1. Chapter 1

When John is convicted of killing an innocent, he has more to face than hard time. Some serious whump for our boy, and major angst for the team when he's sent to the worst prison Pegasus has to offer.

Warnings: A little bad language, but a lot of violence.

Disclaimer: SGA isn't mine. But I keep writing stories because I miss the SGA team – especially Shep.

Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta and good pal **Sherry 57**. Of course all mistakes are mine!

I want to dedicate this to another friend **Sterenyk Strey**. I hope this story hits the spot pet!

JUSTICE

_Justice – Jus-tice:- The upholding of what is just, especially fair treatment and due reward in accordance with honor, standards or law._

CHAPTER 1

Chains secured his wrists and ankles, but they weren't necessary. John wasn't going to try and escape, no matter how bad things got.

He was guilty. He'd killed a man. Not that killing was anything knew. John had killed many men in the line of duty. Some to protect friends and country, others in self defence, but this kill was different. This man was an innocent. He deserved to pay the price for his crime.

Woolsey was standing by his side acting as council. John heard him tell the judge it was an accident. He listened as the diplomat used his best powers of persuasion to appeal to their conscience. He reminded the judge the incident had happened while his team were defending the town against the Wraith. There was a slight murmur amongst the assembled crowd at that, but it soon died down. Woolsey was making a strong case in his defence, but John saw the firm set of the judge's jaw. It told him his fate had already been decided.

As he waited to hear the verdict, only Woolsey and Lorne were there as witnesses to the proceedings. His team had wanted to come, but he hadn't allowed them. He'd told them a lie. Told them it was just a formality. He'd be back in time for dinner. Fact was he'd know all along he was going to get sent down and guessing how Ronon would react, John didn't want him or the others to get into trouble.

Woolsey had barely stopped talking when the judge motioned him to rise. He wasted no time in pronouncing him guilty. John heard Woolsey's sharp intake of breath, but said nothing. He looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the judge, and his hands balled into fists to stop them twitching.

There was a hushed silence in the small wood-lined courtroom before the judge handed down the sentence.

"John Sheppard. While your bravery in defending this town is without question, the death of one of our own cannot be ignored. Normally the penalty for such an act would be death, but given the extenuating circumstances I'm inclined to be lenient. You are hereby sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment with hard labour. For the pain you have caused you will also receive pain. Ten lashes of the whip for each member of the extended family – three hundred and eighty lashes..."

"Dear Lord…"

The judge glared at Woolsey for his interruption before he continued, "Which will be laid on in stages during the duration of your sentence. As befitting your profession and given the risk those skills pose to society, your time will be served in Flenda military prison." The thin wizen faced man looked down his nose at John. "Now…do you have anything to say before you start your sentence?"

His mouth had gone dry. John swallowed but couldn't get any moisture in his throat. He hoped his voice came out strong. Not shocked like he felt.

"Yes, Sir, I do. I'm sorry for what I've done, more sorry that you'll ever know. I also accept I need to pay for taking a life - but _whipping _me? I'm already going to pay with the loss of my career and the next fifteen years of my life. Surely that's enough?"

There was uproar in the small courtroom, and the old judge banged his gavel several times before order was restored. The last thump of the hammer was made with such force it caused the small round spectacles perched on the tip of his nose to fall off. As he retrieved them he looked at John with barely suppressed anger.

"Your sentence stands, _Mr _Sheppard. You should be grateful I don't add to it." He glared at John one more time, then dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "Take him away."

Woolsey had gone as white as a sheet. "Colonel Sheppard…John…This isn't right – I'll be appealing. I'm not going to leave you to rot…"

Two uniformed officers were leading him away but John pulled against them, making them stop. He quickly turned to the diplomat before they could tighten their grip. "I'm not crazy about this either but I killed a man, Richard…I have to pay. This is my fault so forget about a rescue. I'll do the time, but if you could do something about the _other _part of the sentence…I'd be obliged. "

"But, Colonel…" Lorne had rushed forward from the spectators benches. He was looking from John to the officers holding him fast with a dangerous expression in his eyes.

"Like I've just said to Mr Woolsey there's to be no rescue, Major – That's an order." John saw the bereft look on his XOs face, and softened his tone. "Take care of my people, Lorne…Take care of Atlantis for me."

ooooOoooo

John was pulled out the courtroom, down the stairs, and into the prison block below. It comprised of a long dimly lit corridor with a number of cells. They were small. No bigger than six by ten feet, and surrounded by thick iron bars on three sides. In each unit there was a small barred window in the middle of the concrete wall.

The view beyond was a stark cobbled courtyard. There were gallows at the back and a tall wooden pole with leather straps attached, set off to one side. He'd only been there once before. It had been earlier in the day for a short time when the chains had been fitted around his hands and feet.

John had been hurt during the Wraith attack. Concussed, he'd been so busy pumping bullets into the Drone who'd been trying to kill him, he hadn't realised he'd hit the farmer who'd been standing just feet away.

It wasn't until after the chaos had died down and they were counting their dead, the towns people found out one of their own had perished from an off worlder's bullet. By then John was in the infirmary. When he'd found out what he'd done he felt sick, but not from his head wound. There was no question he wouldn't return. He had to face the music. As soon as he walked through the gate, the guards had been waiting. It was then he knew things weren't going to end well.

One of the men gripped his shoulders while the other removed the chains. Once he was freed from his shackles he was handed a small bundle of clothes, and pushed into the cell.

"Take off what you're wearing and put these on. Be quick about it."

Privacy wasn't an option. The guards watched their impatience evident, as he quickly removed his boots and BDUs. Without asking for permission he kept his blue striped boxers on. As a small act of defiance he took his time donning the dark grey tunic and pants. They'd been well worn. The heavy cotton material was threadbare. On the plus side, at least they were clean. The door opened as he was about to put his boots back on. The guard shook his head.

"No boots. You'll not need them anymore. Take that off too." He pointed to John's dog tags. "You'll be getting a different identification necklace in a minute. Hand them over. I'll make sure your people get your effects before they leave."

John hesitated for a moment. He knew he was not in control anymore – of anything. However it still went against the grain to part with something so fundamental to his identity. The guard had his hand out, and John could see he was growing annoyed. He didn't want to make his bad situation worse so with a heavy heart, reluctantly did as he'd been asked. As the tags fell out of his hand he felt a sense of loss. Colonel John Sheppard was gone. He was now John Sheppard the prisoner, a convicted criminal.

The judge had pronounced the sentence, but it was only when he handed over his small pile of possessions John began to realize just what the future was going to hold. The life he loved was gone. By the time he returned to Atlantis, if he ever got to return, he would be nearly sixty. His youth would be over, his career irretrievable. Worst still, the friends that he'd made would be scattered to the four winds.

He wasn't naïve. Few stayed in the same place forever. As time moved on lives would change. Teyla was already a mother and it was pretty clear Rodney's future lay with Jennifer. Ronon was John's only concern. He hoped the big Satedan wouldn't ruin his life trying to rescue him. John wanted him to be happy. He'd seen him with Banks. At first their relationship had surprised him, but Amelia seemed to be a good fit. Hopefully she would stop him from doing anything stupid. Hopefully…

The chains were once again snapped around his wrists before he was pulled out of the cell. Firm hands held on to each arm as he was guided back along the corridor. It was only a short journey before he reached a spiral stair case that led down to the floor below. John slipped as his bare foot caught against something sharp. Surprisingly the guard on the left pulled him up before he fell. John shot him a grateful glance, but the man looked away before they could make eye contact.

He could feel the heat even before he saw the brazier standing in the corner of the room. His blood ran cold at the thought he was going to be branded. John knew it was a common practice in some Pegasus prisons but that's where he was headed, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. He was partly relieved when the blacksmith fitted him with a pair of ankle chains that were warm to the touch but weren't hot enough to burn. They were tight and pinched his skin. John noticed there was no gap for a key. He tried not to think about the implications of that.

With a large pair of pincers the blacksmith took a collar out of the grate. The metal glowed white then red, as it cooled slightly in the air. John watched the man work on the band with a hammer until the metal became thin and smooth. The blacksmith only diverted his attention long enough to look at the paper lying on his desk before he placed the band onto the anvil, and carved something into the metal.

It hissed. The steam rising as it was thrust into the water. John felt rough hands bear down on his shoulders as the blacksmith approached him with the necklace in his gloved hands.

"Prepare yourself. This is going to hurt. I need the metal to be pliable so I can make sure it's a good fit."

John swore as the band was pressed against his neck. It was hot, scorching his skin, and instinctively he jerked back. With the hands gripping him tight, he soon steadied. The message was clear. He wasn't going anywhere.

It wasn't the intense pain there would have been from a branding but it still hurt like crazy, and the smell of his own burning flesh made him nauseous. He yelped, partly out of surprise as the final solder was made to the back of his new necklace. The freezing water tipped over his head made him gasp, but provided immediate relief. He was now sopping wet, but glad this part of his ordeal was over.

His neck was still smarting but considering all the things the brazier could have been used for, John reckoned it could have been worse.

It was later in the cell when he realized how his expectations were going to hell. He was sitting there in wet clothes, chained hand and foot with a freaking metal collar so tight he couldn't get his fingers inside it. And he'd been _happy _it hadn't hurt too much. The irony of it would normally have made him laugh, but his situation was dire and the famous Sheppard sense of humor couldn't find anything to smile about.

There was no glass in the windows, nothing to prevent the cold night air from chilling his bones. There was no bed, no blanket and not even any straw to lie on. John huddled on the concrete floor and shivered. He was so intent on rubbing his arms, he didn't hear the guard approach.

It was the man who'd stopped him from falling down the stairs. He was carrying a tray and had a blanket tucked under his arm.

"You saved my child from the Wraith. If not for you my little girl would be dead. Quickly – take this. Prisoners in transit don't get more than bread and water, but this stew is from my wife. We are grateful to you, Colonel, and I am truly sorry this has happened. My people seem to have forgotten that without your help our town would have fallen. Eelemm's death was a regrettable accident. The judge should not have treated you so harshly."

Both men swung round as a noise came from the far end of the corridor. The guard looked over his shoulder anxiously. "I must go, but take care. Commander Rualin who runs Flenda is a hard man. If you speak to him the way you did to the judge today, things will not go well for you."

There was barely a chance for him to utter his thanks before the man nodded and walked swiftly away.

John wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and pulled it tight against his body. He savoured the warmth it brought. The stew smelled good but he wasn't hungry. It was only out of concern for the guard's welfare he forced it down to leave a clean plate. It had been a welcome act of kindness. Unexpected, and probably the last he would get for the next fifteen years.

The depressing thought brought him down, and the feeling of despair that had been growing since he'd walked through the 'gate hit him with full force. He felt sick, but it wasn't down to the meal. The light from the moon glinted off his chains, and for the first time John realized the full ramifications of what lay ahead. His insides were churning. He spent the rest of the remaining long hours until dawn trying not to think. Most of all, he tried not to throw up.

ooooOoooo

TBC.

I hoped you enjoyed the opening chapter and please review. I love to know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for all the reviews! I appreciate all of the feedback.

We left John in a very bad place. He'd lost everything, and was facing a miserable future. So what's happening back at Atlantis?

JUSTICE.

CHAPTER 2

Enraged, Ronon grabbed Lorne's jacket and pushed him against the wall of the 'gate room. "You _left_ him there!"

"He gave me an order - I didn't have a choice!" Evan pushed forward, threw Ronon's hands off his body, and the two men glared at each other.

A hush descended. The atmosphere was electric as everyone stopped what they were doing and waited to see what was going to happen next.

Teyla came forward and discreetly but firmly moved between the two angry men. "Of course you did not, Major. We all know what John is like. He can be very stubborn at times. When he gets an idea into his head sometimes it is very hard to shift it."

"_Hard_? Try impossible!" Rodney was flushed. He'd been pacing up and down. Now he was standing with his arms crossed looking pissed. "_It's a formality_ – he said. _I'll be home in time for dinner…" _He let out a long sigh and raked a hand through his hair. When he spoke again the rant was over, but his quieter tone was filled with frustration and fear. "Sheppard knew this was going to happen…that's why he didn't want us there."

"Why, Rodney? I do not understand." Teyla asked. "What happened was an accident. John was fighting for his life. It could have been any one of us. No one would have seen that man."

"The Colonel felt responsible…I could see it in his eyes." Lorne interrupted. "I know it sounds crazy but it's almost as if he wanted to be punished."

"He's right, Teyla." Rodney let out a long sigh. "It's just the sort of dumb thing that self sacrificing idiot would do. Sheppard thinks he should be '_Colonel Infallible'_." When he saw her confused expression he elaborated. "You know…the hero who saves the day. The guy who beats the bad guys, rescues the fair maiden and saves the Universe."

Teyla frowned in confusion. "Is that not Flash Gordon? I enjoyed watching his movie but I thought he was a fictional character?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "The point I am _trying_ to make is John doesn't think he should make a mistake." His voice went quiet. "Even I've been known to make a mistake…_once_. Anyway…when he screws up like the rest of us, he won't cut himself a break. We all know he hasn't forgiven himself for waking the Wraith." Rodney's eyes darted around the room. "Where's Woolsey? For once I agree with Ronon. We need to get moving. Get Sheppard out of there whether he wants to be rescued or not…Where are they taking him anyway?"

"It's a military prison…"

"Flenda?" Ronon interrupted.

"Yeah…that's the name." Lorne confirmed.

"Crap!" Ronon punched the wall. His fist came away covered in blood.

"Ronon!"

Teyla grabbed his arm before he could lash out again. "Your hand…we must get you to the infirmary."

Rodney's face had gone chalk white. "How bad is this place?"

"_Bad_."

The silence was deafening, as they all looked at each other. Lorne spoke first. "So what are we up against?"

"I've never seen the place but a guy from my regiment was sent to Flenda after he'd been caught stealing…Sallun was never the same again. He was only there six months."

Rodney piped up. "No disrespect to your friend, Ronon, but he's not Sheppard. John…"

"Sallun wasn't my _friend_, Rodney. He was a bad ass. One of the biggest bastards I've ever met…Flenda broke him."

The atmosphere was becoming unbearably tense, and Ronon was showing signs of lashing out again. Teyla was just as worried as the others but she wanted to try and calm things down. "I am sorry, Major, perhaps I did not hear you, but did you mention where Mr Woolsey was?"

Evan's face darkened. "He stayed behind to speak to the judge again. He's trying to get him to change his mind."

"Off world activation. It's Mr. Woolsey's IDC."

Teyla blinked as the bright blue reflection from the 'gate horizon filled the room with light, blinding her. When it faded Woolsey was standing there wearing a grim expression. Her heart sank when she saw John's clothes hung over one arm, and his boots dangling from Woolsey's hand.

ooooOoooo

The sun was shining when he rode through the Ancestral Ring. It lacked the heat of where he'd just come from but the cooler climate was welcome. Kilund didn't go much further before he reined in his mount and took a good look around.

He'd never been to Taluna before. Given the work he did Kilund mainly frequented military bases. There was the occasional visit to a large town, usually after a soldier had run amok during a rowdy vacation, but this place was something different. Taluna was quaint. There were golden crops swaying in the soft breeze as far as the eye could see. With an orchard so close to the road he could have easily helped himself to the ripe, red fruit. In the distance he saw the tree line of a forest. The tall trees in their fall colors seemed to merge into one. He couldn't see where the branches ended, and the sky began. It was the kind of place he'd like to end up, when he finally got the urge to settle down. Kilund smiled at the thought. He didn't need the grey threading his hair and the aches in his bones to know he wasn't getting any younger, but there was still life in the old dog. He wasn't ready to retire any time soon.

He reached into his saddle bag for his orders. The sandstorm he'd travelled through the day before had coated them with dust. He gave the papers a shake, and drew his hand over the more stubborn grains so he could read the words underneath. Sheppard, John. Prisoner 912. The man had been sentenced to fifteen years. His crime, manslaughter. It didn't go into details, and the additional corporal punishment was of no concern to him. It was just his job to get him to the prison.

Military men were fit, agile, and trained in unarmed combat. The best ones possessed an innate cunning. All good qualities on the battlefield. Chained and cooped up in a tiny cell, they made for a dangerous combination.

Flenda needed to be tough to manage the strong, willful men behind its gates. It was said their methods were harsh, and Kilund couldn't disagree with that. These prisoners were trained killers who had gone off the rails, many having used their skills to commit heinous crimes. There was only one way to contain them - discipline and punishment. Their deviant natures could only be ruled by strict control. Pain was the best method he knew to teach someone that crime really didn't pay.

It was regrettable that many of the long term prisoners became shadows of the men they once were. Unfortunately Kilund couldn't see a way round that. They'd only ended up in Flenda because they'd done wrong, so in his book the die had already been cast.

These men had been sent to prison for a reason. To punish them for their crime, and to set them straight. Compassion had its place, but not there. It wasn't his job to discipline them anymore. That was left to younger fitter men. His job was to transport them in such a way they soon learned what to expect. He wasn't a cruel man, but to show kindness to a prisoner heading to Flenda was a cruel thing to do. Some said it was hell. He wouldn't argue with the description. The place was every felon's worst nightmare and the sooner they got a taste what was coming, the better prepared they would be. Kilund shoved the paper inside his jacket, shook the sand off his hat and rode the rest of the way into town.

It took barely forty minutes to reach the square. The centre of small towns didn't vary much in Pegasus. Except like the rest of Taluna, this square was nicer than most. The cobbled streets were flanked by red roofed white single story buildings on either side. In the middle was a bandstand. The green roofed pillared structure amused him. He'd never been one for music, but strains of the violin would drift from the Commander's quarters at night. Kilund wondered what Rualin would make of this place, but he didn't think _pretty_ was a word in his vocabulary. The Commander was a hard man with no sense of humor. Kilund immediately dismissed the idea of telling him, and decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

Kilund looked around for the courthouse. It soon became clear where it was. In his experience they were usually austere buildings designed to induce fear, and positioned to intimidate. Just like the square grey two story building in front of him. It was an imposing stark structure set on an incline looking down on the town.

He was tired. The sandstorm had slowed his progress and he'd taken longer than he'd expected to get there. All he wanted was to claim his prisoner, get on the road and camp down early for the night. When he heard the familiar sound of hard leather striking human flesh, he groaned. If his suspicions were correct, his plans were about to change.

It was Saturday and as expected the main door were closed. When he rang the bell and no one answered he walked around the side and found a door lying open. It opened out into a courtyard. Inside was a man tied up to a tall wooden pole being whipped.

He believed in punishment, but it should be measured, given without anger and in the manner prescribed by the law. Revenge on the other hand was personal. It was fuelled by rage which in most cases made it clumsy and ineffective. Like the young boy wielding the whip. The prisoner's back was covered in angry looking wealds, but very few cuts and torn skin. The kid wasn't doing it right.

Kilund was tempted to give him a demonstration. Show him the skill was in the wrist, not the force used. If you swung it right, the power would follow through the strike. But he could tell by the red rimmed eyes this boy was upset. His jaw was rigid, his back ramrod straight. So stiff it looked like it could snap at any minute. Kilund reckoned this whipping was hurting the boy almost as much as the man undergoing the punishment. Regardless, he couldn't let this continue. If this was his prisoner, there was a two day walk in front of him. On barefoot it was going to be rough. In pain – well Kilund wasn't giving him his Janta to ride on. He didn't doubt the punishment was deserved, but it was ill timed.

"I sure hope that's not my prisoner? If it is, he's got a long walk ahead of him and he ain't gonna be able to do it in that condition."

Apart from the kid, and the man being punished there were three men present. They all stopped and turned to look at him.

The older of the men was wearing robes and a long gold chain around his neck. It wasn't a big reach to guess he was the judge. The short white haired man eyed him with a look of contempt.

"This man was responsible for the death of this boy's grandfather. As is our custom he has the right to inflict his share of the punishment himself."

Kilund knew the custom. He counted eight stripes on the man's back, and knew the damage was already done. Despite the inconvenience this was going to cause him, it wasn't worth stopping it now for the sake of another two strikes.

The boy didn't look a day past fourteen and as he swung the whip, Kilund could tell there was no real power behind the blow. Still he reckoned the prisoner wouldn't agree. His head jerked and his skin quivered as the sharp leather bit into his flesh. The man grunted as the blow burst open the skin releasing a trail of blood. To his credit he didn't cry out as many would've done.

He was brave, hiding his fear well, but his body was betraying him. He was drenched in sweat, even though there was a chill in the early morning air. Kilund had whipped enough men in his time to know the reaction well. Under duress, the man's heart would be racing, and every nerve in his body would be on fire. Sheppard was hurting, but whether he realized it or not, this time he'd got lucky. This time he was being beaten by a boy. In Flenda the guard yielding the whip would really make him pay. The next time he got whipped, he wouldn't be able to hold back the screams.

The tenth stroke hit its target, tearing a ragged red line from shoulder to waist. It had been the best of the bunch. He heard Sheppard moan, and saw his head slump against the pole. Instead of putting down the whip Kilund saw the boy about to strike again. He was about to jump in to stop him when one of the guards beat him to it.

The young man looked bereft as the weapon was removed from his hands. Kilund felt sorry for him. That was something else about revenge. It rarely made you feel better, and it never took away your pain.

The prisoner stumbled, nearly falling to the ground as the guards untied his hands from the leather straps. He staggered, barely managing to keep upright as they led him away. His jaw was clenched in pain. His face was devoid of any color. Kilund knew he wouldn't be heading home tonight.

ooooOoooo

His back was burning. Sharp spikes of pain ripped through him whenever he tried to move. He hurt like hell, but the pain was nothing compared to the way he felt inside. John couldn't get the kid's face out of his mind.

When he'd heard about the boy's request, he'd wanted to explain. Tell him how sorry he was before he submitted to his ordeal. The boy had been close to tears when he'd confronted him, the rage clearly visible in the dark brown eyes. He hated him. Hated the man who'd killed someone he loved. John had quickly realized the best thing he could do was shut up, and let the boy take it out on his hide.

He hoped his suffering had helped, but somehow doubted it. No amount of vengeance would bring his grandpa back. John had ruined the kid's life. It had been an accident, but this had been no fender bender. He'd killed a man. He'd left a family broken hearted and now there were thirty-eight people who mourned the loss of the life he took. If this had happened back home there might have been an inquest. If he'd been found accountable there, his injury would have ensured the worse he faced was a wrist slap.

It was accepted by many of the brass and the politicians that lives lost by friendly fire were a regrettable, but sometimes unavoidable part of war – collateral damage. John had mixed feelings about that. He didn't think he'd ever killed one of his own, or an innocent before. At least he hoped not. It was too easy to play the numbers game. Too easy to justify those who died along the way to a victory. He'd killed fifty-five Genii to protect his city. John couldn't regret that, but he did feel for the families these men had left behind. He didn't take killing lightly. An enemy was just a man in a different uniform. Someone who under different circumstances, could have been a neighbor or even a friend.

The man he'd killed had been a farmer, not a soldier. These were uncomplicated people who led simple lives. His sentence was harsh, worse than he'd expected. The brutal whipping an act of violence that hadn't achieved anything but to bring him pain. He knew that was the point, and John really hoped Woolsey could strike a deal. If he didn't he wouldn't have a choice. He would need to pay the full price for his sin in time, pain and blood.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks again for all the reviews, they really mean a lot. And I forgot to say last time that I can't reply to those who review anonymously. Unfortunately the system doesn't allow it, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate them!

Well, we left John getting the first instalment of his punishment. How is he now?

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 3

"Get up, turn around, and put your hands behind your back."

When he saw the rugged heavy set man with the bushy beard, John's mouth went dry. The faded blue military uniform meant only one thing. He was from the prison. It was time for his sentence to begin for real. His back was throbbing, still aching from the painful whipping. John gritted his teeth but failed to suppress a wince as he slowly scrambled to his feet.

The wounds on his back pulled as his wrists were secured with rope. Three times the rough cord was tied around his hands until he could barely feel his fingers. John couldn't understand the overkill. Beaten and with his feet in chains, he wasn't exactly a flight risk. Maybe the guy was making a point. If that was the case, he'd received the message loud and clear. He got it. The soldier wasn't someone to be messed with. He wasn't intending to. Why make his situation harder than it needed to be? He flinched when he felt the stiff cotton material of his tunic pulled up at the back. When the man started pressing his wounds, John hissed.

"You'll do."

John was tempted to say '_what?' _but decided it wasn't a good idea to piss him off. The guy wasn't young. He guessed maybe late fifties. But he could see from the defined muscles under his jacket the bulk was all muscle, and the gleam in his eye told him the soldier was just waiting for him to try something.

When he pulled out a noose, John steeled himself not to react. The judge had told him his crime was usually punishable by death. It gave him cold comfort, but he reckoned if the old guy had changed his mind, he'd probably be pushing up daisies by now. When it was put around his head, tightened, and the remaining rope wound around his neck three more times he felt his throat start to constrict. He wondered about the significance of the number. John reckoned it was either the soldier's birth date, or the guy couldn't count to four. He wasn't going to ask.

The piercing blue eyes bore into his. "My name's Sergeant Kilund. You can call me Sir. Okay… here's the rules. Number one - you don't speak unless I give you permission.. Number two – you do what you're told _when_ I tell you to do it. And number three. If you break either of the rules I have a strap in my saddle bag with your name on it. You don't have to take my word for it, but I can tell you now the whipping that boy gave you will feel like a tickle compared to the beating you'd get from me. Understand?"

John nodded. He didn't doubt it, but the man didn't intimidate him. The oppressive rules were a common technique used by tyrannical regimes, and dictators all over the world. He could now add Pegasus to the list. They were designed to dominate and control. Strike fear into the heart of the victim/prisoner in order to make them submissive and compliant.

Bullies like Kilund were all too common, but in the past he'd been in a position to do something about them. This time he wasn't calling the shots. It went against every instinct he possessed but John reluctantly accepted he would need to play along. That, or end up in a world of pain.

Kilund took the other end of the rope and yanked him forward. John gagged as the noose tightened around his neck, then yelped as the motion stretched the skin on his back taut, tearing his wounds. The guy smiled. John never wanted to hit anyone as much in all his life.

The linked chain securing his feet together was only eighteen inches long. He'd only gone a few steps before he felt the metal bands bit into his ankles as he tried to keep up with the soldier's quick pace. He was being treated like a dog, and just like an animal John could feel his hackles rise. He counted to ten, then a hundred. By a thousand he managed to keep his temper under control, but he was still pissed. He glared at the guy but his small act of defiance was wasted. Kilund didn't spare him a backward glance as he continued marching ahead.

Outside John squinted against the glare of the sun. The last time he'd been out in the open was when he'd been whipped. That was two days ago. He'd been stuck inside nursing his wounds ever since. Normally he loved the outdoors, but as he scanned the surrounding area he had a feeling that was going to change.

There wasn't a cart in sight. Not even one with a cage. All he saw was a creature that looked half horse, half zebra. He didn't need McKay's smarts to know what lay ahead of him.

_Sir_ mounted the horse with ease and tied the end of the rope to the front of his saddle. He stared down at him.

"That's right, boy. You get to have some exercise."

With a grin Kilund dug the stirrups into the creature's side sending it into a trot. John knew with his hands bound behind his back, a fall would land him flat on his face. He was glad of all those runs with Ronon. The big guy tested him to his limits, and while he'd never beaten him, at least his fitness had improved as a result. Distracted by thoughts of home John stumbled, only Kilund's hand stopped him from falling.

"Pay attention, Sheppard – I only do that once."

John knew the guy was right. He needed to forget about his old life. Atlantis was a faraway place where he didn't belong anymore. Flenda was going to be his home for the next fifteen years. It was about time he started getting used to that…

ooooOoooo

Richard walked into his quarters, slipped off his jacket and strolled onto the balcony.

He leaned on the rail, stretched out the kinks in his back and breathed in a large gulp of sea air. With his eyes closed it reminded him of the Hamptons. Richard had spent some of the happiest times of his life there and right now, he'd give anything to be back sharing an after dinner cognac with friends.

At least he'd managed to escape that fish bowl of an office for a while. He accepted the arrangement must have seemed like a fine idea when the Ancients built the place, but he didn't like it. He was a private man. He liked to do his work without prying eyes – chiefly McKay's – watching his every move.

The last few days had been a nightmare. He'd been a diplomat for many years and thought he knew the human condition well. Cruelty wasn't new, and although abhorrent didn't surprise him. The court system wasn't without its flaws, but did accord him the faith that in most cases justice would be done. At the very least the defendant would be considered innocent until the evidence found otherwise. Even those found guilty were treated with respect and mercy. What happened in the court room in Taluna had been disgraceful. Colonel's Sheppard's verdict was neither just nor merciful.

John Sheppard wasn't perfect. The man's flagrant disregard for authority on occasion was exasperating in the extreme. His courage, his commitment to duty however couldn't be faulted. There was no dispute Colonel Sheppard had killed an innocent bystander. What the judge hadn't properly considered was the circumstances surrounding the death. In his view Richard believed his military leader was just as much an innocent as the man he'd killed. Sheppard had been duped into attending court, and then hung out to dry.

Sheppard could have stayed at home, ignored the request to attend the hearing and nursed the concussion he'd been suffering. Instead he chose to face the music knowing he might be sent to prison. When he'd been hauled off and put in chains even before the trial began, Richard knew the _trial_ was going to be a charade.

The mitigating circumstances shouldn't even have warranted jail time. It had been an accident. Sheppard himself had been injured at the time. Worst case scenario, the maximum sentence Sheppard might have expected back on Earth was months, a year max. To send him down for fifteen years was outrageous. As for the additional _punishment,_ Richard was still in shock. He'd been told before he came to Atlantis the Pegasus galaxy could be a brutal, merciless place. Now he had evidence of it first hand.

He was good at his job, but Richard had been starting to think he was losing his touch when no one, not even the Chief Minister of Taluna's government would listen to reason. Just as he'd been leaving he found out why. The minister had gone scarlet when it slipped out the farmer who died was a relative of the judge – his brother no less. Now the truth was out he knew what he was dealing with. It didn't help much. Given the very personal connection it was going to take more than his well honed skills to get Sheppard out of this one.

In the last few hours he'd pulled strings with every ally they had. He'd received written testimonials of Sheppard's sterling work. He had screeds of heartfelt stories of how his military leader had again and again put his own life at risk to save others from the Wraith menace. The trade agreements he and his team had put in place to improve the lives of people in poor, less advanced communities.

Richard had also worked out a _package_ to offer in exchange for Sheppard's release. It was tantamount to bribery, but he didn't care. John Sheppard was a good man who didn't deserve such harsh treatment. He couldn't bear the thought of him being led to a pole, tied up like a piece of meat then cruelly whipped.

Another meeting was arranged for tomorrow. He only hoped third time would be the charm.

ooooOoooo

John didn't know how long he'd been on the move, but the rope seemed to get tighter with every step. The air getting real thin as he struggled to catch a breath.

His back was throbbing. His feet felt almost as bad. John suspected Kilund was taking him through the forest on purpose. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd stumbled when his bare feet had connected with the hard pebbles and sharp branches littering the ground. He couldn't bend down to see the damage, but knew the location of every painful cut and blister. He was also exhausted. His shambling footsteps were getting sluggish, more staggered the further they went, but _Sir _showed no sign of letting up.

They'd gone through the 'gate a while back, then another. Before he'd dialed out, Kilund had turned him around so he couldn't read the symbols on the DHD. John didn't know where Flenda was, and frankly didn't care. He wasn't looking forward to his incarceration, but he was sick and tired of being dragged about like a freaking prize bull. Right now all he wanted was to reach his destination so he could at least get off his feet.

"Gah!"

He pitched forward when the beast suddenly stopped. The world spun as he lay groaning, his face in the dirt.

Kilund's feet appeared in his line of vision. "I _told_ you to pay attention."

John rolled his tongue along the split on his lip. He could feel his mouth filling with blood from biting his cheek. One of his molars felt a little loose. It didn't hurt. John just hoped it stayed that way. Dentists weren't his favorite people at any time, but he figured the health plan were he was going would leave a lot to be desired.

He grunted as Kilund yanked him to his feet. The sergeant took the canteen off his saddle took a long draft then held it to John's lips. It tasted warm and had the odor of the animal it had laid against. John took it more gratefully than he wanted to.

