Stargate Atlantis: Emerald Isle

Chapter 3 - Survival

A splashing, spluttering sound; he looked up to see Rodney sluicing water all over his face and neck, cooling himself down.  John wondered why Rodney seemed so relaxed.  Yesterday he'd been shocked at the loss of the gate and before that... Before that, every time John's  eyes met Rodney's he could tell that Rodney was seeing his friend, Dr Treadwell.  Each time John saw the accusation in Rodney's eyes it triggered more of John's guilt until he had stopped looking.  And then there were the six men he'd lost on the Genii mission; he'd gone over it in his head time after time, night after night.  There must have been something he could have done differently, should have done differently.  But it was always that way, had been since Afghanistan; all those people he'd failed to protect.  He watched the water in front of him flow over the pebbles, flowing with the inevitability of death following life.

"Sheppard!" Rodney's voice broke into his reverie. He was standing on a flat rock, mid-stream, looking at John, no accusation in his eyes, only concern.  "Should we carry on?"

John nodded, cleared his throat, "Um, yeah," he stood up, "I think we'll reach the shoreline soon."

They began walking downstream once more, sometimes on the riverbank, sometimes hopping from rock to rock in the stream.  The dappled shade was pleasantly cool, the air moist and smelling of damp earth and growing things, the trickle and splash of the water soothing.

Soon they realised they could hear the sea.  The stream emerged from the treeline and a horseshoe-shaped bay was revealed, flanked by a low, gradually sloping headland on the left and a high headland on the right, sloping steeply up and ending in a sheer cliff, hundreds of feet high.

The beach before them was stony near the trees, above the tide-line.  Then below a curved streak of dried brown seaweed and driftwood was finer shingle, becoming sand where the waves were lapping at the shore with a steady swishing sound almost like the sound of giant breaths.

John and Rodney stepped out of the trees, cautiously.  There seemed to be no sign of human presence.  No paths leading through the trees, no smell of cooking fires, no branches cut for firewood.  John looked speculatively at the headland on the right.  He could see shadows at its rocky base, some above the tide-line; could they be caves?

He strode forward, the large stones making grating, crunching noises beneath his feet.  Rodney followed, occasionally stumbling on the uneven surface. 

"What have you seen, Sheppard?  Is this a good place? What do you think?" Rodney bombarded him with questions, determined to elicit a response, almost like an attention-seeking child.

"I think there's a cave," he said.

As they approached the rock face where the beach met the headland, they could see several caves formed within the contorted strata of the rock.  Most were below the tide-line, but one was well above.  It had a high entrance, rapidly falling to not much more than head-height and then went back for about three metres before the rocky ceiling sloped down to meet the sandy floor. 

"So, is this our ideal home?" joked Rodney.  "The decor needs work!"

"The entrance is a bit exposed," said John. "The wind would blow in."

"Oh," said Rodney, disappointed.

"No, it'll do," continued John.  "We can build a wall, here," he drew a line in the sand with the toe of his boot, "using the bigger stones off the beach."

"OK, build a wall!" said Rodney, determinedly optimistic.  "We can do that!"

John looked at him in confusion.  This was neither the complaining, sarcastic McKay he used to know, who would have thought building a wall a job for the marines and so totally beneath him, nor the McKay of recent months with his hard, accusing gaze.  John shrugged.

He stepped away from the cave, looking round the beach and the headlands to either side with an assessing eye.

"So, does one of us watch while the other builds?" asked Rodney.  "Normally one of the team would keep watch, right?"

"Yes," said John, giving nothing away.  "I need a better view," he said then, and, selecting a suitable area of the rocky cliff face, began to climb.

It was only about fifteen feet high at this point, and John was a good climber, but by the time he reached the top his sore fingers and ribs were feeling the strain.  He stood, carefully, noting the small trails running over the short-cropped grass in between yellow-flowered gorse-like bushes, and wondering what this planet's rabbit equivalent looked, and more importantly, tasted like.

He could see over the whole of the beach and quite a good distance into the woodland area they had come through, with the line of the stream marked by a thinning of the trees.  Again, there was no sign of human habitation.  Had the full team been there he would have stationed Ronon or Teyla up here to keep watch as they worked.  With just the two of them he would take a calculated risk.  They would have to remain alert, they would have their Berettas in their thigh holsters permanently to hand, but they would need to work together on their wall and leave some time and energy for collecting suitable firewood and finding some food.  In respect of food, John already had plans.

John looked down the cliff-face, thinking about his aching fingers and ribs.  He sighed and began to climb down.

When he reached the bottom he sank down onto his knees and bent over to ease his painful ribs, his hands held close to his body, protectively, fingers shaking.

Rodney's head appeared out of the cave.

"Sheppard, I've started..." he began, but then stopped and ran over to John.  "What happened? Did you fall?"

John shook his head.

"What, then?  Tell me!"

"I'm fine," John said, slowly getting to his feet.

"Oh, yes, of course, you're fine!" said Rodney, angrily, and then paused and took a deep breath as if deliberately suppressing his frustration.  "Look, I know about... I mean I know you were," he floundered, "well, what I mean is, you probably don't want to talk about it, but..."

"Tortured!" John ground out through clenched teeth.  "The word is tortured and yes I was and no I don't want to talk about it!" and he strode off down to the waterline and stood, hunched over and trembling with his back firmly turned to his friend.

Behind him he heard Rodney berating himself sarcastically: "Oh, well handled, McKay, top marks for style, ten out of ten for subtlety!"