A/N: This fic came about as the result of an evening of chatting (and drinking) with some awesome cool GW whumpers at the Chicago SG convention last month. As a frequent whump writer I was given the task of writing a story that included these prompts: Kidnapping, drippy blood, restraints, John's ATA gene in a key role, and John to 'really go off the deep end'. Despite the odd combination, I think I've squeezed everything in in some fashion or other. I'm rather fond of my little plot in fact. Although this contains a fair amount of my usual action and technobabble plotting, it is definitely written with a specific audience in mind. So fair warning, and to all whumpers: enjoy!

Story is complete, I'll be dropping chapters as I edit to be posted to completion by the end of next week, if not sooner.

John skulked down the hall, trying not to look like he was skulking. He'd managed to avoid Rodney for the whole day, so far, but the tenacious busybody had gotten the word out and the entire science department was on the lookout for him, too. John had had to threaten Zelenka with a week's worth of jumper repairs to keep him from squealing only an hour ago.

He supposed he should be impressed that they hadn't taken the city's scanners to him, but John was too grumpy at losing the bet to feel particularly appreciative of the questionable courtesy. He flinched when someone entered the hallway from one of the many doors lined the corridor, then relaxed when Lt. Ziegenhorn passed on by. John refrained from turning to watch him go…just to make sure he wasn't darting back into another lab to rat him out. So now he was getting paranoid in addition to feeling grumpy?

"Just pay up and be done with it. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you sweat it," he muttered to himself, reasonably. But it's an original, Mark Bagley, 2000, Ultimate Spiderman #1, he continued within the privacy of his own mind, not quite ready to be reasonable. Rodney has no appreciation for it. He'll READ it or something! Bend the pages. Drool on it, maybe…

"Sheppard!"

John didn't even blink. He pivoted neatly on his heel and headed back the way he'd come before the echoes of Rodney's bellow had died.

"Hey! It's time to pay up and you know it! I beat you to the cache." John walked faster and Rodney's voice went even more cocky. "I found it, I can find you. You can run, but you can't hide."

Good idea, actually. John ran. He smirked at the sound of Rodney sputtering in disbelief.

"Oh, real mature, Sheppard," Rodney called, but he didn't sound quite so smug while loping down the hall in an unwilling lumber. "I…won. Fair…and square. Just… pay…up…and…"

John skidded to a halt in front of the transporter and slapped at the control bar. The doors slid slowly open – at least it seemed slow –and he leaped inside. He leaned back for one last glower at the by-now huffing and puffing McKay, then shoved his finger into the dot on the large, beautiful map of the city that would tell the transporter to take him to the control tower. Even if Rodney caught up with him there, John was sure he could find some tasks to become "involved" in. He couldn't hide forever, but he could give it the ol' college try and at least make Rodney work for it.

"Shep -!" was the last thing he heard before the room flashed and the furious voice on the other side of the door ceased abruptly.

From John's perspective, the transporter usually felt like he stayed in one place and it was the city that had shifted around him. One transporter cubby was pretty much the same as another.

So when the flash faded and John found himself staring at a cluttered laboratory wall instead of a transporter map, he was rather taken aback. He staggered a step at the surge of disorientation, then whirled when he heard his name spoken in a soft gasp.

"Colonel Sheppard…?"

Two blue-shirted scientist types were standing in the center of the room, a few steps away, staring at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

John flicked a quick look around the very messy, cluttered almost to the point of trashed, room. He was pretty sure he was in a lab, but not one he'd set foot in recently, if ever. There was a low, circular platform under his feet, and a glance at the ceiling confirmed that he was standing under a transporter ceiling panel – although the one hanging sloppily over his head was crude. Exposed wires dangled and looped through the half assembled frame. He rolled his eyes and broke into a grudging grin.

"Oh, I get it. Nicely done." The two blue-shirts looked at each other, then looked back at him, still gaping. John hopped off the platform. "So did you come up with this all on your own or did Rodney put you up to it." He stepped back to give the homemade transporter a onceover. "I have to admit, that's pretty cool. If you guys get good at building these things, we could sure use a couple more over on the West pier and in the residential towers. So, how did you know it was me? You got this thing hooked into the transponder database?"

He caught yet another shocked look pass between the two men and a small bell of alarm finally went off. John was used to cold silences and/or deferential fear directed at him by members of the science team. Lt. Col. John Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis, was generally classified in one of two categories: Mindless grunt or Gun-happy vigilante.

But something other than unfair stereotyping was bugging these two, especially if they'd been expecting him, he realized. Another, more serious, survey of the scientists only deepened his unease. The two men were as disheveled as the room. Their shirts were wrinkled and stained, their hair was unwashed and unkempt. They looked vaguely familiar, but John didn't always get a chance to meet every lab rat beyond their security dossiers.

Both were on the short side, 5'8" and 5'11" respectively. The slightly taller man was mid forties, dark skin and hair and sharp features that John categorized generally as Indian or Pakistani. The shorter was also younger, late twenties, Caucasian with long thick curly hair that was partially pulled into a short pony tail. Wild tendrils had escaped the clasp and frizzed around the young man's face in wispy halo.

