was hospitalized, and he had no further information.

After three hours, they'd satisfied themselves that they'd wrung John dry of everything he knew —or didn't— and the foreperson reminded him that the details of his testimony were secret.

John left feeling buoyant, it hadn't been that horrendous. He still had to get back to the safe house, so he wasn't out of the woods. John dreaded going back into his cage after the sweet taste of freedom.

The reverse trip was uneventful. They pulled into the garage, and John disembarked, and dragged himself back into the house.

He just wanted to go home.

A few days later, Daniel Jackson gave a press briefing to announce that the special grand jury had been dissolved, and read the short list of indictments.

Rodney's name wasn't on the list. John breathed easily for the first time since October.

After Jackson's briefing was concluded, the camera switched over to Vala, and she added her usual pithy commentary, but also clarified – in case anyone missed it – that not only had Rodney been not indicted, but was also cleared of any wrong doing. He was simply a father trying to support what he believed to be his wayward daughter.

It wasn't very subtle, that wasn't Vala's style, but her commentary indicated that any civil suits would be inappropriate and futile.

Maybe now, Rodney could come out of hiding. John wouldn't be able to see or communicate with him, but one more hurdle in the way of freedom had been cleared.

John tried very hard to not sulk Christmas day. Carolyn and Jeff could leave the house and do simple things like go grocery shopping, go to a job, but they were also sequestered away from their families, out of contact. The atmosphere around Casa Confinement was thick with tension.

There were minor flairs of tempers as a small artificial tree was decorated, and there weren't any presents underneath. The three of them tried to work together to prepare a meal. It was all artificial joviality, ultra polite. John had insisted that he could handle a knife over Carolyn's objections, and then managed to chop a finger instead of the assigned vegetables. It was deep enough that Carolyn put in a couple of stitches without saying I told you so, for which John was grateful.

Other than prescription medication, John had been dry and sober for fifty three days, and god damn he didn't care. There was beer in the house and he started after Carolyn tied the last knot.

John moped in the recliner, retreading past, merrier Christmases as he slowly worked his way up to a third beer. His life had been in a turmoil for two years, ever since Charlotte had run away from Miss Stratford's School for Girls. If this was what having kids meant, John thought perhaps he really was better off without.

He knew it was time to retreat when he started getting mean. Rodney had loved Char, loved being part of a flesh-and-blood family. It seemed that everyone one around him had that which he'd never managed to keep.

He was a danger to himself and everyone around him, and John didn't want to deal with reality any more. He stumbled and barely caught the bedroom door frame with two fingers, and fell into bed.

John rolled over, arm over his eyes. He'd forgotten the consequences of drinking on an empty stomach. His finger throbbed, mouth was sour and his stomach growled unhappily. Fuck — he was a total lightweight, hungover on three beers. He groaned as yesterday's events surged into his brain. He'd behaved like a spoiled god-damned teenage girl. No. The teenage girls he knew would've behaved better.

He checked the time. Still early. He skipped the shoes and crutched his way to the bathroom. He dropped into the shower chair and the hot water poured over him. He'd been rude and there were apologies to make, groveling to do. That shouldn't be too difficult, he was honestly sorry that Carolyn and Jeff had had to witness that.

John lived alone for a reason, and he was starting to figure it out that it was partly that he was an alcoholic. A fucked up, middle-aged barely-functional alcoholic with more issues than he even wanted to consider.

He got dressed, made coffee and his stomach turned flip-flops as he looked in the refrigerator, crammed with Christmas dinner leftovers. Toast it was. He swallowed two acetaminophen with a glass of water, and stood by waiting for the coffee. Yeah, not going to work. He went back to his room to trade the crutches for the chair and a blanket around his shoulders.

John rolled out to the back patio. It was going to be a beautiful day. Maybe he could get away with hiding out here all day, but immediately dismissed the idea. He wasn't a cowardly drunk.

He'd gone back in twice for more coffee by the time Carolyn joined him. "I am so sorry about yesterday's tantrum. You didn't deserve that from me."

"John. If anyone is allowed to have a bad day, it's you. You were very nice about it, actually."

John tipped his head as he thought about it. He could dismiss the foul mood, but... It would so easy to simply fall into a bottle, and never make it out again. In an instant he saw all of the past self-destruction and avoidance, all of the ways that what had been a minor crutch would take over his life —had taken over— to his eventual ruin. He looked Carolyn in the eye. "Hi, my name is John Sheppard, and I'm an alcoholic."

She nodded slightly and took a sip of coffee. "The first step of many. My dad was an alcoholic and he never got over his problem. Took years of therapy to get over being a co-dependent enabler." Carolyn paused and said with a wry grin, "Guess I'm not so over it, either."

John huffed a short laugh. "Yeah."

"How's the finger? Did the stitches survive the shower?"

John looked at the cut, and it looked okay. "It's fine," he said, but held his hand out for her to inspect the finger.

She pressed down around it hard, and John had to squelch a whimper. Carolyn watched as the skin re-blushed. "With your recent history of serious infection and vascular problems, we need to be extremely careful. I picked up a course of antibiotics for you yesterday."

"Okay."

She stood up and John followed her in the kitchen. Jeff stumbled out of the bedroom, and headed for the coffee. "I can't believe you didn't leave me any."

"Sorry, that's my fault. I'll make some more." The railroad style kitchen was too small for all of them, so Carolyn and Jeff left John to putter around, making coffee and and breakfast.

Jeff brushed off John's apology over breakfast. "Not a big deal."

The tension in the house was considerably lighter after that, as if they'd just been waiting for John to blow up. Now that it had come and gone, they could all move forward, though John noted the lack of beer when Jeff came home from the grocery store a few days later.

Jeff went to his fake job, he had a heavy schedule at the spa in the week leading up to New Year's. Carolyn was reading, and John was idly surfing the 'net on the vidscreen. He happened across a jobsite portal and out of curiosity, did a search for nanite eyes.

There were a couple of hundred entries. Three quarters were advertisements thinly disguised as employment opportunities. The valid ones were mainly in design and engineering, as he expected. Nothing he was qualified for as his undergrad degree was woefully out of date, but it was interesting. He turned back to the HPD press briefing channel.

Larrin was doing their team's briefing. Vala was no where to be seen in the press room. She and Larrin were like vinegar and soda, and Kavanagh was only slightly less confrontational. Jonas Quinn was there for the Chronicle instead. John thought he always looked like he was off in outer space, but somehow Quinn managed to write decent copy.

It was their usual run down, and John nearly changed the channel until he heard Rodney's name.

"...McKay was the target of intimidation stalking by Aden Corso. Corso has been charged and is being held without bond. Mr. McKay is unavailable for comment. Next, Mark Devlin has been captured, and pending three counts of murder..."

For all of the noise made over police transparency and accountability, there were still investigations shrouded in secrecy, such as stalking. The police had to be as crafty and subtle as their target. If Corso had evaded them this long, then Kavanagh and Larrin had had to really work for the collar.

It also put a little spin on Rodney's appearance at the courthouse. He'd been bait. John suddenly appreciated O'Neill's cautious attitude a lot more. A city of four million hid a lot of criminals, and suddenly John didn't want to go home quite so much.

 

25.

January

 

The rest of the holidays passed quietly with very little celebration – aside from pizza and college ball on New Year's day. John's physical therapy progressed, and though his DNA scans didn't, most of all of the avian characteristics had receded as quickly as their onset. He was fairly mobile, as long as he wore the clown shoes and didn't overdo it. Carolyn removed the stitches from his finger, and put a small bandage over the remaining wound, and he was fine as he was going to get, without replacement extremities.

His mood suited the news, too. There was an air of heavy expectancy over the city. It had been two weeks since the last transpec capture and the out-going Congress was still in session. The talking heads on every program speculated that an end to the situation was near.

John flipped through the news portals constantly. He wasn't sure what was going to happen to him when the case was closed. When he asked Carolyn, all she'd say is that it was up to Jack.

He shouldn't have worried that he was going to miss it. On the evening of the third, every program on every portal from around the globe was preempted for the briefing. Assistant Director Everett looked confidant as the cameras settled on him. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, citizens of Houston, Texas, and the nation, today at six-thirty pm eastern time, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in conjunction with the National Human Genome Research Institute, under the authority of the Human Genome Protection Act, reported to the One Hundred and Thirty First United States Congress that all human-animal hybrids are dead, or in our custody.

"There were one thousand eight hundred and ninety one victims of this crime, of which over two thirds of were killed either by the process itself, or as collateral damage. I extend my deepest sympathies to each and every person who has lost a loved one in this most unnatural disaster.

"The entire nation owes a debt of gratitude to the Houston Police Department. Without the sharp insight and skilled assistance of each and everyone of these dedicated officers, this could have become a global disaster, the contamination the entire human race. The fine citizens of Houston are to be commended as well, for enduring the extraordinary measures necessary to contain this threat.

"To that end, the order has been given to rescind martial law in the city of Houston and the surrounding environs. Homeland Security has instructed the U.S. Fourth Infantry to withdraw, and all roadblocks, check points and barricades will be removed. Thank you for your time, and your patience. God bless and good evening."

Everett didn't wait for any questions, simply nodded and left the podium.

John was flooded with relief that it was over. He couldn't sleep, and stayed up all night listening to the various commentators, news clips and reaction interviews. The scenes from around town showed crowds pouring into the streets, erupting into wild parties with illegal fireworks. He felt for his colleagues, it was a rough night to be a cop. He wished he was there, celebrating with Evan while rounding up the drunk and disorderly.

It was a week later when the barricades around the city were completely gone, and the aerial views of the city showed traffic flowing in and out of the city at a normal break-neck speed, flitters taking off and landing. The stock market began to climb, and the Houston Business Owners association was pumping out new advertisements for local businesses that had suffered the brunt of the shut down.

John couldn't sit still. He went out in the back, and then back inside, got a glass of water, and sat down in front of the vidscreen. Ten minutes later he got up and started the circuit over. Carolyn rolled her eyes as she put their favorite soap opera on.

She'd got him hooked on it, and John sat down for a few minutes, but he couldn't sit still.

"I'm going to have to sedate you," she growled when John got up again to pace.

John nearly pounced on Jack when he walked through the door. "Hey, can I go?"

"Guess that answers that question," Jack smirked.

"No offense, but I really gotta get out of here."

"Yeah sure, you betcha. Listen, we're prepared to follow through with the full WITSEC program. New identity, a new job, new town."

John had had plenty of time to think. "I'm not sure there's any place where I'd be anonymous, short of a major GeM rebuild, and I think I've had just about enough of that. I want to go home."

"I thought you'd say that. Go on, get your stuff. Let's get out of here."

Carolyn followed him to his room. "Need any help?

"Naw, there isn't very much, other than the books in the den. Donate those to a library, or something. Take them home."

"I think I will, thanks."

"How about you and Jeff?"

"Don't worry about it. There's a team that'll move everything out."

"Glad to go home?"

"Yes, I think I'm as ready as you are."

John laughed. "Thanks, for being here, and keeping me sane."

"It was my pleasure." She pulled out a memslip with her contact information. "Stay in touch, let me know how you're doing."

"Sure. I imagine you know where to find me."

"I do at that. Don't let Jack fool you. He'll come and check on you, make sure you're doing okay. If you change your mind, they can bring you in in an instant."

"That's good to know. Oh, here." John dug Nathan Lister's PCD out of his pocket and handed it back to her. He'd barely used it. "Thanks."

The wheelchair was loaded into the back with his duffel bag, though Carolyn was just being cautious, he hadn't used it in a couple of weeks. Just because he could, John stood in the front drive in the freezing rain, and waved at the neighbors with his cane.

Jack stood under the dry safety of the garage and chided, "Come on, Sheppard, get in the car. You were probably one of those pilots that flattopped the control tower."

John grinned. "You know it."

Carolyn waved from the front porch, and John waved back. Someday he'd look back on the last seven weeks with fondness.

John drank in the familiar sights as they drove through his neighborhood. The bike rack at Rachel's was full. Mercado San Miguel's door was open, and a car was pulling out of the drive. Steam was rising from the stack at Rusty's microbrewery, and John rolled down the window to catch a breath of sharp hops and yeast and swore to himself that this was as close to beer as he'd ever get again.

Jack pulled into the driveway. John slid out of the seat carefully, and walked up the neatly trimmed walkway. The flowers were all gone, but spring would be here in a few weeks, and he'd plant new beds.

"A little help here?"

He went back to the vehicle and grabbed his duffle bag, Jack hauled the chair down and followed John onto the porch.

John punched in his password. It failed, and he tried it again. He didn't remember having an RFID reader, though. In any event, it wouldn't work, didn't have a chip. John muttered, "Crap." He pulled out his Zhing and asked for Evan, video.

Jack looked over John's shoulder. "You forget something?"

"Yeah."

Evan popped on the screen. "John, thank God. I've been going crazy worrying about you."

"I'm fine. Still a little gimpy, but I can get around."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the house, but I can't get in."

"Rodney changed the security system—I was pretty sure I told you."