Mindful of rule number one, the impulse to say thanks died on his lips. John kicked himself for having had such a dumb thought. After what he'd put him through, Kilund didn't deserve his thanks. His mom had drummed good manners into both him and Dave as boys. Now they were instinctive, and it was hard to go against such ingrained training. Kilund stared at him as he took the canteen away, but said nothing.

His legs were trembling and John didn't think he could walk another step. Fortunately it looked as though he didn't have to. Kilund grabbed his arm and hauled him towards a large tree. He pushed him onto his ass and propped him against it. John could feel his fingers sticky and wet from the blood seeping from his abraded wrists. He hoped Kilund was going to untie his hands, or at least loosen his bonds. It was a forlorn hope.

The solider took the end of the rope, wound it around the trunk, and over his chest twice. John flinched as the pressure of the tight bonds forced his torn back against the rough bark. Kilund then took a short leather strap out of his pocket and came towards him.

"Open up. I'm going away for a while and I don't want you calling for help."

John was already trust up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and could hardly move. Now he was going to gag him. He glared at the guy in disbelief. "C'mon...that's really not - Argh!"

A backhander smashed his head against the trunk. John saw stars as the sharp pain took his breath away. He was unable to resist as the strap was forced into his mouth. He moaned as it was tied so tight he thought his skin was going to split wide open. A picture of Caesar Romero playing the Joker came to mind.

Kilund grabbed a chunk of John's hair and yanked back his head. "You don't ever tell me what I can and can't do. And If you dare look at me like that again…you won't need to worry about your sentence, boy." His face was scarlet, and John could feel his hot rancid breath on his face.

For a moment he thought the big man was going for a repeat performance. He waited for the blow, but instead of hitting him Kilund pulled his hand into a fist and let it rest by his side. "I've things to do, so don't go anywhere…"

Kilund disappeared out from sight, and John felt relief wash over him. He needed a time out. He hurt like hell and now his face had joined the party. There was a deepening bruise growing on his right cheek and his head was spinning, but at least he was alone.

Bound hand and foot he didn't think it would be possible to fall asleep sitting in that position, but he'd been wrong. John awoke to the sound of branches crackling in the flames of a campfire. There was meat cooking on a spit. It smelled good.

He dragged his eyes open and looked around. While he'd slept night had fallen. The heat of the day had given way to a chill breeze so the warmth of the campfire was welcome. Still, John doubted if it was intended for his comfort.

Kilund had removed his hat and topcoat. His jacket was unbuttoned and his boots were over where he'd laid his bedroll. John could just about make out a hole on the bottom of one of his grey socks. All of it told a story. This man was in his element. That, and he'd been doing this job for a very long time.

For a while John wondered if _Sir_ knew he'd awoken. Kilund glanced up and met his gaze. It was a little unnerving, but John didn't look away.

"Want something to eat?"

John wondered if it was a trick question. He was starving. After the whipping he'd been in too much pain to keep anything down. Today when he'd finally felt like eating something, Kilund had arrived just before breakfast. He nodded tying to keep the hunger out of his eyes.

Kilund removed the gag, and John gulped in a large breath. His jaw was stiff and sore. John tested it from side to side, relieved it wasn't broken. He looked up at the SOB who'd hit him and wished his hands were free, but quelled his rage.

Anger was pointless. He wasn't Lt Colonel John Sheppard of Atlantis any more. He was a prisoner on his way to a long stretch inside. Hungry and thirsty he was completely at the mercy of the man in front of him. If he was going to survive he would need to play nice, follow the rules, and like a good boy do what he was told. He'd never been one for blindly following orders and was already finding it difficult. It was going to be a very steep and tough learning curve.

ooooOoooo

TBC

I hoped you enjoyed the chapter. And please review - I love to know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much for all the reviews! Your support really means a lot, and gives me encouragement to keep writing.

So...where did we leave John? Oh yeah, he's on a road trip!

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 4

Childhood aside, the only time John had ever been hand fed was on honeymoon.

When John met Nancy it was love at first sight - at least for him. He'd never cared much for any of his father's friends, but when the dark-haired beauty walked in with her dad, he'd fallen hard.

That day he'd been suffering from a wicked cold. He'd only come down for a hot drink and some Tylenol when he saw her standing in the hall. She had a killer figure and legs that went on forever. Her long dark hair hung like a velvet curtain around her shoulders. Nancy was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Thinking back, John knew he must have looked a sight. He also remembered knowing she was the one, but he would never stand a chance with a woman like her.

It was later Nancy joked she'd fallen for his blood-shot eyes, his red nose and his raspy voice. John still didn't know if there had been any truth in that. It didn't matter. For that small window of time in his life he'd done something right. Within weeks they'd moved in together. The one thing they'd agreed on from the start, they would do things their way without any help.

In those days they hadn't much money. He'd just earned his wings, and Nancy had only started as an intern in a small law firm. Every dollar they'd earned went straight into furnishing their small apartment in the East side. She'd told him she wasn't worried about a honeymoon. Being married, sharing a life together was all that mattered, but he'd surprised her. Her eyes had lit up when he told her about the long weekend he'd planned in Breckenridge.

They both loved to ski, but as luck would have it the snow fell hard and fast soon after they'd arrived. Within hours it had turned into a whiteout closing the runs and keeping everyone indoors. They hadn't cared. Nancy fed him marshmallows roasted in the fire. Later she'd lain in his arms as they watched the snow softly falling outside. It was the best day of his life. John wished it hadn't all gone wrong. He wished he was still there now.

It was obvious from the carcass Kilund had eaten his fill. Whatever the beast had once been there wasn't much left. The soldier cut off a small piece and came towards him. John wanted to tell him where to shove it, but he was hungry. Pride wasn't a luxury he had anymore.

His lips burned on the roasted meat, but he didn't make a sound. The flesh was tough, chewy, and he struggled to eat it with his sore mouth. John ignored the discomfort and swallowed it down. It tasted good, and went some way to filling the gaping hole in his belly. Kilund pierced another bit with his knife and waved it at his lips. John took it. The damn blade nicked the roof of his mouth when it withdrew. John wondered if Kilund had done it on purpose. When the soldier's expression didn't change, he reckoned it was an accident.

When Kilund sat back down, John knew _dinner_ time was over. He didn't know how he felt about that. His stomach was still growling, but at least the indignity was over. He laid his head back against the trunk and watched his companion. He was still trying to get a handle on the guy and wondered what was coming next.

Kilund was swigging something out of a pale green glass bottle. From his good mood, John guessed it was alcohol. His steel blue eyes were glazed, and he was humming a ditty John didn't recognize. It didn't take a genius to work out the soldier had been drinking for a while. The bottle was half empty.

Unexpectedly Kilund poured some into a tin cup and sauntered over. Without saying a word he stopped in front of him smiled, and forced it down his throat. His mouth on fire. John spluttered and he choked, trying to catch a breath.

"Not a drinker then, Sheppard?" Kilund laughed, before swallowing the remainder of the contents from the cup. "You know what? I'm in the mood for a little conversation. But just so as you don't get ahead of yourself…I'll be the one asking the questions."

John resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. The whole control freak act was really getting old.

"Let's see…what rank were you before you stuffed things up?"

John considered saying nothing, but he didn't want to piss him off. Besides, although Kilund wasn't his confidante of choice he missed conversation. "Lt Colonel."

Kilund let out a long low whistle, and he gave a mock salute. "_Congratulations,_ Lt Colonel Sheppard….You win the prize for being the highest ranking officer ever sent to Flenda. My, my…how the mighty have fallen."

John could feel his hackles rise, but stifled the retort on the tip of his tongue. Kilund was mocking him, but he couldn't deny the guy had a point. He knew there were a few back home that would be happy to hear of his downfall. The brass he'd stood up against when he refused to blindly follow orders. His commanding officer in Afghanistan who'd told him he was trouble. He'd been right. It _had_ been just a matter of time before he'd screwed up again.

"Where was your base?"

"Sorry…I can't tell you – that's classified."

Kilund had just taken another piece of meat. The soldier stopped mid chew and stared at him. John prepared himself for a beating but didn't care. Nothing was going to make him give up Atlantis.

Surprisingly the sergeant just swallowed and took another drink. "Fair enough – I respect loyalty. Still, it's not a quality that will help where you're going. It's every man for himself there. You would do well to learn that now."

"Can I ask you a question?" The words came out before he could stop them. John could see he was in trouble when the soldier glared at him beneath hooded lids.

Instead of getting to his feet and giving him a thrashing, Kilund just shook his head. "You've got balls…I'll give you that." He took another drink then nodded. "Okay _one_ question. What is it you want to know?"

John took a deep breath. "What do I need to do to survive there?"

Kilund leaned back against a rock and folded his arms. "Smart question. Then again I wouldn't expect anything less from a Colonel." He lifted the bottle and took another drink.

John wondered if he was going to get an answer. Just when he'd given up, Kilund continued in a flat monosyllabic tone.

"Keep your mouth shut, do what you're told, and take your punishment like a man. Surviving a long stretch like yours is going to be tough. Do what I've told you, and you might…I repeat _might_ make it. Okay…you've taken enough liberties." Kilund got up in one quick fluid movement. "Right…I need to have a look at your feet."

He wasn't prepared. John flinched as Kilund prodded the soles of his feet. They hurt like hell. He didn't need to see the red stains on his filthy toes to know they'd been bleeding.

The soldier took the knife he'd used to feed him and put it in the flames. He took out the gag looked at it, then put it back in his pocket. Instead he picked up a nearby branch.

"Bite down on this. I'll have to burst those blisters and clean the wounds. What I don't need is you yelling and bringing the Yasics down on us."

John was torn between telling him he could deal with a little pain, and asking what the hell a Yasic was. He was denied both, when the branch was shoved into his mouth.

He could see the tip of the blade glowing red in the flames, and his heart started to race. Sweat was trickling down his face stinging his eyes, but it wasn't because of the heat of the fire. Every instinct told him to run, but bound hand and foot there was nowhere to go. Kilund came towards him with the blade, and he closed his eyes.

The pain was sharp and immediate. His breath hitched and a scream died in his throat. Instinctively John kicked out. Kilund glared at him, but didn't let go of his foot. The soldier pressed down the fiery blade, repeating the action again and again until the job was done. Then he started on the other foot.

John was trembling. He was panting, struggling to take in enough air with the short shallow breaths. He was in agony, his feet on fire. Kilund sheathed the knife in his belt, but his focused expression told John his ordeal wasn't over.

The soldier retrieved the alcohol they'd been drinking a short while ago, and looked sadly at the bottle. "This is going to hurt me a whole lot more than it's going to hurt you…" Kilund took a last gulp, then poured the remaining liquid over John's feet.

Kilund had lied. It hurt him a whole lot more. John's eyes flew open as his head snapped back. The branch snapped. Through pain filled eyes John watched Kilund remove it, and throw the broken pieces away.

The soldier sat back on his heels and looked at him. "They'll still hurt tomorrow, but at least you'll be able to walk. The alcohol will help toughen them too…something you'll appreciate once you get to Flenda." Kilund got to his feet. "Get some rest, Sheppard. You've got another long day ahead."

He was in a fog. The soldier wavering in and out of his vision. John could barely breathe, couldn't focus past the fiery pain rippling through his feet. The only word that made it through the haze was rest. Sleep sounded good. John laid back his head, closed his eyes and passed out.

ooooOoooo

Rodney couldn't concentrate.

He pretended not to see Radek watching him. Pretended it was business as usual. He tried to convince himself that he, the great Rodney McKay, was in complete control.

Sure, he was upset about Sheppard - who in the base wasn't? But he wasn't losing it. He was just tired, that's all. And it wasn't his fault he'd screwed up the internal sensors during the overhaul. Okay, maybe he was _partly_ to blame. He supposed there could've been a small, almost miniscule possibility he might have made a small error, but everyone made a mistake now and then.

_John_… He tried but couldn't get his head round the fact his best friend had been locked up. He wouldn't see him for the next fifteen years. And for what? Being a hero.

When the Wraith arrived in Taluna they could have left, or hid in the security of their cloaked jumper, but that wasn't Sheppard's way. They'd stayed and fought, risked their own lives to protect the town. Some people had fallen, but it wasn't the culling it could've been. It was only because of John's decision most of the people had survived.

While fighting for his own life John had made a mistake. Rodney couldn't even see it as that.

The guy wasn't Superman. He didn't have x-ray vision. There was no way he could have seen the farmer hidden by the Wraith who'd been trying to kill him. Rodney was angry. Sheppard didn't deserve this, any of it. It was giving him nightmares knowing John was going to have the skin flayed off his back not once, but several times. There wasn't even a thing he could do to help him. This was one problem his intellect couldn't fix. If they couldn't get him out, Rodney knew he would need to put Sheppard to the back of his mind. He had his work, his _illustrious_ career to occupy him. But fifteen years was a long time. Who knew where he'd be by then? By the time John got out he could be back on Earth. He might never see him again…

"What the…Ow!"

"Rodney!"

Surprised, Rodney stared at the blood pouring from his hand. Radek rushed over and led him to a chair. His companion pressed a wad of paper towels against the wound to try and stem the bleeding.

He was feeling a little dizzy and at first wasn't aware Radek had activated his radio. "There's been an accident in Doctor McKay's lab. He requires urgent medical assistance."

Rodney looked up. "No…there's no need. I'm good. Really…it's only a scratch."

Radek rolled his eyes as the paper towels filled with blood, and large drops fell to the ground. "I beg to differ, Rodney. You are losing a considerable amount of blood from this…_scratch_."

His hand was throbbing, and he was glad to see Jennifer appear in the doorway. She made straight for his side, smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "That looks nasty…How did it happen?"

Rodney hissed as she removed the sodden towels and started to exam the wound. His stomach was already heaving. Now he felt really, really faint.

"_Sorry_?" He looked up confused.

"I said…how did it happen?" Jennifer paused and looked at him, concerned.

Rodney glanced over to where he'd been working. A broken glass beaker was smashed to smithereens. His blood was all over the shards that lay on the work station. He couldn't remember holding it. There wasn't even a reason why he would have needed to use it. Rodney realized he couldn't answer the question, because he didn't know.

"_What_…Sorry…I'm not feeling too well..." Rodney mumbled and he pitched forward, unconscious. Jennifer caught him before he fell to the floor.

"This is Doctor Keller. I need a gurney here – stat."

She turned to Radek who was helping her lower the scientist onto the floor. "What happened, Radek?"

Radek scratched his head. "Honestly, Doctor Keller, I do not know. Certainly Rodney has not been himself lately." He sighed. "He has barely left the lab in days. This morning when I arrived to start work it looked like he hadn't even been to bed. I tried to get him to take a break, get some rest, but…"

Jennifer patted his shoulder. "I know…I've tried too, Radek."

"Doctor Keller." Radek interrupted. "I didn't think much about it at the time, but when he got hurt he didn't want me to call you. He said it was only a scratch and that he was…_good_."

"_Ah_…sounds like he was channeling the Colonel." She stood up as the team with the gurney appeared. "Well…it's a bit more than a scratch_,_ but he'll be fine, Radek. I'll probably keep him in for observation but from what I can tell so far, I don't think there's anything seriously wrong."

The Czech nodded. "I am happy to hear that. Please…I would appreciate if you would keep me up apprised of his condition."

ooooOoooo

Jennifer tied off the last of the sutures, dressed the wound, and pulled off her gloves. Rodney was still out cold, but she'd run a gamut of tests and wasn't worried. She guessed the faint had been down to a combination of exhaustion and his aversion to blood. Especially his own.

Composed in sleep his features were relaxed. The strain he'd been carrying since Sheppard had left, gone. Jennifer knew better than anyone Rodney had taken his friend's imprisonment hard. Her boyfriend believed he could solve anything. But this was one problem his genius couldn't fix, and it was tearing him up inside.

She wished Carson was there. It wasn't that she couldn't handle the job, but the Scot had been with Atlantis since the start. He knew every member of the expedition well, Rodney best of all - the two men had been friends for a long time. Carson also had a way with him. He possessed a knack of bringing calm into any situation with an air of quiet, but firm authority. Yet it wouldn't be fair to ruin his holiday, besides there was nothing he could do. The bad news could keep until he returned to Atlantis.

The Scot had left to go fishing just before the team went to Taluna. It was the first real break he'd had in years and Carson had been looking forward to it for weeks. Jennifer didn't doubt that if he heard the news about the Colonel, he'd return at once, but what could he do?

There was no medical emergency. Sheppard had been sent to prison and while it was a terrible thing to have happened, there was nothing Carson could do. Nothing any of them could do. The Colonel's last hope lay with Mr Woolsey. Jennifer just hoped the diplomat would be able to work a miracle.

She didn't pretend to know the Colonel as well as the others, but things hadn't felt right since the news came in. There was a sadness in the base, almost a feeling of despair. Jennifer wondered what would happen if Sheppard didn't return. She doubted if Atlantis would ever be the same place again.

ooooOoooo

TBC

I hope you enjoyed the latest instalment, and please review. I love to know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 5

"Wake up! We need to get moving."

John blinked, but before he could stir there was a sharp pain in his side. He gritted his teeth but couldn't stop a groan escaping his lips. As he curled into the pain he realised something else. Apart from the fact Kilund's boots were steel tipped, he was on his side. John reckoned he must have been out of it for a while. He couldn't remember being untied from the tree.

Kilund went to kick him again, but John caught his gaze. The soldier didn't follow through with the assault, but drew him a warning look as he hauled him roughly to his feet. John yelped as his damaged feet made contact with the ground.

"Keep standing…the pain will ease off in a minute." Kilund kept holding onto his arm. "If it doesn't, you'll just have to suck it up. Or…I could tie the rope around your ankles and drag you the rest of the way on your back." He raised an eyebrow. "I'll leave the choice to you."

It didn't ease off much, but given the alternative John chose to stay upright. He sure as hell didn't want dragged along on his ripped back. He tried a tentative step forward. His feet felt tender and raw, but the pain was bearable.

"_Good_, _boy_. I knew there was grit in there…_somewhere_. Here – take a drink. We have a long, hot walk in front of us."

Kilund handed him the canteen, and John made another discovery. While he'd been out, his hands had been released and retied at the front. His wrists were in shreds. The skin around the deep groves made by the rope was split and caked with dried blood. His bonds weren't any looser, but at least the change of position gave him a little more freedom. He was parched. John savoured the liquid even though it was warm, and it felt good to serve himself again.

John avoided eye contact as the rope was once again wound round his neck and tied to the saddle. He swallowed stifling the panic, as it tightened when the beast moved off. He shuffled alongside relieved that this time the pace was slower. A sharp throbbing pain accompanied each step forward. John focused on the path ahead to try and zone it out.

Intent on putting one foot in front of the other, John didn't know how long they'd been travelling when he saw a river. There wasn't a bridge in sight, and from what he could tell there didn't appear to be any other way around it. The smirk Kilund gave him told him what he'd already guessed. He was going to get his feet wet.

John was conscious of the chains around his ankles, and knew he'd be a dead weight if he got out of his depth. Kilund didn't seem to be worried. The soldier didn't even glance over as he steered his mount into the water. Only a few yards in and the water was lapping his waist. Kilund turned and grinned. It was then John saw something coming towards them at speed.

"Look out!"

His cry came too late. The animal reared, throwing Kilund off the saddle. The soldier hit the water with a thud, and went still.

Instinctively John tried to grab him but the frightened beast was still dragging him forward. Choking, the rope tightening with every passing second, John lunged for the knife in Kilund's belt. Stars were obscuring his vision as he struggled for breath, his numb clumsy fingers trying to control the weapon in their grasp. John knew if he misjudged the cut it would be game over. Yet if he didn't try, the result would be the same.

His hands were shaking, and John took a steadying breath to regain some control before he made the cut. He felt the rope loosen as something warm trickled down his neck. As the cord fell into the water he saw the red stains. It didn't matter. He was still breathing, still alive. John sucked in a huge lungful of sweet cool air, but didn't waste any time in slicing the bonds around his wrists. He looked around for the soldier. Kilund was floating some yards away, face down. The guy had been unconscious since he'd hit the water. John knew if he didn't get him out of there soon, he would drown.

The current wasn't fierce, but weakened by injury and hampered by the chains round his ankles, it felt like a raging torrent. John reached Kilund and turned him round. His face was pale, slack. For all he knew the guy could already be dead, but John wasn't going to leave him behind. The training he'd learned as a young lifeguard during fondly remembered summer vacations, kicked into play. He held onto the soldier and kept moving. Once or twice he nearly fell as his aching feet slipped on the smooth pebbles beneath. John felt as if he'd run a marathon by the time he reached the grassy bank.

Spent, he collapsed in a heap taking the soldier with him. All he wanted to do was lie there, but there was someone else to consider. Kilund was a bastard. John couldn't figure out why he'd saved him, but he'd dragged his sorry ass out the river and wasn't going to let him die now.

His limbs were trembling with fatigue. John fought off the pounding in his brain and the lethargy crippling his body to drag himself to Kilund's side. He was still breathing. John turned his head and watched the water spill out of his mouth, but the soldier didn't awake. He used the last of his strength to clumsily push the heavy man into the recovery position before he passed out by his side.

ooooOoooo

He blinked and winced at the pain in his skull. When Kilund pressed his hand against it, his fingers came away covered in blood.

The last thing he could remember was crossing the river – then nothing. Suddenly he remembered the prisoner he'd been transporting and groaned. Rualin would kill him if he came back empty handed. Maybe kill was too strong a word, but he wouldn't put it pass the Commander to lay the strap on him himself.

A soft moaning sound by his side made him turn round. To say he was surprised to see Sheppard lying there was an understatement. What shocked him more was the realization he had this man to thank for his life.

The noose was gone, as were the bonds around his wrists. So by the look of things was his transportation. Kilund pulled his arms up to rest on his elbows. Once the world stopped spinning he made it to his knees. It took a little longer to get on his feet. He felt sick, dizzy, but when after a few faltering steps he managed to stay upright, he felt quite pleased with himself. One thing he wasn't happy about, being beholden to someone - worse still a prisoner. Sheppard was going in for a fifteen year stretch so it wasn't a debt he'd be able to repay. Kilund didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.

A wave of nausea hit, and he fell to his knees. He retched, spilling his guts into the sand until only the dry heaves were left.

"Concussions really suck…"

Kilund slumped back on his heels and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He turned to see Sheppard watching him.

The dynamics had changed. Neither man needed to say it. There was no going back to the way things were. Kilund shrugged and winced at the spike of pain that pierced his skull. He tried to ignore it as he scrambled to his feet.

"You sound like the voice of experience -" No sooner had the words left his mouth when a wave of dizziness sent him reeling. Kilund barely managed to steady himself in time.

"I am…which is why I know you need to sit down, before you fall on your ass."

Kilund didn't argue with the assessment. He staggered over and flopped down beside the nearest rock. He laid back his head. It was spinning. "I need to know…why didn't you leave me to drown? You could have escaped. It would have been days before anyone would have come after you."

Sheppard winced as he struggled to his feet. His eyes were blazing with anger. "Like this?" He waved a hand towards his feet. "I'm in chains…_remember_. And thanks to you dragging me through that damn forest I can hardly walk!"

Kilund's mouth twisted. "_Sorry_…but I didn't make the rule about the boots. Some of the cuts were deep. If I hadn't cauterised them they would have become infected, then…"

"_Fine._ I get it…you can spare me the details." Sheppard's face was creased in pain as he shuffled over to sit beside him.

Kilund turned to face him. "You still haven't answered my question. Why _did_ you save my life? I haven't exactly been easy on you since we met. As for the chains…I'm sure a smart, resourceful guy like you could have dealt with them at the nearest town."

"If it makes you feel any better, it was an instinctive reaction." Sheppard smirked. "After the way you'd treated me, if I'd had more time to think about it, I probably would have left you to die." The smile died and Sheppard's expression grew serious. "I don't want to be a fugitive. It's not my style to spend the rest of my life running, hiding from what I've done. I'm guilty. I need to face the consequences for what I did. Still, I won't deny I hope my boss manages to pull a few strings. The sentence was harsher than I expected. I know I need to pay for my crime, but that judge went overboard."

Kilund gave him a wry smile. "Somehow...I don't quite believe you. You're a good man, Sheppard, whether you want to admit to it or not. And regardless of what I did, I don't think you would leave anyone behind – not even a bastard like me. I don't know all the facts of your case. You may be guilty, although I find it hard to believe. Even if you are you still don't deserve to go to that place. But…I have a job to do, and I'm sorry to say I have to take you in."

Sheppard put out his hands, ready to be tied. Kilund shook his head. "We both know that's not necessary. I owe you my life, so the least I can do is can the hard man act until we reach the prison."

Sheppard screwed up his face. "What the hell is with that anyway? I was already in chains. You didn't need to treat me like shit."

Kilund picked up a handful of sand and watched as it slipped through his fingers. "My first transport was a young man. He was a nice kid, couldn't have been more than nineteen. He'd got six months for getting drunk and punching out another soldier. I was civil to him, tried to make the journey as pleasant as possible. When he arrived at Flenda, he couldn't cope with the harsh regime. He only lasted a few weeks before he took his own life…"

"So… you think treating people like dirt is going to do _what _exactly?" Sheppard ranted.

Kilund shrugged. "Help prepare you for what to expect…Make you angry enough, fill you with enough rage against me, the system, the other guards, to give you the strength to get through the first days, maybe weeks. Look, Sheppard, for what it's worth – I'm sorry." He held onto the rock, staggered, but made it back on his feet again. "Now… as much as I'd like to lie here and lick my wounds, I have to find our ride."

"_Our_ ride?"

He nearly laughed at Sheppard's surprised expression. "That's right – our ride. You can't walk far on those feet, and the least I can do is give you a decent meal before I hand you over."

ooooOoooo

It felt uncomfortable and more than a little awkward sitting so close to the man who'd oppressed him, but there wasn't any option. The chains around his ankles meant he was forced to sit side-saddle at the front of the beast, with Kilund's arms around him holding the reins. The lack of personal space was invasive, the smell from his companion, rank. At least it beat walking.

When a 'gate appeared over the rise, John wondered where he was going next. Kilund didn't try to hide the symbols this time. It didn't make any difference. He didn't recognise them anyway. On the other side a desert awaited them. John was blinded by the glare of the sun, and the searing heat caught at the back of his throat taking his breath away. Sweat was already trickling down his face, his chest, pooling in the small of his back and he'd only been there minutes. John could tell it was going to be a very long, hot, sticky day.

Kilund was suffering. He was hiding it well, but John could tell. He'd gone quiet. The soldier looked almost pale under his tan. His heavy beard covered most of his face, but the strain around his wrinkled eyes said more about his discomfort than anything.

John pretended to need a break more often than he needed. If Kilund suspected the ploy was for his benefit, he said nothing.

The undulating golden sand stretched out into the horizon. There wasn't a tree or water hole in sight. The heat from the blazing sun bore down on them with relentless intensity. It grew hotter with every passing hour, and soon neither man spoke. John's head was pounding. His mouth was dry as the dust coating his hair. He could barely see the way ahead through the shimmering haze. When Kilund suddenly stopped, it took him a moment to realize.

"It's time for you to get off."

Kilund dismounted first and extended his hand. The men locked eyes before John took it and quickly followed him onto the ground. Without saying a word he turned around, put his hands behind his back, and felt the rope secured around his wrists once again.

The soldier paused before he put the rope around his neck. "I don't know whether you're brave or foolish, but you should have escaped when you had the chance." Kilund gave it a sharp tug, and tied the end around the front of the saddle before getting back on his mount.

His aching feet were burning in the sand, but he knew Kilund couldn't be seen helping him now. To start with the pain was intense, each step agonising, but gradually it began to ease off. Either that, or John reckoned he was growing used to the discomfort.

It was still roasting, but the lengthening shadows told John the heat of the day would soon give way to the chill common in desert nights. He guessed his destination must be close, but Flenda was nowhere in sight.

Kilund put a hand on his shoulder as he brought the beast to a halt. John appreciated the small consideration.

The sergeant took a slim metal fob from his pocket, and pointed at the vast expanse of desert stretching into the distance. What happened next surprised him. John could barely believe what he was seeing as the scene in front of him shimmered, then vanished to reveal a stern imposing fortress. It was Flenda. His new home.

ooooOoooo

TBC

For those who have this story on alert I apologize for the confusion the other day. I can't blame FF this time - it was me. I'd pressed the wrong button - sorry!

Anyway, now that you finally have the chapter I hope you enjoyed it, and please review.

Again, many thanks to all of you who've take the time to send reviews - I really appreciate it. Your comments make my day!


	6. Chapter 6

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 6

Until he'd come to Atlantis John had never seen cloaking technology before. It was an awesome city whose architecture reflected the wonders it held. When confronted with Ancient tech, John half expected to see some similarities to the home he loved. There was nothing remotely familiar about the building lying ahead. The only thing ancient about it was the stone in it's walls.

He nearly fell when Kilund rode forward, but this time a sharp, painful jerk on his neck kept him upright.

"Watch what you're doing, Sheppard." Kilund hissed out the corner of his mouth. We're being watched. I can't protect you now."

John understood, but he had too many questions to keep silent. "That cloak…the shield that makes the prison invisible. Does it come from the Ancients?"

"Quiet prisoner!" Kilund shouted, and John felt another jerk. He put his head down pretending to be duly chastised. Kilund looked ahead smiled, then whispered out the corner of his mouth. "I don't know why it's so important for you to risk a beating, but yes…it is."

"But the building's old…"

Kilund pretended to cough into his hand. "The story goes they installed it as a gift in return for the prison taking some of their own. Now will you _please _shut up before we both get into trouble."

It made sense. John had known for a long time that the ancients weren't the be and end all every one had initially thought they were. They'd made mistakes. Huge freaking ones big ones like the Wraith, and the Asurans. It only followed that they weren't immune to committing crime either.

He was curious what some of their citizens had done to earn a stay in Flenda. He also wondered what happened to them. Removed from their home John reckoned they wouldn't have survived long in a place like this. If they had, they would have had plenty of time to meditate and contemplate their crimes. Anyone left behind would have ascended by now. It wasn't a bad idea. The whole ascension thing hadn't held any appeal for him in the sanctuary, however facing a long stretch the idea was growing more attractive by the minute.

"Was the prisoner giving you trouble, Kilund?"

Two men approached holding a set of heavy looking chains. One was tall with sandy hair and looked in his mid twenties. The other was only slightly shorter, with cropped black hair and a rugged complexion. John reckoned he was about Lorne's age. Both of them were wearing the same uniform as Kilund, but neither had stripes.

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Kilund laughed, and gave John's neck another jerk sending him sprawling to the ground. When John looked up, he saw a flash of remorse which the older man quickly concealed.

"Well…we'll take it from here now. Here's your money. By the way, Rualin wants to see you. I think he has another job for you."

The taller of the men threw him a small leather pouch. Kilund looked at it for a moment, then shoved it in his pocket. "Send my apologies to Commander Rualin. Tell him I'm not taking another job for a while. I'm going to take some personal time."

The guards exchanged a look, and John couldn't blame them. He hadn't the pleasure of meeting the guy yet, but from all accounts Rualin wasn't the type to be ignored. He stole a glance at Kilund and raised an eyebrow.

"Look…it's a little embarrassing but I took a tumble the other day. My head's still a little fuzzy so I'm not up to another transport right now."

It seemed to satisfy the guards, but John wasn't fooled. Sure, Kilund had suffered a concussion, but he wasn't the type to let an injury put him off his stride for long. He wondered what was really going on with him. Unfortunately it looked like he wasn't going to get the chance to find out.

As the guard went to take off John's ropes, Kilund slid off his mount. "I'll do that…" At the guard's obvious surprise, he explained. "I tied them. It'll be quicker if I take them off myself."

He carefully untied John's hands without causing him any further pain. When he went to take the rope from his neck Kilund came in close and whispered in his ear. "Good luck, Colonel."

John felt the sergeant's hand squeeze his shoulder, then with a final nod Kilund jumped on his mount and rode back from where they'd come.

While the men were fitting the chains John was afforded his first view of Flenda. There only appeared to be one entrance. It was a stout wooden door split into two and reinforced with wide metal struts. The last of the fading sun glinted off a window. When John had first seen the stark grey high stone walls he hadn't thought there was any. Now he noticed a few barred windows set at the highest level. Although as a solider, what interested him most were the four towers.

