Well, here it is. The final chapter in this part of the story! Thanks to all who commented and drove me on to finish and enjoy editing a story that was first up here about a year ago. If I do write the sequel, please have a look at it! I hope you enjoy the ending!

Chapter 7

The team made it back to the ship, and between the two of them, McKay and Sheppard somehow managed to pilot the ship home. Atlantis had never before been such a welcoming sight.

When the doors to the puddle jumper opened, the medical team that Teyla had requested stood in shock and surprise at what they found.
McKay was ashen and bruised from head to toe, his eyes almost swollen shut. Blood caked his arms and his breathing was so shallow that they thought he had already passed on.
Sheppard was slumped in the co-pilots chair barely conscious with blood still oozing from both trauma sites. He managed a relieved grin to welcome the medics, then promptly passed out.
Teyla and Ronon seemed to be the healthiest of the bunch, even though they looked as if they had fought a sand storm and lost.

Dr. Beckett would only allow Teyla and Ronon to leave the infirmary after a night's observation, despite their protests. Once their heads hit the pillows, however, they stopped caring which bed they were in. Rodney and John remained in the infirmary much longer.

The bullets had done some real damage to John, but despite that fact, with pain medication, antibiotics and rest, he would soon heal. That did not make him feel any better, he still felt as if he had taken on a dozen wraith and had an extra long ride on the emotional roller coaster.

McKay was in bad shape. His blood sugar had plummeted to dangerously low levels soon after landing. That combined with the injuries he sustained, coupled with a raging infection to the knife wounds, had caused him to fall very ill. He drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling fitfully, but mercifully pain free.

John listened to his friend, and hung his head in shame. He did not care that McKay had shot him—he knew it had not really been Rodney that had done it—but he wouldn't have blamed Rodney if it had been him. The memory of what the White Death had made him do to Rodney caused his stomach to churn and he suddenly found he had difficulty breathing.

He leaned forward retching, gasping for breath. A sharp pain from the wound in his shoulder shocked him into calmness. He lay back with a groan and stared at the ceiling, swallowing back down the bile that soured his mouth. Rodney continued to moan in his sleep, and John hated himself. He sometimes still felt the feeling she was still with him, a residual effect of having someone else in your head, Carson believed. He continued to stare at the ceiling until his eyes became heavy and he closed them for relief.

Soon, he stopped hearing Rodney's fitful nightmare, as he passed into his own dreamless sleep.

---

It had been almost three weeks since he had been cleared by Beckett to leave the infirmary and he still wished he were there. At least he had felt safe in there. Dark corridors and silent rooms made him fearful and nervous now. He often found himself nervously wringing his hands while his eyes darted around him, searching for an unseen danger. He was constantly on edge, jumpy and fidgety.
Panic attacks crept up on him while doing the most mundane things, and often at inopportune times, such as in the middle of giving instructions to a technician.

He was much better now than what he had been when they had returned from the planet. At least now he did not see Sheppard in the dark corners of Atlantis, waiting to pounce on him. The nightmares were lessening also, and he could sleep a couple of hours before waking in a sweat with a shout after seeing Sheppard's menacing face in his dreams.

He had yet to face John Sheppard. He kept away from him when he saw him coming and it seemed that John respected this and stayed out of his way. They had not yet been cleared for duty, so it was easy to find somewhere else to be.

Never before had he feared, loathed maybe, but not feared, anyone on the Atlantis expedition, especially not Sheppard. But he now found himself in a position where he no longer felt he could work with him and he wanted to leave his team, not only for the fact that he was haunted by the pain that John had caused him, but also because of his own guilt of having shot him. He feared John's reaction to being shot by him, remembered the look on John's face as he fell to the ground.

He had already spoken to Weir about a transfer, who had said to give it time. She believed that he would work through the trauma and be able to work with John again when he was ready. She also recommended he speak with Heightmeyer, who he felt did little to alleviate the issue. She continually spoke about post traumatic stress, about how his feelings and what he was experiencing was normal. He eventually stopped attending sessions as he felt it a waste of both his time and hers.