"I'm sure you did." John shook his head. Other than his court appearance, the holes in his memory hadn't really been an issue since he'd gotten out of the hospital. He suspected there would be a lot of moments like this.

"I'll be there in a minute." Evan was already walking when he disconnected.

Jack laughed and sat on the porch swing. "Bit of a minor inconvenience."

"Glad to be getting back to minor problems."

"While we have a few minutes, there's something you need to know."

John lowered himself carefully on the porch swing. "All right, gimme the bad news."

"There's a program, maybe six hundred people in it, for known surviving transspecies victims. You're on the list. When you get re-chipped, you'll be registered. Annual mandatory check in, and if you move, you have to notify the registrar."

"That sounds like the sex offenders program," John said carefully.

"Yup, pretty close. The good news is the list isn't being paraded around." Jack leveled an even look at John. "It's why I didn't push very hard for WITSEC. "

"Because I'd still be registered."

Jack acknowledged that with a wave of his hand. "I figure you're settled in here and your neighbors know you, perhaps they won't be too bothered. You have the option for a second chip, so you're not advertising it everywhere you shop."

"Fuck. I would like just one day without some shit raining down on me." John blew a deep breath through his lips and ran a hand over his hair.

Jack stood up and jammed his hands in his pocket. "Bent over and seven ways on Sunday."

"I'm guessing if I don't get chipped voluntarily, they'll come haul me down."

"Sorry. You've got ten days from today, considering the extenuating circumstances. You might look into the whole program, there's a few interesting clauses."

"I'll do that."

Evan pulled up to the curb and quickly walked to the porch. "God, John. You look great." He leaned down, grabbed John carefully and held on tight. "I am so glad, I can't even begin to express how thankful I am that you're here."

John patted Evan with his free hand, and ran a hand over his head." You and me both, buddy."

After a minute, Evan let go and wiped his eyes with both hands. "Sorry. Just. You know."

"Verklempt?"

"That works." Evan nodded at Jack, "Introduce me to your friend, John."

"Oh, sorry. Jack O'Neill, U.S. Marshal, Evan Lorne, HPD."

Evan shook his hand in a double grip. "Thank you so very much. I know he's a pain in the ass."

"Naw, he did all right. No broken crockery or hearts." Jack shook John's hand and waved at Evan. "Evan, nice to meet you. John, I'll check in with you in a couple of days. Call me if you have any questions."

"I will."

Jack got in his vehicle and pulled out. Evan asked, "What was that about?"

John shook his head. "Nothing. I see you didn't burn the house down."

"I considered it on many occasions. I did get the exterminator out for the mutant squirrels that kept eating the power lines."

"I never bothered, new ones'll just take over the territory. So you gonna let us in?" John pointed at the new keypad.

"Right. Rodney set the password, so it's long. One six four three one eight seven nine two zero zero seven four two."

"Damn, I should've thought of that."

Evan pushed the door open and grabbed the chair. "I don't think I want to know. You want this anywhere in particular?"

"Just leave it there." John dropped his bag on the coffee table. "Man, home sweet home. We have anything to drink?"

"Water. There might be an old soda in there, but there's some food. You want anything? Need me to go get something?"

"Naw, I'm good." John sat in the chair and leaned his cane on the coffee table then leaned down to pull the shoes off. "That's better. What's been going on with you? How's Katie, the kids?"

"Had to cancel the Christmas party, so she's scheming up some event for spring. Deloris and Elijah are great."

"Bet they're glad to have Dad at home."

"Yes. I'm glad to be able to go home. Though it was nice having a six minute commute every day instead of ninety."

John smirked. "I'm glad you had a bolt hole."

"I am too, the hotels were booked solid the entire time."

John nodded at the wall across from the sofa. "New vidscreen."

"Rodney's doing, not mine."

"Speaking of, he out yet?"

"Nearly the same minute that Everett's press conference was over.

"The FBI all gone home?"

"About the same time as Rodney." Evan stood up and zipped his jacket. "I've got to get back to Kemp before he irreparably strains something important, and you've got some people to call. Teyla's been bugging me for weeks."

John felt a pang of regret that Ronon hadn't been looking for him, but he generally let Teyla speak for both of them. "She can be persistent. Thanks for rescuing me."

Evan smiled. "Denada."

"Mi casa es su casa."

John leaned back in the chair when the door closed behind Evan. He'd call everyone in a little while, but first, he just wanted a few minutes alone.

A sharp, unfamiliar rap at the door surprised John out of his moment of silence. He automatically jumped up and fell forward onto the coffee table. He wondered who it was, should've thrown the deadbolt after Evan, how they'd found him already, and if he should get his personal weapon. Not a taser, he was going back to guns with bullets.

He went to look through the peep hole, and found instead a small vid screen that showed the entire porch. Rodney must've installed that. It wouldn't have helped prevent his kidnapping, though.

Mrs. K was standing there with a covered dish in hand, looking impatient. He opened the door, "Hey, Mrs. K, come on in."

"You look pretty good for a dead man, John."

"Didn't realize that I was."

"I figured you was. All that hullabaloo, and then you just disappeared."

"It was... like rehab. Thanks for taking care of the lawn. Do I owe you anything for it?"

"Pish. I never hired nobody. Littleton across the street took care of it."

"I'll have to thank him."

"Here, I figured you hadn't had a chance to do anything about supper, and I had extra." She held it out and John took the dish from her, curled it close to his waist to keep a good grip on it. She noticed the lack of fingers, the still-red incisions where his knuckles ended, but didn't mention them.

"Not yet, thank you. Smells good—I hope you didn't go to any trouble."

"None a'tall. I'll let you get back to it, just wanted to say welcome home."

"I'm glad to be home. Have a good evening."

John leaned his cane on his hip and threw the two new dead bolts after her. He put the dish in the refrigerator, and found that Evan had laid in organic supplies. John figured that he'd give them a try, it couldn't hurt.

There were three bottles of beer in the back.

John poured them down the sink and rinsed the bottles out. He'd have to figure out how to carry the crates to the car after he figured out if he could even drive.

He was stalling. It was stupid, Rodney probably didn't even know he was home, but he wanted Rodney to call him, the reassurance that Rodney wanted to hear from him.

To hell with that, he wanted to see Rodney's face, hear his voice, more than he wanted to massage his ego. "Rodney, vid."

"John? You're out?" There was no video, Rodney must be at work. It was Tuesday, John should've expected that.

"Yeah, I'm home."

"Let me clear a few things up and I'll be there as soon as I can. I mean, that's okay, right?"

"Yes, yes it is. Come on over."

"And you're all right?"

"I'm fine."

Rodney snorted. "I'll believe that when I see it. 'Bye."

The ice broken, John called Teyla.

"John! I am so pleased to to see you, my friend." Teyla smiled broadly. "How are you doing? You look very well—I do not believe I have ever seen you so rested."

"Yeah. It wasn't easy, but I'm fine. Getting around a little, but I've still got a few things to take care of yet. How are ya'll? Where are you?" John could see a mangrove tree with exotic birds behind them.

"A sidewalk cafe in Puerto Lempira, Honduras. We have been working our way around the gulf coast."

John talked with Teyla and Ronon for nearly an hour. The best news was they were leaving Central America in ten days. Teyla said she'd change the layover in Houston to a stopover on their way to Vancouver. Though the torrid, sexual part of his relationship with Ronon was over, he wanted to see him, see both of them.

He didn't want to exactly broadcast that he was home alone and partially incapacitated, but there were a few select people that deserved to know that he was back in the real world and doing okay. So far, anyway. He tried to type a text message to Jeannie after closing the call with Ronon; he's home from rehab, he's fine, Rodney's on his way over and he'll talk to her in the morning'. The voice to text feature was going to be a life saver; he probably averaged four words a minute with one finger. He hit send when Rodney knocked.

John frowned, then remembered that he'd bolted it after Mrs. K. He looked at Rodney on the vid screen as he unlocked the door. Rodney still looked too thin and tired.

Door open, John said, "Come on in."

Rodney edged into the house, clutching a bag with both hands. "It occurred to me that maybe you were planning on punching my lights out. Not that I want you to, but let's get out of the way."

John lifted a hand. "Couldn't even if I wanted to."

Rodney's face fell. "Oh, John. I'm so sorry, Evan said, but I couldn't imagine. How are you, I mean, it's terrible, but you look pretty good, otherwise."

He shrugged. "Still a few challenges left."

Rodney set the bag down and there was an ominous clink of bottles. "Okay, so no punching. Can I, I mean, is it all right if I—"

He lifted his free arm, and Rodney embraced him carefully, held on tight. Rodney was warm, with the familiar smell of two days of perspiration. John let go of his cane and wrapped both arms around Rodney, buried his face in the crook of Rodney's sweaty neck, let Rodney hold him up.

"Jesus, what a fucking disaster," Rodney whispered in his ear.

"No shit."

Rodney let go with a gentle brush of his hands, but John held on for a moment longer until he regained his balance.

"What? Oh, let me get that for you."

"No, I can do it." John used the door frame for support as he slowly crouched down and retrieved his cane, then straightened up. "Just takes me a little longer now."

"I wasn't sure if there was any food in the house, so I stopped and picked up a few things." Rodney grabbed the bag and headed for the kitchen.

John followed him, and sat down at the kitchen table. "Mrs. K brought over a dish, casserole something."

Rodney lifted the lid, and took a sniff. "Smells edible, anyway? You want a beer?"

"No, I uh, I've quit. Trying to, anyway."

"Huh. I'll skip it, then."

"Yeah. Don't know how much willpower I have."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "John, you've always accomplished anything that you decided to do. Shall I heat this up?"

"Yeah, I've gotten used to eating regularly," John said with a wry smile.

"Guess that's two good things to come out of this, then." Rodney put the casserole in the microwave, pulled plates out of the cabinets.

"I saw you—at the courthouse," John blurted out. "I worried about you. I needed that, thank you."

"I don't think I've ever been so scared. Some lunatic was stalking me, and Mitchell used me for bait. I figured that I might as well do something useful with the situation."

"Made me pretty mad once I realized that's what was going on."

The timer dinged, and Rodney put the dish on the table. John picked up the spoon and served them both. "You look like you're, uhm, is it horrible?"

"Still figuring how to do things, but I manage. It ended up being a lot like rehab. Mostly watched the news, did physical therapy."

"They had me on suicide watch for most of mine. Couldn't even go to the bathroom alone."

"Rodney," John started, but was cut off with a slash of Rodney's hand.

"No, listen. My daughter was some Dr. Moreau wannabe that managed to terrorize the entire world, public enemy number one. I raised her, what did I do? Charlotte was always volatile, but how did I not know that she was crazy?"

"I think the transspec tipped her over the edge. I think she was messing with this even at Christmas, you know? The hair. I thought then that maybe it was a GeM thing."

"Yes, but why? What made her do it in the first place?"

John thought of Frasier's profile, how had he not seen that it was a perfect portrait of the kid? "Char was always a bit of a thrill seeker, doing stuff to draw attention to herself."

The look in Rodney's eyes was angry, bewildered. "So it was just for the kicks?" He jerked his head sharply. "It's all conjecture. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

John nodded, didn't mention that Rodney had brought it up in the first place He knew Rodney, this wasn't the last time that he'd hear about it.

Rodney didn't stay late. He had to get back to the lab very early in the morning, he was barely holding onto his job, and he had to make up for weeks of being incommunicado.

John was too tired to deal with how inaccessible the house was, and went to bed early, but he couldn't sleep. Instead, he made lists of the myriad of thing that he needed to catch up on, as he listened to the low rumble of traffic in the distance, and the ship's clock chiming the change of the watch.

Standing unaided without shoes wasn't an option, so John was able to take a shower in the morning by hauling in a lawn chair. Even so he worried about the lack of bars, but he got clean, dry and dressed without falling over.

He found the wireless card for his Zhing, and reconnected to the cloud. There were hundreds of emails, nearly fifty from Jeannie, Madison, Kaleb, even Kaleb – one for every day he'd been secreted away. He called her and most of the conversation was spent reassuring her that he was dented but fine, and that while he was short in the extremities department, it really had been like spending seven weeks in rehab. That he was sober, going to take a stab at staying that way. He got passed around and he talked to the rest of the Miller's, drinking in the fact that their lives had gone on, unhindered and perfectly safe.

After the call, he tackled the rest of the inbox. Caldwell had sent an email in lieu of a phone call to advise him that IA had ruled 'no malfeasance' in his case, that he hadn't protected Charlotte, though there was a reprimand placed in his file for irregular use of resources. HR had rescinded the administrative leave and he was on full disability until he was released for work.

The hospital bill was shocking. The insurance carrier had refused to pay over half of his hospitalization because of unnecessary intensive care. They claimed he should have been moved to a semi private room after the third day. It was huge—he'd been in ICU for over a month. He had a sinking feeling that he was going to lose this battle. The amount owed was many times more than his savings and he still had to see a reconstructionist.

He could skip the feet, maybe take a desk job. John set the whole mess aside to consider his options, because the actual retrovirus treatment wasn't any where on the bill itself.