There was one at each corner. He could only see the front two clearly. Both had guns trained on him. He didn't doubt the other two positions were similarly manned. From a security point of view he had to hand it to them - it was simplistic but flawless.

The cloak would keep the location hidden, and set in the middle of the desert the guards could see anyone coming for miles around. If you did manage to evade the guards long enough to exit the prison, you'd would be shot within minutes. John wondered if anyone had managed to escape from here. If they did, how long they'd survived afterwards.

It was a chilling thought. Not for the first time he hoped no one in Atlantis would be dumb enough to attempt a rescue. An escort home after an early release would be another matter. John wondered how his appeal was going.

His wrists were now encased in thick metal bands. There were only a few links separating his hands. The few inches gave just enough room for a long linked chain to be attached from between his wrists, to the chain separating the bands around his feet. They were heavy suckers, and he could barely move.

A hard shove propelled him forward. "What's taking you so long – pick up the pace, prisoner!"

John stumbled, and heard a whooshing noise before a thud pushed him onto the ground. A fierce stinging pain spread across his back.

"Get up!"

He didn't move fast enough, and another vicious strike followed. John gritted his teeth, but couldn't suppress a hiss as the sharp burning blow set the wounds on his back alight. Through glazed eyes he looked at what the guard was holding. It was a long thick cane.

"That's an infraction prisoner, but I don't have time to deal with your disobedience." John was hauled to his feet. He was half walked, half dragged the rest of the way inside.

Dusk was upon them and already there was a chill in the air, but his feet were red hot again. John looked down and saw why. They were in a large open courtyard, and the stones he was standing on were covered in shiny black paint. He inwardly groaned. John now knew what Kilund had meant when he'd talked about the alcohol toughening up his feet. This courtyard would get damned hot during the day, and the paint would ensure the stones keep in the heat. He had to hand it to the genius who'd thought up this little gem. It was both brilliant and sadistic.

In the lengthening shadows, John saw a wooden frame in the shape of a 'Y' positioned at one end. His heart sank. It didn't take McKay's smarts to figure out what it was for. With the amount of corporal punishment he was due, John reckoned he and the frame would be good friends by the time the year was out. Set at the other end of the courtyard were two curved doorways hewn out the stone. He was pulled through the one on the left.

John guessed it was another ten minutes, and several flights of stairs downward later before he arrived at his destination. There was a bald man sitting at a counter reading a book. He was wearing sergeant's stripes and looked a similar age to Kilund. He immediately put it down and looked him over.

"Finally…I can maybe get to bed now." He lifted up a flap, and came round the counter. "Sheppard…welcome to Flenda. All new prisoners get to spend their first couple of days in the hole, but don't take this as a punishment. Think of it as an _adjustment_ period to get used to life inside. Trust me…if you're sent here as punishment, you'll know it."

"He's already committed one infraction."

The sergeant was a big man, and towered over the young guard who'd made the comment. "Oh…and what was that for?"

"He was dragging his feet. Then when he fell, he disobeyed an order to get up."

"Is that so…" The older man slowly dragged his eyes from the chains around John's feet to the now red-faced guard. His expression spoke volumes. "Well you see, son, given the prisoner hasn't been told the rules yet, I don't think that'll count." He put his hand on John's back and it came away red. "Anyway…I can see you've already disciplined him, so I think we'll just leave it at that."

"But…"

"_Goodnight_, Jalune."

John couldn't suppress a smirk as the sergeant turned his back on the protesting guard, and guided him into a small corridor beside the cells. When he pulled up his tunic to inspect the damage, John flinched.

"It's only a small cut. Once you get cleaned up, it shouldn't cause you any problems." He put down the shirt and came round to face him. "Jalune may be a little over zealous, but I'm warning you – lose the attitude, boy. If I ever…and I mean _ever_, see you looking at him or any other guard like that again. I won't need orders from the Commander to give you a thrashing. Do I make myself clear?"

John nodded, but when the guy continued to glare at him he knew he expected an answer. "Yes…_Sir_."

They locked eyes, and for a minute John thought he was going to hit him. Instead the powerful man grabbed his arm and pushed him towards the nearest cell. The metal door was opened to reveal a small five by ten foot space. There was no window, no light and no bedding of any kind. Even from the doorway the stench of urine was overpowering. As he didn't want to annoy the guy any more, he shuffled inside without being told.

Any hopes he would lose the chains were dashed as a slops bucket was thrown in after him. Just when he expected the door shut in his face the guy appeared with a hose.

John's look of disbelieve was met with a smile as the guy turned on the jet. He gasped as the freezing water drenched him from head to toe, nearly falling as he slid on the now slippery stone floor. The soaking was methodical as the sergeant took special care with his feet and back. When he was done, John was met with a wide grin as the door was slammed leaving him in total darkness. Unable to see, John carefully edged his way to the corner. There he stood shivering, waiting for the water to disperse from the cell so he could sit down. The guard in Taluna had been right. He was in hell.

ooooOoooo

Rodney skulked around the corner and looked furtively at the entrance to his lab. There was no one about but the moment he peered inside, Radek came to stand in front of him. The scientist looked irritated.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, Rodney? You know Doctor Keller has forbidden you to return to work until the end of the week. I'm sorry…but I have my orders. You are not getting in."

He knew he'd been busted, but Rodney decided to try another tack. "Duh…of _course_ I know that. Although I find it insulting, not to mention a little hurtful you'd think I'd even try something so devious."

Radek stared at him over his spectacles. "Then I _apologise._ So…what do you want?"

He wasn't prepared for such a blunt answer, but he wasn't about to give in now. "My mug," he peered over the Czech's shoulder, "I can see it right over there…"

As he started to squeeze past, Radek put his hand on the doorframe blocking his path.

"Mica, will you bring Doctor McKay his mug please?" The Czech took it from the smiling tech, and handed it over. "There you are. Good evening, Rodney, I'll see you on Friday." He gave Rodney a tight smile then closed the door.

If it hadn't been a present from Madison he would have thrown it against the wall. He didn't even like the dumb thing. Rodney hated the garish purple colour and worse still, it didn't even keep the coffee hot. When he'd promised the kid he'd use it, he thought it would have broken by now. That was two years ago.

Fed up, he silently fumed all the way to the mess. He really wasn't in the mood for company but when Teyla waved him over, he reluctantly joined her and Ronon at their usual table.

"How is your hand today, Rodney?"

He flexed his hand and winced. "Sore."

Teyla was clearly waiting for him to say more, but Rodney couldn't be bothered making conversation. He felt a little guilty when she looked from him to Ronon for some kind of response. She got none. The Satedan, who'd grunted an unintelligible greeting when he'd came over, had returned to staring out the window.

The Athosian looked hurt, so he reluctantly tried to make an effort. "So…how is Torren?"

"He is doing well, thank you." She smiled. "He is already saying quite a number of words. Mamma, papa, and when he saw a picture of the Colonel he clearly said John."

Ronon thumped his fist on the table knocking over Rodney's cup, and spilling the contents onto the floor.

Teyla rounded on him. "I am not going to stop talking about John, just because it makes you feel uncomfortable, Ronon. I am just as upset as either of you, but to leave him out of our everyday conversation is to deny his existence. Whether he comes home tomorrow, or how ever long it takes for him to return, he will need our support. John has been and will always be part of our lives. We are not just his team, we are his friends. I have not given up on him – have you?"

The Athosian's voice had got higher and louder with every word. By the time she scraped back her chair everyone in the mess was staring at them. Rodney could see the glint of unshed tears in her eyes.

When she went to leave, Ronon grabbed her arm. "Teyla…I'm sorry."

"Me too…" Rodney started mopping up the spilled coffee with his napkin. "It's just that…"

"Excuse me…Forgive me for interrupting your lunch, but I wanted to have a few words with you. All of you…but especially Ronon."

Rodney had never seen Woolsey look ill at ease before. The self-assured man always exuded a quiet, almost smug confidence. Today he looked worn out, frustrated and there was something in his eyes he hadn't seen before - anger.

"Before you ask how it went in Taluna's – _don't_. The talks failed…miserably. In fact…" Woolsey took a drink of Teyla's tea, and winced, "they had the audacity to say they'd accept the package as compensation for the family! What farmers would want with a hospital I can only guess...And I foolishly believed corruption was purely an Earth phenomenon." He muttered the last part under his breath.

"Mr Woolsey…"

"Sorry. My apologies for ranting, Teyla, but it's been a very long few days." Despite the grimace of before Woolsey sipped more tea before continuing. He looked at the dark brew surprised. "This is an unusual taste, but it definitely grows on you."

"Woolsey. Sorry…_Mr_ Woosley," Rodney rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide his frustration, "what was it you wanted to speak to us about?"

"The thing is, Doctor McKay, regardless of the consequences, I cannot in good conscience allow Colonel Sheppard to suffer such a cruel fate." He turned to the Satedan. "Ronon…I understand you knew someone who'd been sent to Flenda. I need you to tell me everything you know about the place." Woolsey's gaze took in all of them. "Whether Colonel Sheppard wants it or not, I intend getting him out of there."

ooooOoooo

TBC

Thanks again for all of the reviews - I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And please review.


	7. Chapter 7

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 7

Time lost all meaning in the small dark cell. The only guide to mark the passage was the daily delivery of bread and water. It was such a cliché. A throw back to the black and white horror films he'd watched as a kid, but this wasn't a movie. This nightmare was real, and he was living slap bang in the middle of it.

John tried to take his mind to a happier place. He tried not to think about the heavy chains that weighed him down, biting into his skin. He tried to ignore the nauseating smell and the impenetrable darkness that blanked out everything, even the hand in front of his face.

He even managed it for a while. Memories of laugher with his friends, flying into the blue, the feeling he still got when he sat in an aircraft – especially a jumper. Then he remembered he probably wouldn't see them again. He wouldn't experience the thrill of guiding an aircraft into the cloudless skies for a long time. And he would never enjoy the exhilaration of flying a jumper over Atlantis ever again.

Part of him knew he was only feeling low because of the total isolation. It was a common torture technique. The purpose of which was to oppress, control and demoralize. He'd been taught to deal with it in training, however nothing prepared you for the real thing. The hunger was making him weak. The freezing cold of the first horrific night had given way to a stifling heat. He'd expected to be incarcerated, but the way he'd been treated was inhuman. By his reckoning he'd been there for over three days, but John didn't think they would risk starving him for too long. It wasn't their intention to kill him. After all, he still had his sentence to serve.

John knew if he was going to survive he needed to focus, get a grip and take a day at a time. He couldn't think about the years that lay ahead. Instead he needed to put a positive spin on his situation. Make plans for when he got released.

He had money. Lot's of it. Besides, fifty-nine wasn't old these days. His own father had taken Sheppard Industries into the FTSE top ten when he was sixty. He didn't have such grand plans. John reckoned he'd be happy just starting up his own business when he got out. He'd always wanted to design his own craft, and although he'd lost his military career, he still had a pilot's license. He'd still be able to fly.

John heard the sound of the bolt unlocking, and fumbling, used the wall to struggle to his feet. He made a point of being upright when the guard put in his meal. The bastards probably didn't give it a thought, but it mattered to him. It showed he wasn't beaten. As the door was flung open the outside light blinded him. He raised his bound hands to filter the light.

"Out!"

He shuffled forward, glad that at least his prolonged incarceration had given his feet time to heal. The throbbing of before was gone. Now his soles just felt a little tight where the cuts had knitted together.

"I'm leaving? _Shame_…I quite liked it in there. It was starting to feel like home. So...where are we going now guys?"

"Quiet! We're the ones giving the orders. Anyway…you'll soon find out."

Two guards were waiting for him, but it was Jalune who answered. John was going to say something else, but when he saw the cane attached to his belt thought better of it. He was in their sand box now, playing by their rules. To avoid a repeat performance of the day he'd arrived, he moved as quickly as the chains would allow. Days held in a confined space had made him stiff, and he tripped. John waited for the blow to come. Instead he was hauled to his feet without comment and guided back to the courtyard.

Outside the sun was glaring. The sweltering heat was already baking hot even though it was early in the day. He winced as his soles made contact with the painted stone. John had assumed he'd been going to see the Commander. When he saw the men waiting by the frame his heart sank.

One was baldy, the man who'd hosed him down. The other guard he hadn't seen before. He was a big guy, almost as large as Ronon, and John could tell he was already prepared for the task. His muscular arms were bulging under his short sleeved tee, and he was wearing tight leather fingerless gloves on his hands.

He saw the whip and his heart started to race. He recognized it. The nine long strands of knotted cord were unmistakable - cat-o-nine tails. The weapon had been a popular form of punishment with sailing ships, prisons, and sadistic bastards all through Earth's history. He could now add the Pegasus Galaxy to the list.

John knew what his punishment was, knew it would begin sometime. What he hadn't bargained on, and the last thing he'd expected was for it to start today. He wasn't prepared for it. It was so soon after the last whipping. From the look on the _water boy's_ face his opinion didn't come into it. It was going to happen. He was going to get flogged. The only question was how many strokes he would have to endure this time.

The bands were removed from his wrists, including the length of chain attached to his feet.

"Take off your tunic."

There was no point in protesting so he did as he was told, letting it fall to the ground.

His arms were tightly gripped as the bald man read from a sheet. "Prisoner…you have been sentenced to three hundred and eighty lashes of the whip. Today you will receive the first thirty. Prepare yourself for punishment."

John wanted to ask what kind of moron he was. Couldn't he see he'd already received ten lashes? Or maybe he just couldn't count? Then he realized the guy didn't give a shit. None of them did. These so called military men had no concept of honor. To them he was just a number. A lump of walking talking flesh, that was there to be beaten and abused. There was no justice here, no mercy, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of asking for any. No matter how bad it got.

"I'm _real _sorry to interrupt. Thing is I already know what my punishment is, but as you can see I've already taken ten strokes back in Taluna." John resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he turned round to show baldy his back.

The sergeant came over, glanced at his back and smirked. "Is that so…well I don't call a few torn bits of skin a whipping."

Baldy glanced up at a balcony. It looked like he was seeking approval. John hadn't noticed it when he'd come out. Couldn't see it clearly with the sun shining in his eyes, but he could just about make out the shape of a man watching proceedings.

The sergeant nodded at the unseen stranger then turned back to him with a glint in his eye. "Sorry prisoner… but a few _teeny weenie_ cuts don't count. You're a military man – or were. So I'm sure you'll agree that if a job's worth doing…"

John glared at him.

Baldy came towards him, and John could feel the spit in his breath as he whispered angrily in his ear. "Listen to me…_boy_. You haven't met the Commander yet so you don't know the rules. If you had, you'd be getting another ten of the strap on top of the whipping. There's only two, so a smart man like you should be able to remember them. One - you don't speak without permission. Not even to the other prisoners. And two - you do what you're told _when _you're told. Any infractions will be punished – severely."

John clenched his jaw and tried to keep the fear out his eyes, as he was pushed against the rough wooden frame. His arms were stretched out to either side and secured with rope. When they were yanked above his head he grunted, as the skin on his back was pulled taut until only the balls of his feet stood burning on the stones beneath. His back was still tender from the last assault, the healing wounds already starting to split under the strain. Trickles of blood were already starting to run down his back, and they hadn't even started whipping him yet.

He didn't want to look, but couldn't take his eyes off the guard as he splayed the whip through his fingers. The man took pride in his work, separating the cords one by one in preparation for the first strike. It looked heavy. He soon found out just how heavy it was.

"Lay on!"

The command given, John closed his eyes and lent his head against the frame. He took slow deep breaths knowing nothing could prepare him for the first strike.

Instead of a crack, the thick heavy whip made a whooshing sound as it flew through the air. A loud thud reverberated around the stone walls as the heavy cords made contact with his exposed skin. His head snapped back, and the sheer force pushed the air from his lungs as the powerful whip slammed his shackled body forward. The explosion of pain that followed was sharp and immediate. It took only seconds for the stinging sensation to grow into a searing pain that ripped through his body.

There was a pause before the second blow came. It gave time for the pain to build up on his back. Time in which his mouth went dry as the terror grew in anticipation of what lay ahead. He wanted it over with, but they were in no hurry. It almost came as a relief when he heard the sound of the whip flying through the air.

John grasped the ropes binding him to the frame, but the action afforded no relief. The blow came from the other side this time, and he gasped as the whip crisscrossed the raw wounds made by the first strike. He was already in agony when two of the cords caught round his waist and stuck in his side. He panicked. The guard pulled. The pain was excruciating as his skin was ripped apart. John clenched his jaw trying to stifle a cry, but a groan escaped his lips.

This time there was no delay, no time to prepare as the whip tore a ragged trail from his right shoulder down to his waist. He yelped as the knotted cord caught yet more skin. It dragged rather than tore his flesh apart, releasing a trail of blood from the wound.

John tried to focus. Regain some kind of control. Tried to find some way to cope before the next strike came. He failed. He didn't want to cry out. Didn't want the bastards to hear his pain, but his resolve to stay silent was weakened as the guard was getting into his stride. The guy was getting stronger as he was getting weaker, and each agonizing lash was more powerful than the last.

John clenched his jaw and bit down, but his tears betrayed him. The overwhelming pain of the relentless brutal punishment was wearing him down, shrouding him like a fog. He was in agony. His body quivered as the whip flayed open his skin again and again, mutilating his body, tearing fresh wounds apart as the screams died in his throat.

He tried to zone out. Pretend it wasn't his body getting ripped apart - then the next lash came. Rubber legs collapsed beneath him, but the punishment didn't stop. He didn't know how many he'd endured before the scream was ripped from his throat...

ooooOoooo

The man writhed under the lash. To begin with he grunted as each bloody line was torn into his flesh. Then came the high pitched yelps as he stifled his cries of pain. To his merit, the prisoner managed to hold back his screams until the twelfth strike.

Rualin was enjoying himself. There was nothing quite like sitting in the early morning sun, enjoying his first coffee of the day, and watching a convicted felon getting the punishment he deserved.

He had to admit this new prisoner – Sheppard – was taking it well. He was clearly a brave man who, despite being weakened in the hole was still strong. Even now, after nearly twenty painful lashes he was still conscious. Certainly his could see his knees were sagging, his legs trembling under the strain of trying to stand. Rualin admired his pathetic attempt to keep upright. It was a noble gesture. Almost as if he was trying to defy them. Show that he couldn't be broken. But he would be. Even the strongest bowed to his will eventually.

His back was a bloody mess, torn to shreds by the whip. His attempts to regain some composure, pitiful. The man was hanging from the frame. It was only the ropes that were keeping him from falling. Rualin recognized the signs. While Sheppard may take longer to break than most, at the moment it wouldn't be long before he succumbed to his punishment.

Rualin wanted to make sure he felt every blow, so held up his hand for them to stop. A break would give the prisoner time to recover, and the guard a chance to rest their arms. An hour should do it, maybe two. That would give him time to attend some pressing paperwork. Then he could enjoy his mid-morning break watching the rest of the _show_.

He smiled when he caught the sergeant's eye, Mallend didn't look happy. Privately, he thought gambling was a foolish past time, but condoned it. His men needed something other than work to amuse them, so he turned a blind eye to their stupid bets. However Mallend was obviously regretting the wager he'd put on Sheppard. A little birdie had told him his custody sergeant had bet against the new inmate. He'd put a weeks' wages on Sheppard passing out before the fifteenth strike. Rualin laughed to himself. He suspected that's why Mallend had confined him in the hole so long.

A bucket of water was thrown over the prisoner's head, and his head snapped back throwing spray into the air. Rualin heard his groan, saw him blink, his body tremble, and his feet try to gain some purchase on the ground. From the way the prisoner was shifting his feet, he could tell Sheppard's toes were burning on the stones. He was glad. That's why he'd had the courtyard painted. Every painful step the prisoners took during their incarceration should remind them they were here to be punished.

The courtyard was awash with blood as the rest of the prisoners came out to do their daily exercises. He could see them looking at the man on the frame with sympathy. They would _feel_ his pain. They all knew the agony he was going through. Every man who came here had been whipped, and all continued to receive punishment as and when necessary.

He was glad Sheppard was still tied to the frame. The deep welts and raw ragged crimson stripes torn into his back would serve as a deterrent against infractions of the prison rules. To others, it would be an unwelcome reminder of what they would still have to face.

Content his prison was running smoothly, Rualin rose from his chair, left the balcony and made his way inside. He looked at the papers piled on his desk and frowned. Eleven o'clock couldn't come quickly enough.

ooooOoooo

Carson stepped through the 'gate and felt the familiar hum as the city welcomed one of her own. He'd enjoyed his vacation on Palumda. Its towering mountains reminded him of the Highlands, and their people were almost as friendly as his native Scots. As for the fishing, it had been second to none. At first he hadn't been too sure of the purple beastie that had taken his bait, but it had tasted wonderful. Served with some tatties and a little butter it had slid down a treat. Still, he was glad to be home. His holiday had done him the world of good but he'd missed Atlantis. Missed his friends. He'd even missed Rodney's constant whinging.

"Good to have you back, Doctor Beckett."

Chuck waved over and Carson smiled. It faded when he realized that apart from the 'gate crew, he was alone. He wasn't a vain man, and certainly hadn't been expecting a brass band to greet his return. He was however a wee bit miffed none of his friends were there to greet him.

Carson picked up his bag and walked towards the 'gate tech. "Where is everyone?"

Just as the words left his mouth he saw Rodney, Teyla and Ronon in Woolsey's office. It didn't take his friend's genius to know whatever they were discussing, wasn't going well.

Even from this distance he could feel the tension. Rodney looked agitated. While that was nothing knew, he could also see something else in his expression – fear. Teyla wasn't visibly anxious but he knew the lassie well. There was a mix of barely suppressed frustration and anger just beneath the surface. When Ronon suddenly banged the glass door, everyone looked up as the noise echoed around the 'gate room. When the Satedan saw him standing there, their eyes locked. Carson felt his felt his blood run cold, as he knew something was very, very wrong.

ooooOoooo

TBC.

Many thanks for all the reviews so far - your support is amazing! I would love to answer them all, but unfortunately FF doesn't allow me to answer those readers without accounts. They are still very much appreciated - so thank you.

As for this chapter. I hope you 'enjoyed' (if that's the right word!) the whump. And please review - Joanie.


	8. Chapter 8

JUSTICE.

CHAPTER 8

Carson was furious. He didn't know who he was angriest at. His friends for hiding this from him. The Talunans for imposing such a barbaric sentence, or the Colonel for accepting his fate without a fight.

It was just like Sheppard to be so bloody self-sacrificing. The man had been living a guilt trip ever since he'd awoken the Wraith. He hid it well, but Carson could see through the act. It was written all over his face when he thought no one was looking. It also showed in his actions. John put himself in harm's way far too often to be a coincidence. He was constantly trying to make amends. This time, he'd gone a step too far.

Carson believed in the rule of law. If a man was guilty the people were entitled to justice, but it should be fair, measured and appropriate to the crime. From what he'd heard this had been an accident. It was tragic to be sure but even if Sheppard was due some kind of retribution, this punishment far exceeded his offence.

Rodney was sitting on Carson's bunk waiting for him to unpack. The scientist was clearly depressed. He was slumped with his elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the floor.

"So…you're telling me Ronon doesn't know where this place is?"

Rodney didn't even look up. "No…and the guy who'd been there died when the Wraith destroyed Sateda."

Carson put the last of his things away and accidentally slammed the drawer shut. He winced at the sound and expected McKay to complain about the noise. Rodney just looked up, but didn't say a word.

"Surely someone must know where this bloody prison is? It can't just have disappeared into thin air." Carson ranted. "What about Radim? Has anyone asked him? I'm sure the Genii must have sent quite a few of their soldiers there."

Carson saw Rodney begin rubbing his arm where the Genii had tortured him. He cursed himself for opening his mouth without thinking.

There was an uncomfortable silence before the scientist answered in a distracted fashion. "He was the first person Woolsey asked, but the Genii have their own stockade."

Carson was feeling a growing sense of frustration, and he'd just heard the news. He could only imagine how the others felt. They'd been living with the knowledge of Sheppard's situation for well over a week now. It was hardly surprising Rodney was disheartened. John's team weren't the only ones. There was an air of despondency pervading the whole base.

Rodney looked hellish. He'd been the picture of misery when he'd walked in, but now a haunted look replaced it. Carson blamed himself. It was his fault for bringing up the thorny topic of the Genii. Even though it had been five years since Kolya led the invasion into the city, in many ways it felt like yesterday. It didn't matter that the Genii were now allies. The physical wounds of that awful day had healed, but the painful memories lingered raw and tender under the surface. He hadn't been immune from the nightmares either.

The Scot walked over to the window and looked outside. It was a beautiful day. The cloudless sky was blue, the sun shining. Its golden reflection glinted off the towering spires bathing the city in a shimmering light. He knew Sheppard loved the view from the balcony, and wondered what the view was like from his cell - if he had a view.

"You never said who it was John killed." Carson said quietly. "Was it one of the farmers?"

Rodney looked at him bemused. It took a moment before he seemed to understand the question "_What? _Yes…yes it was."

Carson could see the normally sharp scientist was in a fugue, so pressed the issue. "Well…what was his name?"

"Does it matter?" Rodney sounded incredulous, and he rolled his eyes. "Sheppard shot the guy. It was an accident, now he…he's paying for it with the next fifteen years of his life, not to mention the skin off his back!"

He could see Rodney was upset, but couldn't let the comment go. "It matters to the man's family, Rodney. I'm not saying what happened to Colonel Sheppard is right, but those people have lost someone they love."

Rodney had been storming towards the door, when he stopped, and looked back with remorse "I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." He looked thoughtful and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I don't know what his first name was, but his second name was Celindann…Clindam – something like that. He was an old guy."

"Could it have been Cleamund by any chance?"

"Yeah – I think that's it. Do you…_did_ you know him?" Rodney folded his arms and peered at Carson through half closed lids.

"I might. I do a surgery there every six weeks, and the name rings a bell. I think he was a patient of mine." Carson sat down at his computer and entered his password. "Okay…let's see what we have."

Carson carried out a lot of surgeries, saw a lot of patients, and initially couldn't recall what this man's complaint was. When he started reading the case file not only could he confirm the man had indeed come to him for treatment, but a very loud penny dropped. He immediately realized the man's condition could have a significant bearing on John's case. Carson just wished he'd been around when the _accident_ had happened.

"Well…"

Carson could feel Rodney breathing down his neck. For once it didn't annoy him. "I need to speak to Mr Woolsey. It's imperative I visit Taluna." He jumped off the seat, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

Rodney caught up with him before he reached the corridor. "Why? This isn't something you can fix. I know your voodoo works in the infirmary, but Sheppard isn't tucked up in the corner bed under your claustrophobic care. Woolsey couldn't change their minds. So as much it would be great it if you could stick a Band-Aid and make this stinking situation all better. What makes you think _you_ can save Sheppard's stubborn ass?"

Carson let out a long sigh. "I don't, but the facts just might. Erlemm Cleamund was suffering from stage four lymphoma. I did what I could for the poor bugger but by the time he came to me, he was already dying. Even if Sheppard's bullet hadn't killed him, the man would still be dead by now."

ooooOoooo

Pain was coursing through his body but oblivion had been denied him. They had made sure he'd remained conscious through the whole agonizing ordeal. John was acutely aware of the last excruciating lash as the whip ripped into his flesh.

He jerked back, his abused muscles convulsing in agony, but didn't make a sound. He couldn't. His mouth was almost as torn as the skin on his back from trying to suppress his screams. His throat hoarse, from all the times he hadn't been able to succeed. At least it was over. All he could do was hang there until his persecutors deemed fit to cut him down.

Every part of his body screamed as they cut the rope securing his wrists and lifted him off the frame. Still the darkness wouldn't claim him. He didn't know how long he'd hung there. How long he'd had to endure the torture inflicted upon him. Now he felt too wretched to care.

The skin on his back was in pieces, torn to shreds by the whip. His arms, legs and face were on fire, when they'd left him to burn in the sun. His breath hitched as the sharp, piercing pain threatened to take his breath away. Every movement was a new adventure in suffering.

His strength was gone and he couldn't even raise his head as he was dragged, his feet scuffing along the ground. They were scarlet, covered in blood that had dried and congealed in the sun. At first his fuzzy brain wondered how they'd got that way. Then it slowly dawned on him. They looked weird. Like a sick twisted version of Dorothy's slippers in Oz. Except unlike Dorothy his feet were in chains. There was no lion, scarecrow or tin man - no friends there to help him, and he couldn't click his heels three times and go home.

The world was spinning and the nausea he'd been holding back forced its way to the surface. Someone cursed as he threw up all over the ground. It was Jalune's voice, and John was vaguely aware of him shaking his boot. He reckoned he'd be made to pay for that later.

By the time he arrived at his destination he just wanted someone to shoot him. He didn't even care if he was back in the hole. He just wanted to lie down.

His vision was blurred, but it looked like a long narrow room that was wavering in and out of his consciousness. The world was turning grey at the edges, but he was jolted back to painful awareness as he was dumped onto a hard wooden bunk. Fiery pain exploded, rippling through his body and he choked on a cry.

"See you around…Sheppard."

Jalune's mocking voice disappeared into the distance and he was left blissfully alone. John wondered if he'd been left there to die, then realized that would spoil their fun. They couldn't beat him if he was dead. After all there were still places left to whip. His chest, his legs, and when the skin grew back, they could start all over again from the beginning.

Still, he was in a bad way and knew if he didn't get help soon, he might ruin their plans. The thought made him smile. Except he wasn't a quitter, and he would get through this. He had a future to plan, a business to build from scratch. All he had to do was survive.

ooooOoooo

"_Argh_…mnnghnn…"

"_Quiet_…I know this hurts, but you have to try and keep the noise down."

John groaned, and his hands balled into fists by his side. Someone was cleaning his wounds. It felt like he was being tortured all over again as the cloth ground into his ripped and bloody flesh.

"Who…who are you? John gasped, and struggled to peel back his gritty eyes. He saw a man. It wasn't a guard this time. This guy was a prisoner. He looked young, but the hollows in his cheeks and the dead looking eyes told him he'd been there a while. It was hard to tell if he was blonde or dark as his hair was matted to his head, and his face was covered in grime and sweat.

"Dulane…but you must stop talking or we'll both get punished."

"Somehow, Dulane, I don't think they could do much more to me at the moment…_Nnnnghnn_… Crap - that hurts."

John squeezed his eyes shut to try and get a handle on the pain. It didn't work. He was in agony. The searing pain throbbed incessantly. It felt like someone had set light to his back and was fanning the flames.

He understood what Dulane had told him, talking was bad news. Unfortunately, right now it was the only thing that could distract him from the pain.

"Tell you what…" John panted as the intense burning threatened to take his breath away. "I'll talk…_you_…you can listen. My name's John…John Sheppard - it's good to meet you, Dulane. Thanks for helping me… "

The man's face went pale under his dirty tan, and he looked over his shoulder. "There's no doctor here, so the prisoners help each other. They leave us supplies. Disinfectant, bandages, liniment so we can heal ourselves. Recover from the wounds they inflict. I'm sorry…but there is nothing I can do for the pain."

John yelped as Dulane dabbed into a deep laceration. It felt like a knife was being stabbed into the wound. For a moment he couldn't speak. When he did his voice was barely a whisper.

"That figures." He chuckled slightly, before wincing and moaning softly.

There were sounds in the distance. Dulane's eyes went wide, and he put a hand over John's mouth giving him a warning look.

He was a talker. He couldn't help himself, even when his big mouth got him into trouble. How he was going to keep these rules, John didn't have a freaking clue. Yet he would have to try or pay the consequences. Dulane looked terrified. John didn't want to cause the guy any trouble, so took the hint and nodded.

The frightened man removed his hand, gave him a grateful smile, then carried on treating his wounds.

It hurt so bad, John couldn't stop the tears falling down his cheeks. If Dulane saw them, he didn't appear to notice. He hated sharing his pain with anyone, and pulled in one stuttering breath after another trying to try and ride it out.

The agonizing process of cleaning his wounds seemed to take forever. John knew it was necessary, knew it would save his life. Right now it didn't make him feel any better. The darkness was creeping in on his vision, and John didn't resist. With a thankful sigh he surrendered to it…

ooooOoooo

TBC

Thank you so much for all the reviews so far, I'm thrilled you're enjoying the story!