They both stared at him through eyes that were a little too wide, and a little too…surprised.

"So…what's going on?" he said into the silence that had quickly grown awkward.

He got no answer. The two just turned their backs on him and began to hiss in frantic, whispered conversation. John cocked his head, torn between moving closer to hear and bolting for the door like a scared rabbit. They were creeping him out. Beyond the regular weird science guy thing, even. He felt his hand drift to his hip. Snippets of words drifted to him.

"Not him?"

"…strongest…"

"…too dangerous…"

"…no choice!"

John abruptly decided he'd had enough of the joke and turned towards the door that was half hidden behind a cluttered metal shelving unit. "I'll be sure to tell Rodney you caught me," he announced. "See you guys later."

"Wait!" Curly raised both his hands, and took a step as if to block John.

John's hand gripped the handle of his gun at the sudden sharpness of the command, but he didn't draw it out…yet. He was moving past puzzled and well into annoyed.

"No you wait. Rodney doesn't like it when people start messing around with things without telling him." He waved at the hodge-podge transporter. "I want to know why I ended up here. You can tell me what's going on or I'm out of here."

"You have a strong natural occurrence of the genetic code required to initialize the indigenous technology. We require your…assistance," the dark featured man said. He looked a little like he was going for polite and persuasive, but was fidgeting and sweating too much to pull it off.

"There's procedure for that, guys. You ask Rodney, Rodney asks me, I say no. What's really going on?" He allowed a snap of frustration into his voice. Somehow, hijacking someone out of the transporter didn't seem like a normal way to ask for help. And there were lots of people who could turn ATA stuff on. Other people.

"We do not answer to Dr. McKay. You will comply." The curly haired man made no pretense at courtesy. His tone was sharp and aggressive and John finally lumped the body language into the proper category: nervous aggression. His posture went defensive.

"I don't think so." He turned to walk past Curly, hoping he could just bluff his way out of the room. These guys didn't have any weapons that he could see, but he thought they just might be wound up enough to throw a punch so he kept his chest to the room, sidling sideways to avoid turning his back. He eyed the two men as they bent their heads in whispered conversation one more time. John had almost made it to the shelf when Curly turned his back on his partner and jammed a hand in his wrinkled jacket pocket.

John jerked his gun out of the holster at the sudden movement. This was getting ridiculous. He really needed some backup here. Just so he didn't feel like he was the only one freaking out about two crazy guys who really needed a shower.

"Don't," he warned. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Curly pulled it out slowly, bringing with it some kind of green crystal. John had been around the Pegasus Galaxy long enough to take nothing, not even a pretty piece of rock, for granted. "Drop it!"

John leveled his own weapon and was reaching for his radio earpiece to tap open the frequency when Curly closed his fist around the crystal and…John fell out of his body.

It was the only way he could describe the sensation. He was looking through his eyes, thinking in his own head, but his body was completely cut off from his consciousness. He could see it in his peripheral vision, but the part that was him felt like a pair of floating eyeballs.

"See! He is too dangerous to use." Curly turned on his companion and gestured wildly at the gun-toting, immobilized John. "He cannot be simply intimidated as we planned. We must discard him and find another."

The words floated into his mind as if he were hearing them, but he couldn't hear, exactly. He must be connected to his body at least a little. Not enough though. He struggled to move something, anything, then got distracted as the hand holding his gun lowered, then began to turn. Curly was glaring at him as his partner gesticulated.

"But he must have the strongest natural occurrence; that was how we programmed the hijack device. If we are to synthesize the genetic code that allows access to the technology, then we need to synthesize the best possible sample."

"Then get the sample and discard him."

John really did not like the curly guy at all. The gun was pointing at his belly now. How the hell was it doing that?! He thought even harder but it was like screaming at a TV. The show just kept unfolding.

"There is evidence that a mind-link is also required. He has experience with the technology. If we work quickly, we can get much use out of him before his absence is noticed, despite his status."

John could see his chest heaving around deep breaths but it was strange not to feel himself breathing. Some subconscious part of him must be processing the threat because he could see his hands shaking and his chest working. Dammit, he looked scared, even to himself. And that pissed him off. His body twitched slightly with the surge of anger.

Curly looked over at him in surprise at the motion and the gun's muzzle snapped up to press against John's sternum, only skin and bone away from his heart. John's hands were backwards around the grip and his thumb was against the trigger. He was still disconnected – his hands looked like one of those first person shooter games he played on Rodney's computers without permission – but the gun about to go off was really aimed at him. And he had no control over it.

"It's not worth the risk. His death will distract the others for some time." Curly's eyes met his, panicky and calculating. The dark skinned man shrugged in frustration and looked away.

Crap! John's body twitched again. Curly's eyes widened, then narrowed in resolve. John saw the moment when Curly gave the mental command that his body would obey.

No!