He plowed through the rest of the emails, setting aside those that he felt safe in responding to, and set the rest aside for a later date. That was maybe a little tacky, but it was nice to know that people were thinking of him.

There was a knock on the door midafternoon, and he wondered who the hell it was. He limped to the front door to find Carson Beckett on his front porch.

"Hey come on in. What can I do for you?"

"I've been waiting to speak to you, and I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time?" Carson glanced around the room, looking for something.

John frowned, and swayed a little as his mind raced ahead to whatever awful news that required Beckett to come to his house, the possibilities were endless. "Speak to me?"

"Warn you, actually. Sit down before you fall over, lad."

John fell into the closest chair, and waved towards the couch. "Warn me." Someone could have warned him about the insurance, though he supposed it wouldn't have been very conducive to a speedy recovery.

"Yes. It's the hybrids, there's a clause in the DNA Purity act that was activated once it was proven possible for them to reproduce."

John felt the blood drain out of his face, he felt dizzy and light headed. The watchlist. He'd completely forgotten about that. "What are they doing?"

"It's my fault, I'm sorry to say. After Charlotte's autopsy, I did some further testing." Becket fiddled with the edge of the blanket that hung over the back of the couch. "I've had other successes, that is to say, you're not the only one. Those tests indicate that the germ cells, sperm and ova, aren't returning to normal, that the transspecies genetic code will probably be carried out in successive generations – "

John cut him off, "You didn't come here to get me to jerk off in cup—"

"No, not at all. My other patients have disappeared into federal custody. I'm afraid that they'll be forcibly sterilized."

"And me?" John hated how his voice sounded, thin and scared.

"I can't lie to you, John. It is a distinct possibility."

John leaned over and put his head between his knees, hands over his face. He'd known, always known that there was a price tag attached, he just truly hadn't expected it to be so steep. John sat up and breathed evenly through his nose. One day, one hour, one minute at a time. "What do I need to do," he said flatly.

Beckett nodded. "I can perform the tests in a few hours, then we can go from there."

He trusted Beckett, he knew the full score. Who know what someone else would do to him, when confronted with this? He'd come home ball-less, empty sacs flopping around, and it didn't matter, they were his, and he'd lost so much, and he liked his boys where they were.

The hospital bill and looking for lawyers could wait another few days. "Yeah, okay." He pulled on a coat and grabbed his cane and Beckett drove them to the University Med Center. John sent Rodney a text message that he was going to be out of the house and that he'd call him when he got home.

The biopsy was painful and humiliating.

He sat rather gingerly in the waiting room and finished clearing out the email, until Beckett retrieved him and took him to a private office.

"The testicles are definitely the source of the overall irregularities in your genetic profile. The non-human DNA there showed no regression when treated with the antiviral."

"What does that mean to me?"

"A bilateral orchiectomy, complete removal of the testes, would probably eliminate the corruption altogether."

"Probably?"

"This is an uncharted area of medicine. I cannae say anything with perfect confidence, but I believe this to be the case. None of the other tissues failed to return to normal upon application of the reagent."

Fuck. He'd been okay with the idea of a vasectomy. "And if I don't?"

"It is possible that you may not have any choice in the matter. Even in this day and age, no vasectomy is perfect. It may be that eventually, that tiny percentage point will be too large a risk to public health. As I said, I can't say that any of the others were given a choice. The defective DNA profile is also a roadblock to reconstruction of any kind."

Never mind that any plans for a family had always been vague and low priority, that tiny flare of hope was suddenly extinguished. He was running out of hope, and Christ, would it never end?

He'd already had a hand in the creation of a tiny monster, however reluctantly, and he had no wish for that to be his legacy. "What happens after?"

"Testosterone patches to maintain hormonal health. There's implants, and you should notice very little difference sexually."

Not that it mattered very much at the moment, but there might be someday in the future when he'd like to have sex again. "Have you heard about the known hybrid watchlist?"

"I have. Total permanent sterilization may give you a certain amount of leeway there, but the logic behind the watch list is sound. We have no idea what sequelae, late effects, or long term issues may result. We need to be able to observe the victims for a very long time."

"Okay. Okay." Just the hope of getting back to his full physical form was incentive enough to override any tiny regret of being permanently sterilized.

Beckett pushed the electronic form reader over. "We can do it this afternoon, unless you'd like some time to think about it?"

"I don't see that a couple of days is going to change the facts." John began to scan the boilerplate indemnity forms.

Beckett nodded. "I am sorry, though. This isn't an easy decision to make. If it is any comfort to you at all, I will maintain the viability of the organs for testing purposes. I intend to continue working towards a permanent cure."

John shrugged. "That's fine. I don't think that I'm completely childless, but I've never had it confirmed. Given my choice of lifestyle, it wasn't an option."

"Homosexuals frequently have children."

"No, no. Single and a cop. No time." John shrugged. "Issues."

"I understand that all too well, myself."

"How much is this going to cost?"

"There's no cost to you, the Genome Institute covers all research."

John lifted his eyebrows, stored that away for his insurance dispute. He attached his digital signature, and handed the device back to Beckett.

Beckett accepted it and went through the usual pre-surgery questions, and John must've passed the test. "Very well. If you'll follow me, we'll get you out of here in no time at all. He led John to a nondescript room. "Strip down, there's a cabinet for your clothes, and a supply of gowns. Leave the opening to the back. I'll have a tech come in and prepare you in a few minutes."

John took a moment to send a text to Rodney saying that a minor procedure had come up, and that he was at the UTMC with Beckett. There was no point in telling him to not worry, he would regardless, but John felt better knowing that someone else knew where he was. He got naked, and put on the hated hospital gown that left his ass flapping in the air just as there was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Sheppard?" It was a male voice, and that sort of struck John as hilarious. It would be far less embarrassing to have a female nurse do this.

"Come in," he said in a raised voice.

The door opened, and the tech had to be maybe twenty two. God, he was a student. John figured that it didn't take much expertise to shave his balls.

John slowly worked his way up to full consciousness. He was in the same nondescript room, but he wasn't alone. The tech was there, removing the IV from the back of John's hand. "There you are. How are you feeling Mr. Sheppard? Any pain?"

He just felt fuzzy and disoriented, but he was laying flat on his back and he could feel the pull of stitches in his balls as he shifted. "No," he croaked.

The tech raised the bed and handed him a glass of water. "Slowly, it'll take a while before it wears off completely. Mr. McKay is here to pick you up, shall I send him in?"

John had intended to take a cab home, but he should've expected Rodney to show up. "Yeah."

"I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes."

Rodney came into the room with exaggerated slowness and stood by the bed with his hands in his pocket. He looked concerned and upset, but was doing his best to pretend to be calm. "Hey." He looked around the room, and avoided meeting John's eyes.

"Hey."

"You going to be here long?"

"I don't know, actually."

"Okay." Rodney pulled the single chair over to the bed, and took John's hand as he sat down. He ran his fingers over the fading incisions, stroked the back of John hand with his thumb, avoiding the bandage over the IV site.

John watched Rodney. It was an interesting experience. Carolyn and Jeff had touched his hands all the time, but it was always firm, medical. After a few minutes he asked, "What time is it?"

Rodney glanced at his watch. "One twenty two am."

"I didn't mean for you to come."

"My best friend, who has been through hell, sends me a text message that he's in the hospital for a 'minor procedure' without any details or explanations. Yeah sure, I'm going to sleep well."

"I suppose I could've waited, but I didn't see the point."

"No, I would've done the same thing." It was obvious that Rodney, listed as next of kin, had already been fully briefed. Rodney looked at him then, his eyes telegraphing an exquisite anguish. "God, John. I am so sorry. I would understand if you don't want to see me, but I hope that I can regain your—"

John interrupted, this had never been about Rodney. "You're not, I don't..."

"I feel responsible."

"I wish you wouldn't. Charlotte, she chose her path. She knew it was wrong, that's why she hid it so well."

"I failed. Her, you."

"No." This wasn't anything that was going to be solved here and now. John closed his eyes, held Rodney's hand loosely with his three fingers.

The tech came and went, and John dozed until Beckett came in. "How're you doing, lad?"

"I'm fine."

Rodney snorted, but didn't elaborate.

"The surgery went very well, no problems at all. It would be best if you waited a few days to resume sexual activity, but no reason to avoid it." It was John's turn to snort, but Beckett just talked over it. "There weren't any complications. If you feel up to it, you can go home now."

"I'm ready."

"Fair enough. You need to make a follow up appointment with your physician in a week to remove the testicular stitches." Beckett handed him a pair of pill bottles. "A prophylactic antibiotic, take all of them, and pain medication as needed. I've already updated your records with the procedure, but it would be to your advantage to put off getting a new RFID until a repeat DNA scan is performed."

"Thanks, Doc. For everything." He really had to take O'Neill's advice and study the rules that were going to steer the rest of his life.

"You're welcome. I'll see you next year, but if you have any problems at all, please let me know immediately."

"Will do."

"Take care, and I'll send the tech 'round with the discharge and a wheel chair."

Rodney tipped his head toward the door. "I'll bring the car around front."

John got dressed slowly. He carefully cupped a hand around his testicles and squeezed gently. They felt the same to his hand, but they were basically insensate. Dammit, there went one of his favorite forms of foreplay.

He was glad to take the wheelchair. John was still slightly disoriented, and he needed his wits and concentration for balance, even with shoes on.

The entrance was covered, but the cold, driving rain slashed nearly sideways and John still got wet as he got into Rodney's car. "Great."

Rodney had to concentrate on keeping the little car on the road, and John was too tired to talk. He knew that they'd have to, eventually. There were too many invisible elephants hanging around, and it felt crowded in the tiny Tata.

John got thoroughly soaked walking from the car to his door, couldn't run. Rodney had the door open and he followed John inside, locking the door behind them.

Rodney still had various articles of clothing at the house, and in a remarkable act of insight, took them to the other room to change.

The house felt cool, and John pulled on sweats. They looked ridiculous with the shoes, but the wheelchair was in the living room.

He was going to have to get used to this. It might be years before he got his finances cleared enough to afford reconstruction.

Rodney was in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. "I'm going to fix something to eat. You hungry?"

"A little. Still queasy."

Rodney made him a peanut butter sandwich and as John ate, heated up leftovers for himself.

John could tell that Rodney was working his way towards something. He just hoped it wasn't yet another round of guilt and self incrimination. That sounded bad, even in his head. Everything that happened had exacerbated the doubts that Rodney had struggled with for couple of years.

Rodney laid his fork down carefully, and leaned back. "What are you going to do now?"

He hadn't expected that particular opening statement. "I don't know. HPD has me on indefinite disability, but the bills are piling up. I might need to sell the house to pay off the hospitalization. It was—huge."

"I turned off the automatic draft for your mortgage. The balance is small enough that I can simply forgive the debt, and file a loss. With the medical bills it shouldn't ve an issue come tax time."

John's first instinct to to protest that he didn't need Rodney's charity, but he had to consider everything. "I still have a couple of avenues to explore."

"I hope they work out, because real estate has tanked. I'm considering moving. I don't think I can live there with the—anyway, found a more secure house."

"Yeah?"

"You should move in with me, it's a lot safer than this place."

"We'll see."

Rodney leaned in and clasped his hands on the table. "John, I don't believe that I've adequately conveyed to you the depth of my fear that I was going to lose you. I want to help. I need to take care of you."

John cut his eyes away and chewed on his lip. He was so conflicted. There was so much that had happened. It was going to take years to get over it, and he had to regain some measure of control in his life. It was too soon to think about yet another upheaval.

Rodney asked gently, "What's going on in there, John?"

He owed Rodney the truth. "A couple of things." John paused, and for once Rodney didn't jump in. "Did Beckett explain everything to you? There's a list, a public list of every victim. It's so the Genome Institute can keep track for public health reasons, but even with the—" He waved at his lap, "With this, I'm a target. Anyone is going to be able to find out where I live. I'm a danger to you, to anyone I'm with. I could change my name and my face, but no matter what, someone can find me."

Rodney nodded, but he didn't interrupt.

"And when you were dating, you were looking for... You had a pretty specific goal. And I was terrified that you might find it, that I was going to get left behind. But you needed it, and I knew that. It was so, so hard for me then, and it would be unbearable to live with now, because I can't give you that."

"I have more than a passing familiarity with that. God, John, the way you looked at Ronon. I was so happy that someone had put that spark back in you, and I hated every second of it because it wasn't me."

John shrugged. "Ronon was. It wasn't ever going to be... he was exciting."

"What happened?"

"I didn't think I could handle the waiting."

"You ended it."

"Yeah. I was going into hiding, and I thought that maybe it was permanent."

"Good, now I don't have to attempt to kill him, because I'm fairly sure that he'd break me like a twig."

John chuckled. "Yeah."

"Do you regret doing that? Ending it?"

"Some."