And please let me know what you think of this chapter - I love to read your reviews.


	9. Chapter 9

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 9

The Taluna government weren't happy that Woolsey had refused to meet their demands. Carson admired and respected the diplomat for standing his ground. Never the less, all this argy-bargy wasn't helping the Colonel.

Woolsey had tried every angle, but relations were at an all-time low. They'd refused to allow Carson to visit the Cleamund family. They'd even refused to allow Atlantis to resume a surgery there. He was painfully aware time was moving on. Time in which Sheppard was living in misery, believing he'd killed an innocent. Time in which the Colonel was being punished going through agonies, for something that wasn't his fault. After five days of fruitless negotiations, Carson decided enough was enough. It was time to intervene. He was going to take matters into his own hands.

"Do you have a minute, Mr Woolsey?"

Carson felt sorry for the man. Woolsey looked drained. He didn't have the healthiest complexion at the best of times, but the dark circles under his eyes gave him a ghostly pallor.

Woolsey looked up, bemused. Then it seemed to Carson as if the diplomat gave himself a mental shake. He started to focus, and sat up straighter in his chair. "Certainly, Doctor Beckett…but I'm afraid I don't have anything new to tell you. Unfortunately the situation remains unchanged. I still haven't managed to obtain permission for you to visit the planet."

"Not for the want of trying though." Carson smiled sadly.

"Yes indeed." Woolsey took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've been a diplomat for a long time, Doctor. While I haven't always managed to succeed in obtaining all my goals, this is the first time I've failed in any negotiation. The pity is…this is one of those occasions when it really mattered."

There was silence for a moment. Carson broke it by coming round the desk and lifting his wrist. Woolsey's pulse told him what he'd suspected. The diplomat narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Carson forestalled him.

"You're exhausted, Mr Woolsey. And I can tell from the strain around your eyes you have the onset of a migraine. I'm going to give you something for it, but you must get some rest."

"I appreciate your concern, Doctor, and I will. But first I must prepare some kind of report to the IOA." He sighed, and leaned back on the chair. "I've been putting them off…hoping this situation would have resolved itself, but Stargate Command are starting to ask why Colonel Sheppard hasn't submitted any updates."

Carson removed his hand stood back on his heels, and folded his arms. "I understand your position…can't you tell them he's on vacation?"

"I've already tried that, but they're starting to get suspicious." Woolsey elaborated, sounding weary. "Apparently the Colonel isn't _known_ for taking vacations." He raised an eyebrow and winced.

"Right - that's it. The report can wait until tomorrow. I'm taking you off duty for twenty-four hours."

"_Doctor_…" Woolsey sighed and drew him a look. "I take it there's no point in arguing with you?"

"Absolutely none." Carson gave him a small smile. "C'mon, I'll walk you to your quarters. We can stop by Major Lorne's office on the way to inform him he's temporarily in charge."

Woolsey slowly rose to his feet. When they reached the door he stopped. "I sincerely hope you're not trying to get me out of the way, Doctor. I would hate to think you would do anything _underhand_…perhaps even dangerous while I was out of commission."

Carson met his suspicious look with a wounded expression. "Certainly not, and I resent the implication. You, Mr Woolsey are responsible for the base. However…your health is my responsibility. It's clear you've been running on pure adrenaline. Now it's gone, and your body is starting to feel the effects. If you don't take a break, there could be serious consequences."

Woolsey peered at him through half closed eyes. "I apologize, Doctor...I was out of line. You were right about the headache. I confess it is starting to make me…irritable. However if, hypothetically speaking, _something _were to happen while I'm off duty, I would recommend that person…or persons don't get caught."

Carson suppressed a smile. He hadn't intended to do anything underhand. In fact his initial plan was to resign his position so he could travel to Taluna as an ordinary citizen, not a member of the expedition. Now it looked like he wouldn't need to lose his job. The once straight-laced diplomat who'd rigidly stuck to the rules had obviously torn another page from his _book_. Woolsey was clearly giving him his unofficial blessing to make the journey.

If he'd needed to make the sacrifice, Carson would have willingly done it. John Sheppard wasn't just the Military leader of Atlantis. He'd also saved the city, including his own life, many times. John was also his friend. Carson would miss Atlantis if he ever needed to leave. It was his home. But the bottom line was - he could practice medicine anywhere.

And, regardless of what Woolsey had initially thought, he would never abuse his Hippocratic Oath. The man wasn't well, and his decision had been made purely based on his condition. Still, once he'd made sure his patient was comfortable, he might just pay another visit to Major Lorne.

It had been a quite a while since he'd flown a jumper, and who knew when another emergency might arise. The infirmary was quiet. It would be the perfect opportunity to get some practice. In fact, he might even ask Sheppard's team if they'd care to come along for a wee jaunt…

ooooOoooo

The first day passed in a pain filled blur. John couldn't remember much about it, except when it had got too bad he'd got lucky and passed out. The effects of blood loss had kicked in on the second. He'd managed to keep down some of the tasteless gruel Dulane had poured down his throat. Afterward, he'd pretty much slept away the rest of the day.

On the third, wound fever had set in. John had expected it. It wasn't possible to inflict that much damage, leave so many gaping wounds without consequences. The raging heat that had started on his back seemed to seep into the rest of his body and burned him inside out. He'd been on fire. Roasted alive one minute, frozen to his very core the next.

During the worst of it part of him had wanted to quit, let the fever take him. Then he'd remembered the man he killed. While he felt the whipping was a punishment too far, he had caused the family pain, so this pain was his to endure. He also had to survive. It was instinctive. He owed that to himself.

His fever had broken two days before – day five. His back still hurt, but the heavy dull throb was manageable - sort of. If he moved too quickly, a stab of sharp intense burning soon slowed him down. At least now he was strong enough to go to the toilet himself. He was also more alert, able to take in his surroundings.

John had been put in with the rest of the prison population. His narrow wooden bunk was third in a long line hugging the entire length of the rough grey stone prison wall. An identical line ran along the other side. Neither he nor the other prisoners had a mattress, or pillow, but they did have a blanket. John reckoned the Commander must have a soft side after all. Either that or else it had been an oversight. He'd forgotten about the luxury.

There were a couple of dim lights dotted along the ceiling. They barely made an impression. When they were turned on by the guards in the morning, it was their cue to start the day. They lined up and one by one were handed a bowl of _something_. It was so thin, it didn't qualify as cereal. At least it didn't taste bad. Then again, it didn't taste of anything.

When the prisoners retuned hot, grimy and sweaty at the end of the day they were pushed into the latrine six at a time, and hosed down. From what John could tell, it saved the expense of a laundry. Just like when he'd been in the hole, their clothes dried on their back. He'd been spared that ordeal so far. His eyes watered at the thought of how a fierce spray would feel on his shredded back.

A second meal of bread and cheese followed. He was thankful he wasn't dairy intolerant. If he'd had McKay's sinus condition he would have been in trouble. It was the same meal every day. They had barely finished when the lights were turned off, the door slammed shut, and they were left in total darkness until the next morning. The hours that followed were the longest of the day.

No one said a word – ever. He'd tried to strike up a conversation but had been met with a tense silence. It was obvious they were terrified to talk to him. Only the groans of those who'd received punishment hung in the air. The fear was palpable. John didn't know what these men had done to merit coming to this place, but no one deserved to be treated like this.

He'd been vaguely aware of Jalune's presence during the last few days. John was sure it hadn't been out of concern. Now he was able to stand on his feet, he wondered when he'd be taken to meet the Commander. He didn't have long to find out.

The guy who'd whipped him pulled him out the line before he'd got breakfast. Chains were slapped around his wrists without even a good morning. His ice blue eyes didn't even register acknowledgement as the soldier grabbed his arm and led him outside.

John hated him. Yet from his blank, stoic expression the guard neither knew nor cared. He wasn't rough with him. The strong, muscular arm that had wielded the whip with such power, only held on with enough force to make sure he wouldn't escape. There was no malice there. There was no compassion either. He was doing the worst kind of job, and did it well. It was clear this guy gave no thought to his actions. He did was he was told, regardless of the pain, misery and distress it caused others.

Unlike Jalune he didn't push him. He waited for John to climb the stairs under his own steam. Wasn't impatient at the time it took for his chained feet to manage all the way to the top of the fortress. At the end of a long corridor he motioned him to stop. The large hand that had caused so much pain held, but didn't press down on his shoulder, while the other knocked softly on the door.

"Enter…"

There was a man sitting behind a large heavy wooden desk. He was too preoccupied by whatever he was writing to look up when they came in. By the white streaking the short grey wavy hair John guessed he was somewhere in his sixties. This however was no ordinary pensioner. He sat poker straight in the high backed chair, and his solid build hinted at muscles, not flab, under the same blue uniform the rest of the militia wore. There was no doubt this was the Commander, and John wondered what rank he held. He didn't recognize the insignia on his stand up collar, but guessed he must be a Major, or maybe a Colonel. John doubted if this was a General's billet.

"Bring the prisoner in closer and lift his tunic. I want to see his back."

John bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue. He hated being treated as if he was dumb. Worse, that he was a piece of meat. On this occasion he stayed silent. He didn't give a shit about rule number one, but he was still healing and didn't want to annoy the brass too soon.

He winced as his tunic was lifted up, and only gritted teeth held back a moan when the Commander left his desk and started prodding his lacerations. "You did a good job, Ceeland." He said to the guard.

The young man with the short spiky blonde hair blushed under the praise. "Thank you, Colonel."

"Almost too good…This prisoner took longer to recover than I would have expected. Some of the deeper lacerations still have a trace of infection." The older man pulled down his tunic. "I see you're a slow healer, Sheppard. I will take that into consideration in planning the rest of your prescribed punishment."

The guy stared at him, and John wondered if he expected a thank you. Like a good boy he stayed quiet. For the first time rule one had its merits after all.

The Commander returned to his chair, and resumed writing. John was aching after his impromptu exam, and felt a little dizzy. Sweat was starting to break out on his brow, but it wasn't just because of the heat. He was still weak after the fever, plus he was starving. The tasteless gruel he'd missed at breakfast grew more appealing with every passing moment.

John could tell the guy was sizing him up. His dark brown eyes flicked up, bored into his, but John didn't flinch under his scrutiny.

Eventually he put down his pen and leaned back on the chair. "You have a long sentence. However, twenty lashes every month until the remainder have been carried out shouldn't unduly incapacitate you from carrying out most of your normal duties. If the amount proved onerous, I can reduce it to ten every other week. I'll make that determination after your next punishment. In the meantime, the period you've spent in recovery will be added to the end of your sentence."

The way things were going John half expected that. What surprised him was the old man's tone. The Commander sounded disappointed. John felt like he was a new recruit who hadn't lived up to his potential. The terse statement about his delayed recovery time sounded like a rebuke. It was almost as if the guy was making allowances for his failings, trying to encourage him to do _better._ The Commander had him pegged as weak, just because he couldn't bounce back from a sound whipping.

Again came the look, and again John stayed quiet. He was furious, but it looked as though his silence was annoying the old man. Rule one was really starting to grow on him.

"What rank did you hold before you destroyed your career? And _yes_…I expect you to answer the question."

The barb hurt, just as it was meant to. John inwardly flinched, but kept the anger out his voice. "Lt Colonel."

The Commander's eyebrows raised, and John saw his lips twitch. "Which regiment did you serve in?"

Kilund was no pushover, but John reckoned the same answer he'd given the sergeant wouldn't wash with this guy. It was time to be creative. "The Yankees'…_Sir_."

"Can't say I've heard of it…Never mind, it doesn't matter. However…as a former commander yourself, I am interested what you think of it here. I am always open to suggestions. New ideas how to keep the men in line. Please…speak freely."

Silence was overrated. John didn't mind a bit of quiet time, in fact he enjoyed his own company now and again. What they had going on here, was overkill. Everyone was so terrified of breaking the rules, he didn't know if or when he would ever have another change to have a conversation. He wasn't going to waste maybe his last opportunity, regardless of what the consequences would be.

John coughed to clear his throat. "I understand the need for discipline. It's necessary to keep order. I also understand the need for punishment. When I took the life of an innocent man I expected to be incarcerated. What I didn't expect, and don't understand is the brutality here."

He saw the flush of anger growing on the older man's face but he was on a roll, and wasn't about to stop now. "In my base punishment is designed to fit the crime. Minor misdemeanors are treated with extra duties, maybe even a fine. We only lock people away as a last resort, or for the most serious cases. In our society we consider being taken away from family and friends, being denied freedom punishment enough. Even then we use that time to rehabilitate those who've violated our laws. Show them crime doesn't pay, encourage them to atone for what they've done. Teach them new skills so when they're released, they can contribute something to the community, make a fresh start. All I see here is oppression and cruelty. I just don't get the purpose in breaking a man's spirit. What you hope to gain from a tyranny of fear…"

The Commander put his hand up. "I think I've heard _quite_ enough."

John shrugged, unfazed by the commander's furious expression. "Well…_you_ did ask."

He stared at John. "So I did…Has anyone ever mentioned you have an attitude problem?"

"_Yeah_…I've been told that before." John tried, but couldn't suppress a smile. He knew it was dumb. It didn't matter. He was already in big trouble.

The commander smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Well I intend to do something about it. I am going to break you, Sheppard. A man like you is dangerous, and I won't have you setting a bad example to the rest of the prisoners."

"_Really_..." John glared at him, and he didn't try to disguise the contempt in his voice. "Well, Commander...you can whip me. Beat me till I'm black and blue…but you sure as hell won't break me. Trust me…others have tried."

"I'm sure they did…but they aren't me - take him to the hole!"

As the guard dragged John away, the commander stopped them. "Ceeland…watch your strength – I don't want him killed. I intend for _Colonel_ Sheppard to spend the next fifteen years regretting the day he ever came here. "

ooooOoooo

TBC

A/N:- ar·gy-bar·gy (ärg-bärg)_n._ _pl._ **ar·gy-bar·gies** _Chiefly British Slang _A lively or disputatious discussion.

[Scots, reduplication of argie, _argument_, from argue.]

Many thanks to my wonderful beta and good pal **Sherry 57** for the great work she's done. And thanks too pet for supplying me with the above definition. I confess I sometime forget you guy's won't know some of the Scottish words and expressions I use - sorry! Of course, all mistakes are mine!

And thank you to everyone who's taken the time to review - I really appreciate it.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, please share your thoughts with me - thanks, Joanie.


	10. Chapter 10

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 10

Taluna was still in darkness when they went through the 'gate. Teyla knew it was too early for most of the residents to be up, but the Ancestral Ring was close to the arable land surrounding the town. She feared the farmers would hear the Ancestral Ring burst into life.

Major Lorne had engaged the cloak, but both the noise and the brilliant glow of the event horizon could raise suspicions, especially if no travellers arrived on the other side. She fervently hoped the families would either be gathered round the table enjoying their first meal of the day, or too busy feeding their livestock to notice. Either way they were committed to their task, regardless of the consequences.

In the privacy of the jumper no one could hear them, but it was a strangely quiet group that made their way towards the Cleamund homestead. Carson, rather than Rodney sat in the co-pilots chair. Unusually the scientist had made no objection. It was out of character. Normally Rodney would have made some acerbic comment. Some quip showing his displeasure at being sidelined, despite the fact Doctor Beckett was only sitting there to give Lorne directions. Teyla was worried about him. He had become withdrawn, remote. When he did speak he said little, and there was barely a trace of the infamous McKay sarcasm she had grown accustomed to.

She was also concerned about Ronon. The Satedan seemed to be on course of self-destruction. First he had taken his aggression out on the wall, nearly breaking his hand, then he had lost control in the training room. She knew Ronon had not meant to break Corporal Mitchell's arm, but as a result Lorne had banned him from training the new recruits. Teyla understood and even agreed with the Major, but it was still causing tension between them. She was also aware how guilty her friend felt about the accident.

It was regrettable but when Ronon got irate, he lost focus. For a powerful man like him, that presented a very real and dangerous problem. Since John's incarceration her friend was more than upset, he was angry. Angry with himself for not having paid more attention to a conversation that had taken place more than ten years ago. Angry, for not having accompanied John to the planet on that fateful day.

She had tried to reason with him. Tried to make him see it was not his fault they had been unable to locate the prison. Nothing that she or anyone else had said made a difference. Ronon was still blaming himself, and she could tell it was tearing him up inside.

Most of all she was worried about John. She tried to push the disturbing thoughts to the back of her mind, but the image of his bare back being torn to shreds by a whip, kept her awake at night.

Dawn was breaking. As the early morning sun rose in the sky, Teyla saw Carson point towards a building in the distance. It was a large farmhouse. She prayed this visit would achieve their goal. If not, and they were unable to secure John's release, things would never be the same again. More than that, the most important thing of all, after all she had heard about Flenda, she feared for John's life.

She loved her partner and adored her child, but even with Kaanan and Torren there, Atlantis felt strange without John's constant presence. If he did not return, Teyla did not know if she could remain in the city. Their team was already drifting apart. If she no longer had a role, without a purpose, there would be no reason to stay.

ooooOoooo

Lorne set down the jumper in a meadow about two hundred yards from the house. Carson prepared to leave, but when the flap lowered onto the grassy earth, the Major made to follow him.

Carson shook his head. "No, Major. I already appreciate the risk you took by bringing us. However, this is something I need to do myself." Carson allowed his gaze to fall on each of Sheppard's team. He hoped they'd also got the message. If he was successful, then he would be grateful for their help.

Lorne frowned. "I'm not happy about this, Doc. What happens if you run into trouble?"

"Lorne's right." Ronon grunted. His hand was already hovering over his blaster. "Look what they did to Sheppard."

"And if you think you're leaving me behind…think again." Rodney interrupted, indignant.

Carson finished checking the contents of his bag before he answered. "I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. The Colonel was only arrested because they believed he'd committed a crime. I'm going as the physician who has treated all the family over the last year. But…if I go to visit them mob handed, we are definitely not going to get anywhere."

Teyla stepped forward and grabbed his bag. "I agree with you, Doctor Beckett, but the others are also right. You are not doing this alone. I will come with you."

He locked eyes with the pretty Athosian. They both had their hands on the metal handle. It was either start a tug of war with the bag – which he would probably lose. Or… "Aye...okay… you get to come, but I carry the bag!"

Carson inwardly counted to ten before he knocked on the door. He shared an anxious look with Teyla before it was eventually opened by a petite middle aged woman.

"Doctor Beckett…It's nice to see you, but there isn't anyone sick here. Why have you come?"

"Marjeea. I'm sorry to intrude on your grief. I was away when your father died, and I've only recently received the sad news. I wanted to offer my condolences."

The woman nervously looked behind her and closed the door, stepping outside into the cool morning air to join them. A stray dark hair had escaped from her top knot and she pushed it behind her ear. She then wiped her hands on her apron.

"You shouldn't have come, doctor. If my husband knows you're here…"

Teyla smiled reassuringly at the woman. "We will only stay a moment – I promise you. But Doctor Beckett has a couple of questions about what happened on the day your father died."

Carson hadn't planned to get to the point that quickly, but Teyla was probably right. It was starting to get light, and the farmhouse could be seen from the main road into town. If they remained there too long someone might alert the authorities.

"What do you mean? We already know what happened. It was your leader, Colonel John Sheppard who killed him."

Her tone was defensive, but Carson could see a tell-tale blush. She was hiding something.

He met her gaze and held it. "I know, lass, and I'm not trying to excuse what happened…but your father was a very sick man. The last time I examined him he was in a great deal of pain, not to mention extremely breathless. He was struggling to walk the short distance back to your cart. Tell me…why in his condition did he attempt the walk into town - especially during a Wraith attack?"

"Tell him, Marjeela. Ever since it happened, I've been wondering the same thing myself."

The woman's face froze at the sound of her husband's voice. She spun round to look at him. Her voice started to crack. "My father was a good man…a proud man. _He_…he didn't want to end his life confined to a bed, fading away in front of his family."

"Spit it out! Just what are you trying to say, wife?"

At her husband's angry expression she started to cry. "I'm sorry…I'm _so_ sorry…"

Teyla came over and put an arm gently around her shoulders. "Let me guess. Your father heard the Wraith arrive…" At Marjeela's nod, Teyla continued. "So he went into town hoping one of them would take his life…then he saw the Wraith attack Colonel Sheppard. Am I correct?"

The woman's sobs got louder as she pulled out a crumpled note from her pocket. Her husband grabbed it. He went silent for a moment, all the color leaving his face as he read the small missive. He just stared into space as he handed it over to Carson.

It was just as he'd expected. The old farmer had written a farewell note to his family asking for their forgiveness. Carson felt sorry for the woman, and even sorrier for the old man he hadn't been able to save. The poor bugger must have been desperate to do what he'd done. Nevertheless because of their actions, an innocent man had been sent to jail.

Marjeela had stopped sobbing, but tears still ran down her face. "When I heard the Wraith arrive I went to take him into hiding, but I was shocked to find him gone. You were right, doctor, he was weak. He hadn't made it past the rise so I ran after him. He was only yards away from my grasp when I saw Colonel Sheppard fighting that Wraith. My father smiled at me, then…he walked behind them just as the Colonel raised his gun. "I…know what I did was wrong, but I just didn't want his good name tarnished. The pain was wearing him down and he wasn't thinking clearly." Her voice started to crack. "I hid the note to protect him…to save our family from disgrace - I'm sorry!"

The farmer turned her to face him. His face was puce with anger."You let an innocent man go to prison just to protect your family name! I thought I knew you….Get in the house, woman – now!"

"Please, don't be too angry with her. She has just lost her father and this." Carson handed back the note, "must have been a terrible burden to carry. All I ask is you come with me to the judge and let him see this. Tell him what really happened. Colonel Sheppard is a good man and doesn't deserve to languish in prison. With your help we can get his sentence overturned and get him home."

The man raked a hand through his hair and stared into the distance. When Carson saw him crumple the note in his fist, he wondered if he'd done the right thing in handing it back. As the farmer walked back to the house, his heart sank. The farmer turned round just as he reached the door.

"I'll just get my jacket…"

ooooOoooo

When he heard the door open John didn't try to get up. What was the point? His previous display of defiance was fooling no one, least of all himself. The daily beatings had left him in agony. His bruises had bruises. Cracked ribs made it painful for him to breathe, and he had the daddy of all concussions. He hadn't given up. No one could accuse him of being a quitter, but he was worn out with all the abuse. If they wanted to beat him again, so be it. He didn't have the strength or the means to stop them, but he sure as hell wasn't going to make it easy. They would have to drag his sorry ass off the floor without his assistance.

There was someone in his line of vision, but he couldn't make out who it was. Ceeland had seen to that during the first beating. John had to give the guy kudos for consistency. The guard had strung him up from a hook in the ceiling like a piece of meat, and been just as brutal with his fists as he'd been with the whip. John couldn't remember how long he'd hung there, but it had seemed like hours. That was the day his right eye closed over and his ribs were cracked. He was pretty sure that without the Commander's warning, they would have been broken - him too.

The next time it had been Jalune's turn. The bastard had smiled as he'd shown him a long, thick leather strap four inches wide. It was attached to a wooden handle and there were small holes punched into the end. Man, it had hurt. The damn thing was more painful than a whip. Each blow had forced the air out his lungs. Every strike felt like two lashes combined. The sadist had goaded him as he'd systematically flogged his chest, his legs and even his mutilated back. His barely healed wounds had split open once again, the blood trickling down in rivulets onto the floor.

Despite the gut wrenching pain it caused, he reckoned the weapon was designed to wound but not maim. He was covered in raw angry welts but apart from a few cuts, no real blood had been drawn from the new wounds. Still, he hurt like crazy and he'd been in misery ever since. In agony, John guessed his body looked as bad as he felt. He couldn't see clearly but figured between his re-open wounds, the welts, and the livid bruises his torn battered body must be every colour of the freaking rainbow - but not in a good way. If Beckett saw him, the Scot would have a field day. He thought of the Atlantis infirmary with its warm beds, good drugs, and pretty nurses. John wished he was there now.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, but the abuse had been endless. Mutt and Jeff were like a tag team. One would finish, then just when he'd closed his eyes, the other would pick up where his buddy had left off. He wasn't giving up, and didn't want to die, but if this was the way the next fifteen years was going to be, he wanted them to finish the job. Yet John knew that wasn't about to happen.

The commander wanted to make him pay for the things he'd said. He had. The guy also wanted to break him. That was a different story. John knew he was in bad shape. Knew the commander had barely got started with his petty revenge. Regardless of what they did, or how many bones they broke he vowed the bastards would never break his spirit. John tensed up as the blurry figure approached him. He choked back his fear, stared straight ahead, and steeled himself for the next assault.

"Is it true?"

"_Wha_?" John croaked.

"Did you really say those things?"

Frightened he tried, but couldn't remember. The only person he'd spoken to recently was the commander. His comments about prison reform hadn't gone down well. What else had he said? _Surely _he hadn't mentioned Atlantis…John didn't think so, but during the worst of it he'd been so out of it with pain that sometimes he'd zoned out.

Panic seized him. He was deafened by the blood roaring through his ears. His heart was pounding so hard, he thought it was going to burst through his chest. He was choking, his aching chest getting tighter with every breath. Tears sprang to his eyes as the sharp pain from his ribs left him struggling to breathe.

"Sheppard…_John_…It's alright – it's me."

He felt a callused hand support his head, as a cup was placed to his lips. The water was warm, but it eased his parched mouth. He took it gratefully.

"Dulane…is that you?"

"Yes, John. They brought you back yesterday morning. For a while I…_we_…didn't think you were going to make it."

Like a cool breeze on a summer day John felt relief wash over him. He tried to scrub a hand through his hair, but it hurt too much to move. "How…how long was I gone?"

"Nearly a week. John…We have all heard the guards talking about you. Is it true?"

He could feel himself trembling, felt sick, as the panic started creeping back. If he'd said anything to betray Atlantis he would never forgive himself. John swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn't want to, but he needed to find out just how badly he'd screwed up.

"I can't remember, buddy. What am I supposed to have said?"

There was a short silence and John feel his mouth go dry.

Dulane's excited voice was almost a whisper. "We heard them say you stood up to the Commander. That you told him he was…_cruel_."

Of all the things he'd expected to hear, that wasn't one of them. It had been a private conversation Rualin probably wanted to keep _private_. John didn't give a shit about prison gossip. He was just relieved he hadn't given away any secrets.

He felt the tension ease, and let out a long sigh. "I don't think I put it quite that way…but yeah. He didn't like what I had to say. That's why I landed in the hole."

"See…I told you it was true!"

He heard Dulane talk to someone unseen in the background. Then a general conversation broke out. They were voices he'd never heard before but he hurt all over, and was too tired to bother with what they were saying.

It didn't dawn on him until he was drifting off that something was wrong with this scenario. Then he realized. It was the other prisoners talking. All of them risking punishment by breaking the cardinal rule…

ooooOoooo

TBC

Thanks so much for all the response you've given me for the story so far! I appreciate every review.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you thought - thanks, Joanie.


	11. Chapter 11

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 11

John longed for rest, but couldn't get comfortable. Everywhere hurt. His head was pounding, and he was pretty sure a mini Jalune was driving a pickaxe into his brain. He half expected to feel a warm trickle of blood coming out his ears, but only his back was still bleeding. He cursed the guard for splitting open his old wounds. His torn ragged flesh had only just started to heal before he'd been sent to the hole, now, thanks to that damn strap, several of the lacerations were still seeping blood and sequeous fluid.

The hard wooden bunk wasn't designed for comfort but no matter how he lay, he was in agony. He hadn't been able to lie on his back since the first whipping on Flenda. The kid didn't have Ceeland's expertise, but the punishment had literally left its mark. He'd been in pain ever since. Of course lying on his front was out too - his cracked ribs seen to that. He was no Carson Beckett, but John knew enough to know putting pressure on his chest wouldn't be a _smart_ move. It could also be his last.

That left lying on his side, which wasn't much fun either. Mutt and Jeff had done a thorough job. The raw angry welts covered everywhere, including his sides and legs. From the stinging pain radiating from his back, John was convinced his right kidney was bruised. He had a high tolerance for pain, but usually when he'd been injured he could see an end to the misery in sight. Here there was no chance of that. His sentence already guaranteed a life of discomfort, but with Rualin now on his case John knew things would only get worse.

It wasn't just his battered body that was making him uncomfortable. Ever since he'd been returned to the cell block the other prisoners were treating him like some kind of freaking messiah. John had never been a fan of hero worship, especially if he was the _hero_ in question - it made him embarrassed. Sure he'd admired others. The Wright brothers and Neil Armstrong came to mind, but he'd never been one to put people on pedestals, except maybe his mom.

She was the biggest influence in his life, both then and now. It was her who'd encouraged him to follow his dreams. To stay strong, and not to give up regardless of the obstacles put in his way. To keep the faith even if everyone was against him, even if it seemed hopeless. John knew she hadn't thought he was perfect, but mom accepted him for who he was, and had loved him despite his faults.

In his book shooting off his mouth and getting the crap beaten out of him, didn't make him a hero. Unfortunately, the other prisoners thought differently. When he'd woken up, at first he thought his fever had returned with a vengeance. Then he realized he'd been covered with a mound of blankets. Extra rations had also been piled into his bowl. Unfortunately the concussion was making him nauseous. When he'd tried to force some of it down, he'd felt like a heel when the inevitable happened.

Dulane was now his best bud. The young guy had fought off all comers to take on the mantle of chief care assistant. John couldn't so much as raise his head without a hand at his shoulder helping him sit up. If he so much as coughed, a cup of water was placed to his lips. He was mortified. John had always been uneasy about accepting gratitude. He downright hated being treated as if he was helpless.

He accepted that right now he needed the assist, and as Dulane meant well he didn't say anything. John knew he was being ungrateful, but all the attention made him squirm. He didn't do anything for the glory, and effusive praise made him uncomfortable. Sure, it was nice to be appreciated, but here he hadn't done anything.

The admiration he was getting wasn't deserved. It made him feel edgy, especially as he was just plain old John Sheppard here – prisoner 912. The Colonel had been left behind in Taluna, so he couldn't do anything to help these men. Hell, he couldn't do anything to help himself. On the plus side, at least he didn't feel alone anymore. On the minus, while it was good to hear voices and enjoy the simple act of conversation again, John was concerned about the trouble it could cause.

Yet he didn't have the heart to stop them. In the last few days he'd watched formerly quiet, frightened men if not smile, at least come out of their fugue. The pleasure they gained from the simple act of self-expression could be seen in their faces. In the way they held themselves. He could tell the guards had noticed the change. They were watching the prisoners with curiosity, concern and suspicion. John was worried. He didn't want anyone getting into trouble.

In his new _role_ John warned them to be cautious, and was relieved to see they kept quiet while the guards were about. He really hoped they kept smart, watched their backs, and didn't openly flaunt the rules. When he'd smart mouthed the Commander he hadn't given much thought about what would happen. The prolonged brutal beating was more than he'd bargained for. Several days on, he was still suffering the consequences.

Freedom of speech was important. It was the backbone of democracy, and should be everyone's right. Except these men were far from free, and the commander was not a guy to be messed with. If anyone else got hurt because of what he'd started, John didn't think he could handle the responsibility.

ooooOoooo

"I'm going in there…All I need is one minute alone with him!"

"_Shush_, Ronon." Teyla put her finger to her lips, and pulled Ronon back from the closed door of the judge's chambers. "I know this has taken longer than we expected, but Mr Woolsey is in there now. It will not help John's cause if you lose your temper."

"Due process…"Rodney harrumphed. "_Right_…as if we believe that! How long does it take to sign a piece of paper..." Rodney had been pacing up and down, but stopped and pointed his finger at the door. "That jumped up little dictator has been sitting on this for nearly two weeks. You know why don't you? It wasn't just that we embarrassed his family. Showed them up to be liars…at least his niece anyway. Oh, no, that was bad enough. It was the fact he'd made a mistake about Sheppard. Those wrinkly mean autocratic types always react the same way when they meet him. It's that dumb hair! They take one look at it and think he's trouble…"

At the sound of the creaking door opening Rodney fell quiet. His heart was racing, and he could tell from her anxious expression Teyla felt the same. Ronon just looked pissed. So was he. The fact the old man was letting his niece off with perjury made him seethe, but getting mad wouldn't get the pardon signed. Rodney was impatient to get out of Taluna, release his friend and take him home. He didn't want to think of all the bad things John would have suffered while he'd been inside. Once they got him back to Atlantis, Carson could fix him. At least he hoped so. The most important thing was to get Sheppard out of Flenda, and take him back to Atlantis where he belonged.