People looked at him with pity in their eyes, it made him feel small and weak. It also reminded him of the state his face was in, black and blue, covered in cuts and scratches.

Everything scared him and everything irritated him. He was sick and tired of feeling like he was in constant danger, ever alert and painfully timorous.
Loud noises made him flinch, then the looks of apology made him angry. He was angry to feel so ashamed at his reactions. He was angry that people were treating him like a injured child, so pathetic and protective to the point it almost made him mad.

He would find himself in a room, working away quite happily, when a noise would have him diving for the floor or covering his head in alarm. He hated this, he did not want to be so weak.
When he was not angry, he was scared. Scared of loud noises, fast movements, raised voices, dark areas.

Scared to be alone.

He would be fine for five minutes or so then happen to glance at his arms, suddenly nauseous at the hideous scars, painful reminders that brought everything flooding back.

He kept all of this to himself. He could never find the words to describe how violently the incident on the planet had stripped him of his defenses. He never found the right person to talk to, to have listen and understand that this incident had crippled him.

Zelenka, of all people, was the one who was there for him when he finally broke down. The Czech had entered the lab to find Rodney sitting in his seat staring at a dark corner on the far side of the room, his eyes wide and fearful, his mind somewhere else.

"McKay?" he asked as he approached him. "Rodney, are you alright?"

Rodney had snapped out of his trance with a start, turning quickly as if Radek had scared him.

"No," he said in a small voice. "I'm not."

He remained in his seat, staring at his hands as Radek quietly ushered out two technicians who were working in the background. He pulled a chair over and sat next to Rodney, never uttering a word.
He sensed a peace from Radek, a will to help, to listen. He turned and looked at Zelenka, who cocked his head to the side and smiled.

"Why don't you tell me about it." He said, staring back with kind eyes.

Rodney realised that this man was the one person who would listen to him and not make fun of him. He realised that Radek genuinely wanted to help, not just seem to be helping to make himself feel good. He looked back to his hands and started to speak, aware that Zelenka continued to watch him closely. Once he had started, he found he could not stop speaking and everything poured from him.

He told Zelenka of every pain he had endured, every anguished moment he had lived on the planet. He spoke of the herbivorous Dust Dogs that had scared him witless, the look on John's face and the malice in his voice. He told him about the hallucinations, how they gave him hope only to crush it with reality. He told of the nightmares that had him screaming until he woke in a cold sweat. He spoke about John, and how he could hardly bear to look at him, how his body screamed at him to run and hide every time he caught a glimpse of him.

The little Czech listened to him silently, letting him pour out his anger and fear until he fell silent and could say no more.

"You have to talk to him, Rodney," Radek said when it was clear that McKay had finished.

"How can I speak to him when every nerve burns and every muscle twitches for me to get as far away as possible when I see him?" Rodney whispered, looking at the floor.

Zelenka raised his hand to scratch his head, but stopped when he noticed Rodney cringe away from him.

"Sorry," Rodney mumbled, embarrassed. "I can't help it."

His colleague shook his head and sighed. "I am sorry for what you went through, Rodney. I can not imagine just how terrifying it was. I am here for you. I will listen when you need it," Radek removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "But you need to speak to John. You can not move on until you do."

Rodney simply nodded his head, as Zelenka looked on with concern in his face.

"Yeah, well. I don't know when I will be able to move on, then."

Zelenka had made his way to the door when he heard the quiet voice.

"Thanks, Radek."

Rodney felt better for letting it all out, felt grateful to Zelenka for allowing him to do so. Thankful that he had at last been able to get the pain out. Now, he was tired. He was so exhausted that he was sure he would sleep the rest of the day away.
As he made his way through the corridors towards his room, he still found himself flinching at noises and backing away from darkened areas.

It will take time. Give yourself time.