Rodney shook his head. "John, every one of my dates was a disaster, failed because I already had a partner. You. I was an idiot, because I was obviously too subtle. I have loved you for years, I think since we were kids. You've always been family. You're an idiot — I was always waiting for you to give me some sign that this wasn't just friends with benefits, though I'm a double idiot, since I knew that you'd gnaw your leg off to avoid talking."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Sorry, bad metaphor. You're obviously under the influence. I should feel guilty for taking advantage of that."

"No, its all right. Easier this way."

Rodney nodded, probably remembering the months when he was constantly high after his release from Landstuhl. "Also, it can't have escaped your notice that I managed to raise Public Enemy Number One. I'm over it. Done."

"Man, you have got to let part of that go. Elizabeth is at least as responsible as you. You're a great father, Rodney. You did the best you could, but I think she was just kind of... broken."

"Intellectually, I understand all of the arguments. I still feel responsible for unleashing her onto the public at large, and specifically you."

John insisted, "I still think that was Elizabeth."

"She may not have been entirely wrong, saw what we were willfully ignoring."

"Yeah."

"Here it is in a nutshell. The risk is worth it to me, John. I need you. The question remains, what do you need?"

"Too much, I think. I'm pretty messed up, Rodney. I need to regroup."

"That's fair. What do you want?"

John wanted a combination of what he had with Ronon and with Rodney. Closeness, comfort, and security, but the zing, the passion, the exquisite tension of looking forward to— "I think that I want us to date for a while. It'd be hard to do if we're living together."

"We've never done that," Rodney agreed.

"I should warn you. There's uhm, some sexual dysfunction. It might be a long time."

"Huh."

"What?"

"I was about to say that it was never really about the sex in our relationship, but maybe that's the problem."

John grinned, "You gonna try to seduce me, McKay?"

Rodney gave him a hot, narrow-eyed look that sent shivers down his spine. "Sheppard, you have no idea."

"Cool."

"So, you're going stay here."

"I think so. For the time being."

"I want you to give me the hospital bill." John sat up straight, opened his mouth, but Rodney cut him off. "My lawyer is on retainer, he needs to earn his money. I promise that if it can't be resolved, we'll talk about it before I just pay it off."

"I was going to work on that today."

"You are doing that today, by letting me take care of this. You have other stuff to worry about."

"Don't get me kicked out of my insurance, Rodney." John wiggled the remains of his fingers in the air. "I still have stuff that needs to be taken care of."

"Right. If you need something, call me."

"All right, I can do that."

Rodney huffed a sigh when he glanced at his watch, then stood up. "And now I have to go to work. You'll be okay, you need anything before I go?"

"Naw, just going to crash."

"Oh, that I could do the same." Rodney came around the table, tipped John's head back and gave him a wet, searing kiss. "See you later."

John touched his lip and smiled. "Yeah."

He was sore and tender, and sitting was a bitch, but John was determined to tough it out. He skipped the prescription in favor of acetaminophen, and laid on the couch, and continued with his correspondence.

Caldwell deserved a call, a personal appearance actually, but John was still leery of leaving the house alone. He couldn't drive, and he didn't feel comfortable taking the light rail downtown. He didn't want to call Evan and ask for a ride, either. He'd been a pillar for John for months, and it was time to stand on his own, or fall down, as the case may be. "Caldwell, vid."

"Detective Sheppard, good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Captain. I just wanted to call and thank you."

"You're welcome." Caldwell had hint of a sardonic grin. "Your presence has definitely been missed."

"About that—is it possible to maybe get transferred to desk duty?" He'd hate being stuck in the office, but he wasn't in any shape to go chasing after bad guys and it was better than laying around the house moping.

"Sheppard, you can't return to any duty until Heightmeyer gives the word, and your job right now is to get well. Don't rush it. Finish the consultations."

"I was kinda counting on that, actually. In the meantime, would you put in a request to have my access restored? There're a few things I'd like to review."

"With the reminder that you are at home to recuperate, not worry about what's going on here."

"Yes. I'll call her."

"Her line is open and I can transfer you."

"That would be fine. And thanks again, I appreciate everything."

"No problem. Look forward to seeing you soon."

The HPD logo screen replaced Caldwell's image, and then Heightmeyer appeared almost instantly. "John, it's very good to see you looking so well."

"Yeah, thanks. It's good to see you."

"What can I do for you?"

"I need to schedule some appointments with you."

Heightmeyer tapped a few keys and her eyes tracked to the right. "The recommendation was a minimum of twenty sessions, then an evaluation. When do you want to start?"

"Twenty? What about all of those from the, uh, hospital?"

"I honestly don't believe that you were in any condition to really process, John. Most of those sessions were too short, or involved with other issues. The chief signed an order for twenty hours, pending your release from protective custody."

Because if he'd disappeared, there wouldn't be any need. John sighed. "Yeah, okay. Can we do them every day?"

"No. We can start with two hours each, three times a week, say Monday, Wednesday and Friday? If that's too difficult—and I have doubts about a schedule that rushed—we'll decide together how to proceed. We can start tomorrow, if you like."

"That'll be fine. Thanks, Kate."

"I'll see you tomorrow at ten."

John nodded, and closed the connection. The next item on the list was a call to Nancy. The privately funded rewards hadn't directly led to Charlotte's capture, but they had been an integral part of the investigation, and he owed her.

He stalled for a few minutes as he thought about the other possible, connection between them. He didn't really want to ask, not straight out, point blank. He'd rather live with a positive assumption than know for certain. "Nancy Wortham Hines, vid."

"John? My god, how are you? You look good."

"Thanks. I've had worse days."

"We've been so concerned, but I didn't want to intrude."

"I got the flowers and card. Sorry I wasn't able to reply sooner."

"I wasn't really expecting one. Are you home?"

"Yeah. Listen, I called to thank you again for putting the rewards together. It really made a difference."

"It was not only my pleasure, but my civic obligation." Nancy smiled, "But you knew that."

John nodded with a grin. "Yes, I did."

"You know me too well. How is Rodney? I simply can't imagine how he's handling all of this."

"He's not, really, but he's putting on a pretty good show."

"I'll send him a note, though you make sure to tell him that we're thinking of him, too."

"I will. Thanks again, Nance."

"Take care, John. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask." Her wry smile was said that she knew he'd never ask.

After he realized that he didn't have a cent in cash in the house, and since he didn't match the genreg profile or have a RFID chip, he couldn't hit an ATM, John spent an hour looking for some alternate form of identification. He found the spare keys to the Hyundai—he had no idea what had happened to his key ring—and an expired passport and old military ID card. He called the bank, to verify that they would be enough for the teller, or else he was screwed. Evan would probably come and take him to Heightmeyer's office, but John wanted to avoid that particular humiliation, nor did he want to get in the Hyundai and get stranded if he really couldn't drive. John shook his head, he couldn't have taken a cab home from the Med Center even if he'd wanted to. Dammit, he was going to have to reexamine all of his blithe assumptions about how his life operated.

He wasn't looking forward to he actual appointment, but he had to get past the hurdle of mandatory counseling, if he ever wanted to get back to work.

By the time he got the bank manager sweet talked into approving the the expired ID, he was already late for his appointment. He called Kate after the cab company had grudgingly agreed to accept cash, and explained his dilemma.

"It's fine, John. I'll make it a shorter session, or we'll go later. Just take your time, and don't worry about it."

The cab pulled up just as John finished struggling into his shoulder holster. He wasn't even sure if he could fire it or not, but John wasn't going to go out in public alone and unarmed. He checked the clip and safety then locked the house.

The staring was creepy. John hadn't thought about Char's videos while he'd been cocooned from public life—had done his best to forget about them—but it was obvious that everyone recognized him. He took a deep breath and muttered, 'Welcome to the rest of your life, John.' He pulled out twice the cash that he'd budgeted, because he had no intention of repeating this experience any time soon.

Kate's office was on the second floor of the precinct, and it took him nearly a half hour to get through the lobby, stopped again and again by people who wanted to chat. John hated ascribing uncharitable motives to his colleagues, but after his experience at the bank, he suspected they were just gawking at the freak.

The session with Kate was as grueling as he'd expected. The notoriety, his handicap, and his new-found sobriety were only the prelude to the hard core discussion of violation, his brush with inhumanity, his long-term, lingering PTSD, and how to develop coping skills other than alcohol. John immediately rejected the traditional twelve-step program when Kate offered it as an option, and she promptly turned it around and suggested that he come up with an alternative before Monday. The recommendation for a life coach, to help deal with the problems like he'd had this morning was also rejected.

John had to come to terms with Sheppard V2.0, that he'd been irrevocably altered. It was his life now, he had to just learn to deal with it, no matter how steep the learning curve.

Getting out of the precinct was as fraught as getting in. He'd completely forgotten his intention of stopping at the practice range, and by the time that John arrived home, slammed the lock on the door behind him, he was wiped out.

John really wanted a drink. His first impulse was to shove it aside, to bury it, but, as Kate had succinctly pointed out, that was the root of the problem. He was saved by the fact that the house was dry and in no way shape or form was he going back out again today, but there would come a day when he could simply jump in the car, or walk down to Rachel's.

It took most of the afternoon to do the homework Kate had assigned. When John stopped for to grab a bite to eat, he realized that he'd already worked his way through the few staples that Evan had laid in, and Mrs. K's casserole had two bites left. He finished it off, and called Rodney while he washed the pan. It went straight to audio, and John glanced at the clock as it ticked over to six pm. "Hey. Do you have to work tomorrow?"

"I was planning on taking the weekend off."

"Great. I could use your help. I need to take a test drive, and run a couple of errands." He didn't want to take a cab on Monday if he could help it, as the cash was going to run out. He needed a temporary RFID wave pass, he needed to find out what was in the program that been so obliquely referred to by both O'Neill and Beckett. He needed to go through every step of every day to find out how to make it work. He had to get groceries, and while he could just order them in, it would be too easy to become a shut-in.

"Is this a date, or what?"

"Uhm, or what? For now?"

"That works. For now. I'll, uh see you about ten?"

"Sure. Hang on," he said as he pulled out the two canisters. Evan didn't drink coffee or near-coffee, but John couldn't recall if he'd run out before. "You'll have to bring coffee and food if you want any. "

"Can I take you to breakfast?"

John thought long and hard. Food that he didn't have to fix was attractive, but the idea of eating in public, while people stared at him was repugnant. He'd have to get over it some time, though. "Yes."

"Fantastic, so it's a date, right?"

John laughed. "Yeah, fell right into that, didn't I?"

"You did indeed. So, breakfast and then errands. See you in the morning." Rodney cut the connection, and John shook his head. Dating your best friend was kind of ridiculous, then he recalled the kiss. Maybe not.

He scrounged through the cabinets, and found the stash of chips and dip that Rodney had left. John really missed the regular meals at Casa Confinement, but that didn't stop him from eating nearly the entire bag as he kicked back and watched the Friday the Thirteenth marathon on the Retro portal.

In the morning, John realized that he looked like a mess. The patchy spots on his scalp had filled in, but what hadn't fallen out was long and shaggy. He added a haircut to the ever-growing list of errands and used the last of the sunscreen.

The weather had warmed up enough, and he took the last can of Coke out to the porch. He needed to walk across the street and thank Mr. Littleton for the lawn care, but a news van slowly cruised down the street.

Obviously, the fact that he was back had filtered out of the precinct yesterday, and it left John feeling uneasy about the day's upcoming activities. He vacated the front porch and moved to the back. The lone lawn chair was in the shower now, so he sat on the back stoop and sipped his soda.

He rarely used the back yard, there were too many trees for grass to ever grow, and the only maintenance required was an annual leaf removal. He hadn't had a chance to do that last fall and it was pretty deep. He'd have to do something about that. If he stayed, he might do something back here. Put in a covered deck, and move the porch swing. He'd liked the front porch because it was his window to the neighborhood, but windows went both ways.

John watched from behind the blinds at the front window as Rodney parked on the street. The news van parked a half a block down the street. It hadn't occurred to to him to call and warn Rodney, and now he regretted that his paranoid instincts hadn't kicked in earlier. Rodney must've seen it too, he nearly sprinted to the porch. John had the front door open by the time the screen door slammed.

"Sorry. I saw them earlier, I should've warned you."

"They've been hanging around my house for weeks," Rodney shrugged. "You still want to go out?"

"Yeah. I do have to at least take a test drive, don't want to do the cab thing on Monday, if I can help it."

John made it about ten blocks before he gave up. "Too dangerous, I just don't have enough control." They traded places, and he sulked in the passenger seat until they arrived at Java Java.

The restaurant was packed as usual, but all eyes were on them as they followed Paul to the table near the kitchen. It was the same table they'd sat in the last time, but now John couldn't decide if they were being sheltered, or hidden. Rodney looked around warily, as he pushed himself into the corner by the window.

John sat next to him so his back was to the wall. It gave him an angle on the main dining room, and he could see the other patrons pointing towards them, then putting heads together to gossip. He felt uncomfortably exposed and on display despite their position. They didn't talk, because there was a sudden parade of individuals passing by on their way to the restroom

When Matt came out with their order, the food was probably tasty, but John had lost his appetite. He pushed it around on the plate while Rodney ate quickly, head down but keeping an eye out.