Rodney was shocked at the expression on Woolsey's face. He'd never seen the diplomat look so angry. His eyes were dark, like chips of granite. His mouth was a thin tight line on his face. Rodney heard him mutter a terse thanks as he took the other end of the scroll of paper in the judge's hand. It seemed to take forever for the clearly furious old man to let it go.

No sooner had the diplomat walked out, than the door slammed behind him.

"Let's get out of this place." Woolsey instructed, without making eye contact with any of them. Uncharacteristically, he stormed out the room leaving the others in his wake.

Rodney rushed after him. "So you got it then?"

Woolsey let out a long sigh. "_Yes_…Doctor McKay, as you can clearly see I have it in my hand. What good it will do when we don't know where the prison is located…is another matter entirely."

"What?"

Ronon appeared in front of them wearing a fierce expression. "You mean we've done all this for _nothing_?" The Satedan growled at Woolsey. His hands formed into fists and he started back towards the Judges' Chambers.

Woolsey called after him. "Go ahead – I'm not going to stop you. But it's not going to make any difference. He doesn't know where Flenda is."

Ronon stopped in his tracks, turned round and glared. If he thought Ronon looked pissed before, his friend's undisguised rage even made Rodney nervous. The Satedan looked at the closed door with disgust then slowly came back towards them. Rodney wasn't ashamed to admit he was disappointed. Except hitting the judge wasn't going to help the situation. Besides, right now he was trying to digest what he'd just heard.

"_Excuse_ me…Did I hear you right? Then how are we supposed to get Sheppard released?"

Woolsey put up his hand. He said nothing until they were outside the court building.

"The judge doesn't know where it is. Apparently no one does. When someone wishes to use their _services_, they send out a signal and one of their soldiers comes to collect the prisoner. Apparently this was the first time he'd ever contacted the place." Woolsey's face broke into a cynical smile as he held up the scroll. "_This_ was also the first time he'd ever signed a pardon. The judge _assures_ me he will send a message to the prison asking for Colonel Sheppard to be released. However…"

"You don't trust him." Ronon said simply.

Woolsey took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Truthfully, Ronon, I don't know what to think. His behavior so far hasn't encouraged me to have any faith in the man, but I hardly think beating him to a pulp will achieve anything." His eyes twinkled. "It might make us feel a little better but…I would rather you didn't. I'd prefer not have another member of my staff subjected to the _justice_ here."

"So what do we do now, Mr Woolsey? Surely we cannot sit around and do nothing?"

"No, Teyla…of course not. If he keeps his word I am hopeful Colonel Sheppard will make his own way back to Atlantis in the next few days. In the meantime we start looking for the man who was sent to take him there in the first place. His name is Kilund."

ooooOoooo

John yelped as he hit the floor. The fall jolted his healing wounds, aggravating all of his assorted aches, and he lay sprawled on the ground groaning as he tried to focus on the man who'd pushed him out of bed – Jalune.

"Get up, Sheppard. It's time you did some work."

Dulane was in the next bunk. John saw the young prisoner jump to his feet. He threw his new friend a warning look to do nothing and keep quiet. He really hoped Dulane didn't try to be a hero.

Even though the beating was over a week ago, he was still weak and in pain from his wounds. From Jalune's smirk John could tell the bastard was well aware of how he was feeling, but didn't give a shit. When he saw him make a point of placing his hand over his cane John gritted his teeth, and using the wall as support, clumsily struggled to his feet. Dizzy, he staggered slightly. When Dulane rushed to take his arm, the guard shoved the younger man onto his ass.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?" Jalune glared at Dulane who glared back. The guard raised an eyebrow and his mouth broke into a nasty smile. "Well, well…don't tell me the timid little prisoner has developed a back bone…"

Dulane looked furious, and the other prisoners were also gathering round. John could feel the tension mounting, the atmosphere electric as he saw them watching the unfolding scene with undisguised anger. He didn't see any other way out of it. He wasn't in any condition to take more abuse, but knew he needed to say something to diffuse the situation. "I'm fine…really…I don't want any of you getting into trouble because of me."

"Listen to him - he's right. Now get to work all of you or else you'll pay with the skin off your backs." Jalune growled at them in a menacing tone, but it still took several uneasy moments before Dulane moved away, and the crowd dispersed.

Once they were alone he whispered in John's ear. "You just can't keep your big mouth shut...can you Sheppard. You know that speaking without permission is an infraction, but don't worry - I'll make sure the Commander hears about it. The punishment is usually five lashes of the strap. As it's you…he'll probably make it ten."

John wondered what he would get if he punched him out. It was a tempting thought. If he wasn't already so beat up he might have considered it. Maybe when it was Christmas, or his birthday he would treat himself. He smiled, and when he caught Jalune glaring at him it became a grin. His mirth was pissing the guy off, and it felt damn good.

Even when Jalune shoved his tender back John hissed, but kept smiling. He didn't think anything could destroy his mood. When they reached the courtyard and he was pushed towards the wooden frame, his heart sank.

"Not smiling anymore, Sheppard…I wonder why?"

John ignored him stared straight ahead, and kept his fists clenched by his side. It was too soon after the last brutal beating and he wasn't in good shape. Another whipping now could kill him. If they wanted to whip him again he couldn't stop them, but he wasn't going to let them see he was afraid.

"So _stoic_…but you can relax. You're not getting whipped today. The Commander wants you to scrub the frame. Make it all squeaky clean, and get rid of the dried blood off the platform. You can get the water from the trough over there, and here's the brush." Jalune showed him the small brush, smiled, and let it drop to the ground. "I'll be back to check on you later. And Sheppard…I don't need to tell you the penalty for shoddy work."

John grimaced as the simple action of bending down pulled on his aching back. When he saw the brush, he shook his head in disgust. The flattened, worn bristles were practically non-existent. He didn't know how he was supposed to get the job done using that. Then he realized. That was the point – he wasn't intended to. John was determined he wasn't going to let the lack of proper tools stop him doing the task. At the very least he'd give it a damn good try. If they were going to beat him again, it wouldn't be because he'd failed.

ooooOoooo

Rualin stepped back into his office from the balcony. He had been watching Sheppard for the past hour and despite the man's obvious discomfort, he had to hand it to him, he was doing a good job. It was hot outside, over a hundred degrees and Sheppard was drenched in sweat. The exposed skin on his neck, face and arms were turning raw under the sun's fierce rays, but to his credit, the man didn't stop in his task for a moment.

He admired him. Under different circumstance Lt Colonel Sheppard would have been someone he would have liked to know. John Sheppard the belligerent prisoner was another matter. A brave, intelligent man like him was a dangerous person to have in a prison. Especially one like his.

Already word had reached him of a slight shift in the status quo amongst the inmates. So far there hadn't been any direct breaches of prison rules, but Rualin wasn't happy. No one should have been aware of why Sheppard had been sent to the hole. Now it was becoming clear that the reason for his punishment was common knowledge. From what Jalune had told him it appeared the man was admired by the other prisoners. One had even tried to protect him. It was a disturbing development. The last thing he'd wanted was to create a hero.

He doubted if Sheppard saw himself in that light. He didn't strike him as a man who'd want that kind of attention, so Rualin doubted if he'd revealed any details of their conversation. He wasn't naïve and knew about the prison grapevine. None of his men had said anything to him about that day. Then again, he wouldn't have expected them to. Nor would he expect them to give up one of their own. Nevertheless, it was clear there had been a breach of confidence.

"Come in…"

Corporal Ceeland opened the door and walked into the room. "You wanted to see me, Commander?"

Rualin stood up, slipped off his jacket and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. When he took out a large leather strap, Ceeland's eyes grew wide with fear, and the color drained from his face.

"Strip down to the waist and come over here."

"_Sir_…"

Rualin took the strap and slammed it down on the desk. "Don't even try to deny what you've done. Consider yourself fortunate I don't drag you down to the frame and flog you in front of the prisoners."

The man bent his head, as he slowly removed his shirt. "I'm sorry, Commander. I had too much to drink and -"

"You spoke out of turn and broke my trust."

Rualin motioned for the soldier to give him his hands, and Ceeland meekly held out his wrists. The young man didn't utter a word as he allowed himself to be tied to the coat hook on the wall. "A breach of confidence cannot be tolerated. You are hereby stripped of your rank and demoted to private." Rualin took the wooden ruler from his desk snapped it, and held out one of the pieces to the man about to be punished. "Bite down on this, and be grateful for the consideration. I'm keeping your disgrace private - at least the prisoners won't be able to hear your screams."

ooooOoooo

TBC.

Many thanks for all the great reviews! I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review - thanks, Joanie.

BTW apologies to those of you on alert that received this twice. I had a lot of trouble loading the chapter last night, and I didn't receive an alert - so I suspect many of you didn't either. I just hope it works the second time!


	12. Chapter 12

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 12

Sweat was running down his face, chest and back, but John couldn't risk taking off his tunic. The damp material felt clammy and uncomfortable, sticking to him like a second skin, yet the heavy cotton garment was all there was to protect his tender back from the sun.

He could feel the heat searing through the material, but hoped the stiff cotton would limit the exposure. Relentless, the scorching sun blazed down burning the unprotected skin on his head, neck and arms. There was no respite. In the open courtyard there was nowhere where he could hide, gain any relief from it's unforgiving rays. The hot dry air brought more misery as every breath caught his throat and assaulted his lungs. Sick and dizzy, he fought back the nausea. He couldn't give up. The consequences of failure had already been spelt out to him, but that wasn't the overriding force that drove him on. He wasn't going to give Jalune the satisfaction of seeing him beaten.

The palms of his hands were covered in blisters from the constant scrubbing. When they'd started to bleed John had ripped off the end of the tunic into strips to bind the wounds. He was already cleaning up blood stains. He couldn't risk his own interfering with the task. No one had come to inspect his progress. No one had told him to stop. He wasn't finished anyway. John kept working determined that neither the lack of proper tools, nor the conditions would get the better of him.

There was a stubborn red stain on the left hand side of the frame. He wondered if it had come from him. John knew he hadn't been the only one who'd suffered there. Many unfortunates had shed blood before him. This mark however was at the same spot where the cords of the whip had stuck in his skin, before being cruelly ripped away. His side still ached. The memory almost as painful as the wound itself.

Hours passed. When the sun dropped below the fortress walls, John reckoned it wouldn't be long until darkness fell. It was like that in the desert. Brilliant, glaring sunlight one minute, the next the sky so dark you could barely see your hand in front of your face. Exhausted, he went to sit back on his heels but his legs were trembling, so he fell on his ass instead. John leaned back on his hands, too tired to care what Jalune would think. He appraised his day's work with a critical eye. He'd done a good job. There wasn't a mark left on the frame, and the platform was pristine. If the sadist was going to give him another infraction, it wouldn't be for the task he'd just completed.

The heat from the painted stones was burning his ass, so John decided to move. His throat was parched. The trough was nearby. He didn't know how clean the water was, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He cupped his hands into its depths and drank his fill. When he looked around and still couldn't see any guards, he plunged his head in. The ambient temperature was too hot for the water to be cold, but the tepid liquid felt awesome. The relief it brought his burnt skin, instantaneous.

Suddenly he was gasping for air as something hard and strong held him down. The water rushed up his nose and down his throat choking him. His eyes were stinging. His lungs were burning, fit to burst as he struggled to get a breath. His heart was pounding, as the world started to slow down and his brain became fuzzy. Darkness was wavering, the edges closing in, when suddenly a fierce pain seared through his skull. John yelped as he was yanked out by his hair, coughing as a sharp intake of breath forced air into his lungs.

"Nothing like a cool dip on a hot day, is there?" Jalune sneered in his face then released his grip. John fell boneless to the ground. "That's what you get for slacking off."

He was shivering, his limbs shaking as John sprawled on the stones too stunned to move. Water was spilling out of his mouth, his chest tight and sore as he pulled in one stuttering breath after another. He wanted to let rip and give the sadist a piece, then reckoned it was just as well he couldn't speak as some choice words came to mind. Words his mom sure wouldn't have approved of. Words that would get him into deep trouble if he opened his mouth.

Jalune walked all around the frame bent in close, and ran his hand over the rough surface of the wood. When he turned round, he didn't look happy. "I'm sure you must have missed something. I'll check it again later when the sun isn't in my eyes. For now…I suppose it will have to do."

John wanted to wipe the snide smile off his face. Better yet string him up to the damn frame and give him a taste of his own medicine. He realized he'd need to be careful. It was the second time he'd harbored the tempting thought of hitting Jalune in less than twenty-four hours. He would either need to get a handle on his temper, or save it for something worthwhile. If he did lash out, that was _exactly_ what he would get in return.

Jalune grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. His arm was on fire, but he clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth. This guy got off on causing pain. John wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing his.

Out of the sun it felt a little cooler, but the build-up of heat had made the prisoners' quarters stuffy and oppressive. Jalune pushed him inside and walked away. John staggered, but managed not to fall. One of the guards was still handing out food. John looked at the stale bread and hard cheese with disgust. It wasn't haute cuisine at any time. Right now with a pounding head and queasy stomach, bed rather than food was a more appealing option.

John glanced around the room looking for Dulane, but couldn't see him. The guy was like his shadow and it was weird he hadn't come over when he'd arrived. Sometimes his constant attention got a bit much, but he liked the little guy. He'd been good to him, and he was pretty much his best friend in this lousy place. John smiled as he remembered how Dulane had taken a risk in trying to help him that morning. He was a brave kid, and he wouldn't forget the act of kindness.

As his eyes accustomed to the gloomy interior the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his senses into overdrive when he noticed a small group around his friends bunk.

"What's happened?"

John didn't care if the guard heard him as he rushed towards them. The other prisoners parted to let him through, and his heart sank when he saw Dulane lying there. He was a mess. A sheen of sweat covered the livid bruises on his face and chest, and there was a weeping cut over one eye. The dark purple discoloration on the side of his torso told John at least one rib was cracked, possibly more. What concerned him most was the odd angle of his arm. Thankfully the bone hadn't split the skin but John knew it needed to be set quickly, or his friend would lose the use of his limb.

He shouted over to the guard. "This man needs a doctor…"

"Quiet! If you open your mouth again, I _will _report you."

The guard was half way towards the door when John stepped out, stood in his path and grabbed his arm. "Frankly, I don't give a damn. You can do what the hell you like to me but this man's arm is broken. Like I said before – he needs a doctor!"

John waited to be hauled back to the hole. Instead the guard glared at him, shook off his hand and came over. He glanced at Dulane, and for the first time since arriving John saw a glimpse of compassion.

"I'm sorry…but the Commander would never allow it. The best I can do is keep the lights on for a while to let you tend to his wounds."

He was going to protest further, but realized it was pointless. The guard genuinely looked sorry, but by his response it was clear that in some ways, he was almost as much a captive of the repressive system as he was. He had a lousy job, working in inhospitable conditions for a tyrannical boss. John guessed he was basically a decent guy so nodded his thanks for the small concession. He waited until the key turned in the lock before he issued orders.

"I need two slim pieces of wood about a foot long. Break them off my bunk if you have too." He sat down beside Dulane and forced a smile on his face. "It's going to be okay, buddy. I know you feel like crap right now, but there isn't anything wrong that won't feel better in a couple of days. But your arms broken and I'll need to re-set the bone. Don't worry...I've done this lots of times before, but I'm afraid it's going to hurt."

"I…I'll be fine…"

Dulane started to choke. Someone handed John a glass of water, and he carefully raised his friend's head so he could take a sip. Dulane's face was creased in pain, and not for the first time John wished Carson was here. He'd lied to Dulane. The fact was he'd only ever done it once before. It had happened back in his old life, when his chopper had gone down in Afghanistan.

The medic who'd been travelling with him had broken her wrist. When no rescue came after a few hours, she'd talked him through it. It hadn't been a pleasant experience for either of them but with her pain controlled with morphine, he'd managed it. This time he didn't have any drugs to offer his friend, but what choice did he have? John hoped he could do it, but he was no doctor. What worried him most was the heavy bruising on Dulane's chest. If his friend was suffering from internal bleeding, he wouldn't be able to help him.

"Who did this to you, buddy?"

Dulane swallowed, his breath hitched and he looked away.

"Jalune took him out of work detail. We didn't see him again until we came back and found him lying unconscious in the latrine."

John looked from the man who gave him the information and took in the broken body of his friend. He wanted to kill Jalune. Take him apart piece by piece. Right now he needed to put his rage aside to deal with the unpleasant task ahead.

"_Please_…John….don't…don't do anything. I'm not worth a beating."

Dulane was watching him. John was glad someone handed him the splints. It saved him from answering.

John hated knowing he was going to cause his buddy even more pain, and was determined Jalune was going to share it. He nodded to one of the prisoners to hold the young man steady. When Dulane's screams rent the air John could feel tears sting his eyes. He had caused this – all of it. The guilt was overwhelming. These men had already been living a hellish existence before he arrived. Now because of misplaced hero worship, he'd made their miserable lives even worse…

ooooOoooo

As he guided the bow over the strings of his violin, the haunting melody didn't soothe Rualin the way it usually did. Something was amiss in his orderly existence. He could feel the growing tide of defiance within the prison population. It had all began with Sheppard, but regardless of the steps he'd taken, he could still sense the unease amongst his staff.

He stopped, placed the instrument carefully on his desk and wandered onto the balcony. The starkness of the glistening stars against the inky darkness was magnificent. Rualin loved the desert. He enjoyed the isolation of the unforgiving harsh landscape. He even liked the extremes of the climate, but nightfall was his favorite time of day.

Rualin was aware many of his men didn't like it here, but to him this was home. Over the years he'd been offered other, more prestigious postings, but Flenda was his. He had made the prison what it was. It was run by his rules, the prisoners disciplined by the punishments he'd introduced, and he tolerated no interference. He was aware that some in central command considered his methods extreme, but no one had said anything to his face. They were pathetic liberals who weren't prepared to do what was necessary to get the job done.

Here he _was_ the law. Men who were sent to his prison soon learned what punishment really meant. Rualin didn't have time for mercy or compassion. These prisoners hadn't showed either to their victims. He showed none in return. He believed in retribution. Flenda was just the place for that to be delivered in full.

The familiar chill of the cool desert night made him shiver, so he pulled in his jacket a little tighter. It wasn't until he heard a cough behind him that he realized someone was watching him. It was Ceeland. There was pain in the blue eyes, and the young soldier was holding himself a little stiffly. Apart from that, there was no outward sign of the beating he'd endured earlier in the day. Rualin admired the man for returning to duty so soon. He knew how much he must be hurting.

"Why didn't you knock?"

Ceeland's pale face went even whiter. "I did, Commander – twice. When you didn't answer I thought there might be something the matter. Did I do wrong to come in?"

Rualin ignored the question. He walked into the office, reached for the liquor he kept in his top desk drawer and helped himself to a large glass. "What is it?"

"We have received a communiqué from Taluna." Ceeland handed over the piece of paper. "I thought you should see it at once."

He knocked back the remainder of his drink, put down his glass and read it. Rualin's surprise mirrored the look on the soldier's face "Does anyone else know about this?"

"No, Commander. I was the only one in the office when it came in."

"That's good…In which case this will be our little secret for the time being." He locked eyes with the guard. "I trust you _will _be able to keep the information to yourself?"

Ceeland blushed to his roots. "Yes, Commander."

Rualin smiled. "Good night Ceeland…and get someone to redress your wounds before you retire."

He thought he saw a flash of anger, but put it down to the man's discomfort as Ceeland saluted before leaving the room.

Rualin picked up the paper, crushed it into a ball and threw it into the rippling flames of the log fire. He refilled his glass, sat down in the green leather chair beside the hearth, and watched the missive burn until only the ashes remained.

Part of him wasn't surprised at Sheppard's innocence. From the moment the prisoner walked into his office Rualin had been able to tell there was something different about him. It wasn't just because of the way he'd spoken to him. There was no question John Sheppard was arrogant, but he'd sensed another quality. There was a nobility about him - Sheppard was an honorable man.

He'd witnessed part of the brutal punishment Sheppard had endured in the hole. Ceeland and Jalune had beaten him senseless but despite the injuries they'd inflicted, his dignity had remained intact. They hadn't been able to break his spirit.

Now he had a dilemma. If he let Sheppard go there was every likelihood that without his disruptive influence, things would return to normal. It was a tempting thought. Then again the man _had_ caused a lot of trouble.

It went against the grain to simply let him leave. Rualin sipped his drink and stared into the flames. It had been a long day and tonight he was too tired to think. He left the glass half-empty, doused the fire and retired for the night. He needed a clear head to decide what to do with the troublesome man. The decision could wait for another day.

ooooOoooo

TBC

So now Rualin knows about John's innocence, what's he going to do about it?

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please let me know what you thought. And many thanks to all of you who have left reviews - they are much appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 13

The event horizon burst into life but when Captain Linksy's team walked through the 'gate, Rodney felt the now familiar knot in his stomach start to tighten.

He dragged his eyes away and tried to focus on the fictitious job he'd created. It was pointless, he couldn't concentrate. For nearly a week he'd hung around the control room pretending to fix something that wasn't broken. Rodney wanted to be there when Sheppard came home. He hadn't.

He couldn't stop thinking of all the things that could've gone wrong. Maybe the judge in Taluna hadn't sent the message. Or if he had, maybe there was a problem with Flenda's communications and they didn't receive it. What if John had been released and for some reason wasn't able to make his way home. Worse still, what if John was dead.

Ronon and Teyla were off world following up leads on this guy Kilund. He'd wanted to go with them, but someone had to be there in case John came home under his own steam. Now he wished he'd tagged along. He was on edge hanging around, and the disappointment was wearing him down.

"Why don't you have a break, Rodney, I will carry on here."

Rodney opened his mouth to refuse Radek's offer, but changed his mind. He needed a decent cup of coffee. Rodney knew just the place, and hopefully Carson could also give him something for his stomach. He was sure he had an ulcer, or worse. If it ruptured and he died, it would all be Sheppard's fault. Rodney wanted him home so he could rant at him in person. He snapped shut his laptop and leaned back on his chair. What the hell had gone wrong? Where was he?

"Rodney…Are you alright?"

He glanced up to see Radek looking at him with concern. Rodney sighed. He realized he'd zoned out and hadn't answered him. The Czech could be a thorn in his side at times, but he was also a good friend.

Rodney knew Radek had guessed what he was up to – or wasn't, but had said nothing. His associate had covered for him, and generally picked up the slack since Sheppard had been imprisoned. He hated knowing he'd allowed things to slide. Rodney always thought of himself as invincible, that nothing could shake him. He'd been wrong. The fact was he was used to fixing things. It was his job to save the day, pull a last minute solution out of the hat to get them out of trouble. This time his genius hadn't been able to help. He wasn't used to feeling helpless. The emotion didn't sit well with him.

"I'm fine…Just tired. A break sounds good – thanks."

Radek nodded. "While you're gone, I'll take a look at the inter-cortical processor that's interfering with the warp field generator for you."

"_Eh_?"

The Czech raised an eyebrow. "The _problem_ you've been trying to fix…"

Rodney wanted to head slap himself. "Oh yeah…That ICP has been a tricky one. _Thanks_, Radek."

As he started to walk away he saw Chuck scratching his head, looking puzzled. Rodney was still in earshot when he heard the 'gate tech speak.

"Doctor, Zelenka…I didn't know we had one of those. Didn't they have a warp field generator in Star Trek?"

ooooOoooo

"C'mon, buddy, just a little more." John encouraged, but Dulane was having none of it. The wounded man just looked mutinous, as he kept his mouth firmly shut.

John watched the sloppy mush stick to the side of the bowl. It looked disgusting. He couldn't blame the guy for not wanting to eat. For a moment he considered doing what his mom used to do when he'd been sick. Then he reckoned if he played flying the plane into the _hanger_ not only would the other prisoners think he'd gone mad, the commander might just lock him up in the hole for good.

At least Dulane seemed a little better. He still looked a sight. His livid bruises were now turning a greenie yellow color, but at least there was a good blood supply flowing to the fingers of his broken arm. It would heal in time, but John felt for the guy. Without pain relief, Dulane would be in agony.

"Get up, Sheppard. We're going to mess up that nice job you did. It's time for the next part of your punishment."

Dread expanded in his chest and his mouth went dry. John couldn't believe he'd been there that long. The commander either didn't have a calendar. Or he'd been out of it for so long between the beatings, he hadn't realized a month had passed.

He knew it was Jalune and didn't turn round. "He's hurt - I'm not leaving him. Anyway I'm sure it can keep for tomorrow. You can beat the crap out of me then, hell, you can even add on few more lashes for the _inconvenience._ I'm sure you'd like that."

Fiery pain exploded on his back. John gasped as he tumbled off the edge of the bunk and fell onto the ground. Another blow followed, then another. John lifted a hand to protect his face. When he moved it and the red mist cleared, he saw Dulane looking terrified. Their eyes locked. John hoped his buddy got the message - everything would be okay.

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a funny guy, Sheppard? Well you won't be laughing by the time I'm finished with you." Jalune sneered as he tapped the end of the cane against his other hand. "Yeah…it's going to be me today. I'm going to have the pleasure of whipping the hide off your back. I would have done it for nothing, but hey…I'm even getting paid for it. Did I mention how much I'm looking forward to it?"

The room had gone silent. The other prisoners just standing, watching as the scene played out.

"So get up! Or maybe you need a different kind of encouragement."

John saw the guard about to strike Dulane and he lunged at him, throwing him to the ground. His battered body screamed in protest as they rolled around the floor, but his surprise attack had shocked the guard. John landed a punch, then another. His knuckles ached, but he didn't care - it felt just as good as he'd imagined. A bruise blossomed on Jalune's cheek and blood poured from his split lip. Weakened by injury John's blows lacked their usual strength and just as he was about to hit him again, anger replaced the shock on Jalune's face. The guard recovered his wits and pushed him off.

Jalune's cane had gone flying when he'd fallen. When he reached for it, one of the other prisoners kicked it away. He glared at the man, taking in the others with a scathing look. "Once I've dealt with him – you're all going to pay for that."

John's back was still burning from the assault, but Jalune's brief exchange with the prisoners had allowed him to get back on his feet. He smiled. "You know, Jalune, These threats are really getting a bit old. Bring it on…Let's see what you've got without a weapon in your hand."

"_Why you_…" The guard sprang at him. John dodged to the side, and as Jalune went running past he struck him on the back with a clenched fist.

Jalune fell onto the edge of Dulane's bunk, missing him by inches. Before the guard could retaliate by harming his friend, John grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and threw him into the corridor.

John knew he was going to pay for this, so he was going to make it worthwhile. He was glad the corridor was deserted when he followed the guard outside.

Jalune wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at the scarlet liquid and looked up enraged. With more speed than John expected he lunged off the ground and head butted him in the chest. John grunted, winded as the sharp pain expanded to his gut and took his breath away.

John staggered, stumbling against the wall. He was dazed but his instincts were still intact. He moved out the way just in time to avoid Jalune's fist. John heard the sound of breaking bones as it collided with the hard surface. The guard yelped, his horror visible as he looked aghast at his broken hand.

A smile grew on John's face. It was soon wiped off as Jalune kneed him in the groin. He choked on a cry as he crumpled to the ground. This time he couldn't move to avoid the steel-toed boot coming his way. White hot agony speared through his side as it tore into his ribs. Instinctively, he curled into a ball to try and ride out the pain. It didn't work. He couldn't stop a groan escaping his lips.

He'd already been hurting before the fight started, and the adrenaline that had been keeping him going was fading fast. Now in agony John didn't know how much longer he could go on. One thing was for sure. He couldn't let Jalune win. As the guard went to kick him again he grabbed his foot, pulled, and toppled him to the ground. With both of them now on the floor John used the even playing field to get to his feet.

The two men stared at each other in silence. They were like prize fighters in the ring, each sizing the other man up.

In one corner was the prisoner. He was weakened by prolonged brutality and starvation, but had right on his side. In the other was the sadistic prison guard. Jalune was nursing a broken fist and a dented ego. John wanted to believe he had the upper hand, but he wasn't fooling himself. His legs were already trembling with tension and fatigue. There wasn't much left in the tank so he would need to consider his next move carefully. If he didn't, it could be his last.

The other prisoners had crowded into the narrow hallway. He could see them watching with a mix of apprehension and disbelief. John saw something else too – hope. He couldn't let them down. If Jalune beat him, it wasn't just going to be him who would suffer. If it was last thing he ever did, he must take Jalune down.

"Is that _all_ you have?" John smirked. "I've had a better workout from a new recruit!"

John couldn't believe what he was about to do. Then again it wasn't the first time he done something crazy. He slowly eased backwards, moving from side to side with his hands gesturing Jalune to take a shot. He only hoped the guy was as dumb as he looked.

He was. Scarlet with rage Jalune charged at him. He was too incensed to notice the steep bank of stairs leading to the courtyard below. John moved out the way, but not quickly enough. Jalune snatched at his tunic as he fell, and hindered by the chains around his ankles John followed him down the stairs.

Pain exploded all over his body as every hard stone edge bit into his flesh on the way down. Time seemed to stand still as he tumbled, gathering speed as his body gained momentum. He yelped as his left leg folded beneath him. The crack audible as his knee collided against the hard stone. Shrouded in pain he could barely focus when his head slammed against the cobbled passageway. The last thing he saw before darkness took him, was Jalune's lifeless brown eyes.

ooooOoooo

Carson resisted from smiling. "I've already told you, Rodney. You don't have an ulcer."

The scientist sat up straighter on the examination table, folded his arms and vehemently shook his head. "You're wrong. I can feel it twisting, squirming – I'm sure I'm bleeding internally."

"Have you been watching Alien again? I've told you before not to watch horror films…at any time. You know how it affects you."

"_Hardy_, _har_, _har_. I didn't know comedy was part of the medical curriculum." Rodney smirked, but a moment later the worried look was back. "Are you absolutely sure? You don't need to protect me. If it's bad news I can take it."

Carson finished writing on his pad and looked back at his friend. "You have an upset stomach, Rodney. It's probably caused by too much coffee and a poor diet. The antacids I've prescribed should sort it out…what is it?"

He followed Rodney's gaze and saw Teyla coming into the infirmary. The Athosian wasn't alone, two men were with her. Ronon was nursing a cut over his left eye, and a deepening bruise on his cheek. The older man had a similar bruise, but Carson also saw evidence of a broken nose. It didn't take years of medical training to know they'd been fighting. What puzzled him was both men were smiling.

Rodney slid off the bed and came to stand beside him. They waited in vain for the two men to stop talking. While they laughed and joked he saw the look of frustration on Teyla's face. He felt sorry for the poor lassie. Strands of hair had come loose from her pony tail making her look dishevelled. Her usual calm, serene expression was replaced by exasperation. Carson didn't know what the hell had happened here, but enough was enough.

"Right lads, would you care to tell me what happened?" Carson nodded towards the stranger. "And, Ronon, where's your manners? Introduce me to your friend."

Ronon smiled. It showed a chip in one of his teeth. "Doc, McKay…" He clapped the stranger on the back. "This is Kilund."

ooooOoooo

His head was pounding. Sparks of light danced in his vision as he peeled his eyes open to reveal the courtyard in front of him. John didn't need to be told he was back on the frame. His burning shoulders and chest confirmed he'd been there a while. The fact he was looking outwards was also a clue. It didn't take a genius to figure out where he was going to be whipped this time.

Suspended by his wrists only his toes were scraping the hot stones. Like a marionette he was dangling. The searing pain piercing through his busted knee was unbearable.

"It's about time you woke up. You've broken my routine, Sheppard. I usually like to watch the punishments with my morning coffee. It's now past lunch."

John struggled to focus. There were three commanders in front of him. They all looked pissed. "S's…sorry to keep you waiting."

"Tell me...what happened this morning? They found you and Jalune at the foot of the stairs." Rualin moved in closer and glared at him with suspicion. "Did you know he's dead? His neck was broken by the fall."

He was already in agony and about to experience a whole knew world of pain, but inside he was smiling.

"He t...tripped. Stu…stu…stupid bastard took me down the damn stairs with him."

