Storytime with Rachel F Hundred

Afghanistan, 2002

It goes wrong in a single beat of a heart, a blink of an eye.

A sound which shouldn’t be heard.  Something is breaking and…his chopper is going down.

John radios in the failure in a clipped official tone which can’t quite hide his stress at keeping the chopper level, the anticipation of a crash-landing…

There’s a squawking voice in his ear, his CO berating him because his flight back to rescue Holland and Daley is against orders.

He mentally shuts out the noise and focuses on getting landed safely.

A thump, a skip, a heart-thumping moment when John thinks he’ll go over the edge of a cliff he hadn’t realised was there and…

It all stops.

There’s silence.

John breathes out. 

And then he’s moving.

He’s shutting down systems while crisply giving his position and informing them of the plan to get to Holland and Daley; to return to base on foot.

“Negative,” Barker snarls in his ear.  “Return to base immediately.”

“Sorry, Command,” John says breezily, “the signal is degrading, I didn’t hear your last message.  I have to move.  Sheppard over and out.”

He’s out of the helicopter before Barker can reply, gathering supplies and arming himself.  He sets a bomb to detonate in thirty minutes – just enough time to get clear.  He can’t allow the chopper to remain intact for the enemy.

He starts walking.

Holland and Daley are five hours in the wrong direction.

He’s killed two people by the time he finds them.  He kills three more to clear the way to the trapped men, hiding behind the shell of their shot down helicopter.

Daley’s dead.  He can see it instantly.  There is an unnatural stillness to the body and flies are circling.  John retrieves the dog-tags swiftly on his way to Holland.

Holland has a gun in his hand, a purplish bump with a nasty cut on his forehead with blood streaking down his face, bisecting dirt and sweat.  He blinks at John, incredulity racing across his all-American features.  “Shep?”

“It’s me,” John says, kneeling beside Holland.  He’s already pulling out the bits and pieces of gauze and tape and antibacterial swipes to quickly fix as much as he can.  “Are you mobile?”

Holland grimaces.  “I will be.”

John nods.  He finishes taping the gauze into place.  He doesn’t like the shocked glaze in Holland’s eyes, but there’s nothing he can do about it.  They need to move.  He helps Holland to his feet.

It’s harder to move fast with Holland.

They have to stay off the paths John might have chosen if he’d been alone; skirt wider around villages and enemy camps between them and safe territory.

He knows instinctively they’re being hunted.  He feels it in his bones.  The enemy is close.

Night comes down like a curtain and they shelter in a ditch.  Holland falls into unconsciousness like a rock falling into well; fast and deep.

John forces himself to stay awake, alert.  The enemy knows where they are; he knows it.  An attack is imminent.  He knows that too.  There are too many of them and only John to defend himself and Holland.

He breathes in.  Breathes out.  His fingers tighten around his gun.

The air grows heavy.

Electric.

Something cries loudly in the back of John’s mind, primal and ancient…a promise of help, power, what he needs to survive…

But there is also a warning.

If he reaches out now, there’ll be a price. 

He’s not in the right place.  It’s not the right time.  But there is no other way to survive…

He takes it.

His heart takes a beat.

His mind is sharper; he hears thoughts whispering which are not his own.  His body vibrates with feelings that drift through currents from others converging on his space, from Holland who sleeps on beside him. 

He breathes.

In his mind, wings mantle over his own thoughts, shield his own memories and sense of self. Armour plating wraps around his spirit, shielding him from feeling the hatred and glee and righteousness of a faith which is not his own and…

Power races through him, fire in his veins, drenching him in electric energy.

Everything snaps into place.

He is a Guide.

A Guide alone.

Without a spirit guide to walk beside him.  Without a Sentinel at his back.

And then it doesn’t matter: the enemy comes for them.

o-O-o

Cascade, 2002

It’s raining.

The soft patter of the falling drops on the balcony outside of the bedroom jerk John awake and out of the nightmare of heat and desert and blood…

John sweeps a hand over his face, grimaces as he always does at the stubble and the thought of shaving.  He shoves the sheet back and swings around to sit on the edge of the bed.  There’s an ache in his soul; a missing part of him.  He catches himself rubbing a hand over his heart as though that will soothe the pain.

The alarm clock blinks out a neon time: oh-four-hundred. 

John gets up, his blood is up, his mind and body ready for the battlefield and he needs movement.

Ten minutes later, he’s out of the apartment which has been his home for less than a month and running.  He’s dressed for the weather in a nylon black hoodie over his t-shirt, sweats instead of shorts, and fingerless gloves he adores. 

His feet pound on the pavement, his breath evens to match his pace, his heart thumps in his chest: the rhythm of running settles him.

There’s a feeling of wings above him, flying over him, sheltering and guarding him. 

He lets his mind go blank.

It’s a couple of hours later when he makes it back to the apartment.  He ignores the blinking light indicating a message on the phone, diverts to start the coffee he’s craving, and makes for the shower, dumping his damp clothes into the laundry bag.

The hot stream of water warms him up.  He rebels against the military mantra to be quick and relaxes into the luxury of unlimited hot water, soap scented with something woody and soothing.  He revels in feeling clean from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.  No sand anywhere.

John’s showered, shaved and dressed in jeans and an old Academy t-shirt when he pads back into the small kitchenette barefoot and pours the coffee he had set to brewing.  The darkly bitter brew is good quality.  He savours the chocolatey undertones and the aromatic hints of cinnamon.

He sits down on the small and very uncomfortable sofa, and finally checks the answering machine. 

Somehow, he’s unsurprised to find a voicemail from Blair Sandburg.  He winces anyway because he’d hoped his shields were good enough to stop stuff leaking through to the Alpha Guide, especially as Blair is a worrywart.

He does a second wince at the soft instruction to call Blair as soon as he returns regardless of the time. 

It’s almost seven.  Maybe it’s not uncivilised.

John picks up the phone and dials.

“Ellison,” The Alpha Sentinel’s gruff voice sounds down the phone, making John automatically straighten his posture.

“Alpha, this is Major Sheppard,” John replies politely.  “Guide Sandburg asked me to return his call, sir.”

“Yes, he did,” Ellison replies with a sigh, “and I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Jim.”

John winces at the idea.  “Yes, sir.”

“So maybe you’ll be comfortable doing that by the time we get you back to the Air Force,” Ellison concedes with enough wry amusement that John knows the Alpha’s not upset with him.

“Have you heard anything on that front, sir?” John asks eagerly.

It had been a shitshow in Afghanistan when John had arrived back with a badly wounded Holland.  He feels another pang of guilt and regret that Holland had died on the surgical table.  The head wound had been too traumatic.  If John’s chopper hadn’t had a mechanical failure, if Holland had been able to get into surgery a couple of hours after the injury…but that hadn’t happened and John’s grief over losing his friend was something he’d had to put away in the face of dealing with his anomalous and weird online status.

The Air Force had floundered heavily.

A Guide without a Sentinel, without a spirit guide.

He knows they think he’s broken. 

Defective. 

Fragile.

They’d had John shipped back off to the States to Sandburg before Holland had even taken his final breath.

Three weeks later and his status in the Air Force still wasn’t certain.

“Steven is negotiating your status,” Ellison confirms.