Paul brought John a container for his 'leftovers', and left the check on the table. Rodney shook his head, and paid it, but the look on his face made John snatch a peek at the check. For the first time that John could recall, the bill was at full price.

Message received and understood.

Rodney looked miserable as he backed the SUV out of the parking space. "I am so sorry. I guess we'll have to reconsider what constitutes a date, because I am never doing that again."

"Right with you, buddy."

"You want to go home, or go on?"

"I have to go to the store, at least. I'm out of everything."

The grocery store was worse than the restaurant. The other shoppers fell into two categories, the ones that gave them a wide berth, or else they stopped to make embarrassingly personal inquiries, ones that horrified John, and infuriated Rodney.

John lost his shit when a woman rammed into Rodney with a shopping cart, and shoved John violently away when she tried to run over Rodney again. John fell badly, wrenching his knee and bouncing his head on the linoleum covered cement, but he managed to roll in front of the shopping cart and pull his weapon free from under his jacket.

He squinted through the double vision, and trained the gun on the woman even as she pulled the cart back for another run at them. "I've only got a couple of fingers left, but if you move, I will shoot. I might even kill you accidentally," he said in a deadly voice. "I might do it anyway."

She looked around furtively as if she was going to take her chances or run away when the security guard arrived. It had only taken seconds, and the rest of the shoppers were frozen in place, either too scared, or too interested, to move.

John didn't relax until the security guard hauled her off, already on the radio. Mr. Del Rio, the store manager, appeared out of nowhere, and knelt beside them. "Are either of you injured?"

He holstered his weapon, and gingerly touched the side of his head as Rodney rolled to knees. "John?"

He checked his hand, and there wasn't any blood, but it hurt like hell. "Just whacked my head. You?"

"There's tire tracks on my foot," he complained as he stood up.

"I've called the police, Mr. Sheppard. If you would like to wait in my office, I can get a cold pack for that."

"Yeah. Thanks." He didn't look forward to the paperwork, but John fully intended to press assault and battery charges. The weirdest thing had been the complete silence, their attacker hadn't even made a noise. He didn't try to stand, instead barely managed to roll over before he convulsed and vomited.

Rodney got in his face, and looked into his eyes, and snapped his fingers in front of his face. "You with me? Tracking? Can you even see anything? You need to go to the emergency room."

Del Rio said and spoke to someone behind John. "Rickie, go get a bag of frozen vegetables, quickly, and have Luann get something to clean this up." Del Rio pulled out his PCD, called for the EMT too, as he urged the shoppers to move along with the incentive of discount coupons. "It will be a few minutes before the area is cleared, thank you, please, just give him some room. Mrs. Johnston, would you mind waiting for a moment?"

Rodney held something cold to John's head, and John closed his eyes in relief. "Eyes front and center," Rodney snapped, and John blinked. "No passing out."

Mehra and Kemp arrived and took over, and it all passed John by in a blur, then faded out completely.

John woke up to a a bright light in his eyes that resolved to Keller's worried expression. "Just can't stay away, can you?" she said in a light voice. "Grade three concussion, and I've wrapped your knee. MRCT revealed a subdural hematoma, but no intracranial bleeding. The meds will lower blood pressure, so you might be dizzy be dizzy when you sit or stand up. I'm keeping you for observation, so get comfy, and I'll check on you in a half hour."

He waved a hand, and there was an IV, and he stared at it stupidly. He rolled his head and Rodney was sitting next to him.

"What's going on?"

"Aside from the poor woman who rammed a cart into me, and then you kinda went nuts? Not much."

John frowned. "That's not. No, she attacked you."

"I swear. She ran over the back of my feet and I tripped. She pulled back to give me some room and jostled you. Then you went down, and pulled a gun on her."

"But they took her away?"

"I think they were afraid you were going to shoot her."

He shook his head, and instantly regretted it. "No."

"Mehra confiscated your gun."

John repeated, "That's not what happened..." Then he recalled how quietly it had gone down, and suddenly his memory of her expression cleared. It hadn't been angry, it had been terrified. "Oh, God. I did. I went fucking crazy in the damn grocery store."

Rodney nodded. "I overheard that Heightmeyer's coming in. You'll probably be here a couple of days."

"I nearly killed someone because they ran over your foot with a cart. Why are you so calm?"

"I'm not. This is me doing a really fantastic impression of calm. In a couple of hours, I'll go home and have my own nervous breakdown."

"Rodney."

Rodney shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off John. "Breakfast was uncomfortable, but it shouldn't have sent you over the edge."

"Yeah." John closed his eyes, and Rodney picked up his hand, the one without the I.V.

"You can't go to sleep. Tell me about yesterday, this morning."

It was easier with his eyes closed. "I didn't think far enough ahead. I was going to take a cab..."

Rodney left when Kate showed up. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he said softly, then closed the door behind him.

"What happened?"

"I guess I went crazy and tried to kill someone."

"Perhaps. Let me rephrase the question: what do you think happened?"

"I thought she was trying to attack Rodney, ramming him over and over again with the cart. I couldn't stop her — she'd knocked me down — and I did the only thing I could."

"Perception is such an interesting thing. How were you feeling when you arrived at the store?"

Kate had John work backwards through the last four days, when O'Neill had taken John home. "I truly wish that you'd had access to professional counseling, but it was out of our hands."

"Carolyn said the same."

"I'm going to reduce our scheduled sessions to one per week, John. I know that you wanted to get through them as quickly as possible, but that's not going to work. It's far too stressful."

John filled in the blanks: more messed up than she'd suspected, and he wasn't coping. "I guess."

"Part of that stress is that you were removed from a shielded, safe environment and left alone to muddle through. I know you want to regain control over your life, but a halfway house, where you don't have to be completely responsible for the day to day details would be ideal."

"You're going to institutionalize me?"

"No. In consideration of the last few months, that would be counter productive. I want you to figure out for yourself what you need, and how to get it. If you need suggestions, I will offer them, but you've got a day or two to think about it first."

John sagged back into the bed in relief. His head was pounding, his neck hurt, and it was so damn hard to keep his eyes open.

There was a knock on the door, and Keller poked her head in. "Sorry to interrupt."

"We were just finishing up. I'll come back in the morning, John. Get some rest and don't worry."

It was late when Rodney returned. He looked furious and agitated as he paced around the room. "You are not going to believe what happened. I got your truck, dropped it off at the shop, and got a ride back to your house only to find that someone tagged my car."

"Huh?"

"Spray painted it. It's covered with vile threats, accusations! It's going to have to be completely repainted!"

"In front of my house?"

"Yes! Can you believe that? It's not as if I don't feel horrible enough. No, they've got to really rub it in."

Like O'Neill, John had thought his neighborhood would be safe, that his neighbors would be accepting. "My neighbors did that?"

"What? No! Someone either followed me in, or figured it out from the vid cast."

"Vid?"

"Yes! Our entire morning's excursion was captured and displayed for the whole damn world to see!"

John squinted against the painful yelling. "Rodney. Even so, they didn't stop it from happening."

Rodney said in a much softer voice, "Sorry. Someone reported it, though. By the time your colleagues arrived, the damage was done and the thugs were long gone."

That was something. "What was wrong with the Hyundai? Where did you take it?"

"The shop to install the handicap controls?"

"Oh, thanks."

"It obviously bothered you. After I found my car I was doubly glad, I don't think public transportation is a good idea."

John had come to the same conclusion days ago, but it was good to hear that he wasn't alone in his delusional paranoia.

"Anyway, since our first date was an unmitigated disaster, can we put that on the back burner? I think I really need to insist that you come and stay with me, at least for a while."

"I was thinking about asking if the offer was still open."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course it is," Rodney snapped. "Evan said he'd bring the kids tomorrow to pack up a few things for you, and help me re-arrange the house a little."

"Were you even going to ask me?"

"I just did! Forgive me for planning ahead a little."

He was not going to cry. John carefully covered his eyes with a hand, but his voice was too wobbly. "Rodney, please—just. It's hard enough, don't."

Rodney pulled John's hand away from his face, and pulled him into a careful embrace. "Christ. John. It's not you, sorry, sorry. I would be eternally grateful if you would do the honor of coming home with me."

John sniffed and chuckled. "Okay."

The nurse kicked Rodney out around nine, he left with a short list of things that John wanted wanted or needed moved to Rodney's. The house was a useful way station for Evan when he had to work late, and John didn't see any reason that had to stop, and many good reasons for it to continue.

After a mushy, unappetizing breakfast that reminded John too sharply of his previous hospitalization, Kate came in and they picked up where they'd left off the previous day.

John told her of the plan to move in with Rodney for a while, and she approved. She switched on the 'vid Rodney had mentioned, and they dissected it moment by moment.

"Rodney didn't think that Java's was that bad."

"You can't compare your reactions, John. Rodney's been dealing with going out in public for over ten days, doesn't have the same challenges or occupation. He's not dealing with preexisting issues. Do you understand that the flitter crash in August, the panic attack in September are both related?"

Yes, he was aware. The difference was that in the past he'd been able to ignore, categorize and pretend, but John had never been afraid of himself. He could no longer afford to ruthlessly stuff his issues into mental boxes; Saturday's episode was a wake up call of the worst sort. "I get it, I'm a wreck."

"I was going to say that you have to give yourself a break. I'm confidant that you'll get through this."

Captain Caldwell knocked on the open door in the afternoon. John switched the vidscreen off. "It's just déjà vu all over again," he said with a forced smile. "Come on in."

"How's your head?"

"The usual," he said with a shrug. "Not so bad."

"I'm glad to hear that."

He had a damn good idea what was coming next, but John waited for Caldwell to get it over with.

"The good news is that Florence Alfaro was quite sympathetic and declined to press charges, insisted that no harm was done."

"That's not—"

Caldwell overrode his objection with a grimace. "But the bad news is that your private concealed weapon license has been revoked, and your mandatory counseling is extended indefinitely. The Chief will review your employment status once Ms. Heightmeyer clears you for duty."

John completely expected the license revocation – if he'd been thinking clearly he would have given it up voluntarily – but he felt conflicted. How could he be a danger to society and still feel virtually helpless at the same time?

The veiled request to please retire was not confusing at all. "If I'm lucky."

Caldwell gave him a sympathetic shrug. "No, I don't think it's very likely. It's rotten, and I don't like it, but there it is."

John sighed heavily. "Yeah."

"You're still on disability leave, that's not going to change. Just take care of yourself, Sheppard. If there's anything you need, or that I can do for you, let me know."

"Thank you, Captain."

"No, thank you. I've put in a nomination for both you and Detective Lorne for the Chief of Police Commendation for an outstanding investigation. You deserve that, and much more."

Caldwell shook his hand and left.

Yeah. So, he's out of a job. He could fight it, claim discrimination against the newest minority and possibly get back behind a badge, but he'd given them a rock solid excuse on a silver platter with his panic attack. There were things that he loved about the job; the camaraderie, being out and around his hometown, untangling the evidence and clues to get an eventual conviction, but coming face to face with the vile, brutal things that people did to another on a daily basis had hardened his natural pessimism into something that uncomfortably veered towards misanthropy.

John honestly didn't want to be that guy anymore.

Evan stopped in with Deloris and Elijah in tow. John hadn't seen the kids in over a year, and they chatted for a few minutes, until Evan asked them to wait outside.

John put it out there without any varnish. "I got the boot today."

Evan shook his head. "I heard it was just until the Doc cleared you."

"That's them covering their asses. Caldwell was pretty clear that I wasn't going to be allowed to come back. They've got their hero, and they don't want him any more broken or tarnished than he is."

"No."

"It's fine, Evan. We had a good run together, but it's pretty clear that it's time to move on."

"Dammit, John. This sucks."

The incongruity of Evan mildly swearing jerked an abrupt laugh out of John. "Yeah, it does. Speaking of which, how's Kemp doing? He was back on patrol yesterday."

"He was just filling in for Crown. He got good instincts, and he'll do fine once he gets the shine scuffed off a little."

"I recall someone who was pretty shiny when he became my partner."

"Despite the two year's seniority."

"You'll do a great job with Kemp. So, before it gets any deeper in here, what's McKay up to?"

"He sat down to rest and fell asleep. Looked like he needed it, so I left him there. You're all set over there."

"Thanks for doing that."

"Glad to help, whatever you need." Evan glanced at his watch. "We've got to go, we can probably still make it to the evening sermon. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Later, buddy."

Monday was a federal holiday, and Rodney arrived early. "Sorry about yesterday. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until visiting hours were over. I tried to call, but I guess you'd already gone to sleep."

"It's fine Rodney. I don't even know where my Zhing is — I got used to not being tied to it."

"Surely a sign of the apocalypse." Rodney poked around the room until he located the bag of John's belongings, and brought it to the bed.

For a brief moment, John considered not telling Rodney the news, just presenting it as his own decision when he went job hunting — that was the intent behind the way Caldwell had said it. Keeping secrets had boomeranged on both of them, but then again, Rodney already felt terrible, he'd just load this guilt on board with the rest. He pushed the tray with his half eaten breakfast towards Rodney as a distraction. "Here, you want any of this?"