Stony faced, Rualin stared at him. There was silence for a moment as the commander looked at him, but said nothing. When he finally spoke it was almost a relief.

"That's what the other prisoners said so I suppose I don't have any choice but to believe you." He inclined his head to Baldy who was standing off to the side. "Anyway...now that you're awake it's time to proceed with the next portion of your prescribed punishment. Twenty lashes. Before we lay on the cat, you will receive twenty strokes of the prison strap for breaches of prison rules." Rualin bent and whispered in his ear. His hot rancid breath reeked of sour whisky. "You're a trouble maker, Sheppard, and I've had enough of your disruptive influence. When you're done here, it's the hole for you. You'll never see the light of day again."

ooooOoooo

TBC

Many thanks for all the reviews! I try to reply to everyone, but unfortunately I can't answer those either without an account, or those readers whose accounts have disabled the private messaging facility.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter also, and please review. I really love to know what you think!


	14. Chapter 14

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 14.

John tried to focus, take his mind away, pretend it wasn't him strung up like a lamb ready for slaughter. Make believe it wasn't his skin that was going to be split open and ripped into little pieces for the third time. Except he couldn't. The sharp gnawing pain from his aching knee was demanding his attention. He cursed Jalune for taking him on the ride down those damn stairs with him.

The view ahead was fuzzy, the sun blinding. He was barely aware of the men in front of him. John thought it was Ceeland holding the strap, but the heavy built enforcer was wavering in and out of his vision. John heard the snap, and saw the glint of the strap's metal handle just before the pain exploded on his chest.

He grunted as it slammed into his body. The sting getting hotter with every second until the angry welt felt on fire. He couldn't see the wound. His neck had been secured to the frame by a piece of leather. John wondered if it was a small concession, a means to protect his face from the savage blows. He soon realized like everything else it was done for their benefit.

His torso was now a nice neat target. A blank canvass they could decorate with welts, bruises and deep ragged lines. More scars that would mutilate his body. Wounds that would never completely heal. Nightmares that would haunt him for years, long after his release - if he survived that long.

The second strike came without warning. He didn't see it, but the deep searing pain soon delivered the news. His chest was throbbing. John knew the strap wouldn't maim. That was the job of the whip. It just felt like he was being torn apart. His body quivered as blow after vicious blow battered him senseless. His aching head slammed against the pole, as the wood vibrated with each powerful strike.

In agony John gave up trying to count how many blows he'd suffered – how many more he was still to endure. The assault seemed endless. It wasn't. There was barely a pause as Ceeland changed weapons. His mouth went dry when he saw the long knotted tails of the cat trailing on the ground.

Already in pain the savage attack was more than he could bear. His abused muscles screamed in protest, and so did he. He was trembling as his skin shuddered, ripped apart by the heavy whip. His body buckling away, but unable to escape the savage assault as the cords wound round his chest, his side, his thighs, the sharp knots digging into his flesh.

He could hear the audible whisper as his skin split and his blood spilt, falling in warm rivulets onto the ground. He wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go, nothing he could do. John closed his eyes, let the tears flow and waited for the misery to end.

ooooOoooo

Carson watched Kilund lounge back against the examination table as if he owned the place. When Jennifer shone the penlight into his eyes he heard the gruff voice chuckle, and saw a blush grow on the pretty doctor's cheeks. In response to whatever comment her patient had made she smiled, and her eyes sparkled.

Rodney on the other hand had gone visibly paler since watching the exchange between them. Carson saw a gleam of amusement in Ronon's eyes, and struggled not to laugh.

"Don't fret, Rodney. The lassie only has eyes for you."

"Not at the moment she doesn't." He muttered. "Just look at her. She…_she's _blushing!"

"It's cool, McKay…The doc's right. I reckon it's a long time since Kilund has seen a pretty woman. He's getting in some practice." Ronon chortled.

"What...about Teyla? She's…"

The scientist went scarlet as Teyla stood with her hands on her hips and smiled at him. "Well thank you, Rodney, how very…_sweet_ of you. However it is not necessary to defend my appearance." She threw a disparaging look at Ronon. "_That_ is how the fight started in the first place."

Ronon started to laugh. When Kilund heard him, the older man smiled over and waved.

Carson started to lower the examination bed, and locked eyes with his patient. "If you can manage to stop laughing for a wee minute, Ronon, I'd appreciate it. That cut is going to need stitches."

Ronon thumped his head into the pillow. "I thought you wanted to hear the story?"

Carson sat down on the stool beside the bed, and loaded up a syringe with some local anaesthetic. "I'm perfectly sure Teyla is more than capable of telling us."

Teyla swept a stray hair behind her ear and smiled. "We were searching Volandorn when Ronon decided he was in need of some _refreshment_. It was a hot day, and as I could see his temper was becoming frayed I agreed. We went into the local hostelry and this stranger…Kilund as it turned out…offered to buy me a drink. I refused…politely of course, however he was quite persistent. To begin with he did not want to take no for an answer."

"You should have seen the look on his face when she slapped him!"

Carson silenced Ronon with a look, but the Satedan was still smiling.

"Are you alright, Teyla?" Carson felt his hackles start to rise. He couldn't stand men who took liberties with women. He stared over at the patient on the other bed. The older man appeared to be harmless enough, and he was certainly charming Doctor Keller. In fact Jennifer was clearly enjoying the mild flirtation.

"Thank you, Carson but I am...fine. I was also in no danger back on the planet." Teyla threw another scathing look Ronon way. "Kilund made an advance and I made my feelings..._clear._ I had the matter under control when Ronon decided to intervene."

"The old guy can sure pack a punch." Ronon grinned. "Ow!"

"I told you to keep still, laddie." Carson warned as he pulled back the syringe.

"Anyway," Teyla continued, "while they were fighting I went over to the bar keep and asked if he had heard of a man called Kilund. The man hadn't but at the mention of his name, Kilund called over -"

"And walked into my left hook. That's when I broke his nose." Ronon grinned.

When Ronon re-enacted the maneuvre, Carson just missed from stabbing the syringe into his eye. "Bloody hell, man - I nearly took your eye out! If you keep moving about like an eegit I'm going to have to sedate you."

Ronon glared at him, but Carson could tell the Satedan had finally got the message. He saw Kilund look over at Teyla with a huge grin. She frowned. Her disapproval didn't seem to faze him at all.

"I'm assuming the fact he's here means he's willing to help?" Rodney asked. His voice sounded sour, but Carson could see hope beneath his friend's cynical expression.

Teyla nodded. "Yes…yes he is, Rodney. John saved his life. Kilund wishes to repay the debt."

Rodney's face twisted and he scratched his head. "So…let me get this straight. Sheppard managed to get the upper hand on this guy, and John _still_ let Kilund take him to prison?"

"Your boss is one stubborn man." Kilund appeared beside them. "I was out…hell knows how long. Sheppard could have escaped at any time – he didn't. Idiot has some kind of dumb persecution complex. With an attitude like his…Let's just say I don't think Sheppard and the Commander will have been getting along too well. "

Jennifer came over to speak to Kilund as Carson was tying off the last of Ronon's sutures. "It really wouldn't take me long to straighten that nose."

Kilund smiled. He tweaked his nose and winced. "Thank you, ma'am, but I think I'll keep it the way it is. It'll remind me of my good friend Ronon here, and the best bar fight I've ever had." He extended his hand to the Satedan and Ronon shook it warmly. "Anyway…this is a nice place you have. While I would have liked to see more of it, what are we hanging around for? Let's go get your military commander and bring him home."

ooooOoooo

The sound of the heavy whip echoed around the courtyard, but Rualin could tell the prisoner had already succumbed to his punishment. His eyes were glazed so he was still conscious, but his body hung limply from the frame. Sheppard barely flinched as nine more tears were ripped into the skin. Nine more trails of blood running from his chest, down his legs and trickling into a pool of red on the stones beneath.

Layered on top of the deep angry welts make by the prison strap Sheppard was a mess. He barely looked human. The man who'd arrived with the healthy tan was now burned raw under the sun. His body was a bloody mass of ripped skin and deep purple bruising. When his eyes shut and his face went slack, Rualin motioned the sergeant to wake him up.

Mallend tipped a bucket of water over his head, but there was no reaction. The liquid running down his body only served to cleanse the weeping wounds, and wash away the blood splattered on the ground. Rualin motioned Ceeland to continue. He hoped another blow would jolt the prisoner awake, but before the young soldier could strike, the convulsions started.

His eyes were closed, but Sheppard started to shudder. The vibrations so fierce that his body was buckling, shaking the very frame he was tied against. Without being told his men hurriedly released him and laid him on the ground. It didn't help. He continued to shake. His trembling limbs jerking. All of his muscles twitching as the tremors rippled through his body.

When he went still, Rualin held his breath. It was his intention to make him suffer, but killing him had never been part of the plan. At least not until he'd done his time. Mallend looked up and gave him a thumbs up. With the signal Sheppard was still alive, he sighed with relief.

Despite the prisoners accounts and what Sheppard had told him, Rualin knew he'd killed Jalune. He was sure of it. He'd seen it in his eyes. Knew the bastard had lied to his face. No, Sheppard couldn't die - he wouldn't let him. Not until he'd made him pay for the death of his son.

ooooOoooo

John was jolted to awareness by the gut wrenching pain. It was sharp, immediate and all consuming. His back was freezing from lying on the hard stone floor, but his chest was on fire. It throbbed incessantly, broken only by spikes of searing heat that threatened to take his breath away. The crippling pain from his knee now encompassed the whole of his leg. John tried not to move, but each shallow breath was torturous. He was in agony. Each small movement a new lesson in misery.

Someone was there. He could hear them, feel the heat of their breath on his body. When he felt the cloth touch his skin he groaned. When John looked up he saw Ceeland cleaning his wounds.

"W…why bother?"

The young guard removed the blood soaked cloth and rinsed it in the pan of water by his side. "If I don't clean these wounds you'll die of infection."

John chuckled slightly, before wincing and moaning softly. "_Right_…and th…that wouldn't do, would it?"

Ceeland didn't respond. Then again, John didn't really expect him to. As he gradually became more lucid, he suddenly remembered. "Y…you didn't finish."

The guard stopped and looked at him. "No I didn't. You had a fit…nearly died on us. The commander will probably leave you to recover for a few days."

"_Gee_…that's kind of h…him – _Gah_!"

As Ceeland resumed his task, John swore through gritted teeth as every nerve in his body screamed at the torture. He clenched his jaw and balled his stiff fingers into fists as pain, sharp, fiery and raw swam and surged from his head down to his busted knee. John was pretty sure the damn thing was broken, but it was hard to tell. Right now everything hurt so bad he couldn't tell where one ache finished and another began.

"How many?"

Ceeland paused in his task. "Twelve."

A sudden stab of intense burning made his breath hitch, and he gasped. Beads of sweat were pouring down his face even though the cell was cold. John struggled to get a handle on the pain before he continued. He couldn't. His deep stubborn need to show he wasn't beaten was the only thing that kept him going. "Eight left…that's not too bad."

The guard shook his head. "No…you _passed_ out at eight. You have twelve lashes left."

"_Crap_…Do you think Rualin would round it down to ten?"

Ceeland gave him a wry smile. "What do you think?"

He groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut as Ceeland rubbed the cloth into a particularly deep ragged laceration. John kept talking. It was the only way to distract himself. "_Wha_...what do you reckon to fifteen…or do you think it'll be a do-over?"

The guard said nothing. John's eyes flew open as a surge of pain pierced through his skull. Darkness wavered, but didn't take him. When the room stopped spinning he saw Ceeland watching him.

"That's quite a lump you have on your head." The guard held up three fingers. "How many fingers do you see?"

"On _which_ hand…" John managed through clenched teeth.

"Your head injury would explain the seizure." Ceeland told him. "The pain from the whipping must have sent you into shock."

John squinted up. "I don't get it…What makes someone like you tick? You beat the crap out of me one minute, and the next you're freaking Doctor Kildare?" When the young guard gave him a puzzled look, John explained. "You get off on inflicting pain, so why bother about how I'm feeling - or is that the deal? You learn how to put me back together, just so you can take me apart again?"

To his surprise Ceeland looked offended. "Just because I'm good at my job doesn't mean I enjoy it. I didn't want to whip you but if I hadn't…someone else would have done it, then it would've been my turn on the frame!" Ceeland threw the cloth in the bowl sending the water splashing over the sides. He went quiet for a moment, then the rage was replaced with bitterness. "I was training to be a medic. When Commander Rualin needed another enforcer, I wasn't given a choice in the matter. I was sent here."

There was a tense silence as Ceeland took a cup and held it to John's lips. "Here…small sips."

John locked eyes with the man who'd beat him. He wanted to tell him that his hard luck story didn't give him the right to persecute another human being. That following orders wasn't always the right thing to do. Instead he said nothing. His strength was failing and he was in too much pain to give a lecture. He accepted the refreshment. The water was warm but gave some relief to his sore, dry throat.

As Ceeland started to apply the salve, John turned his face away.

John knew he was a strong guy, stubborn even, but he wasn't unbreakable. He'd survived a Wraith feeding, and according to McKay had even come out looking younger than before. Until today, he'd never known pain like it. Even turning into a bug didn't come close to what he'd suffered in this hell hole.

Faced with a lifetime alone, trapped in a small dark cell was another matter. John didn't know if he could make it. Pain he could cope with - sort of. Total deprivation was another matter. It was a common torture technique he'd been taught to deal with in training, and so far he had. Yet somehow John reckoned his instructors hadn't bargained for what he'd had to endure, let alone anyone being forced to live that way for years on end.

He wasn't a quitter, but he needed something to give life meaning. With his only contact the men who beat him, and deprived of ever seeing the sky again. If this was the way he was going to spend the next fifteen years of his life, he wanted to die.

He heard shuffling and swallowed the tears threatening to choke him.

"I'll check up on you later, Sheppard." Ceeland was on his feet, covering him with a blanket.

Despite not wanting to be locked up, John was pleased the guy was leaving him alone with his misery. Ceeland was nearly at the door when a thought struck him. "I've just realized – why are you even talking to me? I'm a prisoner."

Ceeland walked out the door looked around the corridor, then came back into the cell. He put a finger to his lips.

"_No_…you're not. I was in the office when your pardon came through. The commander is trying to hide it from you…he swore me to secrecy. But what he's doing…has done to you...isn't right. However if you tell anyone I told you - I'll be punished." Ceeland bent down and placed a folded blanket behind his head. "Look, Sheppard, you need to stay strong. If you can just hold on…I'm guessing someone will come for you soon."

John lay stunned. Too shocked to speak as the guard walked out, shutting the door leaving him in darkness. He didn't understand. Couldn't comprehend what had gone down to make this happen. It didn't matter. His friends were coming. He would soon be home.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Hope is a wonderful thing, and at least John now sees an end in sight. But of course the story isn't finished!

I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please review. Your comments make all the work producing a story worthwhile, and I appreciate the time you take in letting me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 15

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 15

Kilund knew they would come looking for him. The only question had been when. He'd been roaming from place to place making himself visible. Waiting for the day a stranger would mention his name. When he'd been on Active Duty you never left a man behind. Especially a man like John Sheppard.

He'd been around a lot of prisoners in his time. Some guys were scared. Others were mean sons of bitches – or at least they started out that way. Sheppard, he was a different breed altogether.

Almost from the first moment they'd met, Kilund had trouble believing his guilt. Sure, he knew good men could get into trouble, but Sheppard didn't strike him as a careless man. What did surprise him was the base he was in charge of. Atlantis was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

Kilund was no rookie. No innocent either. He'd travelled to many planets over the years, picked up prisoners from village hamlets to industrialized cities alike. Some prisoners even came from advanced civilisations, but none of their cities came close to this place. He'd heard all the legends about the city under the sea, and knew the Ancients must have been an advanced race by the device that cloaked Flenda. He was still blown away by the sights that met him round every corner. Atlantis was something special. She was as unique as the man in charge of protecting her.

He wondered why Sheppard had given up his fine life so easily. Kilund immediately dismissed the thought. It wouldn't have been an easy decision for anyone, but for a man like Sheppard there couldn't have been any other way. John Sheppard was a fool, but he was an honorable fool. A good man who would always do the right thing, no matter at the cost to himself.

Kilund watched Sheppard's team around the large conference table and felt a little jealous. It had been a long time since he'd been part of a tight group like this. He'd loved the army life. Once upon a time he'd even had hopes of commanding his own unit - until the day a sniper put a bullet in his leg.

Kilund missed the camaraderie of his old team but after the career breaking injury, he'd considered himself lucky to have a job. He'd even been proud of what he'd been doing. He'd justified all the cruel treatment he'd inflicted. Told himself it was necessary to prepare the prisoners for what to expect in the harsh prison. No more. He'd been living the wrong kind of life for so long, he'd convinced himself what he'd been doing was right. It was Sheppard who'd taken the blinkers off.

The Colonel had thrown them on the ground and smashed them into tiny pieces along with his illusions. Sheppard had shown him what he'd known but had chosen to forget. Cruelty wasn't justice, it was persecution. Kilund was ashamed of what he'd become and didn't have the stomach for the job anymore. Once he got Sheppard out, he never wanted to set foot in Flenda again.

It wouldn't be easy for an old soldier to change his ways, but he was gonna try. He'd find a nice place, get a new job, and maybe even find himself a good woman. Kilund liked it here, but he'd seen the crew milling about in their smart uniforms. For a scruffy guy like him, he didn't think Atlantis would be a good fit.

What would he do? He didn't think a farmer's life would suit him - he didn't want to work that hard. A job where he could be his own boss sounded good. A bar keep running his own place would do nicely. The bar where he'd met Ronon would do just fine, if he could convince Rualin to release his pension. Unfortunately after today he figured that might just be a problem. Kilund didn't care. Regardless of what the Commander thought he was going to spring Sheppard. He owed the man a debt. It was high time it was paid.

One thing he was sure of, he didn't want to deal with the brass again. Authority figures, guys like Woolsey droned on way too much for his liking. Kilund didn't understand how Sheppard put up with all this crap. He didn't figure him as a crawler. Sheppard's non regulation hair told its own story. It was wild and went its own way, just as independent as the man himself. He wondered how Sheppard coped with interference from this pencil pusher. Kilund reckoned it wouldn't go down too well. Or maybe it was just him that felt like that.

"Please don't take this wrong way, Sergeant Kilund, but now we have the address, I don't know why we still require your services?" Woolsey asked him.

Lorne leaned forward. "I agree. No disrespect, Sergeant, but you've seen the facilities here. We're more than capable of finding Colonel Sheppard ourselves."

Kilund realized he'd zoned out and sat up straighter in the chair. He locked eyes with the men across the table. "Go ahead, but the prison is shielded by a cloak. Not only will you not be able to see it, but _they'll_ see you coming. Regardless of what facilities you have, a gun is still a gun. When you get close, they'll start shooting."

"_Seriously_…this place has cloaking technology?" Rodney pushed his laptop to the side and looked at him with curiosity.

Woolsey raised his eyebrows. "That is very interesting -"

"Hold on…that can only be Ancient tech," Rodney interrupted, his voice getting sharper as it rose with excitement, "so how did Flenda get it? Are there any Ancients living there? Is the prison part of a bigger city, _say_…like this one?"

Woolsey looked pissed. He'd drawn Rodney a look, but the small guy either hadn't noticed or didn't care. Normally it would have made him smile, but Kilund was growing impatient.

"Yes…the Ancients installed the cloak as a gift for taking in some of their prisoners. No…there haven't been any around for as long as I've been there. And _no…_Flenda isn't part of a city. It's a stone built fortress sitting alone in the middle of the desert. Their armaments are simple but effective – four manned towers. They can see folks coming for miles around." Kilund gave them a tight smile. "So…Mr Woosley, Major Lorne, if you go without me to disarm the cloak – you're going to have casualties on your hands."

There was silence for a moment as the information and the implications sank in. Ronon broke it. "How do you think we should play it?"

Kilund was used to taking orders and hadn't been asked for his opinion in a long time. With everyone looking at him he felt a little uneasy. "I go in and get him myself. For starters there could be a perfectly good reason he's not been released already. Maybe they didn't get the message – although I doubt it. To be honest having met Sheppard and knowing the Commander the way I do, I'm guessing he's pissed him off in some way. Rualin is a vindictive SOB so there's a good chance he's holding him out of spite."

"Do you think that is likely, Kilund?" Teyla's face had paled, but Kilund thought she was hiding her anxiety well.

"Unfortunately…yes. The Commander has always been a hard man, but these last few years…let's just say his mean streak has got a lot meaner. Still, he and I go way back. I was his SIC over twenty years ago. In fact it was him who got me my job when he took over the prison."

Lorne shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but if this guy is as bad as you say I can't let you go in there alone. Anything could go wrong, and he might end up killing you along with the Colonel. Besides, Sergeant…Flenda isn't the only one with cloaking technology."

ooooOoooo

"Are you ready, Doctor Beckett?"

Carson looked up from checking his supplies to see Major Lorne watching him. He liked Lorne. He was a polite young man, but Carson could tell he was impatient to be off.

"Nearly…Kilund has told me what to expect, so I've brought something for every eventuality." He glanced down at the units of whole blood, saline, antibiotics and morphine.

"Bolt cutters…" Rodney rolled his eyes. "Is this the latest accessory in every voodoo doctor's magic kit? What do you need those for?" He looked incredulous as he picked them up and dangled them from his fingers.

Carson kept focused on his task and swallowed the lump in his throat. "I need them to cut the chains off the Colonel's feet."

Rodney immediately dropped them. Only Lorne's quick reactions stopped the heavy piece of equipment making Carson the first casualty of the day.

"_Bloody hell_, son – you could've killed me!"

His heart was racing but Carson regretted the instinctive response. Rodney was as white as a sheet. When the scientist spotted the units of blood his old pal just looked at him, but said nothing.

Carson scrambled to his feet, zipped up the bag and turned to look at the assembled crew. Only Lorne, Rodney and Teyla accompanied the small squad of marines. Ronon had already left with Kilund. It was agreed they would all leave from the planet where Kilund had left his ride. He would go through the 'gate first, and the cloaked jumper would follow in his wake. If Kilund was successful, there wouldn't be any need to reveal their presence. If he wasn't, then it would be onto Plan B.

What he was going to say wasn't easy, but it needed to be heard and understood. Carson was sure neither Lorne nor Teyla would be shocked. Ronon already knew what happened to men in that hellish place. Rodney however was another matter. The scientist had toughened up since he'd been going off world, but seeing the results of violence was one thing. Witnessing the results of violence on a good friend was another altogether.

Carson pulled back his shoulders. "Right…just so as you know I expect the Colonel to be injured." Lorne's face was expressionless. Teyla had paled slightly, but barely flinched. Rodney eyes had gone wide. Carson looked at him then allowed his gaze to fall on the others. "How badly will depend on how much of the physical part of his punishment has been carried out...It would be naïve to believe he hasn't suffered at least one whipping by now. As for the rest, Kilund has told me the prisoners live in harsh hot, dry conditions. They are also fed minimum rations. Therefore Colonel Sheppard is likely to be very thin, and probably dehydrated. However…no matter how bad he looks I want you to remember one thing – he is going to get well."

"Thanks, doc." Lorne said in a low voice, and patted his shoulder. The Major then turned to the others. "Right…take your seats everyone. It's about time we got this show on the road. Let's bring the Colonel home."

ooooOoooo

Rualin had watched Kilund's approach almost from the Ancestral Ring. Kilund had been the best rider in his unit and his seat on the Yasic was unmistakable. Even in his advanced years his former SIC still cut an imposing figure. The tattered faded uniform covered in sand, belied the skill of the soldier underneath.

He was surprised and a little suspicious at Kilund's recent behaviour. After he'd delivered Sheppard his abrupt departure didn't ring true. His prolonged absence since was also concerning. Nevertheless, Rualin was glad to see him. There had been several requests for prisoner transport and he didn't want to break in someone new. Kilund was good at his job so he was prepared to overlook the extended holiday, provided of course the man got back to work.

A firm double knock on the door told him exactly who it was. "Come in, Kilund."

The Sergeant walked straight in and saluted. Rualin could see he was waiting to be offered a seat, but he didn't extend the courtesy. "Where have you been? You've been gone for nearly a month."

"Didn't they tell you?" Kilund took off his hat spilling sand onto the floor. "I'd taken a fall – hit my head. I don't heal as well as I used to, and Flenda sure isn't the place to get medical care. Anyway…after I dropped off the prisoner I went to the nearest town with a medic."

Rualin opened his top drawer took out a bottle, filled up a glass with amber liquid then slowly drained the contents. He put the bottle away before looking back. "I have work for you."

Kilund grimaced as he shook his head. "Sorry, Commander, but I only came back to tell you that was my last job. I'm getting too old for this kind of life…it's time for me to hand over to the younger men."

Rualin sat back in his chair and considered the man standing in front of him. He knew what age Kilund was. The Sergeant was fifty-seven, the same age as him. He'd been destined for greater things until the bullet which had destroyed his career. He was a good soldier, the best, and Rualin didn't want to lose his services. Apart from anything else Kilund was the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had. For that reason only, he made his decision.

"Fine…I accept your resignation. What are you going to do?"

Kilund smiled, the relief visible in his face. "I'm thinking about buying a bar. When I get settled I'll let you know where it is. You'll need to drop by. The first drink will be on me."

"I might just do that." Rualin gave him a half smile then looked down to the papers on his desk. "Now…unless there's anything else, I have work to do."

"As a matter of fact there is. I've been paid to deliver a pardon. It's for that last guy I brought. Sheppard I think his name was." Kilund handed over the missive. "I've been asked to take him with me when I leave."

Rualin went scarlet as he snatched it, then promptly tore it in half. "There's only one way Sheppard's leaving Flenda - in a box."

"_What?_ C'mon Rualin…you can't do this. This man is innocent – he doesn't deserve to be in this place."

"I _can_ and I will." Rualin glared at him. "My son didn't deserve to die…but he did!"

Kilund paled, and his voice went quiet. "Jalune's dead…what happened?"

Rualin stood up and walked over to look out the balcony. "He was escorting Sheppard down the stairs. They tell me he _tripped_. Both of them fell…but it was Jalune who broke his neck."

Kilund went over and put a hand on his shoulder. Rualin shrugged it away and the sergeant backed off slightly. "I'm sorry for your loss…but it was an accident. You surely can't blame Sheppard for what happened?"

"_Can't_ I? Get out, Kilund…and make sure to close the door behind you."

ooooOoooo

Jalune had been a vicious SOB and Kilund couldn't mourn his loss. However his death couldn't have come at a worse time. It was going to make things a bit trickier but regardless, he still wasn't leaving without Sheppard.

Kilund looked around. Once he was sure he was alone and out of earshot, he put on the radio Major Lorne had given him. The small device felt strange. At first he couldn't remember what end he was supposed to speak into. Ronon's voice coming over the line gave him the answer. "Did you get him?"

He twisted his face to the tip of the wire. "No...Rualin refused to let him go. I know where they'll have him though. I'm going there now. Be prepared. We'll be coming out hot."

For a big man he moved quietly. He was a well known face amongst the guards, but didn't want to be seen going towards the hole. There was no reason for him being there and he didn't want questions to be asked. He also didn't want to hurt anyone – unless it was absolutely necessary.

The small row of cells was in near darkness. When he got there the new guy, Ceeland was just coming out of one of them. He cursed his luck.

Kilund reluctantly raised his gun. "I don't want to hurt you, boy, but I'm here to get Sheppard."

Ceeland put up his hands halfway. "He's in there…but he's in bad shape. You're going to need help to get him out."

He followed the blonde guard into the cell. Kilund sensed the gun wasn't necessary but kept it raised anyway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. When they did, he couldn't believe it was Sheppard lying in a heap on the floor.

The only thing recognizable from the man he'd brought in was the hair. Even in the dim light he could see Sheppard was trembling, his eyes bright with fever. A sheen of sweat ran down a face that was covered in bruises, and burnt raw by the sun. His body was a mess. Kilund knew the mass of torn flesh, and deep purple welts on his chest, would be mirrored on his back. Plus for some reason there was also a heavy dressing over his right knee. He guessed it was an injury caused by the fall. With a heavy heart Kilund realized Ceeland was right. He couldn't get him out of there himself – Sheppard was too badly hurt. This was a two man job.

"Kilund…is that you?" John started to cough.

Kilund saw his face creased in pain, and his jaw clench. "_Yeah_…it's me. It's a long story but it turns out you didn't kill the farmer after all. There's some folks outside who want you home."

A flicker of a smile grew on the wounded man's face. Kilund was sure he saw a tear falling down his cheek, but pretended not to notice. He nodded to Ceeland. "You willing to help me, boy?"

"Yes, Sergeant…What the Commander did to him wasn't right. I reckon my career is done here anyway."

Kilund holstered his gun and as gently as they could, they got him to his feet. Sheppard moaned softly, but didn't cry out. The man was shaking, but trying to help them by staying upright. The problem was he had nothing left. His strength was all but gone.

"Staging a jail break are we?" A cynical voice grabbed their attention. His heart sank when he saw Rualin at the doorway with a gun pointed straight at them.

"What are you going to do, Rualin - kill all three of us?" Kilund asked.

A shot rang out. Ceeland looked surprised at the red stain growing on his chest. The young guard stared at Rualin then fell to the ground dead.

Kilund tried to hold onto Sheppard but the wounded man was a dead weight, and his own bum leg began to give out. They were half way to the ground when Rualin grabbed Sheppard and dragged him, groaning in pain, out of the cell. Kilund lunged forward but the door slammed in his face. He was locked in the cell. He'd failed.

ooooOoooo

TBC

Hope you're all having a better weekend than John, or Kilund for that matter!

And please review - I love to know what you think.

Many thanks for all the support you've given this story so far. Its really appreciated.


	16. Chapter 16

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 16

His strength was gone and his knee would no longer support him. When Ceeland collapsed, John couldn't stop himself from falling. Kilund was trying to keep him upright but the appearance of Rualin had surprised them - Ceeland most of all. The young guard's lifeless eyes were staring into space, his blood pouring out of a ragged wound in his chest.

John was worried that the sergeant would be next in the firing line, but Rualin had slammed the door shutting him in. Kilund was now locked in the hole, but John was relieved that at least he was out of harm's way. He had mixed feelings about the dead guard who'd whipped him. It was hard to feel sorry for the guy who'd caused him so much pain, but Ceeland didn't deserve to die. John hoped they didn't meet anyone else. He didn't want any more lives lost because of him.

In agony, every part of his body screamed as Rualin dragged him along keeping the gun pointed at his head. He was shivering, his body shaking, as the fever that started the day before sent beads of sweat trickled down his face, his back and his chest. John moaned as the moisture touched the raw angry wounds and pooled in the ragged lacerations. His chest felt tight, heavy, and he was struggling to get enough air as he pulled in one stuttering breath after another.

The gloomy corridor looked surreal, fuzzy. John knew it was the fever wreaking havoc with his brain making everything appear warped. The images twisting in an out, like he was peering through a distorted lens. If it wasn't for the agonising rhythmic throbs pulsating through his body, his nightmarish journey could almost have been happening to someone else. Except it wasn't. It was him being hauled along like a piece of garbage, and John knew if he was going to survive, he must try to get a grip. Somewhere out there his team were waiting and he sure as hell wasn't going to give up now. It was a simple plan. Stay alive long enough for them to find him.

"_So_…where are we going?" John panted. Another wave of pain hit but he stifled a groan and did the only thing he could to stay focused - talk. "Oh…I get it. You want to release me yourself. Hey…I appreciate the consideration but you really don't need to bother. I –"

The commander tightened his grip, and John gasped as the rough material of his uniform jacket pulled on his wounds. The spit from Rualin's hot breath sprayed his neck as the Commander whispered in his ear. "The only place you're going is hell."

"_Thanks_…but I've already been living there for the last month. I'd kinda prefer a change of scene… Somewhere beside the ocean would be good. A place where the surf is good and I can get a cold one…and a nice juicy steak."

Rualin smirked. "Have your pathetic little joke – it's going to be your last."

"Really…You're going to kill me for shooting my mouth off? I get you're the type to hold a grudge, but _c'mon_ – don't you think that's a bit extreme?" John glanced up, but Rualin didn't look at him. The eyes that were focused on the way ahead were filled with rage and something else - pain.