Steven meaning Steven Ellison, Jim’s brother, who had just been appointed the Director of the Sentinel and Guide Authority the year before.

John tries hard not to feel disappointed.  He tries hard to bury the fear that he won’t get back to the sky and his calling.

He can’t regret the decision he’d made in the dark – it had been the only way to get himself and Holland out alive, but…he’s beginning to wonder if he’d fully understood the price.

“It will get sorted, Major,” Ellison states firmly.  “Even if I have to go to the Pentagon and knock heads together myself.”

John smiles at that imagery.  “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to hand you over to Blair before he decides to wrestle the phone away from me,” Ellison says.  “Just know you’re doing fine, kid.”

John nods but doesn’t speak.  He can’t.  There’s a rush of emotion and his breath is caught up at the back of his throat; tears press in on his vision and he blinks them away.

“John,” Blair’s calm tone soothes him.  “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” John says automatically.

“Try again,” Blair replies.

John rolls his eyes.  “I had a nightmare.  I went running.”  He waits a beat.  “I’m sorry that I disturbed you.”

Blair sighs.  “You never have to apologise for that, and you didn’t disturb me.  Your control is remarkable given the circumstances.  Jim heard you leave your apartment.  He tends to be ultra-vigilant with new arrivals.”

Right.

It had nothing to do with John being alone without a Sentinel.

If the Air Force doesn’t know what to do with him, their response looks laughably competent in the face of online and latent Sentinels.  There are those who want to wrap him in bubble-wrap and hide him away from the world, and others who run as fast as they can from the horror of a Guide without a spirit guide.

“Try to meditate,” Blair suggests.  “I’ll see you later for our session.”

The phone disconnects, a dial tone sounding in John’s ear.

He sets the phone down.

And suddenly realises his hand has been pressed against his heart and the ache of missing the whole time he’s talked to the Alphas.

Damn it.

o-O-o

Cascade, 2003

John feels Blair approaching long before the short sharp rap on the open door of John’s temporary office door in the Engineering faculty at Ranier University.  John waves him inside, pushing the student paper in front of him to the stack he’s already accumulated to the left.

Signing on to complete his Doctorate in Math and Aeronautical Engineering while he trained with Blair to get hold of his Shaman gifts had been one of the best decisions he’d made, John muses.  It’s kept his brain sharp and given him the feeling of contributing something.

The only thing he hates is the amount of desk time.  He’s kept up his physical training with running, weights, gym time.  Luckily, Jim and a few of the police officers he works with are happy to spar with John despite his weird status. 

He stands up and stretches as Blair bounds into the room with a warm smile.

“Can you give me a ride?” Blair asks without ceremony.  “Jim was meant to pick me up but he’s been delayed at the station.”

“Sure,” John agrees easily.  He was done with his marking.  He sweeps the stack into a folder and locks the test papers away into a metal filing cabinet to his right.

“Professor Talbot says they’ve scheduled your viva,” Blair says as John shrugs into the leather bomber jacket he’s taken to habitually wearing over t-shirt and jeans.  There’s no obligation to wear his uniform given his formal status is ‘on academic sabbatical.’

“Yeah, a month from now,” John tells Blair, ignoring the slight churn of nerves in his belly at the idea of defending his thesis.

He knows he’ll probably be fine.  His work is solid; the math just works and he’s excited about the design of the plane he’s created.  The academic theory all plays in his favour.  Still, his design has one flaw – the energy requirements are very high.  He’d ended up discarding the idea of a nuclear power source and instead arguing for something he’d come across in an obscure European journal written a few years before about something called zero-point energy.  It read a little sci-fi, but Doctor Zelenka’s theory was sound.  Or at least John hopes the theory is sound because he’s bet his design on it.

“Earth to John,” jokes Blair as he fumbles through locking the office door on their way out.

“Sorry, got caught up in my head,” John admits.

Blair shrugs.  “I was a wreck the whole lead up to my viva.”  He glances across to John as they head down the stairs, both eschewing the nearby rickety elevator.  “Talbot says the Air Force is very interested in your thesis.”

John shrugs. Copies of his thesis were submitted pro forma to the Air Force Academy and his command.  If the Air Force is interested in the design, they’ve said nothing to him.

“Have you considered moving into a R&D or academic role with them?” Blair finally asks bluntly. “It might help ease your transition.”

John sighs, pushing open the outside door and leading Blair and himself into the crisp cold air.  “I’m a pilot.”

Blair sighs and lets it go.

The Alpha Guide of the United States respects military service, but he’s a pacifist politically and he doesn’t get John’s calling to the sky at all.  But Blair has set aside his own bias and has argued for John’s right to return to active duty in every skirmish they’ve had with the Air Force over the matter.

John’s grateful to Blair for that.  That and the immense amount of time the man has spent training him to control his Guide gifts.  John has found his way to the spirit plane and has spent time with Blair’s spirit guide, with the spirit of the Chopak Shaman Blair deeply respects.  He’s got a handle on the empathy and telepathy; he can live in the world.

He just has a hole in his heart and spirit where his Sentinel would be, where his own spirit guide would complete him.

It’s a chronic ache.

He’s learned to live with it.

Blair chatters on about his own viva as they get in the car and head back to the apartment complex on the other side of town.  John listens, amused and vaguely terrified in equal measure by the tale Blair spins of a member of the panel apparently turning into a major suspect in a serial killing case Blair was helping Jim with at the time.

They pull up just as Blair reveals the panel member is the serial killer’s sister and…

Everything freezes for a second.

There’s a sensation of wings above him, protecting him from a threat and…

John focuses.

The sense of someone he’s familiar with, someone he knows, filters through to him.

His father.

“John?” asks Blair sharply.

John sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.  “I think my father just landed at Cascade airport.”

Blair’s eyes narrow on him, his curls flying in the slight breeze.  “Jim and I can run interference.”

“No,” John shakes his head even as his heart is pounding.  “It’s fine.” He tries a smile.  “Better to get it over with.”

Blair considers him for a long moment before he nods.  “OK, but if you need Jim or me to come and interrupt…” he taps his head, “just yell.”

John nods.

They separate in the foyer.  Blair heads for stairs to the left which will take him to the west side of the building and the loft he shares with Jim.  John instead heads to the right; the east side where he lives alone. 

There is a blinking light on his answering machine and he hits play.  The message from his father’s secretary, Joyce, briskly informing him of his father’s visit and intent to take him to dinner at a local restaurant is not unexpected. 

God forbid that Patrick Sheppard actually call his son himself.

John sets about cleaning his apartment.

It’s neat and clean, but he cleans it again anyway.

John doesn’t have a lot of stuff and the Air Force has trained him out of his teenage laziness.  Most of his things are in storage in San Francisco and he’s left them there, hopeful that his stay in Cascade was temporary.   

He’s showered, dressed in a good grey suit with an open-necked crisp white cotton shirt, and just tying up shoes which shine when the doorbell rings; his father’s car is outside.

John checks he has his wallet and keys, and heads out; his father hates to be kept waiting. 

The driver bundles him into the back seat and there is an awkward drive to the nicer part of Cascade where John is ushered into the only five-star hotel in town and whisked up to his father’s suite where they’ll dine in privacy.