"Sure." Rodney picked up the fork and began to dig in happily.

"Captain Caldwell stopped in yesterday."

Rodney looked up, fork suspended mid-journey. "What did he say?"

"The nice lady isn't going to press criminal charges."

"That's great, though I can tell there's a 'but' that's supposed to follow that."

"Yeah. We agreed that it would be better for me and the department if I retired and found something else to do."

Rodney put the fork down, checked the coffee cup, and grimaced when it was empty. "Thank God, now I don't have to be the one to suggest it. I've spent the last thirteen years worrying that the job was going to kill you. It nearly did."

"Yeah." John didn't know, not really. Charlotte might have targeted him whether or not he was the investigating officer. "So, I guess I need to update the CV."

"Any ideas?"

"Not a single one. I don't even know if I can get a job — who wants the baggage?"

Rodney shrugged. "I don't particularly care."

John shot Rodney a glare, "Way to be encouraging, McKay."

"No! I mean, yes, I care. Employment equals self worth, fulfillment of a basic need, et cetera, just don't let salary requirements influence what you choose to do. You always liked the community outreach."

"True." He'd have to think about it. His recent break from reality had shaken his entire world view, and at the moment, he was concerned about going out in public and flipping out again.

John dug through his pack, pulling out the shredded clothing and finding his Zhing in a pocket before tossing the shirt into the trash. "Dunno why they thought they had to cut my clothes off for a concussion." It was already out of power, he'd need to sleep with it to recharge it, though it was possible it was damaged. He pressed it between his palms until it pinged.

He deleted Rodney's voicemail, but Jeannie had left six messages and there were a slew of concerned emails, too, from all the usual suspects that had seen the incident on the news. "Did you talk to Jeannie?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Jeannie, vid." John turned the holographic screen to include Rodney in the conversation.

"John!"

"Hey, Jeannie."

"Don't 'hey' me. Are you all right?"

"A little banged up, scheduled for therapy until I'm ninety, but yeah."

She shook her head. "Rodney, did you talk to him about our conversation?"

"Not yet."

"Listen, John. The only reason I saw the vid is that I 'scribe to the local Houston channels, it didn't make it onto the national feeds."

He guessed the rest of the nation, the world, was finally sick of the news from Houston. "That's reassuring." It didn't mean there weren't a million other subscribers, too.

"If you want to come up here, get out of the pressure cooker, you're always welcome."

"Thanks, Jeannie. I'll think about it."

"No problem, we'd love to have you. I'll talk to you later," she said with a meaningful stare at Rodney. Hah, as if he was an uninvolved observer.

He was certainly a lot less involved than himself.

They spent the rest of the day reading the full text of the Purity Watchlist Act. The upshot was that he'd been moved to the inactive list after the sterilization. The sublist wasn't public or published, though the RFID chip was still a requirement. Interesting clause, indeed. All it means that virtually anyone who looks at the main list will know he's had his nuts cut off, because John doesn't have the option of being an anonymous victim — virtually everyone had seen him changing, his face and plight had been plastered all over the internet.

John was deeply disturbed by the outright assertion of permanently unclean. He'd held onto the hope of getting out, coming through this and rejoining his regular life in progress, that the realization that this was never, ever going to be over was a slap in the face.

He'd gotten it right the first time. In so many ways, he was never going to get out of that dank, dark cell. Charlotte had had the last word.

Early Tuesday morning, Keller did another assessment and pronounced him fit to be released. "Dr. Heightmeyer and I both agree that you need to continue the antipsychotic medication. We'll reevaluate dosage in a month or two, but I want to see you for a followup on Friday. We can remove the stitches then, too."

"Okay." He hadn't forgotten them, but they'd taken a step back in his mind in favor of all the other new shit that had rolled downhill onto him.

"John, I'm not going to give you a bunch of meaningless platitudes, but I do know one thing. You're a resilient person with a lot of redeeming qualities. Things will work out for you."

Ah, she must have spoken with Caldwell, which meant the flirting he'd seen wasn't a fluke. "Honestly? I think the idea of retiring is a relief. Gives me some time to learn to deal."

"Just don't slink away and hide under a rock. You don't deserve that."

"Thanks. So, you and Captain Caldwell?"

Keller smiled brightly. "For a while now. I always said that I'd never date a police officer, but rules are made to be broken."

John chuckled. "Never worked very well for me, but I'm glad for you both."

Keller's PCD beeped, and she patted John on the shoulder before she left. "See you Friday."

John got himself discharged, then waited. Rodney arrived a few hours later with clean clothes, and babbled away as John dressed. "Sorry I'm late, but I had to swap cars at the shop. If you feel up to it later, we can go for a test drive. Uh, next week I'm going to work from home, if that all right. Just to make sure you're settling in."

John made the appropriate noises when required, but he wasn't focused on the conversation. His head ached, his knee throbbed and he didn't think he needed a babysitter, but this was exactly what Kate had intended. The whole thing bothered him on some unconscious level, until finally it all snapped into place.

Ronon would not have come in, then babbled from across the room while John's admittedly narrow back end was hanging out of a hospital gown. He sighed and set the ugly shoes aside, because even though he'd love to be swept off his feet and washed out to sea on a rush of passion, that wasn't ever going to happen here unless he forced a massive paradigm shift.

"Rodney. Shut up and come here."

Rodney complied, but there was doubt chasing wariness across his expressive face, and John's heart broke a little, knowing that was his doing. John pulled him close between his knees with mangled fingers. He saw the instant that Rodney caught on, when he laid a palm on his cheek and licked his lips, and the uncertainty was replaced with a greedy delight.

Rodney slipped a hand behind his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. It was tender and careful, but that wasn't what John was looking for. He deepened the kiss, Rodney's mouth nearly as familiar as his own. Rodney shoved in and took control, nearly crawling into his lap, hand on his waist and the other tipping his head like he wanted it. John slung an arm around broad shoulders, and dragged him closer with a hand on the back of Rodney's neck.

A wheelchair squeaked by the open door, and John broke the kiss with a chuckle. "Hi."

Rodney grinned, and nodded. Message received and understood. "Hi, how are you?"

"I'm good." He threaded his hand through Rodney's hair. "Getting kinda long," he remarked.

"Been afraid to go to the barber since I got out."

"I like it."

"Okay. You want to ho home, or should we just stay and make out in front of the open door?"

"I'm considering it." There hadn't been so much as a twinge below the waist, and it was worrying, except for the fact that he was medicated up to his eyeballs, and that hadn't been his goal. Not really,

Rodney squeezed him once then stepped back. "Come on, Romeo."

The ride to Rodney's house felt comfortable, much like any other time that Rodney insisted on escorting John around. He played with using new voice activated autodrive, not that different than John's department vehicle.

Rodney pulled all the way into the garage and John saw evidence of Evan's handiwork; in the past, one half had always been piled with boxes and tools. Now there was room for two cars, and the mess had been cleaned up and neatly organized.

"I didn't see any news vans hanging around the neighborhood," John said.

"Hmm, I told a little bird that we were going to go shopping, and he might have accidentally tipped off your favorite reporter."

John laughed. "That's only going to work once, you know."

"Sadly. We got home without the vultures, though."

John limped carefully after Rodney into the house. His wrenched knee didn't help his already-tentative balance. The house only announced Rodney when they entered the kitchen, but then, John didn't have a RFID chip anymore. He flopped down at the table. "Maybe I'll stop making an ass out of myself in public soon, and they'll get bored."

"Hope springs eternal. You want some lunch?"

It was such a casual remark, and John knew that he'd meant the reporters, but it stung anyway. John had spent the better part of the last two – no, thirteen – years getting tasered, stabbed, burned, nearly drowning, assaulted and worse. And while the reason for most of them was a done deal, it didn't mean that he would never freak out again, either.

"Yeah, whatever." John said to the table top. He looked up at him through his lashes when all motion ceased. Rodney gave him a strange look, and John took a deep breath. "You know that I didn't do that stuff on purpose."

"Wait, what?" Rodney closed the refrigerator door and sat down across from him with a serious look. "You want to run the entire train of thought past me?"

"The injuries and stuff. I never set out with the intent, 'I'll do something crazy and see what happens.'"

"Like running into a burning building, or nearly drowning, while trying to save someone? Or pulling a gun on someone you thought was attacking me?"

John shrugged.

"I do know that 'stuff' wasn't intentional. I think that somewhere deep down in that twisty brain of yours, you're still overcompensating for the failed rescue mission that ended your Air Force career. But that's not all of it, even when we were kids, you always had a bit of a hero complex. Both of your careers were geared towards saving people. It's just who you are and regardless of how terrifying it can be, it's definitely part of why I love you."

Rodney could be supercilious, condemning and vicious, but he was also openly affectionate, caring and forthright. John always knew exactly how Rodney felt. It wasn't a phrase that he used, not since Nancy divorced him, but it was true, had been true for a long time. "I love you too, you know," John said.

Rodney let go an amused huff. "As much as I appreciate the verbalization, that wasn't a fishing trip. We're talking about your terrifying need to throw yourself into dangerous situations."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Rodney. I think all I can do for a while is try and rescue myself."

"Yes, you need to put yourself first for a while. If you trust Heightmeyer and you think that she's a good therapist, and not just there to rubber stamp traumatized officers to get back on the job, is HPD going to continue to give you free access to her after you've found a job?"

"I'd have to ask. The charade they're using, that if I jump through x number of hoops I can get back to work, leaves me permanently on the disability payroll." That, combined with the implications of being on the watchlist, was depressing.

"Fortunately, this time around, cooler heads than yours are looking out for your best interests. And you're not out of your mind on painkillers."

"Yeah, no. Not doing that again." The part of him that wanted was scary, still too close to the surface, even though it had been months. Jesus Christ, he was surprised that Keller and Heightmeyer hadn't just tossed him in a padded room and thrown away the key. "Rodney, even I can't believe how messed up I am, why do you want me hanging around?"

Rodney sighed. "John, I know better than anyone else what's really under that thick hide of yours and you've been rescuing me in one way or another since I was seven. I love you for all of the reasons I've already given, and more. There isn't very much that that I wouldn't do for you. You will get through this, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming."

John wiped away the sudden sting of unshed tears with the heels of his hands, and chuckled. "Okay. I don't think the medication is helping."

"It's only supposed to reduce the mood swings, not kill them altogether."

"That's good to know." Of course Rodney would have pinned Keller down and gotten all of the important details. Though John had shied away from chemical therapy for many years, Keller had been tailoring his other medication to work perfectly with his body chemistry for as long as he'd been a cop.

"Good. Okay. I've got to get some work done after lunch. You might consider spending some time putting together your options, and what you want to do with them."

It was nearly the same thing that Kate had recommended.

John was left to his own devices when Rodney shut himself in his office where the secure line was hardwired into the house. It felt a little strange, he didn't usually hang around when Rodney was working. This house was as familiar to him as his own, which made the small changes conspicuous. There were bars and a shower chair installed in the bathroom. A tiny vid screen was set into the back of the front door for visual verification. It wasn't that paranoid, considering RFID chips and wave passes could be cut out or stolen.

There was an urn on the mantlepiece, neatly engraved with Charlotte's name and the appropriate dates. John picked it up with both hands, but it was too light. Empty. He wondered if the Feds would ever actually release her body, but if they did, cremation made sense. He could well imagine the scene if there were an actual funeral.

Instead, Rodney was left to go through the usual funereal rites by himself, because there were maybe five or six people on the planet that would mourn her death, and likely six billion others that were rejoicing her bloody demise.

John still had a foot firmly in both camps and he felt terrible for Rodney, that as his best friend and more, he couldn't offer sincere condolences. Maybe that was the best reason of all to truly work through it, not just ignore and compartmentalize.

He settled down and pulled out his Zhing, which had died yet again. He'd have a hell of a time finding an exact replacement, but considering what he was going to have to do in order to appear whole and complete, he was maybe kind of over the ban on implants.

It was difficult to find the words and keep his voice even and calm enough for the voice to text to work as he narrated the weekends events in an email to Teyla and Ronon, letting them know that he was staying at Rodney's and the reason why. It would be doubly difficult to discuss in a vid call.

The next order of business was a call to DelRio to apologize, since doing that in person wasn't a particularly good idea. Mr. DelRio looked uncomfortable, but said that no apology was necessary, but that he'd be glad to offer John free grocery delivery in the future.

Yet another place he couldn't show his face. John chuckled over the lump in his throat – he couldn't even go to the damn grocery store, how was he supposed to get a job? – and told him while he appreciated the gesture, he wasn't really in a position to require it for a while, and that he'd get back him when he was.

With that in mind, he opened a portal to the HR department and conferenced with the rep over the details of his disability status, and their ramifications. Because he'd been injured as a direct result of his employment, he'd get disability payments almost in perpetuity, unless he joined another paramilitary organization, and that as long as he was on the disability plan, he had access to all of HPD's programs and benefits.