"Jalune was my son…"

"_Arrgh_…" John screamed as Rualin dropped him on his bum knee. He panted, trembling, and concentrated on not passing out as the intense fiery pain expanded through his leg.

"_Sorry_…did I hurt you?" Rualin asked smugly. "Don't worry, Sheppard...it will all be over soon."

John could barely focus past the pain that swam and surged through his body. He couldn't suppress a yelp as Rualin yanked him back onto his feet.

He was feeling nauseous and combined with Rualin's tightening grip around his neck, John was starting to choke. The way ahead was wavering in and out, his vision greying at the edges. It was only his determination to survive keeping him lucid. "I'm s…sorry for your loss, but it was a…an accident."

Another tug on his torn chest told him just what Rualin thought about that. He locked eyes with his persecutor and knew the subject was not up for further discussion. John wasn't sorry for taking Jalune down, but to admit it would only hasten his demise. He was playing for time. John hoped his people were close as he was in deep trouble.

"Wha…what's the plan?"

"You're going to die trying to escape." Rualin told him simply. "It's going to be a tragic tale. My report will read I was walking Kilund to the entrance when we heard a commotion coming from the hole. I found you arguing with Ceeland but when I tried to intervene, you grabbed my gun. You kill both men in cold blood then using me as hostage, try to escape…" Rualin gave him a tight smile. "That's when I get to play the hero. At great peril to my own life I overpower you just as we get outside the prison. I get away and shout to the armed guards in the towers to stop you…You're a smart man, Sheppard - you can guess the rest. While the guards end your miserable existence, I'll return to the hole and kill Kilund. Once he's dead, there'll be no witnesses left to what really happened. When your people arrive I'll deny all knowledge of ever receiving your pardon."

"Nice plan, but I'm getting out of here alive."

"Let him go…now!"

John had never been in so much pain but at the sight of Ronon standing there, he couldn't stop smiling. He squinted up at Rualin. The Commander's face was scarlet with rage.

"It's over Rualin…You can kill me if you want. But if you do my buddy Ronon will return the favor."

John felt the arm around his neck start to loosen and let out a sigh. His relief was short lived, and his heart sank as he saw the bitter Commander raise his gun. John couldn't believe it. The bastard was about to shoot Ronon.

There was no time to think, only to act. Using the last of his strength John elbowed Rualin in the gut. The Commander staggered, but the sound of the shot was already reverberating around the room. As fire ripped through his arm, he heard the sound of Ronon's blaster. John moaned as he crumpled, tumbling to the ground.

"John!" Teyla ran to his side. The Athosian's pale face was filled with concern as she took out a field dressing and wrapped it around the seeping wound.

"S'okay… It's small beans, Teyla, I'm g…good."

Teyla's voice was wavering in and out but John focused when he saw Ronon standing over Rualin's unconscious body. The intent was clear. He'd reset his blaster to kill and Ronon was about to fire.

"_No_...don't kill him." When the Satedan didn't move John tried to put some authority into his weak voice. "Please…don't force me to make it an order."

"Why the hell not? He deserves to die." Ronon growled. The Satedan looked furious.

Ronon was right, he couldn't deny it. John wanted to kill the bastard himself but face to face so Rualin would know who was ending his life. John knew if his buddy killed him like this, the Satedan would regret it later. Ronon was an honorable man, but sometimes his anger could override his commonsense.

He was beat. So tired that his words came out as a mumble. "He'll pay…I'll make sure of that. Nn…not just for what he's done to me…for how he's treated e…every man in this prison."

John was starting to zone out. His eyes snapped open when he felt a hand take his wrist.

"Easy…Colonel." Carson's blue eyes were filled with anger as they raked up and down his body. "I can see these bastards have had quite a field day, but don't worry, son. We'll soon get you sorted out."

"Carson…There's a prisoner…my friend…Dulane's arm is broken and he's been badly beaten. H…he needs your help."

"And you _don't_?" Rodney muttered, incredulous.

"Aye, Colonel, Rodney's right." Carson agreed. "Right now you're my priority. Once we get back to Atlantis, I'll send a medical team over. If the state of you is anything to go by I'm guessing we'll have a full ward by the end of the day."

John felt a pinch in his hand and flinched. For once he didn't mind getting stuck with needles. It just felt good being cared for. Damn good being back amongst the friends he'd thought he'd never see again.

The adrenaline that had kept him going had disappeared. John felt the pain notch down as the drugs pulled him under, but there was something nagging at him, a loose end that needed dealt with. He struggled to hang on as he tried to grasp what it was.

He reached out and grabbed Teyla's hand. "Kilund…h…he's locked up in the hole...a cell. You need -"

"I will find him, John. Please…stop worrying. You must lie still and let Doctor Beckett take care of you."

Lorne arrived, and John could see the relief in his XO's face. "It's good to see you, Colonel - I have the prison secured. Kilund got us past the cloak but when you guys didn't appear as arranged, we went with Plan B. We disengaged our cloak...Let's just say when the jumper appeared out of thin air, the guards didn't give us much trouble."

"T…thanks, Major…thanks all of you…."

John's face went slack and his head slumped to the side.

Rodney went as white as a sheet. "Is he…"

Carson shook his head. "No, but he's in a bad way. We need to get him back to Atlantis as soon as possible." The Scot deftly inserted a second IV delivering blood before covering his patient with a blanket. Carson sat back on his heels, and grunted as he clambered to his feet. "Right, that's as much as I can do here. Let's get him home."

It was only a short walk to the jumper. As the stretcher was lifted into the rear, Teyla was about to go in search of Kilund when Ronon stopped her. "I'll go."

"Why? John asked me, Ronon."

Ronon shrugged. "It's better if you stay with Sheppard. You can help Beckett."

Carson turned around with a look of regret. "I'm sorry, Ronon, but I can't afford to wait for you, son. I need to get the Colonel back home."

Ronon nodded. "It's okay. Just care of him, doc. I'll wait for the next transport. Besides, there's something I need to take care of."

ooooOoooo

Carson worked on Sheppard through the night. When the sun rose over Atlantis the next morning, he walked out the O R more angry than exhausted.

There wasn't much that fazed him. Over the years, Carson had treated the worst both Earth and Pegasus could do to a man. Cruelty wasn't new but of everything he dealt with, it sickened him the most. How society could sanction torture was beyond him. Carson was aware whipping had been an acceptable method of punishment in Earth's history. Regrettably it still went on in certain countries today.

To him it was abhorrent. It was a cowardly, brutal, cruel thing to do to someone unable to defend themselves. He couldn't understand how anyone could string up a man and rip the skin from his back in the name of justice. Regardless of the crime it was inhuman treatment. These men who suffered this archaic punishment may have done wrong, but in this regard they were the victims. He was sure the Colonel didn't consider himself in that light, but that's just what he'd been - a victim.

His friend had been a victim of an old man's desire for a quick death. He'd been a victim of a woman's deception. To save her family from disgrace, she'd stayed silent and let him be convicted of a non-existent crime. She'd wickedly allowed him to believe he'd taken an innocent life. It was John who'd been the innocent. A good man who'd accepted a hellish fate to atone for something he didn't even do.

He peeled off his blood stained gloves and fired them in the trash. As the light struck the container, Carson caught a glint off the collar he'd removed from his friend's neck. It made him sick to his stomach. The number burned into John's neck by the sun would fade in time. The lacerations he'd spent hour's debriding and stitching together were another matter. He'd done his best, but he couldn't do the impossible. John's body had been mutilated. His skin would grow back but without intervention, the Colonel would be left badly scarred.

John's knee cap was cracked, and the tendons had been badly torn. He'd repaired the damage. This type of injury always took a long time to heal but Carson was confident with rest then physiotherapy, in this respect at least his patient would make a full recovery.

The bullet had caused some muscle damage which he'd also fixed. It was the same arm where he'd already patched up two previous bullet wounds. He wasn't a betting man, but Carson wondered at the odds of someone taking fire in the same limb three times. There were also cracked ribs, and some old lacerations on his feet. His toes and soles were scorched, and his face, arms and torso had been burned raw by the sun. The peeling skin was testament that the worst of it had faded, but some blisters still remained.

Carson planned to replace the damaged skin on his back and chest, but first he needed to get his patient well enough to undergo the procedure. Decimated by starvation and abuse John was so weak, Carson feared it would be touch and go if he even survived the fever. He knew his friend was a fighter, but even someone with John's fortitude could only survive so much. Right now John was staging his own personal battle in the ICU. Carson prayed it wouldn't be his last.

Out the corner of his eye Carson spotted Sheppard's team in the waiting room. He would go and see them shortly but first he wanted some coffee. Carson would've preferred a single malt to take the bad taste out his mouth, but alcohol was out of the question. He had a patient to take care of, and needed to remain sober.

While he been in surgery, the infirmary had filled up. Men, barely skin and bone lay in every bed. The years of abuse and violence they'd suffered evident in their dead eyes and vacant expressions. From what he could tell they were suffering from malnutrition and dehydration. All of them were scarred in some way. He could tell from the dressings that some of the lacerations were fresh. The old wounds were visible. Scars which had faded into ugly indentations.

The chains of their oppression where piled up against the back wall. He'd seen how badly John's ankles had been abraded, the skin raw from the tight metal bands rubbing against them. His friend had only been there for less than a month, and Carson dreaded to think what some of the longer stay residents had been forced to endure.

"Doctor…This patient would like to speak to you." Marie asked him. She whispered in his ear. "His name is Dulane. He says he's a friend of Colonel Sheppard."

Dulane was so thin he was almost dwarfed in the single bed. There were recent bruises which were now fading to a greenie yellow color. Carson knew that meant they were healing. They only served to make him look worse when contrasted against the brilliant white pillow. He was also wearing a cast on his right forearm. Carson smiled. If John Sheppard called this man a friend, then Dulane was his friend too. "What can I do for you, son?"

Dulane looked anxious. "John…is he…is he still alive?"

"Yes he is. And I intend to keep him that way."

The small man visibly relaxed. "Thank the Gods." Carson swallowed a lump in his throat when he saw tears glistening in his eyes. "The pretty doctor told me if it wasn't for him…I would have lost my arm. But I owe him more than that. We…we all do."

Carson handed him a Kleenex and waited until the man composed himself. "He's going to be fine, Dulane. Do you know he asked about you?" Carson smiled at the man's surprise. "John wanted to make sure you would get proper medical care." He patted Dulane's bony hands. "Now…how about you try to get some sleep, laddie."

He's spoken the words with assurance. Told Dulane what he'd wanted, needed to hear so the sick man could get some rest. The fact was he just didn't know. He'd pulled the Colonel through so much in the past he couldn't, didn't want to believe he would lose him now. Carson said a silent prayer that his confidence wasn't misplaced.

ooooOoooo

TBC.

Rescue has come at last...now all John has to do is survive.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review.

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	17. Chapter 17

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 17

He could hear the words, understood what Carson was saying, but Rodney was having a tough time taking it in. He couldn't believe Sheppard had come through so much only to return home to die. John's life was hanging by a thread. He wasn't dead, and where there was life there was hope, but Carson's expression said it all.

Rodney had known the Scot a long time and could read him like one of the science books in his lab. He didn't know if it was a national trait, or just endemic to the man in front of him. With Carson sometimes it wasn't so much about what he said, as what he _didn't_ say that told the real story. His friend was worried, and when Carson Beckett looked that concerned, it wasn't a good thing.

Carson looked beat. The tan he'd acquired on vacation was all but gone. His blue eyes looked huge in his pale face, and when he dragged off his cap, his sweat drenched hair was clamped against his head. They were all anxious, but it had been Carson who'd spent the last seven hours putting humpty dumpty back together again. The bags under his eyes had bags. His exhaustion clearly visible in the deep grooves around his eyes and mouth.

They had a standing joke. He would mock the field of medicine, call it voodoo compared to astrophysics but Carson knew he didn't mean it – at least he hoped so. Rodney did believe his field was superior. It was because of his genius the Replicator home world was now just a pile of space debris. Of all his amazing achievements that plan gave him the greatest satisfaction. He was proud that because of his actions not only was a dangerous enemy destroyed for good, but billions of lives had been saved in the process. Except right now his brains meant nothing. If John lived it would be because of Carson's skill, and his own determination to survive.

He couldn't get the image of John out of his head. Carson had warned them what to expect, but nothing prepared him for the sight of his friend's torn emaciated body lying in that gloomy corridor. At first he hadn't recognized him. It was only when John had spoken Rodney realized it was him. The only thing familiar was his hair. Parts of it still stood up, but even the thick dark mane didn't have the same defiance as usual. It looked limp. The longer length made it floppy, falling down as a fringe that stuck to the livid bruises on his raw sunburnt skin. Sheppard had always been on the skinny side, but there was thin, and there was _thin_. His face was gaunt. His protruding ribcage visible even under the mass of ripped flesh.

Carson had been standing when he'd delivered Sheppard's prognosis. When he finished, the Scot slumped down onto a chair. He jumped up when he saw a blood splattered Ronon walk into the room.

"_Hells bells_! Good God, man – sit down. Tell me where you're hurt."

Ronon didn't move. "I'm okay, Doc…It's not my blood."

There was a stunned silence. Teyla and Rodney looked at each other but it was Beckett who spoke.

"Did you kill him?"

Ronon glanced at a clot of blood on his arm in distaste. He flicked it onto the floor. "Nah…I promised Sheppard I wouldn't. I just tore him up a little."

Rodney went pale. "A _little!_ You look like an extra from a Rambo movie."

The Scot's face was expressionless as he looked at the Satedan. "Where is Rualin now?"

"Kilund is taking care of him. He's also contacted his central command. They're sending someone over to speak to Woolsey."

Teyla tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A flush had grown on her cheeks and the tips of her ears were red. "I understand why you did it, Ronon, but perhaps it was not wise. John would not wish you taking his place in the prison."

Ronon shrugged. "I won't. The guards were locked up. The only one who saw me was Kilund. He didn't help…He didn't try to stop me either."

Carson started taking off his scrubs. "Right then…I suppose I'd better head back to the prison."

"_Why?_" Ronon grunted. He folded his arms sending blood spatter everywhere, and stared at the Scot suspiciously.

"To clean up your mess, laddie. If Rualin is in the state I think he is, he's going to need medical attention."

As Carson went to walk out Ronon extended his arm to block his path. "**No**…You saw what he did to Sheppard! John didn't get any medical attention - so why the hell should he?"

Ronon's face was puce with anger, but the Scot didn't back down. "Because I took an oath…because we are better than the likes of him. And _because_ I don't want my friend spending the rest of his life in that hellish place for murdering that waste of space." Carson paused, he looked drained. The strain of the long hours piecing John back together showed in his face. "Look, son, I understand you wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine…but two wrongs don't make a right."

Teyla and Rodney exchanged a worried glance. Rodney knew the Athosian was better at handling this kind of stuff, so he gave her a nod. If he was honest he wasn't sure how he felt about what Ronon had done, but he didn't want his friends coming to blows over it. Rualin wasn't worth it. He was relieved when Teyla picked up on the signal and went to stand beside the two men.

"I understand and I partly agree with what you have said, Carson, however…it is regrettable but sometimes people like Rualin can only learn by example." As Ronon started to smirk, she turned to her blood splattered team mate. "Carson is also right, Ronon. John would not want you to go to prison because of exacting revenge on his behalf."

Teyla's words of wisdom fell on deaf ears as Ronon continued glaring at the medic, blocking Carson's path. Rodney would never admit this to anyone, but even he acknowledged there were a few _minor_ failings in the Rodney McKay gene pool. Diplomacy wasn't one of his talents, but as they'd reached an impasse he figured it wouldn't hurt to give it a try. He took a deep breath and dived in. "Listen to her, Ronon. We've just got Sheppard back. He's safe…John's on the mend. Besides…I really don't want to break in another team mate."

The atmosphere was electric, the tension unbearable. After what seemed like an eternity an edgy Ronon finally put down his arm and moved aside. As Carson went to pass, the Satedan put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "_Fine_…Go…do what you have to do - but don't bring him back here."

Their eyes locked and Carson nodded. "Agreed. I'll take everything I need with me. For the record…I don't want Rualin under my roof any more than you do."

ooooOoooo

Richard watched the delegation from Flenda go through the 'gate with a mix of anger and relief. It had been a difficult meeting, and somewhere along the line his role had morphed from diplomat to teacher.

Initially the General had been furious to discover his guards had been locked in their own prison. He'd been even less amused to find out the inmates were enjoying the hospitality of the Atlantis infirmary. However when he'd been taken to see the prisoners, and witnessed for himself the sight of the men his Commander had reduced to living corpses, he'd gone pale.

It wasn't just their condition that had alarmed him. According to the records he'd immediately realised there was over a third of the prison population missing, men who were unaccounted for. The General reluctantly confessed he'd dismissed the rumors. He'd heard of men who hadn't returned to their units at the end of their sentence. Families who'd reported missing loved ones - husbands, brothers and sons who hadn't come home. Up till now he'd accepted Rualin's story the individuals concerned must have gone AWOL. Now the big picture was coming into view and it wasn't pretty.

After that his attitude changed. Gone was the indignant bluster of before. The man had still maintained an air of arrogance, but in the end he'd thanked him for their help and had agreed an overhaul of the prison was overdue.

Richard hoped so. He'd met men like him before. Men, who were happy to leave the dirty work to others. Commanders who turned a blind eye to atrocities committed in the name of National Security. Now, faced with the consequences of his 'hands off' management style, the General was confronted with the fact Rualin had systematically killed many of the prisoners by his brutal regime. This was without a doubt a wake-up call of the worst possible kind.

It was a horrifying thought, and Woolsey suddenly felt the need for a long soak in a very hot bath. Unfortunately that was something else the Ancients hadn't seen the need for, so a shower would need to suffice. Before he could indulge, there was something he wanted to do first.

Despite the number of patients the infirmary was quiet. His eyes rested upon the chains taken from the occupants. The General hadn't asked for their return so Richard was going to make the decision for him. They would be disposed of at the earliest opportunity. While these men were here they would be treated humanely. If the new regime wanted to shackle them again, Atlantis would play no part in their oppression.

The armed guards nodded as he walked by. They were a necessary precaution because he couldn't ignore the fact some of the prisoners had committed crimes of violence. Nevertheless seeing them now, they looked more like victims than perpetrators.

When he walked into the ICU Teyla was sitting by Sheppard's bed. Richard had only seen him briefly when he'd first arrived back. The condition of his military commander shocked him. Swathed in bandages, and with tubes going in and out of his body it was hard to recognize the man lying deathly still on the bed. Only the shock of black hair gave a clue to the occupant.

Richard felt his mouth go dry and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He didn't consider himself an emotional man, but he genuinely liked John Sheppard. It was unsettling, not to mention upsetting, to see this vibrant force of nature fighting for his life.

As he approached the bed Teyla looked up. She looked sad. "Good evening, Mr Woolsey."

"Good evening, Teyla. How is he?"

Her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. "Doctor Beckett has put him into an induced coma. Carson believes this will give his body a greater chance of fighting off the infection which is causing the fever."

"I see…" Richard did. He didn't know much about medicine, but knew enough to know that wasn't good news.

He looked towards Carson's office. Teyla followed his gaze. "If you are looking for Doctor Beckett, he is not here at present."

"Do you know where he is, Teyla? I would like to speak to him."

Richard sensed rather than saw Teyla's discomfort. She kept her composure but a faint flush colored her cheeks. "He has returned to Flenda. I understand Commander Rualin met with an accident_._"

They locked eyes, and her expression told him everything he _didn't _want to know. His blood ran cold. Richard let out a long sigh. "The delegation from Flenda high command has just left. Is this…_accident _something I would be best not knowing about?"

"_Aye_…I'd say so, Mr Woolsey."

Carson acknowledged the occupants in the room but walked straight over to the bed. Richard watched as the medic zoned everything out while he checked the machines keeping Sheppard alive.

The Scot put a hand on Teyla's shoulder. "You can leave him to me now, lass. I'll sit with the Colonel for a while." When she looked uncertain, Carson gave her a small smile. "Go on...take a break, get some rest and give that wee boy of yours a cuddle. By the look of you I think you need it."

Teyla returned the smile then whispered to the unconscious man. "I will be back to see you tomorrow, John." She swept back the hair from his face and squeezed his hand before getting to her feet. "Good night, Carson…Mr Woolsey."

Even in the dim lights Richard could see Carson was exhausted. The medic was dead on his feet. He didn't know what he was going to say until the offer slipped out. "You're tired, Carson. Why don't you take some of your own advice and get some rest. I can sit with Colonel Sheppard for a while."

Carson frowned. Richard could tell the medic didn't want to leave the Colonel, but he wasn't a diplomat for nothing. "Tell you what…why don't you have a nap on the couch in your office? The nursing staff is coming in and out anyway, but if anything changes in-between time, I'll come and get you."

"_Aye_…well…I have to admit forty winks sounds good. I think I will – thank you, Mr Woolsey."

As Carson raked a hand through his hair, Richard saw a speck of blood on the sleeve of his jacket. "Exactly how bad was this…accident?"

"Bad enough…I've sorted the Commander out and given Kilund instructions how to care for him. Rualin should be okay in the long term, but if there are any problems, I've asked Kilund to let me know."

Richard had heard the 'gate staff commenting on Ronon's appearance when he'd returned to Atlantis. The Satedan wasn't in any of the beds, and he hadn't received a report indicating he'd suffered an injury. That left only one other scenario, and it was a can of worms he wasn't prepared to open. Ignorance was bliss. What he didn't know, he couldn't lie about. If the truth did eventually come out it didn't matter. He wasn't prepared to allow another member of his expedition to spend time in Flenda.

He could feel the first stirrings of a headache start to blossom. Richard ignored it. He could stand a little discomfort. Right now it was more important Carson got a break. "Thank you, Carson…I have a feeling you may have just circumvented a diplomatic incident."

In response, Carson raised an eyebrow. "Good night, Mr Woolsey." The doctor went to walk away but stopped, went over to a cupboard and came back with a couple of Tylenol. He placed them in his hand. "For the headache."

The two men exchanged a knowing glance before Carson retired into his office. Within minutes the sound of snoring drifted into the room.

Richard unzipped his jacket and sat awkwardly on the hard chair. He wished he'd had the foresight to bring his laptop with him, or even a data pad. Then again, he'd never intended taking part in 'Sheppard watch.'

Even before he came to Atlantis, Richard had heard about the team's dedication to their leader. Since arriving, he'd witnessed it first-hand.

At first he'd thought the silent vigil quaint, but looking at the broken body of his military commander he was starting to understand why. John Sheppard was a strong man with an even stronger will, but sometimes even the strongest needed the comforting presence of a friend to pull them through…

ooooOoooo

TBC

So now we know what Ronon was up to. Was he right? Did Rualin deserve a taste of his own medicine? I'll leave that decision up to you. However it hasn't changed John's situation. Sheppard is still very ill.

Many thanks for all the reviews! I am chuffed to bits you're still enjoying the story.

At this point I want to say a very special thanks to my friend and beta **Sherry 57.** Thanks to Sherry's encouragement this fic is a little longer...and I hope better...than I had originally intended - thank you hon!

I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter too - and please review. I love to know what you think!


	18. Chapter 18

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 18

"I worked all day on the problem – except when I came to see you of course – but do you know what it turned out to be? Drum roll please!" Rodney was smiling as he turned to the man lying on the bed. When Sheppard remained unresponsive his smile faded. "Well I can see you're not _interested_…but it was a nest. Do you remember those weird bird creatures Doctor Kelsey brought back from M97 283 for further study?_ Duh_...what am I saying…of course you wouldn't. If it doesn't involve Ancient Tech, big guns or hot aliens it's just another mission – right? Anyway…one of them escaped from her lab last month. We thought it had literally flown the coup when we found it. The stupid bird had set up a maternity ward in one of the ventilation ducts blocking our sensors. When we opened it up, it was just sitting there….looking at us. I don't know who got the biggest fright. Well…probably Radek. It bit him when he tried to move the eggs. I thought it was funny…_okay_…so it wasn't for me as it caused a lot of work. But I thought you would find it funny."

Rodney sighed as he snapped shut his laptop and set it down at the side of his chair. He'd just started rubbing the small of his back when he heard a movement. His head snapped round. It was John as he shuffled in bed. The pilot flinched, but didn't open his eyes.

"_Dammit_, Sheppard, enough with the sleeping beauty act! Look…I know you've been through a lot…well more than a _lot. _Still it's time you woke up…"

"Shouting at the Colonel isn't going to help, Rodney."

"_Seriously_…I don't believe you're telling me off. _Hello_…Sheppard can't hear me, Carson!" Rodney gave Carson a disparaging look. "I thought you said he was getting better."

Unfazed, Carson came over and lifted the chart from the end of the bed. "What I _actually_ said was I believed Colonel Sheppard had turned the corner. He is still a very ill man, Rodney. Better in his case is a relative term."

ooooOoooo

Voices were wavering in and out of his consciousness. He recognized them, but couldn't grasp what they were saying. He'd heard the click of keys, and knew it could only be one person - Rodney. He heard the scientist talking to him and wanted to answer. Tell his friend he'd be okay, that everything would be alright. Except it wasn't. It was as far from okay as you could get. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind John knew he'd escaped from Flenda, but he was still trapped in hell. The guy with the pitchfork didn't have a whip, but he was still in agony. Chained to a spit over a red-hot fire. Stuck in a void of raging heat that was burning him alive.

The chills followed right behind, and frozen to the core he shivered. Every part of his body screamed and John groaned as the motion awakened the deep raw ache rippling through his body. His teeth rattled, and his body shuddered. He was drenched in sweat which was just plain weird, as the moisture falling down his body felt warm although his skin was icy cold. He sensed a second presence just as another chill flowed into his veins. John knew it must be Carson as the pain started to ease. He wanted to thank him but the words wouldn't come. John felt himself start to drift and gratefully he slipped into pain free oblivion.

ooooOoooo

Carson noticed the flinch and checked Sheppard's chart. It was nearly time for his meds. The man might not be able to speak, but his body was telling them he was in pain. He loaded the syringe into the IV and watched as the strain gradually eased, and Sheppard's face went slack. After disposing of the needle, he checked the machines around the bed before folding back the covers to expose Sheppard's chest. Marie handed him the ice packs and he positioned them under his arm pits, and by his groin. Sheppard shivered but he was burning up. Carson didn't like causing him discomfort, but he needed to get his temperature down.

This time it was Rodney's turn to flinch as he saw the patchwork of stitched flesh that ran like demented train tracks over his friend's body. "Is he going to make it, Carson?"

"Aye…I think so." Carson sighed. "I had hoped we'd knocked the fever on the head, but sometimes the nasty wee buggers are like that. Just when we think they're on their way out, they come back in full force to give the patient one more going over before they finally break…I'll keep an eye on it."

Rodney visibly paled. "Oh…_crap_ – is this my fault?"

"Is _what _your fault?" Carson squinted at him, confused. Rodney had a tendency to make everything about him. He wondered what the hell the man was talking about.

"I shouted at him…"

The Scot's face softened and he put down the chart. "No, Rodney…this has nothing to do with you. The truth is Colonel Sheppard has been so weakened by malnutrition and abuse his body is struggling to deal with any kind of infection. But he's a fighter. He's fighting right now…" Carson came over and put a hand on Rodney's shoulder. "He isn't giving up, and neither should you. John needs you…he needs all of his friends right now. _Look_…ignore what I said earlier, maybe shouting isn't such a bad idea after all. It lets him know how concerned you are. It'll have told him you're there. Keep talking to him. Just do what you're doing. It can't hurt, and it might just help."

"How is he today, Carson?"

Both men turned to see Teyla coming towards them. Ronon was with her. The Satedan drew Beckett a look. Carson ignored it. He knew the big guy was still annoyed at him for helping Rualin, but he would get over it. At least he hoped so. He liked Ronon, and the last thing he wanted was their friendship to become another victim to the miscarriage of justice that started in Taluna. Carson was surprised, but nonetheless relieved that so far there hadn't been any repercussions.

Several days had passed since Ronon had taken his impromptu but vicious revenge, and so far there hadn't been any further visits from Flenda's high command. Carson guessed there could only be one reason for that - Kilund. He reckoned the soldier must have spun them quite a tale. Carson prided himself on being a good judge of character, but was big enough to admit this time he'd got it wrong. There was clearly much more to Kilund than he'd imagined. Underneath the rough and ready exterior was a smart man. He was glad. Not just for Ronon's sake but for John's. If his friend recovered only to discover Ronon had taken his place inside, Carson feared John would never be the same again.

"_Carson_?"

At the note of worry in Teyla's voice, Carson realized he hadn't answered. "Sorry, lass – I got a bit distracted there. I'm afraid he's had a wee setback. His temperature had started to go down, but the fever's come back."

Teyla nodded, and looked at the man lying on the bed with concern. "Unfortunately that is common with fever."

"Yeah…that happened to my brother." Ronon drawled. "We thought he was okay…then it returned with a vengeance. He shook it off though. Two days later he was back at work."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Just hold on a minute…How come you guys know so much about fevers, huh? Carson," he stared accusingly at the medic, "did you hold a first aid course without me? You _did,_ didn't you…well I must say that's really _nice_…"

"C…could you hold the noise down…I'm t…trying to sleep."

John's weak voice grabbed their attention.

"Sheppard?"

John squinted at the scientist through half shut bleary eyes. "W…who else w…would it be, Rodney?"

"Aye...who else indeed." Carson smiled. He moved into a position so the Colonel could see him clearly without the sick man having to shift his head, and started taking his pulse. Carson was grateful for all the technology at his disposal, but he still trusted the traditional methods. "How are you feeling, Colonel?"

John grimaced, and Carson heard his sharp intake of breath. "Is…is that a trick question?"

Ronon lifted an eyebrow at the medic, but he was grinning. "You asked for that one, doc."

"It is good to see you back with us, John." Teyla eyes were moist, but a warm smile lit up her face.

"_Wha_…where have I been?" John frowned, and when he tried to move his wounded arm, he moaned softly.

"Right, people, visiting time's over. The Colonel needs his rest." Carson saw the team's disappointment, but drew them a look that brooked no argument. When they all looked at each other Carson guessed what they were thinking. "Aye, okay…one of you can stay, but no conversation – he needs to sleep."

"Hasn't he slept enough…"

"Carson is right, Rodney…sleep is the best medicine for John at the moment." Teyla said in a quiet voice.

Rodney was about to pick up his laptop again when Ronon stood in front of him with his arms crossed. The scientist opened his mouth to speak, but at the big man's prolonged stare he started to rise from the chair. "_Fine_…I get the hint. I'll see you later, Sheppard."

"I will also come and visit you later, John." Teyla came over and gently swept the damp hair off his forehead. "I shall bring some Athosian tea the next time I come."

Rodney and Teyla were just on the point of leaving when they heard John's raspy voice. "H…how many?"

Carson didn't have a bloody clue what John could be asking about. It was obvious the others thought the same as they exchanged a worried glance. There was evidence John had recently suffered a concussion, but a CT scan hadn't revealed any bleeding. If he was becoming confused that wasn't a good sign.

"How many what, Colonel?" He asked anxiously, then something occurred to him. "If you mean how long…how many days since we brought you back to Atlantis, that would be six."

John licked his lips, and struggled to swallow. Carson cursed himself for being so remiss. He reached for the cup with the ice chips, but Ronon beat him to it. The Satedan spooned a couple of small slithers from the container and gently put them into his friend's mouth.

"T…thanks…" John slurred and closed his eyes.

The small group stood quietly watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, but just as Teyla and Rodney started to move away John's eyes sprang open. The pilot looked at Rodney.

"E…eggs…In the nest…how many?"

"Three…There were three eggs." Rodney's face flushed, and he looked as surprised as Carson had ever seen him.

"Cool…" A ghost of a smile played on John's lips as he finally fell asleep.

"I didn't think he'd heard me…wow."

Carson smiled. "Aye…that's common with coma patients."

Rodney's face paled. "Oh crap…I wonder what else he's going to remember I said…"

ooooOoooo

Dull pain throbbed incessantly but it wasn't the gut wrenching agony of before. It was muted, bearable, nothing he couldn't handle. Even when it began to notch up John didn't care. He was home, and that was all that really mattered.

"There's no need to suffer, Colonel. You should have told me you were awake again."