Patrick Sheppard is a tall man with a full head of hair.  The hair is a softer brown than John’s with grey weaving in and out of the neat cut.  His eyes are a silver grey in contrast to John’s chameleon hazel tones.  It’s the shape of their jaw and nose which give away the genetic connection.

Patrick greets him with a firm hug. 

John keeps tight hold of his shield, not wanting his father’s feelings or thoughts to filter through.  He tells himself he’s just being ethical and ignores the underlying childish fears he has about finding out how his father really feels about him if he lets himself slip.

John settles at the table, positioned in front of balcony windows with a great view of Cascade’s city skyline lit up in the evening twilight.

Patrick hands him a whiskey and sits down opposite.  A butler appears from the depths of the suite to serve them and disappears again.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get out to see you before now,” Patrick says. 

John’s unease drifts away at the evident and truthful ring of Patrick’s regret.  “I know you’re busy.”

His father is a workaholic, and he’d become worse after the death of John’s mother.  John and Dave, his younger brother, had become used to a lack of parental presence at their sports and academics events, at their dinner table.

“I wasn’t expecting you to remain in Cascade for so long.  Have they not figured out how to fix…this?” asks Patrick bluntly.

John’s heart sinks because his father has always been a perfectionist.  No doubt John’s situation where he has yet to be chosen by a spirit guide, where is he bereft of a Sentinel, is exactly that to his father: a failure.

“There’s nothing to fix,” John says simply.  It is what it is.

“Then you’ll be like this forever?” asks Patrick, lowering his spoon, his eyes hard as flint.

John shrugs.  “Blair, uh, Guide Sandburg thinks there is a possibility that the selection could take place in the future, just that there’s no guarantee.”

“You need a Sentinel,” Patrick states as though there is only his opinion.  “All the research says Guides are untethered without a Sentinel, that’s why so few selections bring Guides online alone.”

John tries not to flinch at the criticism.  “I’m doing fine.”

Patrick hums.  “Have you considered what next?”

John pushes the remains of his soup to the side.  Trust his father to jump straight to the point.  He’s surprised he’s restrained himself enough for them to begin eating.  “I’ve requested to return to the Air Force, Dad.”

Patrick sighs and finishes his soup.  He pins John with a look that John remembers all too well from all the other times they’ve argued about John’s choice of career.  “I wish you would reconsider,” his father begins, “the Air Force, the military is no place for a lone Guide.”

“I’m capable of protecting myself,” John replies mildly.  His gifts mean that he can take down a fully feral Sentinel with his mind if he wishes.

“You’re vulnerable without a Sentinel,” Patrick argues.

John is too busy resisting the urge to rub at the ache in his heart to hear the thread of worry in his father’s voice.  Instead, he leans back and tries hard not to glare at his father with the same defiance that carried him through his teenage years.  He’s a fully grown man, able to make his own decisions.  “The Sentinel and Guide Authority disagree.  I don’t need a Sentinel.”

He wanted one, ached for one…but he could live without one.

“John, you almost died in your last mission!” Patrick sighs, looking away from John as though he can’t bear to look at him. “Why don’t you just come home?  There’s a place for you in the business.”

It’s pretty much downhill from there.

The same old argument.

The same old anger.

Less than twenty minutes later, John is out of the hotel, panting for breath as he wrestles with the usual feelings of shame, guilt and hurt. 

He stands under the hotel awning for a long moment, staring out at the rain beginning to fall. 

His father’s voice echoes in his head. 

“If you walk out that door, that’s it!  I can’t keep going through this with you, John!”

John had walked out.

He’s known his father has always been one argument away from disowning him since John had saved Dave from the car crash and failed to save his mother.  He knows his father blames him for Catherine Sheppard’s death.

He doesn’t need his empathy to tell him that.

It’s for the best, John tells himself.  John is never going to live up to Patrick Sheppard’s expectations.  He’s never going to live his life the way his father wants.  A clean break is best.

John swallows on the rush of emotion. 

God, but he wishes…he wishes…

But his wishes mean nothing.

He’s alone.

He starts walking back to the apartment, heedless of the rain pouring down upon him.  

o-O-o

The Pentagon, 2003

John is in his service blues.  There is a new shiny Guide pin at his collar.  His hair is regulation short, and his chin shaved clean of the beard he’d ended up sporting during the last month in Cascade.  His medals are lined up on his chest in pristine order.  He can see his face in his shoes.

Today is the final hearing into his status as an Air Force pilot.

Another few hours and he’ll know whether he loses the sky, loses his calling.

He waits on the uncomfortable chair in the antechamber and tries not to fidget.

Across the room, Blair and Jim talk in low voices with Steven.  The three of them have been John’s biggest advocates in the whole process.  They’ve gone on record time after time with their belief in John’s Guide skills; in John’s ability to live as a Guide without a Sentinel; in John’s ability to serve his country the way he is trained.

Beside him, his lawyer clears his throat.  Retired Air Force General Gabe Washington is a heavy-hitter legal representative and the newest advocate counsel on the staff of the Sentinel and Guide Authority.  John knows his chances have already improved tenfold having Gabe at his side.

The door opens and it’s time.

They troop into the hearing room. 

It’s not a court room, just a typical conference room with a long wooden table polished to gleaming perfection in the centre and comfortable if worn leather seats on either side.  At the top of the table, the Secretary of Defence, Cole Bailey, and the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, John Matthews, sit side by side.  An aide sits off to their right, visibly set up to take notes.  To their left sits another man in a civilian suit who John doesn’t recognise but who is introduced as Abel Mark, the Director of AFOSI.

They are all cookie-cutter white men in their fifties; one bald, one dark with a thinning hairline and the other sporting a full head of blond hair trimmed short as though they couldn’t quite leave the miliary regs behind.

Gabe ushers John to one side of the table with Steven, Blair and Jim. 

Two Air Force JAG lawyers, a male Asian Colonel and a young African-American female Lieutenant move to stand behind seats opposite them.  Colonel Terrance Gillespie, ostensibly John’s CO since his removal from the theatre in Afghanistan is with them.  John has had one single phone call with the man.

“Be seated, please,” Bailey says. 

They sit.

John folds his hands carefully on the table and waits.

Bailey clears his throat.  “We’re here today to settle the matter of Major Sheppard’s continued service to the United States Air Force.  Each side will read a prepared statement detailing their arguments either way, and then Major Sheppard will answer any questions with his own lawyer providing him with legal counsel if needed.  Everyone clear?”

They all nod.

“You’re up first, Colonel Ling,” Bailey states briskly.

Ling gathers his typed statement and begins reading.  “The Air Force would ask for Major Sheppard to accept an honourable discharge in recognition of his service to date.”  He pauses.  “Colonel Gillespie believes that the circumstances of the Major’s on-lining as a Guide have made his continued service untenable.”

It’s not unexpected.  It’s pretty much what he had surmised after the phone call, and he’s assumed the worst since he’d received the summons but…it hurts.

He keeps his face impassive. 

“Our argument is simple: we have no protocols for dealing with a Major, with a Guide in the Major’s position,” Ling continues.  “Today, we will hear no doubt that the Major is in control of his shields, that he has gained control of his gifts, and can live without the stabilising and protective presence of a Sentinel…”

John figures Jim is literally keeping Blair from talking with the power of his mind.