The deadline for registering and getting a new RFID chip was fast approaching. He did not want to mingle with the general public alone, but Rodney was already on thin ice with his job after being incommunicado for a month and half, and Evan... Losing a partner was hard, especially when they continued to hang around and remind you that they were gone.

John fished out O'Neill's card.

He answered full video. O'Neill had his chair tipped back almost dangerously, casually tossing a tennis ball against the empty wall. "Sheppard! What can I do for you?"

"I need to go to the registrar's office, but I – well, that is, the last few days haven't been so great. I think I need an escort."

"Expecting a scene?"

It was nearly a probability. "More to prevent me from flipping out and causing one, I think."

O'Neill nodded and said, "Not a bad idea." It wasn't really surprising that O'Neill already had the ignominious details of his latest episode. John could think of at least three federal agencies that were monitoring him. O'Neill sat up and tossed the ball into a basket at the far end of the room. "Let me see what I can do. Wednesday or Thursday?"

"Doesn't matter."

"I'll call you back with the details."

"Thank you."

"Not a problem, John."

After O'Neill closed the call, John turned on a movie on low volume, because the house was too quiet.

It was hard to imagine too far into the future. All he could think about were the few milestones he meant to achieve; getting chipped and getting his hands and feet rebuilt, but there wasn't very much beyond that.

He had never truly thought very much past being a cop, despite his growing misanthropy. He wondered if that would've eventually leveled out against what Rodney called his hero complex, and if he would've ever reached the level of apathy that he'd seen in older officers. Like Sumner, even.

So, maybe there was a very tiny bright spot in all of this mess.

His list ended up being very short. Get whole, get a job, be happy. The only one he had any clue about accomplishing was the first. John sent an appointment request to Heightmeyer for Monday, and was immediately pinged back with her confirmation.

O'Neill called an hour later and said that he'd be there at seven am Thursday morning to pick up John; he'd found someone willing to come in before the office opened to handle the rechipping.

It was nice in a backhanded way, as they probably didn't want a riot, either. John added a fourth item to his list: gain some kind of anonymity, though he suspected that was going to be the most difficult to achieve. John had been in some kind of public spotlight for the last eight years, since he and Lorne had passed the detective exam together and became partners.

Teyla called in the evening, and John slipped his Zhing into the large vid screen. It was easier than hunching over the fading holocreeen – the power issues was about to go critical – and the vid had a better camera, too.

"How are you, John?" Teyla asked. Ronon sat next to Teyla, relaxed and loose. Even through the vid, he exuded a powerful sensuality, and John's eyes kept flicking toward him, though Ronon was quiet as ever.

It was awful. Their fling was over, and Rodney was his future, but Ronon was still so very attractive. It was going to take awhile before that feeling faded altogether, assuming that it would. "I have been better, but I've been worse. Okay for now."

"We are scheduled to return via Houston on Friday, and we'd like very much to stay in town a few days and visit."

John thought hard and fast about the advisability of that considering he couldn't keep his eyes off Ronon, but surprisingly, Rodney beat him to the punch. "Sure. You're welcome stay here, I've got plenty of room."

He glanced at Rodney. He seemed sincere, and completely unaware of John's predicament. If he had any ulterior motive for the invitation, it wasn't obvious. It suddenly struck him that the three of them must have really bonded while John was missing. "Sure, it'll be good to see you, both of you."

It was going to be a fucking difficult weekend, but he did want to see Teyla, almost craved her calming presence. He'd just have to figure out how to forge his relationship with Ronon into something other than raw sexual appeal.

Wednesday was a quiet caesura. Rodney disappeared into his office, and John tried to relax. He peered out the front window on occasion, to watch the news vans and HPD cruise past the house. The Zhing refused to charge at all, so he slipped into the vid system and synched it into the house's sysop. The police files were still on there, and though they'd been rendered superfluous by the weekend's events, they still functioned as a journal of sorts. He let them synch over for now, though eventually he should probably delete or redact the few details that hadn't been made public.

He spent a couple of hours surfing for a replacement PCD. He dithered over the wide variety on the market before he finally just sighed, and figured he was in for a penny, might as well go in for a pound, too. John pushed the 'purchase' button for one that had not only the latest generation of aural and vocal implants, but had an optional visual connection for his right eye. It would be delivered in a day or two, and by then he'd have a chip. He probably didn't need that level of encryption – no police business anymore – but it was what he was comfortable with.

He read until his stomach growled, then set about making lunch. It took a while, because he'd only ever been an adequate cook, and now he had to plan and work around the fact that he didn't have a full grip, and he needed the cane to maneuver. Heavy things stayed where they were, and he avoided knives altogether. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches was about the extent of his current skill.

Rodney told him over lunch, that he'd found a house that might be perfect for them. "It's a gated community in Pearland. It'll halve the drive to N.A.S.A., but still close enough to downtown that we're not out in the sticks. The light rail stop isn't too far away, but I doubt that we'll ever use it."

He nodded as Rodney went on. "The entire property is fenced, and has great CCDP. My house sysop will be compatible, too. It's a bit too close to Clear Creek, but the flood plain is about the same as this place. The realtor says that she'll need to get approval from the community association for us to move in before we can put in an offer, but we can go look at it this weekend."

John pondered the whole thing. The pesky issue of the lingering attraction to Ronon aside, Rodney was forging full steam ahead with plans and projects, and the idea of trying to fit into a new neighborhood where they probably weren't even wanted felt like an obstacle, not a challenge.

His freedom was already tightly restricted, and John didn't really want to know the extent of their pariah-hood. It would be nice, though, to live in a place where the media couldn't get at them, and, unlike Rodney, he hadn't been mobbed on his front lawn and hauled away into protective custody. Rodney's journey to this moment hadn't been strewn with roses, either.

"Why don't we wait and see what the verdict is?" It would be hard for Rodney to set his sites on something and then be rejected. Though, it sounded like in Rodney's minds-eye, they were already moved and settled in.

"If you want, that's fine with me. I'll send you the link, you take a look at it. See what you think."

"Sure, sounds good," he lied, then realized just no. He had no way of knowing how the course of events would've turned out had he not withheld information from Rodney, and at the very least, Rodney deserved the truth from him. "Well, no. First, it's probably illegal. It stinks of social, racial and economic profiling. Second, I don't like the idea of being vetted, passing some social evaluation based on an unknown set of qualifications, or the opinions of people that I don't even know. I'm not entirely sure why you're okay with any of that."

Rodney crossed his arms and gave him a mildly truculent look. "Because the first time that I'm not rejected, I'll know that I've managed to regain some level of approbation from the world in general, if not my peers."

The memory loss from Charlotte's 'treatment' was more insidious than he initially thought. He hadn't lost just facts and figures, but some level of comprehension, as well. He should have realized that Rodney had been first and foremost a performer, had based some portion of his self worth on received adulation, and as a scientist was constantly testing the boundaries of an hypothesis – that he was still worthy.

Even though he hadn't done anything to deserve the censure, other than unwittingly unleash his daughter upon the world.

"I guess we're both counting on people and their notoriously short attention spans as a whole." Though, John doubted that his role in the drama would be soon forgotten. "Can't hurt to look in the meantime."

Rodney shrugged. "True. Even Hitler's parents are a passing footnote."

"Come on, Rodney. It doesn't even compare. Less than twelve-hundred people against millions?"

"It feels huge to me." Rodney got up and put his bowl in the sink, and washed his hands. "You know where I'll be if you need anything." With that, he stopped and dropped a kiss on the top of John's head then bolted from the kitchen.

Man, maybe it really was a bad idea for the two of them to be cooped up together with their issues. He felt antsy and unsettled as he washed the dishes, then he remembered that he hadn't kept up with his physical therapy. Every day had brought some new, fresh hell raining down upon him; it felt like it had been far longer than just a week since he'd left Casa Confinement.

Rodney didn't own any exercise equipment – God forbid – so John went through Jeff's balance, coordination and strengthening routines. Depending on how well Monday's visit to HPD went, or more to the point, how badly it went, he might be able to use the gym, other wise he'd need to get a treadmill. He didn't feel safe enough to go outside and take a walk.

This was nearly as awful as being in protective custody, though he wasn't entirely trapped. He knocked on Rodney's office door, loud enough to be heard over the music, then pushed it open. "I'm going to go take a test drive."

Rodney looked up with a worried expression, "Uhm, I don't think that's a good idea. You don't have a chip, what if you get stopped? My car's at the body shop, and I don't want to have to call a cab."

He'd been about to say what could go wrong?, then he realized that was patently stupid. Any number of things could go wrong, all the way from annoyingly minor to holy shit catastrophic, nor would Rodney's presence prevent or solve the majority of them. It would just give both of them a little peace of mind, something that was, lately, in short supply. "Yeah. Never mind. We can go out this evening."

"Give me a couple of hours, and we'll go pick up something for dinner."

"Yeah. Sorry for the interruption."

John nodded and reached for the door, but Rodney stood up, swiftly crossed the few steps between them to give him a brief hug as he said quietly, "Thanks."

He wrapped his free arm around Rodney's shoulder, and pressed a kiss behind his ear. "Anytime."

There wasn't any way to know how tomorrow or Friday would turn out, so he killed the couple hours with housekeeping. He put clean sheets on the bed, added a few things to the grocery list, set the vacuumbots free, and all the while, gnawed over his seemingly sudden obsession with the future.

But it had been like this after Landstuhl. Floundering rudderless in the wake of disaster, suddenly careerless and constantly half wasted on painkillers. He hadn't been terrified to go outside, though, and back then all of his problems were a tempest in a teapot. Just him and his addiction, and no one but Rodney had concerned themselves with his plight. He'd never really cared what people thought of him, wrapped himself in a mantle of laconic disregard.

This time the eyes of the world were focused on him, waiting in morbid fascination for the next time he fucked up. Trapped in the house, and soon to be tracked by governmental organizations for the rest of his life in case he spontaneously re-sprouted feathers and claws – which was his own fault; he was almost single-handedly responsible for the Purity Act, and the far-reaching, almost unforeseeable, consequences. He unexpectedly missed the potential of things he never really wanted before they had been taken away. If he was honest, his dick wasn't broken, it was that the idea of having sex made him break out in a sweat, and not the good kind.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with all of that? This was his reward for nearly getting killed?

Monday couldn't come soon enough.

John didn't sleep well, despite the medication's soporific effects. He stayed in bed, tangled up with Rodney, listening to him breathing and failing altogether to not let his thoughts race around. When it finally beeped, he left Rodney sleeping with a kiss on the forehead and limped to the bathroom, then kitchen.

The house was set to Rodney's workday routine; the vid screen over the sink was tuned to the stock market feed on low volume, and the coffee maker was burbling away, all begun with the alarm.

John changed the portal to the weather. It was nice, boring, but not coma-level of boredom and still unlikely to cause any more panic. His 'news portal habit had been an objective of his job, and lately it seemed as if he was the subject. Best to just avoid it altogether. He made toast and drank a cup of coffee while he watched the birds eye view of clouds swirling over half of Mexico and the southern US. The Gulf wasn't warm enough to spawn a hurricane, but the rain was going to last for weeks.

The house announced O'Neill's arrival, and John made his way to the front door to double check the vid. It was unlikely that in the last day someone had waylaid the Federal officer for his chip, but John felt uncomfortable just allowing the house to let anyone in sight unseen. It was why Rodney had the vid installed, and he felt paranoid enough to abide by that. O'Neill was slouched under the tiny portico out of the rain, hands in his pocket, smirking at the camera.

He unlocked the door and swung it open. "Mornin'. Come on in."

"Sheppard."

"You want a cup of coffee to go?"

"No thanks, I tanked up at home."

"Give me a minute and I'll be right with you."

John left O'Neill in the living room and went to remind Rodney he was leaving the house.

He was awake and half dressed, with a pensive expression. "You want me to go with you?"

"Nah, I think it'll be fine." He didn't want Rodney there at all. If something happened, John wanted Rodney far, far away.

Rodney hummed an unintelligible response as he pulled a shirt over his head.

"I didn't catch that."

"I said if you're sure."

"Yes, Rodney. I'm sure." It was almost funny, except that Rodney was as worried as he was scared.

Rodney was right behind him when he returned to the living room. O'Neill was perusing the objects on the mantle, hands still in his pockets.

John made the introductions, and O'Neill shook Rodney's hand. "Pleased to meet you," then he nodded at the urn on the mantle. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Dr. McKay." The way O'Neill said it with pure, honest sympathy, left John wondering if Jack had had a similar loss.

"Hmmm. Likewise. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"No, but it's got to be done. I'll do everything in my power to bring John home in more or less the same shape."

Rodney ran both hands through his short hair and sniffed. "Yeah, okay." He put a hand on John's back and said, "Be careful."

"Will do." John slipped on his jacket and grabbed his hat and umbrella. "See ya later." He flinched slightly when heard the locks slamming home behind him.

O'Neill grabbed his umbrella that he'd left on the porch and popped it open. "Here, this'll be easier," and crowded next to to him. It was a struggle to get in the vehicle with his lame knee, but he managed it without falling over, and he was only slightly drenched from the waist down. The ugly shoes were thankfully waterproof, but his feet squelched uncomfortably in wet socks.