He was almost there, relief washed over him when the door of his room came into sight along the corridor. Then he heard heavy footfalls behind him, a rhythmic limping sound to them, making his blood run cold.

"Rodney," the person hurried behind him.

He froze in his tracks as the voice scratched his nerves.

"Rodney, we need to talk."

"No, we don't," he said in a high-pitched voice, moving again, trying to get to his door quicker. Sweat was beading on his forehead, cold shivers dancing along his spine as the fear returned full force.

"Rodney!" John said leveling with him. He put a staying hand on Rodney's arm. Rodney flinched away from his touch, almost slamming himself into the wall in his attempt to get away from John's hand.

"Rodney," John said again in a low and pained voice, sorrow in his darkened eyes as he looked at his friend's fearful attempt to avoid him.

He was shocked at Rodney's appearance. He had lost so much weight, his bloodshot eyes dark and sunken in his pale face. His hair was a mess, his clothes untidy and he had a look of terror on his face that shook John and almost stopped his heart.
He had put that terror there. He never thought he would ever be the reason for a look like that to be on Rodney's face. Shame and guilt washed over him like a dark wave of icy cold water.

The silence between them was deafening. John watched as Rodney scoured the area for a means of escape, his nails digging into the wall behind him.

"There is nothing I can say to ever make up for what I did," John started. "There is nothing I can do to change what happened. I would never intentionally hurt you, and it hurts like hell to know that I have."

Rodney seemed to calm a little, or at least he did not seem to be trying to get through the wall, anymore.

"I am sorry for what happened, I hope you realize that. I hope one day you can forgive me and we can be friends again," John walked away, shaking his head as remorse weighed on his pained body. The haunted look on Rodney's face would forever stay with him.

Rodney's mind was a whir of emotions. He did not know how to feel, how to react to what John had just said. His mouth opened and closed as his brain tried to work out how he felt.
It struck him that John was not the evil thing that haunted his dreams. He was John Sheppard, his friend. It was the White Death that he was scared of and she could never hurt him again.

"John." He said quietly, but Sheppard heard and turned to look at him.

He walked closer to John, his fingers tracing the outline of the scar on one of his arms. He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. He knew that Radek had been right, he had to speak to John or he would never move forward out of this hell.

"It…it…it was not your fault." Rodney said, wringing his hands in nervous distraction. "I…I know that. I just need…time."

John nodded, thankful for some interaction after weeks of nothing.

"OK, Rodney. No problem," he gave a half-hearted smile before turning and walking away again.

Rodney went into his room and sat on the bed. For the first time in what felt like ages, he did not scan the room on entering, checking the dark areas for imagined foes. As he sat there wiping the sweat from his brow, he realised something. He did feel better, those few words with John had started closing an emotional rip that he never thought would heal. He felt his fears falling from his mind, well some anyway. Radek had been right.
He had made the first steps to climb out of hell and he decided to go further. Jumping to his feet he ran out of his room and up the corridor.

John carried on walking, he was not sure where he was going, only that he had to keep moving. He wanted to be alone so he avoided busy areas, ignoring people who said hi or looked at him. He kept up a fast pace, which made his healing leg burn with fire, his shoulder tugging with the increased speed, but he could not care less. The pain felt good, it was something that reminded him he was still human.
He could hear someone running behind him, hoped it was no one wanting to speak to him as he did not think he could be civil at the moment.

"Eh, John?" He stopped walking, turning his head to the side to listen. Rodney cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

"You…you wouldn't like to…to, uh, go to the mess, would you? Um, maybe get something to eat?"

John turned to face Rodney, with a look and sigh of relief. He suddenly felt his dark mood lift and he smiled at his friend.

"Sure. Why not."

As they walked side by side, they could feel the strain of the past weeks ebb away. Their relationship would take time to rebuild, but the friendship and the trust would eventually return.

While they made their way to the mess hall, Rodney smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.

He would get through this.

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End.

A/N I really hope you enjoyed this, and thank you again for all the comments!