“…but what if something happens in the field?  In the air?  How can we take the risk not only with the Major’s own life, but the lives of the men and women who serve with him?” Ling looks up and stares directly at John.  “We cannot.” 

There’s a heavy pause.

“No-one can deny that you have served with honour, Major,” Ling continues, “do not make this break difficult for you or us and take the discharge.”

Ling places the paper down.

“General Washington?” Bailey prompts. 

“John Sheppard is a highly decorated, highly competent Air Force officer,” Gabe begins.  His notes are in front of him, but he talks directly to the decision-makers on the panel.  “He came online to protect himself and a fellow officer in the middle of active theatre.  He made it out alive.  He kept control over himself enough through that trauma to ensure the base was not levelled with an empathic event which could have occurred.  He kept control of himself then, and he keeps control of himself now.”

John keeps his military persona fully in place.  He cannot allow it to slip if he has any hope of getting back to service.

“He is an anomaly,” Gabe allows.  “But the lack of a Sentinel does not mean that a Guide ceases to be competent, in control and able to serve.  We have a dozen Guides across our military services who are widowed, another two who came online in extreme circumstances and have yet to meet their Sentinel.  There are protocols for dealing with lone Sentinels and Guides.  The Air Force just wishes not to apply them to Major Sheppard.”

John can see the truth of Gabe’s statement sink in with the panel.

“There is no medical, physical or metaphysical reason why John Sheppard cannot return to duty,” Gabe says.  “And make no mistake; this is his calling as a Guide.  He feels that in his bones.  He is a pilot – a damned good one.  He has rescued over seventy U.S personnel in the course of his career; he has rescued over thirty of our allies.  Over a hundred people saved. This is the man the Air Force wants to stand down.  We should all step aside and let him get on with his job.”

Bailey hums and makes a note.  He turns to the panel.  “Questions, General Matthews?”

Matthews pins Gillespie with a sharply commanding look.  “What efforts have you made to accommodate Major Sheppard’s situation?”

“Sir?” the Colonel asks, blinking.

“Did you offer Major Sheppard a non-combatant position?” asks Matthews bluntly.

Gillespie shook his head.  “No, sir.”

“Why not?” asks Mark.  “The Air Force has a legal obligation to accommodate Sentinels and Guides in service – in fact it’s our preference.”

“Major Sheppard is a Guide without a Sentinel and our medics believe he is handicapped by the absence of one,” Gillespie says.

Blair leans forward.  “Really?  Because our medical personnel in the Sentinel and Guide Authority do not consider the absence of a partner to be a handicap to either a Sentinel or a Guide.  Updated research was published and shared over ten years ago on the topic.”

Gillespie flushes bright red.

“But let’s assume your argument is right, Colonel,” Mark says briskly, “we also have a legal obligation to accommodate any kind of disability or injury before resorting to discharge.  So, I ask again why you haven’t considered non-combatant positions for him?  That surely addresses the risk question.”

Gillespie looks at Ling.

Ling shakes his head and turns to the panel.  “Colonel Gillespie believes that the Air Force cannot accommodate Major Sheppard’s unique needs.  We do not have the capacity to care for a disabled Guide.”

Blair looks as though he’s going to jump the table and strangle Gillespie.

“Is that why you’ve turned down the transfer requests from NORAD and the Air Force Academy?” asked Matthews, his stern gaze falling on Gillespie.

John’s eyebrows rise at that news.

Gillespie flushes.

Matthews turns to John.  “I take it you were unaware of these requests, Major, given your expression?”

“Yes, sir,” John replies.

Matthews gives Gillespie an unimpressed glower. 

The Colonel flushes uncomfortably.

“You want to explain why you failed to carry out your duty to Major Sheppard and inform him of his choices, Colonel?”

Mark shifts as though he wants to say something, possibly a reminder that Gillespie has rights in the hearing not to incriminate himself.  Ling practically vibrates in his chair.

Gillespie clears his throat.  “No, sir.”

“He doesn’t have to explain,” Blair says derisively.  “I can.”  He waves a hand at Gillespie.  “John’s situation is distressing for Sentinels whether latent, dormant or online.  They sense John’s pain from his lone status.  It can make them react irrationally.”

John frowns.  He’s guessing Gillespie is dormant.  He doesn’t want to lower his shields to find out.

Matthews hums.  He looks over at John.  “Would you accept a transfer to NORAD or the Academy?  Both are research positions based around exploring the design in your Doctoral thesis.”

Gabe tuts.  “It is unfair to ask my client to give an opinion on transfer requests which are a one-line description tossed out in a hearing to examine his future in the Air Force.”

Matthews grimaces, but nods.  “That is…fair.”

“I think there is an easy answer here,” Bailey says.  He pins John with a look.  “Taking into consideration your unusual situation and the risks which are valid in my opinion, what’s your solution, Major?” 

“I would accept a non-combatant posting, sir, to limit the risk in theatre and to prove my capability to serve,” John says.  “But I’m a pilot.  I want to fly.”

Bailey exchanges a quick glance with Matthews and Mark.  “Then I believe the Air Force has twenty-four hours to come back to you with three postings which comply with your request, and which sufficiently limit the risks to others.”

Matthews nods.  “Either way, you are transferred out of Colonel Gillespie’s command with immediate effect.  You’ll report directly to me until we agree a posting for you.”

The relief is almost overwhelming. 

He doesn’t listen to Bailey wrapping up the formalities. 

He’s still in the Air Force.  He still has the sky.

o-O-o

Antarctica, 2004

McMurdo is hard lines of roads of snow and ice that link one set of concrete buildings that never get warm with another.  Mac-Town is a hodgepodge of organisation that made sense to someone at some point, home to a small team of scientists and an army of support staff which keep the station functioning.  After three months on the ice, John’s no longer lost when he wants to get somewhere. 

He’s settled into the barracks of the military personnel with little fanfare.  He reports to the McMurdo CO, Colonel Jefferson.  Jefferson is an Iraq veteran, a burly man with thinning hair and a bright red full beard, fully mundane.  He treats John with the same brisk efficiency that he treats the rest of the personnel assigned to the station.  John appreciates both the lack of special treatment and the lack of horror for his circumstances, especially as Jefferson’s attitude is mostly followed by the rest of the military team.

There are one or two outliers; a female Sergeant in the mess who’s a latent Guide and who avoids John like the plague and a dormant Sentinel medic who stalked John for a week before settling.  He’ll nod at John if their paths cross, but they don’t speak. 

The only other Sentinel and Guide on the station are a bonded pair of scientists who John has never met and never encounters since their experiment has them living in a lab on the other side of Mac-Town from the military.

Most of the military are unaware that John is a Guide.  He likes the anonymity and wears the pin on the inside of his collar.  He knows the scuttlebutt is that he’s been assigned as a punishment duty after going against orders to rescue a downed team in theatre.  He’s not exactly popular because of that.  He can feel the sympathy of the others and the fear of being tarred by association with a troublemaker that ensures that they keep their distance.

He never corrects the scuttlebutt.   

He enjoys the solitude of his work.  He transports the scientists and staff to where they need to go, moves supplies from the harbour up to the neighbouring Scott base, and does aerial patrols in a rotation with the other pilots.

He works out in the gym, joins in the mandatory PT and sparring regimes, and goes running every morning on the inside track since it’s usually too treacherous underfoot outside.