"Thank you for doing this."

"Not a problem, Sheppard," he said, as he pulled out of the driveway. "We're going to the Sugar Land office. The manager there does rechipping for WITSEC, so she's used to the cloak and dagger routine."

John nodded, but it wasn't a conversational gambit. There was only one reason that John had made O'Neill's acquaintance; asking if he had lost a child was outside the purview of their relationship, a commonality though it might be, however fucked up and abstract his own loss. John could always look it up later if he really wanted to know. "How are Carolyn and Jeff?"

"They're back to their regular assignments."

"And Kawalsky?"

"Had a few things he needed to do this morning."

And that was the end of anything that John wanted to talk about. The freeway was crowded, but traffic was moving fast. The office was in an old strip mall storefront with tinted windows, and there two cars in the parking lot, a tiny one person flitter, and a state trooper's cruiser. O'Neill stopped right at the door. "Stay here," was all he said.

John watched as he banged on the glass door once. The door opened just a crack, and he had a short conversation with whoever was behind the door. O'Neill came back and opened his door. "Let's go," was all he said as he helped John out of the vehicle.

O'Neill introduced the woman behind the door as Amelia Banks, and John held out his free hand with what he hoped was a charming smile. "John Sheppard."

Amelia was of medium height, with a firm grip, and she didn't blanch at the scarred remains of his hand. She obviously recognized him. He held his breath until she said with a grin. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Sheppard. Come on back, we can do this at my desk, no waiting in line." O'Neill locked the door then sat in a chair next to it.

The last time John had had occasion to visit a registrar's office in person, he'd been sixteen, gangly and excited to get a permanent chip with his license. They hadn't changed much in the interim. A counter with a bulky holocamera at one end and a row of chairs that lined the walls. The trooper was sitting at one of the desks behind the counter and acknowledged John with a nod.

When he sat next to Amelia's desk, a red light blinked on the old syle monitor in front of her.

She glanced at his hands, then nodded and cleared the warning with a slight shrug. "RFID monitor."

"It was removed. I'm pretty sure that it's evidence, though."

"That's what you're here for, right? What's your genreg id number?"

John recited the number and the form on the monitor autofilled the pertinent data. She pointed out a handheld genreg scanner at him, and another form popped up on the screen with a few lines highlighted in red. "It's not a perfect match, about 98 percent, but the Purity tag will override that."

That surprised him, he'd been under the impression that all of the blips on his DNA had been removed. "The doc said all the anomalies were gone."

"Med scans use a different set of parameters. These couple of points probably don't have an impact on your health, though they do fall outside the normal age drift on the identity scan. It's not a problem, given your recent history."

He should have realized that it wasn't ever going to be a perfect match. Otherwise the NHGRI wouldn't insist upon annual check ups, and a Purity watchlist wouldn't be necessary. It felt creepy, knowing that shit was still lurking at the very core of his being.

"Since there are only a few lines that require an override, you have the option for a second chip. Is that what you want?"

"Yeah, please."

She unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out an injector gun, loaded with a plastic strip. The RFID chips were barely visible, tiny gray specks on the plastic, but John could see them clearly.

"Where do you want the Purity chip?"

"Back of my neck, I guess." He leaned forward, and Amelia put her hand on the top of his head, and pressed him down a little as she stood up. It was strangely intimate, almost embarrassing. Hardly anyone out the medical profession ever touched him except Rodney – casually, sexually, and bossy. There was a faint snick and a pinch, then she removed her hand from his head and tapped the keyboard.

He sat up when she pulled the injector away. That was it. Bagged, tagged and released, like some exotic, endangered animal.

Amelia, however had moved on. "May I see your hands?"

"There's not much left." John pulled his left out of the forearm brace and held them out.

She made a soft clucking noise, and turned them over, and carefully ran her whole, beautiful fingers over the scar tissue where the few, mostly whole, fingers ended. "Are you going in for reconstruction soon?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'd recommend a wave pass until then. I've heard stories that the RFID signal interferes with reconstruction. Just make sure when you get a permanent chip, to remind whomever that they're replacements. Takes a special chip, unless you go for the organic. "

"Wave pass is fine," he said faintly.

"I'll need to update your holoimage, then. The one that's on file is more than five years old."

More like ten, John thought. It might even be the one that HPD took when he was hired. He picked up his cane and followed her to the camera. She pulled the hood over his head until it rested on his shoulders. His heart started to race, and he swallowed convulsively.

Her voice came through the speakers over his head. "You okay in there?"

"No, but I'll live."

"This'll only take thirty seconds, just look at the red square in front of you," she said over the sound of soft clicking that echoed around him, then the device was lifted away.

"I'll put a handicap tag on here for you, and a ninety-day pass for your vehicle, too. If you need that extended, just contact any office and it can be done remotely. Just have a seat out here, and I'll be right with you."

John sat down not too far from O'Neill, who was smiling. "She's something."

"Yeah." Of course, she did this all day, every day. John couldn't imagine working in a public office that dealt with every cross section of the population on a constant basis. He probably didn't even get a rise out of her weird-o-meter.

He might have a couple of months ago. The holocamera made a faint plink, and Amelia came racing out of the back, picking up the card as she breezed past.

"Here you are, Mr. Sheppard." She handed him a handicap hangtag and a plastic wave pass that was still warm. His picture rotated slowly from left to right, and on the back the RFID chip was embedded under a black square. He jammed them both in his coat pocket and stood up.

"Thank you for coming in early to do this, I really appreciate it."

"No, thank you. You're my favorite on the HPD port, and it was dreadful, watching all that. I'm really glad you came in this morning."

"You're welcome."

Amelia yelled over her shoulder, "Ryan, buzz these gentlemen out, please."

O'Neill grabbed the door when it unlocked. "Sheppard, let me check the car, I'll be right back."

John let the door half close on him, and Amelia patted his shoulder. "Listen, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call. I'll be glad to help however I can."

"Yeah, sure." O'Neill waved from the curb. "Thank you again."

Once they were on their way back up the freeway, John said, "You picked her on purpose."

"Yep. Guilty as charged. You sounded like you needed to see a friendly face when you called."

"I really did. Thanks."

The rest of the trip home was quiet. John turned the brief encounter with Amelia Banks over in his head. It gave him a small measure of comfort, though he hated the idea that she was a newshound and had likely seen everything, she'd been sympathetic, thoroughly honest and matter of fact.

She was only one of over four million, but if there was one, maybe there were more.

John's good mood lasted rest of the day. He looked at his list again, and reaching those goals didn't seem quite so far fetched now.

He'd need Keller's release to make an appointment with the reconstructionist, but after Amelia's comment about the RFID interference, he realized that he knew very little about nanites. He'd had the eye for fifteen years before he ran in Professor Zelenka, and recognized that it wasn't just a poor substitute.

He surfed the web for an hour before he groaned. The perfect research assistant was only a phone call away. He had the house call Unity from his Zhing, still in the vid slot.

John was confronted with a near stranger when the screen came on. Unity's smile was familiarly enigmatic, but the face had morphed into something more distinctly male. The formerly bald head sported short, dark hair, the much stronger jaw had a very faint stubble, and the almost colorless eyes had shaded into pale blue. The voice was several registers lower when Unity greeted him, "John, how nice of you to call!"

"Wow, look at you. Got an upgrade?"

"Professor Z and I are experimenting with gender assignment in preparation for a physical construct." Unity shook its head, and the image shivered and changed to female with shoulder length honey brown hair, green eyes and a smattering of freckles. "It's difficult to choose, there is so much to like about being either male or female."

"I like them both, but I like the original, too."

The image shivered again, back to the androgynous face with silvery, colorless eyes. "I am not truly one or the other. I have an excellent theoretical knowledge, but I can't know sexual identity until I have one." The whole thing kind of blew John's mind. Even if he put aside the alienness of the growing up without a body, sexuality was an ingrained mind/body response; there was always some combination of physical genitalia, regardless that they might not always match what was in the head. He wondered how the Professor was handling the concept that his baby would eventually go out and start experimenting. "I guess gender reassignment is out of the question?"

Unity chuckled. "It will be some time before the construct is completed, but the question is being thoroughly investigated." It paused and the expression softened a little. "But you didn't call to hear about that. I've been keeping a tab on you. How are you?"

John quirked a tiny smile. Make that three federal agencies and an Artificial Intelligence that were tracking him. Hell, there were probably boatloads of media people, and thousands of private citizens, too. "That doesn't surprise me. It was a tough week out of the box, but doing okay, I guess." At least he didn't have to gather up the wherewithal to squeeze out the story.

"Do you plan on contesting the Houston Police Department's decision?"

"It crossed my mind, but it might be easier to make it a clean break. Find something else."

"What would you like to do?"

"That's kind of why I'm calling. I'd like to know more about nanite reconstruction, since I'll probably get a lot more of it soon."

"I have quite a lot of data on the subject. My physical form will very likely be nanite construction, though we haven't ruled out organics altogether. What would you like to know?"

"Just the basics, what I can expect, what to look out for. Maybe even something I can do with them later."

John figured that Unity was the supreme multitasker, and when the conversation lasted nearly the entire day, he didn't feel guilty about that at all. It was interesting technology, a part of him and not at all related to Charlotte's reign of horror. Unity flipping between various test faces at random was disconcerting, though.

When the call was over, John rousted Rodney out of his office. He needed to go to the bank and reactivate his ATM access, and he had a chip, and therefore a license.

The test drive proved just as enlightening as his encounter with Amelia Banks. A thought struck him, "How did you get the auto drive installed over a holiday weekend?" He asked as he turned on the autodrive.

Rodney shrugged. "I was very persuasive, plus my mechanic felt bad for you."

So, not the entire world, but John was sure that sympathy was better than disdain. Traffic across town was rush hour heavy, and John tapped a random route that would avoid the interstate completely. His SUV didn't have tinted windows, and he had no desire to be hemmed in where he might be recognized. He pulled the brim of his hat down a little further and reversed out of the garage. The errand at the bank was completed in a few minutes, and that was another item to cross off the list. He had no where he had to be, no destination, no plan or purpose.

Five pm and it was already dark, and had begun to rain again. Rodney fiddled with the 'net until some bombastic orchestral piece blasted out of the speakers.

It suited John's mood. too. A rainy winter night wasn't the best time to go sightseeing, but he hadn't been out for an aimless drive since... He couldn't remember. The streets were familiar old friends, knew the city like the back of his hand, but he'd always had destinations and reasons with a solid purpose.

He wasn't sure which was more depressing: that now he had no overall purpose other than his short list, or that in the past that he'd been so focused on executing a plan that he didn't really see what was around him.

Houston gleamed in the dark. Vehicles crowded the wet streets that glittered in the headlights and streetlights. Welcoming lights shone out of shops and stores. John stared out the windows, watching the pedestrians with their heads under umbrellas, and the cyclists, their safety lights flickering rhythmically as they pedaled through the rain. He caught glimpses of the flickering images on the skyscrapers off to his right, but they were hazy and distorted by the rain. The last few months hadn't left a visible scar on the city. No physical devastation, the dead and injured were tucked away and hidden.

But, Houston was resilient; it had survived rising sea levels, hurricanes and economic disasters, and still the population had surpassed pre-Victor numbers. The city would swallow, without even a hiccup, the blip that had been Charlotte's bizarre campaign.

That was a comforting thought. He'd been born here, had nearly died here; it was his city. He'd given thirteen years of his life to protecting and serving Houston. Part and parcel of one another, it wouldn't be the same without him, and he would be would be lost and rootless anywhere else.

Maybe he could see the future, after all.

EPILOGUE

26.

Epilogue

~fin~

---

Notes

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis

Category/Rated: Slash, Adult

Year/Length: 2010/ ~95,000 words (eventually)

Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, Sheppard/Ronon, mentions of McKay/Carter, McKay/Other

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Caveat emptor, I am not a doctor, lawyer or police officer, and this is science fiction. Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Warning: Language, violence, drugs, alcoholism, rape, torture, gratuitous crying and kid-fic.

Summary: Auguste Rodin observed, "The human body is first and foremost a mirror to the soul and its greatest beauty comes from that." Otherwise, a futuristic AU, wherein Detective Sheppard struggles to solve a terrible crime, and with his life and identity. AU, I said that, right?

Series: A Day On The Atalanta, A snapshot of John and Rodney's past.

Author's Notes: Detective Sheppard was mine first. I've been working on this for a while—since before Lorne had a first name. It's based on a concept that I've poked at for well over a decade, until I finally realized that it was supposed to be an SGA AU.

Beta: Auburn, tzzzz, seekergeek and bluflamingo provided insight, suggestions and comma patrol. army_rat was my research assistant and sounding board for disaster. MECurtin also offered some paradigm shifting thoughts, and without them this story would be in a much sorrier state and I am grateful for their assistance but as quite a lot was re-written afterwards, I remain the target for all rotten tomatoes. I fully expect them.

| Home | Stories | Sitemap O'Doom | Whazzup? | email dossier |