John dragged open his gritty eyes to find Carson watching him. The doctor looked relieved.

His chest felt heavy. Like there was an elephant - scratch that, a herd of elephants sitting there digging their big flat feet into his ribs. He went to speak and found his voice muffled by an oxygen mask. John lifted his hand to remove it. He gasped when a spike of pain speared through his arm, and it fell back onto the bed.

"I had to do a wee bit of surgery to correct some muscle damage." Carson told him. "It would be wise not to move it too much."

Carson took off the mask and replaced it with a cannula. He was vaguely aware of Carson fussing with his IV. Within seconds John felt his brain go fuzzy as the icy chill of narcotics started to dull the pain.

"It's _the_ arm isn't it? I'm surprised it's even still attached. How many times have you been shot there? _Sorry_ – taken fire. Anyway…it's had so many holes in it I'm surprised it isn't transparent." Rodney muttered sounding concerned.

Carson glared at him. "Rodney…Would you give us a wee minute please. I need to speak to my patient."

"You're kidding – right? I already know what's wrong with him…everyone does." When Carson stood waiting with his arms folded, Rodney put up his hands and got to his feet. "Fine…I'll go. Sheppard…I'll see you later."

John gave his friend a weak smile. When he tried to speak he started to cough.

"Small sips." Carson put a straw to his lips and John drank gratefully. The water was cold. It was the first time he'd tasted cold water in what seemed like forever.

Now a little less parched he decided to try the whole talking thing again. "How long have I been out this time?"

"Another forty-eight hours give or take." Carson told him. "I won't deny it, you had me worried for a while there. That fever took longer to shift than I expected. It finally broke in the early hours, but it's left you with a low grade pneumonia."

John nodded and wished he hadn't. His head started to swim. Carson had a bowl under his chin before he had time to blink. John couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but it didn't stop him retching. He was achy and exhausted by the time Carson helped him back against the pillow.

Carson took a damp cloth from the cabinet, and wiped his face. "Believe it or not, some food will make you feel better. I'll arrange some broth once we've had a wee chat."

"Sure…I'm a captive audience, Carson, fire away."

Carson didn't smile at his poor joke, and John wondered what he'd done wrong. Then he got worried. What if his injuries were more serious than he'd thought. What if he couldn't fly again? The scars he could deal with, but not being able to do the thing he loved most was another matter. "Is it my knee? Weren't you able to fix it?"

"You tore some ligaments, and cracked your knee cap but yes…I _fixed_ it. With time and physiotherapy it should be as good as new."

John let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

The Scot looked at him with a mix of concern and frustration. "John…I can make you well. I can even sort out the worst of the scars in your back and chest, but it's what's going on inside your head we need to talk about."

"What are you talking about, Carson?"

"When you're strong enough you'll need to deal with what's happened to you." When John opened his mouth to object, Carson silenced him with a look. "I'm serious. I know how you feel about psychiatrists but you were tortured…beaten to within an inch of your life. Worse still you endured all that punishment for something that wasn't even your fault. That's not something you can dismiss as just another mission gone wrong."

"Why was I pardoned, Carson?" John's voice started to crack. "I still shot that man…so what changed? Why was my sentence overturned?"

Carson sat down on the chair and raked a hand through his hair. He looked sad. "The man was dying. He was in a lot of pain. When he heard the Wraith come…he saw it as a way to end his suffering. He was watching you fighting that drone. When he saw you raise your gun…"

"He saw it as an easy way out…"

John knew he should feel relieved that he hadn't got careless after all, but all he felt was numb. There was a whole bunch of questions attached to what he'd just heard but he couldn't think straight. Right now he just wanted to be alone.

"I'm feeling kinda tired, Carson..."

The doctor patted his arm and got to his feet "I would have liked you to eat something first but…I'll leave you for a bit. Sleep well, but next time we'll need to get some food in you. You're seriously undernourished."

"I will…promise…And thanks, Carson."

"It's my pleasure, Colonel. I'm just glad to have you back."

Carson started to dim the lights, but as the room grew dark John felt his heart start to race. "**Leave** them on…_please_."

The Scot's face was expressionless as he took his hand off the control. However his eyes told a different story.

John knew that look. He'd just made out like a basket case and knew if he didn't say something he would never get out of therapy. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he tried to stop his voice cracking. "They shut me in a small cell…there were no lights."

Carson's face went scarlet, and he muttered something under his breath. John scrubbed a hand over his face. It came away wet. He hadn't realized he'd been crying.

If the Scot saw the tears, he never said a word. "I'll leave instructions for the nurses to leave them on. You're home, John…After everything you've been through it's going to take a while, but you will get better – I'll make sure of it. Will I send Rodney back in?"

"_Yeah_…thanks. Company sounds good."

He fell asleep before Rodney even entered the room.

ooooOoooo

Torren chased his red ball along the balcony floor. When he caught it the small grubby fingers handed it to John. It was the first time Teyla had seen her friend smile since he returned from Flenda.

John was pale and much too thin, but he was healing – physically at least. The wind dishevelled his hair and caught the top of his dressing gown. He tugged it closed. Teyla saw a tell-tale flush on his cheeks and could tell her friend was embarrassed, but she did not know why. New skin covered the crisscross of ragged lines caused by the whip. It was still pink, but the grafts were healing well.

The wonderful technology in Atlantis amazed her. From some of the torn skin Doctor Beckett had removed in John's initial surgery, he had managed to grow enough replacement skin to cover the scar tissue. It had involved several more sessions in surgery but John had not complained. Then again, he did not speak much at all these days. He had become quiet and withdrawn, barely recognizable from the charismatic Major who had convinced her to follow him to Atlantis all those years ago. She was worried about him. Then again, they all were.

"Teyla…do you wish me to take Torren for his nap?" Kanaan nodded over to John. The pilot returned the gesture.

Kanaan had been patience itself during the last few weeks. Without a word being spoken he understood her need to be there for her friend. She smiled at her partner. "Thank you…I will return John to the ward and see you both later."

The little boy went over to the man in the wheelchair and John ruffled his hair. Teyla then lifted her son aloft and gave him a kiss. Once she saw her family away, she turned round to find John staring at her.

"I could've managed to wheel myself back." John lifted both arms in the air. "See…they work and everything!"

His eyes were shining with anger, but she did not know what she had done to upset him. "If your leg supported you, then yes…you could have walked back. But your skin grafts are still healing. Doctor Beckett does not want you to do anything that would risk pulling them apart."

"Fine…I get it! The invalid needs help…in Flenda it was the chains that kept me restrained. Here…it's my own freaking body." John mumbled the last part, but Teyla still heard him.

John had turned his face away from her. He looked mutinous, his mouth set in a firm line.

Carson had referred John to Doctor Miller the psychiatrist. The Scot could not divulge any details about the sessions but it was clear he was concerned. John had said little to any of them since his return, and nothing about his ordeal. Teyla was not trained, but knew enough about the human condition to realize John might be ready to start talking. She wasn't going to waste the opportunity.

"Tell me. I want to know what happened…I want to know everything you went through."

His expression was cynical, and there was an edge to his voice. "Trust me…you _really_ don't." His eyes were filled with rage, but she could tell the tears were ready to flow. "Tell me, Teyla, what makes a person do something like that?"

"Rualin was an evil man, John…"

John shook his head and a single tear rolled down his cheek. "No…I meant the woman who lied about what happened. Men like Rualin and Kolya I understand. Evil is universal. I know how twisted this sounds, but I'm used to dealing with guys like him. What I don't get is how she could justify her actions…she never even thought about what would happen to me. She…_she_ allowed me to be punished as if I didn't matter…as if I was worthless."

"Oh…John!" She went to put her arms round him, but backed off when she felt his shoulders stiffen.

"Take me back to the ward please." John's face was expressionless, his voice devoid of emotion as he answered as if nothing had happened. Teyla could tell the moment had passed. He was already drawing into himself.

He refused to meet her gaze so she bent down and whispered in his ear. "Listen to me. The John Sheppard I know is one of the bravest men I have ever met. If not for him I…and my people would have died at the hands of the Wraith. You saved us, and many others since. I cannot speak for the emotions that drove the woman to do what she did, but she was wrong. Very, very wrong."

Teyla heard her voice start to crack and her own eyes felt moist, but John remained silent. She touched her head to his forehead, but got no response. It was a solemn pair that left the sunny drenched balcony and made their way back to the infirmary.

ooooOoooo

Kilund stared at the papers scattered over the desk and not for the first time since accepting command, wondered if he'd done the right thing.

It still felt strange being addressed as Commander. Every time he heard the greeting he looked over his shoulder half expecting to see Rualin standing there. He hadn't wanted the damn job, but after hearing about the missing prisoners he'd felt partly responsible for their deaths. His old job had been to transport them to the prison, but in hindsight he'd been happy to walk away, turn a blind eye to the atrocities taking place there. Now he was ashamed. He should have done something to help these men, but he hadn't. This would be his penance – turning Flenda into a place of punishment, not torture.

A knock on the door grabbed his attention. One of the guards had his hand on the door. "Commander…there is someone here who would like to see you."

Kilund started to button up his jacket. It was new, just like his Captain's insignia. Both of them felt stiff, restrictive. He missed his old carefree life.

"Nice threads…"

"Ronon!"

The guard looked aghast at the two men exchanging a bear hug. When he saw him Kilund suddenly remembered where he was. He straightened his face before he addressed him. "Thank you, Vieedan, you can go…Mr Dex is a friend."

They waited until they were alone before Ronon spoke. "So…how does it feel being the boss?"

Kilund ignored the wolfish grin. "Honestly…I hate it, but someone needs to sort this place out. I didn't want to risk it falling into the hands of another sadistic bastard like Rualin…" He'd already reached into the desk and brought out Rualin's liquor and two glasses. It was the only thing he'd admired Rualin for. His taste in whisky.

Ronon drained the glass in one. He smiled as Kilund refilled his glass. "Anyway, why the visit, my friend? It's good to see you, but if I didn't work here Flenda isn't a place where I would choose to spend my time."

"It's Sheppard...he's having a hard time -"

"Adjusting to life outside…what happened to him. And you think a visit from me would help?" Kilund interrupted.

Ronon shrugged. The smile had gone, and the big man looked worried.

Kilund finished his drink and put down the glass. "Look, Ronon…I don't know if Sheppard would exactly _welcome_ a visit. It was me who brought him here, remember?"

There was an uneasy silence for a long moment. Ronon broke it by walking to the balcony. "How _is _Rualin?"

Kilund came to join him. Both men were looking at the frame. "Your doc put him back together, but _you_ my friend left me in a very tight spot."

Ronon tensed up, his expression becoming guarded. "I'm sorry…but I'm not sorry for what I did - Rualin had it coming."

"Hey…you won't get any argument from me." Kilund put his hands up. "It wasn't that long ago I might have done the same thing myself…but do me a favour – don't ever tell Sheppard what you did."

"I wasn't intending to…but why?"

Kilund rubbed his beard. "Because if you tell him about the whipping…it will only remind him of his own."

Ronon said nothing, but the spark of resentment which had been growing was gone. Kilund knew from the Satedan's expression he'd made his point.

"So…what did you tell them?"

"I told them a couple of prisoners had managed to evade your men and hid until after you'd left. Once you'd gone they overpowered me, and took their revenge on the Commander."

Ronon gave him a wry smile. "They escaped afterwards?"

Kilund rolled his eyes. "Yup…I'll admit it wasn't much of a story, but the General bought it. I think he wanted to believe it. At any rate, he didn't seem upset about his ex-Commander getting a thrashing."

"So what did Rualin say about it?" Ronon asked.

Kilund coughed. "I have to admit I wasn't _quite_ sure how much of that morphine stuff to give him. He was pretty out of it at the time."

Ronon locked eyes with him. "Thanks, Kilund…I owe you."

"No you don't…I owe you for giving me a chance to repay a debt to your boss." Kilund told him simply. "Anyway…Rualin's being held at high command waiting trial. He was initially going to be court marshalled for the murder of Ceeland but…after you guys left we found the bones of seven men buried outside the prison. That's just the deaths we know about. The Duty Sergeant, Mallend, has made a plea bargain to give evidence against him. So have some of the older guards. I hate to think how many men have died under his brutal regime."

He saw Ronon clench his hands into fists. Kilund felt the same way. "Tell you what. There's too much going on at the moment for me to leave, but…once I start making some headway I'll think about it."

Ronon slapped him on the back. "Thanks…I'd better head back, but I haven't forgotten about the drink I owe you."

Confused, Kilund picked up the bottle of liquor. "This? It isn't even mine."

Ronon's smile was back. "_No_…When we first met I smashed your bottle of liquor over your head."

Kilund returned the smile. "So you did. If…and I mean _if_ I come to Atlantis you can settle the debt. In the meantime tell the Colonel to keep out of trouble."

Ronon's face fell. "That's the problem…he doesn't want to do much of anything anymore…"

ooooOoooo

TBC.

Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews - I love reading all your comments!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter too, and please let me know what you thought.


	19. Chapter 19

JUSTICE

CHAPTER 19

_His fingers grasped at the ropes tying him to the frame. They were tight, biting into his wrists, but there was no purchase to be gained. No relief from the vicious onslaught that followed._

_He heard the whoosh as the heavy whip flew through the air. Felt the thud as it slammed into his back and forced the air from his lungs. For a moment there was nothing. Then a fierce sting warmed his skin, before a wall of fiery pain exploded across his back setting every nerve alight. His head snapped back as his body bucked against the vicious assault, but there was nothing he could do – he was trapped. _

_Lash followed lash, each strike harder than the last. He could hear the whisper of torn skin. Taste the sharp metallic flavor as the splatter hung_ _suspended in the air. Feel the warm trickle as his life force flowed from his ripped flesh in an endless stream onto the stones beneath. He didn't want to yell. Didn't want to let them know how much he was hurting. In agony, tears mixed with blood when he couldn't stop the scream torn from his lungs. _

"Colonel…_John_!"

His heart was hammering against his chest. The sound from the blood roaring through his ears so loud, John couldn't make out what Carson was saying.

"Easy, son…Nightmare?"

John nodded. He was still struggling to catch his breath. Right now he didn't trust himself to speak.

Carson handed him a glass of water. He could barely hold it with his trembling hands. John was mortified. The glass was shaking so much the contents would have spilled if the medic hadn't steadied the bottom of the vessel.

His airway felt tight, and he choked on the cool liquid as it caught the back of his throat. Carson raised the top of the bed so he was sitting up slightly. It helped. He felt it take the pressure off his chest allowing the tension to ease. In silence the medic gently took the glass, sat down and waited for the tremors to stop. It wasn't the first time he'd had the nightmare, but up till now he'd managed to keep them private. John knew he'd just blown that by the expression on the Scot's face.

"Did…did I say anything?" John mentally crossed his fingers that he'd only screamed in his head. His hopes were soon dashed.

Carson nodded. "Aye, I heard you yelling from my office."

John cringed, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wanted the bed to open up and swallow him – whole.

"Don't worry about it, son. Corporal Anderson is still out cold after his surgery," Carson looked around the ward, then returned his gaze to him, "and it doesn't look like you've disturbed anyone else. Besides, this isn't your fault. I'm just surprised this is the first nightmare you've had…" Carson locked eyes with him and John went scarlet. "Except it isn't…is it?"

John tried to shake off the lingering feeling of dread, and inject some lightness in his tone. "No…but I'm fine - or I will be. Seriously, Carson, that's only the first one this week."

Carson sighed. "This is _only_ Wednesday Colonel." The medic sat back and folded his arms. "John...I'm no psychiatrist but I know the process a torture victim goes through. Part of it are these hellish nightmares you've been having and…as a doctor I want to take your pain away, but I know it's not as simple as that. Unfortunately they're something you'll need to endure until you've made peace with what happened to you. Therapy will help, so will talking to your friends but I'm not going to lie to you. The longer it takes you to open up, the longer it will take you to heal. Like I said before I'm no psychiatrist however…I would like to share a theory I have with you."

John reached for the control and raised the bed fully upright. If this theory was going to be some kind of lecture, he wanted to look at Carson face to face. "Do I have a choice?"

A wry smile grew on Carson's face. "You _always_ have a choice, Colonel."

His fingers picked at the sheets while he considered his response. John didn't really want to hear what Carson had to say. Hell, he didn't want to know what anyone thought. This had been his experience, his torture, and no one could even come close to understanding everything he'd suffered. Still, he owed Carson big time. The guy had saved his life.

"_Fine_…let's hear it."

"Okay, I'll put it in a nut shell." Carson said simply. "When that man was killed on Taluna, you were too willing to take the blame."

John could feel himself tense up again. "Excuse me? What _exactly_ are you suggesting, Carson - I run away from my responsibilities? Cause I'm telling you now…that's never going to happen."

"_No_…of course I don't mean that. But let's face it, Colonel, all it took was a little investigation on my part to find out the truth." Carson let out a long sigh. "Look, son, ever since you woke the Wraith it seems like you've been constantly looking for ways to punish yourself. Look at all those suicide missions you volunteered for - by rights you should be dead by now." Carson looked sad. "All I'm saying is if you'd looked into the matter further, you would have found out what I did…We both know you would have dug deeper if this had happened to any of us. It's just yourself you won't cut a break - it's about time you forgave yourself, John."

John felt his mouth go dry. He was trying to digest what Carson had just told him but he was struggling to take it in. "I still shot an innocent man, Carson…I _should_ have seen him. I know he wanted to die, but it was still my bullet that killed him."

Carson's face twisted. "Well…if you're going to blame yourself for killing a man who wanted to die, then you might as well blame me for infecting you with the retro virus. I created it. It was me that left it unattended for Elia to find." Carson's voice had risen, then his face clouded over and he patted John's arm. "You didn't blame me, John, because it was an accident. So don't blame yourself for what happened. That old man deliberately walked in front of your gun. Even with your quick reactions, you didn't stand a chance."

Carson rose from the chair and pulled up his covers. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to upset you. Please…just give some thought to what I've said. You're my friend as well as the military commander of this base. Atlantis needs you, son, and the people here rely on you more than you know. Frankly, it wasn't the same place while you were gone." The Scot took a loaded syringe from the metal tray on the cabinet. "I've been reducing your medication, but tonight I think you could use something stronger than pills to make you sleep. Physically you're healing well. Your knee will need physical therapy for a while yet, but I don't see any reason why you can't go back to your quarters." The Scot peered at him through hooded lids. "Do you realize in all the years I've know you, this is the first time you haven't nagged to get out the infirmary? Actually…I think I find that more disturbing that anything."

John managed a faint flicker of a smile. "I never gave it a thought. I suppose I just feel _safe_ here."

As Carson guided the syringe into the crook of his arm, John flinched slightly when the needle pricked his skin.

"Aye…I would imagine it must feel like that after what you've been through." Carson rubbed the site of the small wound and put on a dressing. "But…it's time to start picking up the threads of your life, John. Tell you what. We'll plan to get you back into your quarters the day after next. I'll prescribe some sleeping pills for the first few nights then I'll assess where we go after that."

John was ashamed to admit Carson was right. He had been hiding. His physical wounds had given him the excuse to keep the world at bay. Now it was time to move on. He couldn't hide out in the infirmary any longer. He needed, wanted, to regain control of his life.

"Thanks, Carson…and I will think about what you said."

Carson nodded. "Good…Sleep well, Colonel."

The Scot dimmed the lights slightly and left him alone. Sleep was pulling him under but he resisted. Of all the things he'd thought Carson would say, what he'd just heard was the last thing he'd expected. Was Carson right? Did he deliberately not investigate the shooting properly? Had he accepted responsibility too easily – was he really persecuting himself? The Sekkari had told him he tortured himself every day, where they right? For months now he'd blamed that damn woman for setting him up, but was the truth more complicated than that? _Had_ he been partly to blame?

John still felt guilty about waking the Wraith but if Carson's theory was correct, he needn't have gone to Flenda. All of the pain, the misery he'd suffered could have been prevented. It was a disturbing thought but one he couldn't deal with right now. As hard as he tried to stay awake the drugs won out. They took him to oblivion and he didn't resist the call.

ooooOoooo

Time was a great healer, and John wasn't going to argue with the guy who'd coined the phrase.

He'd been beaten, whipped to within an inch of his life and the frustration, anger at everything that happened had torn him up inside. His spirit had been damaged almost as much as his body. John wasn't used to feeling helpless. Restrained by chains and an oppressive regime that thrived on violence, that's just what he'd been.

Carson and Woolsey had insisted he see the shrink. He had. But it was his friends who'd pulled him out of the mire. It had been them who'd got him through the long dark days that followed.

When he'd first been discharged to his quarters they'd made sure he was never alone. No words were spoken but looking back it was clear they had worked out a rota. Ronon took the nightshift. He'd watched in horror as the Satedan put down his bedroll on the floor, ignoring him when he'd asked him to leave. John had been angry at first, furious at being treated like an invalid. When the night terrors struck that first night, he'd been glad to have a comforting presence nearby.

Teyla had dragged his ungrateful ass down to the mess breakfast, lunch and dinner - even when he didn't want anything. Flenda had screwed up his appetite and he hadn't felt much like eating, but the Athosian could be a sneaky woman. She'd always brought Torren along for the ride. Teyla knew him only too well. She knew he wouldn't make a sharp exit or else he'd upset the kid. So he'd eaten. At first it had been a struggle, but with Torren watching he'd forced something down. He'd never carried a lot of weight but food had never been his enemy before. It still wasn't thanks to Teyla.

As for Rodney, he'd been his usual. A pain in the ass.

Still weak and dragged down by the constant nagging pain in his leg, he hadn't been able to do much back then. Lost and detached after he'd left the sanctity of the infirmary, all he'd wanted was to stay in his quarters. Hide away from well-meaning people, the world, and from himself. McKay however had other plans.

When Rodney had invited him to visit his lab, he'd been curt in his refusal. Unusually the scientist had simply shrugged. Much to his annoyance instead of butting out, Rodney had set up _shop_ in his room instead.

John had tried to blank him out. The constant calls to Radek followed by the high pitched rants only McKay could make, soon had made him curious. He'd always known Rodney was a genius, but up till then he'd never pegged him as a devious guy. Who knew the scientist had a game face? Certainly not him. It hadn't taken long before he'd been unable to resist asking a question. The rest as they say was history.

Without his friends John didn't think he would have made it. It was their support and unwillingness to allow him to crawl into a shell that had saved him. They never pushed or demanded information, and they seemed to know when he'd been ready to go it alone. John felt better. Better than he'd been in a long time. He was well on his way back, but even now he still wasn't ready to share what he'd been through. He didn't know if he ever would.

As his injuries healed he'd had a lot of time to think about what Carson had said. John realized the Scot was probably right. It still didn't matter. At the end of the day it was hard to change who you were inside.

He'd finally accepted he hadn't been responsible for killing the farmer, but he _had_ awoken the Wraith. That was a crime that didn't deserve forgiveness, nor did he want any. He would bear the guilt for the rest of his life. Try to atone as long as there was a breath left in his body.

Now he was back on Light Duty.

John reckoned it was a concession from Carson. He guessed the Scot knew he needed to take the next step. His knee still had a way to go before it was completely right. Plus, while the grafts had healed well, his new skin was still a little tender. His team had been awesome. Lorne too had done a great job filling in while he'd been out of action.

Unlike some men it was clear his XO didn't have designs on his job. Lorne had kept him in the loop right from the get go. Evan's relief had been obvious the first day he'd donned the black BDUs once more. The _Colonel_ was back, even if it was in name only. John had known he would never truly return to normal unless he got back on the saddle. Even if for the moment the saddle in question was a desk and chair.

John turned from the stack of paperwork, grabbed his cane and limped over to the window. He loved Atlantis, and never tired of the view. During the long desperate hours in the hole he would try to imagine it. Make believe the cool breeze from the ocean was ruffling his hair as he looked out over the city. Sometimes it was hard to believe all of that crap that had happened to him. Then his knee ached and he felt the itch from his new skin, and it all came flooding back. It was getting easier. Even the nightmares were less frequent. They still woke him up, but he didn't scream anymore. If he did, his neighbors didn't mention it.

The sun was shining on the spires and the reflection shone in his eyes. He blinked but didn't look away. It didn't matter how much it stung. He would take the small ache anytime over the interminable darkness he'd suffered in the hole.

"Have you got time for a visitor, Colonel?"

"Kilund…" Surprised, John nearly stumbled. If it hadn't been for the cane he would have face planted on the ground.

The sergeant went scarlet, except he wasn't a sergeant now. According to Ronon, Kilund was a captain. "If this feels awkward, Colonel…I'll leave."

It did. Kilund was one of the men who had oppressed him. He was also the guy instrumental in his release. Life could be weird sometimes. John pinned on a smile he wasn't feeling. "Congratulations on the promotion."

Kilund shrugged. He looked stiff in his jacket. "Thanks…I suppose. After I left you I wanted to retire, run a bar someplace…now I'm back in Flenda managing the freaking place."

Now John did laugh. "So I heard…"

"I'm sorry…I'd meant to come and visit weeks ago, but…"

John waved him over to a chair. "The pressures of leadership. They can be a bummer – right?" For reasons he didn't understand himself, he tried not to hobble as he went over to sit by his desk.

Kilund reached into his jacket. "Dulane got released last week. I told him I was coming to see you. He asked me to give you this." Kilund handed over a shabby envelope.

John took it and put it in his top pocket. "How is he?"

Kilund smiled. "Good. I took him home myself. I know that's not my job, but after what he'd been through…well, I just wanted to make sure he got there okay. By the way...he's left the army and joined his dad on the farm. I think that kind of life will suit him better."

"Yeah…I think you're right." John remembered his young friend with affection. Dulane was the only thing that had kept him sane in that hell-hole.

Kilund coughed, and John realized he'd zoned out. He still did that from time to time. It was something he'd need to knock on the head if he hoped to return to Active Duty.

"Anyway…I just wanted you to know that things are different in Flenda now, Colonel." Kilund said. "The prisoners are treated right. They have proper bunks with bedding. The foods improved too. I also fought tooth and nail to get a medic for the place. We have a young guy starting next week. There's still a lot to be done…but I'm going to turn that place around if it's the last thing I do."

John nodded. "That's good to hear…"

Kilund interrupted, and his voice cracked slightly. "I only took the job because of you, Colonel. When you saved my life – a man who'd treated you like dirt – you showed me what I'd become. I want to thank you for taking the blinders off." Kilund smirked, "I _might_ still go to hell, but at least now I have a chance to save my soul."

Kilund smiled, got to his feet and extended his hand. John was speechless. He accepted the gesture in the manner in which it was given. "Rualin?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. "He was court marshalled. Found guilty of your unlawful imprisonment, and the murder of Ceeland and at least twelve prisoners. At least that's what we know of." Kilund's face darkened. "Rualin came to Flenda after his wife died. I think he believed a stable billet would be a good place to bring up Jalune." Kilund went silent for a moment. "Men came and went from the prison, but he didn't realize he'd made Flenda into a prison for him and his boy. I served with Rualin many years ago, we were in the same regiment. He was only a Captain back then and while he was never an easy man, he never used to be vindictive. I reckon all the horrors, every evil act he inflicted on the inmates poisoned him. It was so gradual a process I'm ashamed and sorry to say I never noticed. It wasn't until the day I came to get you...I saw what he'd become."

"What was the verdict?" John asked quietly.

"He was killed by firing squad yesterday."

There was nothing to say about that. The man had deserved to die for his crimes. John only felt sorry he hadn't pulled the trigger himself.

Kilund stood up a little straighter and started for the door. "I'm glad to see you're on the mend, Colonel, but I'd better to get back – I have a prison to run."

John was about to rise, but Kilund forestalled him. He glanced over at the paperwork. "I can see you're busy so I'll see myself out. Goodbye, Colonel. Take care of yourself." His ex-captor saluted and walked out of the door leaving him alone. Rualin was dead. Flenda was in good hands. It was good that Justice had finally been done. It still didn't take away the pain he felt deep inside.

ooooOoooo

"Are you ready for some lunch?"

John put down his pen and closed over the report he'd been reading. "_More_ than ready."

His brain was turning to mush trying to catch up with the staff evaluations. It was mind numbing stuff at the best of times and he was ready to run for the hills. He smiled at Teyla and reached for his cane. A stab of pain pierced his bum knee and John suppressed a wince at he struggled to his feet. Too long sitting in the same position had stiffened his healing limb.

"What is that in your pocket, John?"

"_Huh_…" John saw her looking at the envelope in his top pocket. It was the letter from Dulane. He'd forgotten all about it. "Kilund paid me a visit…he gave me a letter from Dulane. I forgot to read it."

Teyla went to leave. "If you wish to read it now, I will wait for you in the mess."

John considered the offer then shook his head. He liked Dulane, but apart from saying 'hi' and maybe extending an offer to come visit, he didn't reckon his prison buddy would have much to say. He was wrong.

Teyla had wandered over to the window while he read the letter. He wasn't even aware she'd come to stand in front of him until she'd called his name.

"_John_…are you quite well?"

Truth was he didn't know the answer to that. He felt the color drain from his face and he sat down on his chair so hard, he nearly fell off the edge. "Yeah…I'm fine."

Teyla looked at him anxiously. "You do not look…_fine_. Is there anything wrong with your friend?"

He reached for his half-drunk bottle of water. Teyla handed it to him. He swallowed it in one. John could see she was still waiting for an answer. It was simpler to hand over the letter.

"The guy makes me sound like a freaking hero. All I did was push someone down the stairs. By the way…_don't_ ever do that. It really hurt."

Teyla finished reading and looked at him. "You are a hero to these men, John. Not only did you protect them from a violent man, you gave them hope and a belief that their lives could get better…Because of you they have." Teyla handed back the letter and went to sit on the bed facing him. "I tried to tell you once before, John. You have made a difference to the lives of so many people, including Ronon's and mine. Your courage and strength has inspired many, but we…we are only alive because of you. You gave us a home, and the faith you have shown in us, making us part of your team, has given our lives purpose. If you had died in Flenda that selfish woman would have done Pegasus a great disservice. When you were sent to prison we missed our friend, but Atlantis missed you more. Without you our lives would have eventually moved on, but no one could ever have filled the gap you left behind. I do not believe there is anyone who could have achieved what you did. Atlantis needs you. We _need_ you to keep leading us in our fight against the Wraith. "

Teyla's words hung in the air and John felt the flush grow on his cheeks. He was thankfully spared from replying by Rodney's timely entrance. "Well…are we going for lunch, or does the _Colonel_ have more pressing concerns to deal with?"

John wasn't ready to share the contents of the letter, or the conversation with anyone else. He looked at Teyla. She smiled. The smile told him she wouldn't betray his confidence. John was embarrassed. He didn't think any of the praise was deserved. All he'd ever tried to do was the right thing. Sometimes his actions worked, but sometimes they didn't. If he got lucky and managed to help, that was good enough for him.

He was still a little shaky from the latest revelations, but Rodney was waiting for an answer. John quickly roused himself from his fugue. "_No_…the Colonel is ready for a break, and I'm buying today. What's on the menu?"

Rodney folded his arms and rolled his eyes. "It's pizza, Colonel _Cheapskate,_ and blueberry muffins – _your_ favorite. That's the third time this week they've been on the menu. If I didn't know better I'd guess Martha had made them especially for you."

"She did." Ronon smirked, and gently elbowed him in the ribs. "Martha's got a thing for you, Sheppard."

John looked at his friends and wondered how he'd got so lucky. He wanted to thank them for everything they'd done. But what did you say to the people who not only saved your life, but your sanity? There was so much he wanted to say but he'd never been good at expressing his emotions.

So he did what he always did. Hid what he was feeling inside, composed himself and put on his game face. John knew they were waiting for him to respond so he settled for pretending to ignore the gibe. He grinned. "What can I tell you? I've got friends in high places. C'mon…let's go see if we can bag our usual table…"

THE END.

Well that's the end of the tale, and I hope you enjoyed it.

I want to thank my very patient beta and good pal, **Sherry 57 **for all the hard work she did on this fic. Her invaluable insight encouraged me to make this a longer and hopefully better story. And…I hope there was enough drippy blood in it for you **Strey! **

As for you, the readers, I want to thank you for coming along John's journey with me. It was very dark in places, but you trusted me to bring it to a brighter conclusion. I can't thank you enough for all the wonderful reviews.

Until the next story – take care – Joanie.


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