He’ll sometimes head to the main entertainment room to sit quietly in a corner and enjoy the re-runs of college football and the occasional movie.  A couple of the older pilots are friendly, if not friends, and they invite him along.  More often than not, John’s content to sit in the small dusty library room or his own cramped quarters and continue his academic research.

When he’d turned down a research post at NORAD, they’d requested an ad hoc consultancy on various engineering and mathematical problems which Blair had negotiated with the Air Force to allow given John’s assignment to Antarctica.

Sometimes he wonders about the puzzles he’s sent.  They usually lack any kind of context, but John can guess.  He figures that there are some weapons-related puzzles in amongst the astrophysical theoretical mathematics, and a whole slew of engineering ones around a plane design which feels very much like it’s based on his thesis.

It’s not the life he’d once imagined for himself.  It’s a far cry from the work he was doing, has been trained to do.  But he has his commission and the sky.

He tells himself he can be content with that.

He’s working on the latest puzzle when the base alarm goes off.

He’d been avoiding the common areas after news had reached them of the tragedy of a US Naval battlecruiser sinking in the middle of the Atlantic after being hit by a meteor.  He’s been antsy for the past week, the spirit plane churning with a sense of danger rather than comfort. 

For a split second he freezes.

It’s McMurdo, not the desert. 

It’s a science station, not a war zone.

But…

He’s moving before he even realises he is moving, snatching up his outerwear, stuffing his feet into boots…

He’s running from the barracks and to the command building to assemble with the rest of the company for orders.

A plane shoots through the sky overhead.

It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before.

He’s not surprised at the bare minimum of information – there’s some kind of a battle on the other side of the ice, a lightshow in the distance that sends a chill through his bones.  He takes a breath and draws on the power that runs through his veins to mantle himself in calm, in order, in an imaginary armour which will keep him and his world safe.

He closes his eyes briefly and reaches out…

The enemy is like a slime slithering through the air, a twisted combination of fanatical loyalty and twisted evil.  John feels the courage and fear of the men and women who are protecting a group below the ice…

John reaches out with his mind and takes hold of the enemy.  He can’t hold them for long, but it’s enough to give their side the advantage.  He lets them go and feels their deaths bloom and fade.

When he opens his eyes, the battle is over and he’s assigned to Search and Rescue.  They’re told to kill any of the enemy they find on sight, but John knows they’re not a problem anymore. 

The hours that follow are crazy.

His gift means he has the best chance of finding those who remain alive.  He relays the details to Jefferson so they can save as many as they can.

He pulls one pilot from a wreck that should have killed him; one of his legs is crushed, his head is bleeding.

“Got my lights on,” the pilot slurs out.  “Got my lights on.  Told you they’d find us, Banks.”  He pats at the doctor’s arm.  “Get Banks, he’s in worse shape.”

The doctor grimaces.  John doesn’t even need to look to know that Banks is dead in the backseat; he hadn’t survived the crash.

John places a hand on the pilot and sends Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell to sleep.

When dawn comes, they’ve saved fifteen people and recovered twenty bodies from the ice.

It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but the world is spinning, too many emotions are crowding in on John and he’s too aware that he doesn’t have a Sentinel standing between him and the rest of the world, shielding him. 

John falls into his bed and welcomes the oblivion of sleep. 

o-O-o

Antarctica, 2005

His passengers are running late.

John sighs and starts the pre-flight without them.  He figures it’s a crapshoot whether the Colonel he’s meant to be transporting will love the proactive attempt to keep them on time or hate the lack of protocol in not waiting.

He’s been back at McMurdo for a couple of months after he’d been unceremoniously sent back to the States along with the injured they’d rescued from the ice, ostensibly for a debriefing.  Luckily, after signing a very large nondisclosure agreement, he’d been re-routed from Petersen to Cascade. 

It hadn’t been a hardship to spend a month with Blair and Jim.  Spending time with them had helped sooth the aftershock of the actions he’d taken against their enemy.  John hadn’t talked about what happened with them, doesn’t really know thanks to the NDA how much they really know, but their simple acceptance that he did what he needed to do to protect the tribe has been a gift.

John completes his pre-flight checks and glances at his watch.  He sighs and climbs aboard, grabbing his headset.  He flicks on the switches to start the rotors and turn on the engines. 

He’s made a number of supply runs out to the new scientific outpost since his return to McMurdo, but this is the first time he’s transporting people.  He doesn’t know if the new CO at McMurdo, a Colonel called Dixon, is trying to be sensitive to his status as an unbonded Guide or simply following the security protocol to minimise interaction between the McMurdo contingent and those formally assigned to the outpost.

John frowns as three figures emerge from the building by the hangar.

Recognition hits him as soon as he lays eyes on the lead man striding towards him, eating up ground without flat out running. 

Sentinel.

His Sentinel.

He’s attractive.  Even at a distance, John can make out the sharp features and square jaw; even the Marine regulation haircut doesn’t detract from the fact that his Sentinel is a handsome man.  Fit too underneath the bulky outerwear given his walk easily eats up the distance between them. 

But John can already sense that the Colonel, and he bets anything that the man he’s watching is Colonel Marshall Sumner, that the Colonel isn’t online.  He’s latent for certain, but he hasn’t been called by a spirit guide, his gifts are locked down and simmering under the surface.

John uses the scant minutes he has before they reach the helicopter to breathe, to wrestle with a bundle of tumultuous emotions that erupts through him – glee fights with disappointment before ending in frustrated resignation.  He’s grateful for the sunglasses which shield his eyes and cover his face as the three men stow their luggage and climb aboard.

“Colonel Sumner,” John says carefully once his Sentinel gets situated.

There’s a sharp barely there intake of breath before Sumner acknowledges John with his rank.

John confirms they’re ready for take-off, keeping his tone factual and polite. 

“We’re not waiting for your Sentinel?” asks Sumner brusquely.  There’s an undercurrent of anger at the missing Sentinel that John catches.

John lets his lips quirk upwards in amusement briefly.  He wonders what Sumner would say if John told him he’s pretty sure Sumner is his Sentinel.  He settles for a crisp denial.

Sumner orders them airborne and moments later John is back in his element – the sky.

It’s enormously comforting to have the strength of his Sentinel sat beside him.  John glories in the comfort and safety that simply sitting next to his match brings him.  Whether Sumner knows it or not, the man’s spiritual energy is wrapped protectively around John. 

It’s not enough to ease the ache inside him, but it’s enough that he’s buffered from the world in a way that he never has been since he’d become a Guide.

Which is why the news of a drone targeting their aircraft surprises him.  He sharply asks about the drone’s capabilities.

He focuses on flying.  He knows the land and the sky. 

And he can feel the drone; he knows where it is, it buzzes in his blood and in his brain.  He doesn’t have the time to be alarmed by that, knows that if it reaches them, it won’t matter that he can feel it.

He ignores the muttering of a prayer from the young Lieutenant in the back.

He tries to push the buzzing away, gains some space and…

They’re free of it. 

He resumes his course and within minutes he’s landing on the makeshift helipad by the outpost.  He receives a nod of gratitude from the seasoned sergeant as he climbs out.  The older man harries the Lieutenant into retrieving the bag, getting the kid focused on something other than the close call.

“That was some flying,” Sumner says, appreciatively. 

John inclines his head.  “Thank you, sir.”  His Sentinel’s genuine admiration warms him. 

Sumner hesitates.  “You need to come in for a moment, Major?  Get your bearings?”

“I’m good to return, sir,” John says, despite his curiosity about the outpost and his desire to stay close to Sumner.

Sumner nods.  “Fly safe, Major.”  He gets out and joins his men.

The ache in his soul deepens as John watches Sumner walk away until the Sentinel disappears into the building, out of sight even if John can still feel him. 

He takes a deep breath and restarts the engine.  At least he knows who his Sentinel is as he heads back into the sky.  It’s a comfort to have found him, to have been in the right place at the right time to save him.

Knowing that, he can live without his Sentinel still.

He can.

o-O-o

SGC, Cheyenne, 2005

John can’t quite believe how much his life has changed in the space of a handful of days.

He’s away from the snow and ice of McMurdo.  Maybe some wouldn’t see the change to a bunker in Colorado an improvement, but it places John right next to his Sentinel.  It’s perfect even if he doesn’t see the sky that often. 

It had been startling to get the summons.  But Dixon had gone out of his way to tell John that Sumner had personally requested John’s reassignment; that his flying had impressed him.  John’s grateful for the chance he’s being offered to prove himself.  He also knows he’s only part of Stargate Command because Blair and Jim had stepped in again and spoken with General O’Neill personally.

Sumner is brisk as he welcomes him to the programme and to the Atlantis mission team.  John’s reporting to Sumner and he’ll help him prepare for the mission, ready the troops they’ll take with them and liaise with the scientists. 

John can’t quite believe the reality of wormhole travel and spaceships – spaceships.  But he had been beamed from McMurdo to a ship in orbit and back down to the States; he knows it is real.  The mission is real.  Sumner’s expectation that John is a good officer who deserves to be a part of the programme are real.  He’s not going to fuck this up, John thinks as he tells Sumner he’s grateful for the opportunity and won’t let him down. 

He follows the Lieutenant he’d saved back on the ice.

The day is a blur.

There’s a tour with a dizzying number of labs and scientists related to the SGC’s primary mandate.  Ford tells him most of the senior scientists for their mission are back at the Antarctica outpost trying to crack a database.

There’s a secondary tour of barracks, mess halls and training facilities.  John makes a mental map of everything.

Ford shows him the Stargate.  It’s dormant, a circle of metal that John knows instinctively isn’t of Earth.  He shivers at the sight of it.

He goes through an extremely thorough medical test, consents to his blood being taken for more tests, and he pees and poops into sample jars with only a hint of a grimace.  At the end of it all, he’s confirmed as not an alien, not a host to an alien parasite, and not infected by robots.  

He’s shown to an office down the corridor from his Sentinel and Ford hands him a tablet and access to the SGC’s mission files.  John starts reading. 

He works out why he’s being tested for being an alien; for having a parasite; for being infected with robots.

He wonders why SG1 aren’t completely crazy.

He wonders if he’s not crazy signing up to the programme.  He shakes the thought away almost as soon as he thinks it.  He’s with his Sentinel and he can’t fathom going somewhere else now.

When he finally heads to his quarters, his head is spinning, and his main thought is that he hopes Ford loses the hero worship soon.

The next day finds him introduced to Rodney McKay and Elizabeth Weir.  They’ve beamed back from the outpost for a meeting with Sumner and General O’Neill on the Atlantis preparations.

McKay is both brilliant at science and terrible at people.  John watches in shocked amusement as McKay details how little they’ve managed to find in the database and berates O’Neill for not sitting in the chair.  John can’t help but agree with him a little even as he boggles at McKay’s blunt delivery.  They don’t even have an address for Atlantis and it’s clear that they need someone with the right biology sitting in the chair helping them to crack the alien firewalls. 

Weir is more considered and diplomatic.  John would dismiss her as just another politician except he notes the respect she commands from O’Neill, even as he registers that Sumner tenses every time that she tries to insinuate her authority over the military side of the expedition. 

John can understand Sumner’s frustration.  He’s read the IOA’s logistical plan, and he thinks whoever wrote it has no idea how the military operates or how to plan an expedition to a zoo never mind an alien galaxy.  He’s done the math and they’re woefully under-supplied.  He’s about to raise that exact point when the meeting is deferred as the Stargate activates unexpectedly.

When John wakes the next day, it turns out he has a shiny rare gene and he’s suddenly the most important military asset on Earth.    

o-O-o

Atlantis, 2005

“The one truth about this gig?  Be prepared for everything going South the moment you go through the ‘gate.”

O’Neill’s last warning before they’d left Earth drifts through his mind.  Truer words have never been spoken, John muses as he manoeuvres the puddlejumper into the bay of the enemy ship.  They’re a scant forty-eight hours from their boots hitting Atlantis. 

John focuses on the mission.

His Sentinel is back on Atlantis, safe.  Marshall Sumner is the best CO John has worked with in his career.  From the moment John had exposed the issues with the IOA’s planning and batted away the attempt to keep him on Earth because of his gene, they’d clicked as a team.

It’s not just that they have a love of college football and the same dry, slightly dark sense of humour.  They respect each other.  Marshall knows John’s skills and he works with John to deploy them to make the best impact.  In return, John has ensured he’s the best second-in-command Marshall has ever had, and in doing so has gained an appreciation for the strategic skills his Sentinel has in abundance.

The two of them had worked with the IOA to prep for the mission and it has been one of the most satisfying periods of John’s career.  Serving beside his latent Sentinel, even though Marshall remains oblivious to that, has eased the ache John lives with.  It has also helped provide a buffer for him and stabilised his gifts.

That’s a Godsend because Atlantis is a lot.

The city whispered to John from the moment the wormhole opened between Pegasus and Earth.  Even now he can feel her.  She’s keeping tabs on him through the puddle jumper.  She’s gleeful at having a protector within her walls. 

John’s just glad that the delay with sorting out the preparations had meant that they’d been able to travel with a partially working ZPM found in Egypt.  The city had been able to get to the surface before her shields had failed.

The outreach mission to Athos had been intended as an easy first contact.  The Antarctica database had named Athos as an ally.  They’d been so certain of success that Elizabeth had volunteered to go on the mission with Major Lorne’s team. 

John can remember the shock and horror of the emergency dial-in mere hours later, of the flood of frightened Athosians hurrying through the wormhole into the safety of the city even as the last remaining members of the first contact team and security detail ushered them through.

He frowns and locks the memory behind his own mental shielding.  He cannot focus on the panic and horror of the emotions he’d felt back then.  He keeps his mind on the rescue mission as he parks the cloaked puddle jumper in the huge alien bay and tries hard not to feel like he’s Will Smith in Independence Day.

“Atmosphere is showing as breathable,” Alison Porter states beside him.  If he’s Will Smith, she’s his Jeff Goldblum which is an alarming thought.

Dusty Mehra shifts impatiently in the back along with the team of Marines that John has selected for the rescue.  Everyone is keen to rescue the missing members of their team.

John takes a breath, closes his eyes and does a sweep mentally of the vessel.  “Our people are one level down; they’re altogether except for Weir.” He grimaces.  “She’s with a…Wraith.”  A powerful one; he didn’t linger on the alien mind.  “There are only five other active, with more asleep, I think.”

“That’s so cool,” Dusty mutters.

Alison shoots her a sharp look.

John sighs.  “You and the rest of the Marines focus on getting the prisoners back to the puddlejumper.  Kill any of the enemy with prejudice.  Do not get into close combat with them.”  He turns to Bates who’s waiting impatiently on orders.  “You’re with me; we’re going after Weir.”

Bates nods.  “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s do this,” John orders, even as he wraps his shields around them, keeping their psychic presence muted.

They troop out and he makes the puddlejumper invisible with a thought – that’s never going to get old.

Guns are aimed and ready, they move at pace.

John leads.  His steps are surefooted.  He feels Weir’s pain ahead.  They come out at a gallery style viewing platform with a small upper balcony over some kind of main meeting room below.

The Wraith below looks female in form and Weir is standing directly in front of John blocking his shot.  He sends Bates around to the other side of the gallery to the other balcony they can see across the way even as he lines up his weapon.

Suddenly the Wraith strikes out and Weir screams.

John blinks back dots in front of his eyes as he’s mentally assailed by her anguish and pain; by the Wraith’s greedy satisfaction as she batters against Weir’s mind. 

He shakes it off as he hurriedly wraps his mind around Weir’s to better protect it from the Wraith’s assault; she’s after the Stargate address for Earth. 

Weir is crumpled on the floor, barely breathing as the Wraith continues to feed.  “Please, John.”

The mental whisper is enough.

He shoots.

Weir’s life blinks out.

The Wraith snarls and her head snaps up towards him and…

Her mind collides with his shields at full force.  And God, she’s powerful.

He knows she’s alerted the other Wraith on the ship and is going to alert more in space, wake them up and…

John focuses.

There are wingbeats above him, armour around him reinforcing his mind’s shield, fire racing through his veins and…

He kills her with a thought, sends the death blow racing through the ship and taking down every single Wraith, awake or asleep.

He collapses when it’s done, gulping in a breath.

He shivers.

Everything goes dark for a long moment.

He blinks.

Bates is beside him suddenly, swearing under his breath.  He hauls John to his feet and they stagger out.  Bates all but carries him back to the puddlejumper. 

Just being in the ‘jumper has John feeling better.  He hums as Bates gets an update from Mehra and before he’s brought all the systems online, there’s a stampede of people into the space, some being carried by others, some limping in on their own – a crush of Athosians and their own people.  Too many really for one ‘jumper, but somehow they fit.

John lifts off, ignoring the way his hands tremble.

Bates takes the seat beside him.  “You did the right thing.”

John nods.

He did.

He just needs some time to believe it.  He’s killed Weir in a mercy shooting.  He’s killed the Wraith to protect their people.  It was the right thing to do.

Just like the battle over the ice of Antarctica.

He focuses on Atlantis. 

He just wants to get them home

He just wants the comfort and shelter of his Sentinel. 

That’s all he wants.

o-O-o

Working with Marshall so closely as they settle the Expedition into Atlantis has been the best and most difficult time of John’s life.

They’ve grown even closer.  The nature of their work means they fall into being each other’s confidantes.  John is honoured by Marshall’s trust.

He’s slowly accepted as the days have gone by that it’s unlikely that Marshall will come online; that John will ever know his Sentinel fully.  If the stress of working under the threat of the Wraith in another galaxy won’t prompt their spirit guides into a Choosing, then John doesn’t think anything will. 

Instead, John settles for every moment he can spend with his oblivious Sentinel.  His inner Guide hoards away the seconds, minutes, and days they spend together; John tucks everything away in his soul. 

He especially loves when they have breakfast alone.  The quiet time in the early hours of the morning sunshine on the balcony, talking over the future day and sharing news and concerns, is a balm to the ache from his missing Sentinel bond.  Breakfast makes John glad to wake up every morning.

John absently notices that Marshall needs a hair trim as he slides into the chair beside him in the conference room.  His Guide assessment making sure his Sentinel is well is as easy as breathing after so many months.  He registers Marshall’s attractiveness and pushes the thought away.  Marshall’s not online and that attraction cannot go anywhere.   

Lorne slides in beside him, his team following like ducklings. 

On the other side of Marshall, Camile Wray notes something on her ever-present clipboard.  She’s easier to work with than Elizabeth, and John feels the usual deep twinge of guilt he always does when he thinks that.

Rodney settles in beside Camile, his eyes glued to the laptop he’s pecking away at.  Doctor Sarah Brightman takes the seat next to him, eschewing her white doctor’s coat as usual outside the infirmary.  Nyan Bedrosia arrives with Teyla and her Guide Kanaan.  Nyan takes the seat next to the Doctor, Teyla and Kanaan tucking in right at the end of the oddly shaped table.

John is grateful Daniel Jackson recommended the quiet archaeologist and social scientist join the Expedition.  Nyan’s insights have helped them form a strong relationship with the Athosians who adore him, and in consequence they’ve done a good job forming good alliances across Pegasus.

The meeting is to discuss their latest prospect: the Genii.

Marshall glances towards him and John understands the silent signal perfectly.

A brief nudge to Atlantis and the doors slide shut, creating a private meeting space.

Marshall clears his throat.  “Teyla, maybe you could do a rundown of the Genii?”

John listens to Teyla, diligently taking notes.  The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.  He frowns. 

Something isn’t right. 

He’d been to an off-world market almost a month ago where a local had identified a group of drinking soldiers as Genii.  They’d worn mass produced clothing, their boots had been tooled, their weapons were industrial.  They weren’t farmers.

As though he’s read John’s mind, Nyan raises his hand when Teyla finishes. 

“I have some additional intelligence,” Nyan says. 

He speaks quietly, but confidently of checking in with the off-world teams, their reports first, and speaking with them after.  People wearing the symbol of the Genii, being called the Genii, have been noted in off-world markets.  The picture painted is very different from Teyla’s report of a pastoral, agrarian world and more in line with John’s own experience. 

The Athosian Sentinel looks very disturbed as Nyan concludes.

“It’s clear to me that either there are two groups calling themselves the Genii,” Nyan says, “or a single group who have perpetrated a deception on the Athosians to the manner of their culture and society.”

Teyla’s frown deepens.  “If this was true surely my people would have also come across them at the markets?”

Nyan gives a small cough as he turns to her, an apologetic look on his face.  “Before our arrival into Pegasus, it is my understanding that your people went to the markets in a regular pattern; once at the beginning of the Athosian sun cycle, and once towards the end.  Was this pattern ever shared with the Genii?”

Teyla and Kanaan exchange a grim look and both nod.

Nyan shrugs.  “It would be nothing for them as an ally then to ascertain at a trade when there was going to be an upcoming clash and avoid it.”

Teyla nods again.  “I do not like this theory, but it is possible,” she concedes.

“It may not be a malicious deception,” Camile offers.  “We know the Wraith target industrialised worlds.  Potentially they’re just protecting themselves with this deception.”

Marshall hums.

John feels his Sentinel’s deep protective instinct swell.  Marshall doesn’t trust the Genii.  It’s like he’s got a set of hackles that are raised and warning him there is a danger to the tribe.

“We could send a drone ahead of our visit?”  Rodney clicks his fingers excitedly. 

“He’s right, sir,” Lorne offers, “it is standard practice at the SGC to scout before we go off-world to an unknown planet.”

Rodney all but preens as Lorne backs up his suggestion.  John doesn’t let his amusement show.  Rodney can be prickly; a great guy with a big mind who is turning into a great friend, but prickly. 

Nyan nods.  “We just haven’t employed that here for the most part because we’ve had the benefit of the Athosians’ knowledge, Colonel Sumners.”

“Colonel Sheppard?” Marshall always turns to John for an opinion.

John gestures at Rodney.  “Can you make it a stealth drone?”

“Because sending a visible drone tells them we suspect them,” Rodney realises out loud.  He nods quickly.  “Zelenka and I can knock something up.”

John turns to Marshall.  “That’s my recommendation, sir.  We send a stealth drone, get some hard data on their world, and make a final decision once we’ve got that analysed.”

“They are expecting us tomorrow,” Teyla points out.  “If we do not attend that may also alert them that we suspect something.”

John looks at Rodney.  “Can you get the drone done and in the air today?”

Rodney looks affronted and splutters a protest about how it’s going to take time and he needs parts and he needs…

He caves under John’s even gaze.  “Yes, fine!  I can get it done today.”

Marshall’s blue gaze is filled with amusement as John turns back to him.  “Then it’s an order, Doctor.” 

“Uh, there may be the smallest, tiniest chance I can’t get it done today?” Rodney babbles hurriedly, squirming in his chair.  “And even if we do get it done, there’s sending it though the ‘gate and getting the data back and getting it analysed in time.”

“It’s a fair point,” John says when Marshall looks at him.  He waves his pen towards the ‘jumper bay. “Plan B could be to go along with the meet tomorrow, but we take a cloaked ‘jumper as back-up.  Maybe we should do that anyway regardless of the drone.”

Marshall nods.  “Let’s get it done, people.”  He taps the table and brings the meeting to a close.

John shoves away the want to stay at Marshall’s side.  He needs to prep a puddlejumper.

o-O-o

John strides into Rodney’s lab feeling good.

He’d had breakfast with Marshall and glutted himself on his Sentinel’s quiet enjoyment of spending the meal with John.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he says breezily, “I ran into a couple of Marines having an issue.”  He’s certain the punishment detail he’s just given them in the kitchen will drive home the point that they shouldn’t be brawling in the corridors over who grabbed the last blueberry muffin.

Rodney is huddled around his laptop with Radek Zelenka.  Their worry swamps him immediately and sobers his expression. 

“Rodney?”

Rodney grimaces.  “It’s not good.  I mean, possibly it’s very, very bad?  But it’s definitely not good.”  

“It is definitely not good,” Zelenka agrees, pushing his glasses up his nose.

John joins them staring at the drone footage.  “What am I looking at?”

Rodney taps something and the screen changes to a pastoral picture of farming land.  “This is the surface scan.  What do you see?”

John takes a breath for patience.  He knows this is how Rodney works.  “It looks just like Teyla described.  A farming community.  Hamlet, cottages, fields growing tubers which could join our food stores.”

“Exactly,” Rodney taps the enter key.

The picture changes to a thermal imaging scan.

John registers the data.  His heart flutters like wings in his chest.  “That’s an underground bunker.”

“A large one,” Zelenka agrees.  “It stretches for the whole area we surveyed during the time the ‘gate was open.”

“So, they keep their industrial progress below ground,” John says out loud thinking it through. 

With the Wraith around that makes sense.  The majority might be believed to be in hibernation, but there were small pockets – Hives.  He may have helped prevent the rest of them from waking when he’d killed the Queen before she could get a mental signal out, but they would all wake eventually.

“All very normal, no?” Zelenka say.  “When considering an enemy from space?  If these Wraith come, they see a small population, a farm, and if they attack the Genii lose only the surface.”

“The problem is that their industrialisation isn’t that advanced, reading the environmental scans the drone took,” Rodney says.

And John instantly knows that the environmental data is the cause of concern.

“What is it?” asks John.

“Psionic radiation,” Rodney says quietly.

The Guide in John recoils in horror.

“There can be only one explanation for that, hmm?” Zelenka says softly.  “They are harvesting psionic energy from Guides and Sentinels.”

It was outlawed on Earth.  The Nazis had been the last time that anyone had done such a heinous act in the camps.

Something primal stirs in John.

Danger.

The Genii are a danger to the tribe.

“Well, that’s a good reason for not being friends,” John quips dryly to cover the way his skin prickles.

John’s watch beeps.

It’s time for the briefing.

Rodney transfers the data and gathers up his tablet.

They make it to the room just as Lorne and his team do.  They exchange acknowledgements as Teyla and Kanaan arrive.  Stackhouse and Markham arrive and pull John to the side to talk about giving him back-up on the planet.  Rodney tugs at John’s arm, tension pulling his lips downwards and he points at the tablet.  Before he can say anything though, Marshall strides in, Camile on his heels.  John’s gaze automatically snaps to him.     

“Are we ready to start this…”

The world freezes.

Electricity fills the air.

John’s heart beats fast, too fast and he can barely breathe.  His empathic shields tremble as something wild and fierce overwhelms them and then…

The crack of lightning across the conference table makes John blink.  When his vision is clear, it is filled with a dragon.

His.

It’s his spirit guide.

Draco.

Draco is as long as the table, tucked into a loaf shape like a cat.  He flexes suddenly, bat-like wings flexing out, stretching before folding back along his sides.  Black scales gleam darkly green as the light hits them.

Beautiful, John thinks.

Draco’s head swivels, searching with cat like chameleon eyes which pin John as soon as they find him.

Mine.

Draco’s bond echoes in his soul, a whisper of satisfaction and pride at selecting John. It’s finally the right time, finally the right place to fully be beside him.

John’s barely aware of anyone else as he takes a step and then another towards his spirit guide.  He places a shaking hand on the lizard-like snout, tentatively then with more confidence.  “Where have you been?”

Draco gets to its feet and bumps John’s chest with its head.

John can feel Marshall behind him worrying. 

He wishes so hard that Marshall was online too.  He just needs…

The air crackles again as lightning fills the room.

John stares at the very large Alpha wolf standing beside the table.  Its fur is a gorgeous silver grey.  It glances at John briefly, and John sees its icy blue eyes.

It’s Marshall’s spirit guide.

But as the wolf turns to Marshall and their gazes meet, John is irrationally anxious.  Will Marshall reject him?  Does he even want John? 

John feel Marshall’s Sentinel waking…

Marshall’s eyes snap to his.

There’s a question which lifts John’s heart and makes him giddy.

“Marshall,” John’s voice is shaky, but he’s filled with nothing but certainty, “only if you want…”

“I want,” Marshall states so bluntly John feels it in his soul.

He reaches for his Sentinel.

Marshall reaches back and his Sentinel is suddenly, fully awake and online.

“Sentinel,” John breathes out.

“Guide,” Marshall says, tugging John across the final distance between them, claiming him with a kiss.

They’re kissing.

John’s dragon roars and Marshall’s wolf responds with a howl…and their bond flares to life. The ache and the hurt that has lived in John since he’d come online disappears.  He’s chosen and claimed and all he can feel is his Sentinel’s love.

fin.