The cry, still tinged with anger, reverberated in his mind and he saw his hands jerk in instinctive self-defense. He heard the crack of the weapon as it discharged its deadly projectile into his side and saw the two scientists jump in guilty reaction. His body curled into the impact that he couldn't feel, then crumpled to the floor. His floating point of view fell with it and he found himself looking at his arms, knees and feet twisted in a pile against bronze decking.

There was a long moment of nothing. John just stared in shock at the puddle of blood that was spreading slowly over the floor. This is really just not my day. He heard the men speaking again, but he was distracted by the sight of his motionless body.

"The weapon did not kill him!" the dark skinned man – John decided suddenly to call him Mo – was saying when he walked into view and crouched to peer into John's face. His expression was surprised and a little bit pleased. He tugged John's radio and the gun away. Curly also crouched into view and John suddenly felt like a wounded stray dog being messed with by two mean kids. He couldn't move, he couldn't get away. The fear had sunk into his mind, even without his body's feedback to signal it.

"Dr. Strai has great respect for the Colonel," Mo said, more determined. Curly didn't look quite so haughty anymore. In fact, he looked at bit ill and was swallowing a lot at the sight of the ever-widening puddle of blood on the floor. Mo went on, "He is very clever and capable of manipulating most of the indigenous technology, despite his occupation in the warrior class."

"He is very dangerous," Curly snapped back with the hysterical air of one getting tired of repeating himself. "He will fight us."

Damn right I will, John thought.

"But he is wounded and weakened. We have the Cohall device to keep him under control. He can accomplish most of our requirements in that state." Mo nodded to himself, still half crazy to John's eye, but he seemed to have convinced himself of John's usefulness. John couldn't tell if he believed what he was saying or if he was only feeling guilty about shooting him. Mo looked at Curly and pointed at John's face, "And he is the only one who has ever piloted this craft."

Curly looked at his partner with a sharp jerk. "Strai is certain about this?"

"He was onboard at the time. It was a harrowing experience and Strai is convinced only the Colonel could have accomplished the feat from among the current occupants."

John was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. He couldn't feel anything, but his vision was beginning to fade, the image getting dimmer and snowy somehow, like bad reception. He was having trouble thinking through the endless argument between the two insane scientists. They needed him to turn ATA stuff on? They were impressed he'd flown...what? What the hell did any of this have to do with why he was on the floor watching himself bleed out from a self-inflicted gunshot hole in his belly?

It was Curly's turn to look away. And then he lunged to his feet and out of John's view. His voice was barely audible over a faint ringing in John's ears that didn't seem to be coming from the real world. "Fine. Just...fine. We'll use him for as long as we can but he won't last long without treatment from his own medical class - he is losing fluids rapidly."

"I will perform temporary measures."

"His people will begin looking for him soon."

"The Cohall device can alleviate that risk as well. If we use him and our time wisely, the Colonel may work to our great advantage."

Curly's feet paced back and forth in John's view. Mo, having won the argument, became much more calm. John saw him check his pulse and then gingerly begin to tug at his shirts. Once the ragged holes were exposed - and John's hands started to quiver again as his body reacted to his fear of the very-not-good-looking sight - Mo leaned close and spit on John's side.

Oh that's just disgusting!

Mo leaned back and waved at Curly. "Help me secure him so we can release him," he said which made no sense at all to John.

His arms were grabbed and his feet were made to walk towards a sturdy lab chair in the corner of the messy room. John's vision greyed even further as he was moved; wispy sparks began to float around, leaving thin, black trails behind. He assumed he was sitting in the chair when his floating pov sank a foot and his knees appeared in his peripheral vision. Curly pulled zip ties off one of the cluttered shelves and fastened his wrists to the armrests. His view jerked as Mo yanked on the cording John watched him loop around his chest. There were thick splotches of blood leading in a trail away back to the large dark puddle of it.

Curly and Mo stood in front of him as if studying their handiwork. Mo nodded with a grim smile. "You can release him."

Before he could even try to figure out what that might mean, John's body snapped back around him – or he snapped back into it. The brief moment of surprise was replaced by agony as the pain of the gunshot wound slammed into him all at once. It wasn't just the wound, there were things crawling around on the wound, inside the wound that felt like tiny needles or teeth eating him from the inside out. John writhed and twisted his wrists against the restraints. His t-shirt under his uniform shirt felt cold and damp from armpit to hip and it stuck to his side with sticky wetness. John squirmed more desperately in the chair; a violent, frustrated scream ripped from his throat and left him panting in exhaustion, lightheaded. And still the pain grew.

"McKay...is...really going...to be pissed...when he finds...you..." he gasped, glaring at the scientists and invoking the most frightening consequence he could think of. "I'm telling...about the...transporter..."

"We have taken every precaution!" Curly snapped, resuming his haughty, nervous tone.

Even Mo didn't seem quite so confident with John back in his body and spoke as if convincing himself again. "We are quite well hidden. No one will know we are here until it is too late to stop us."

"I'll...stop...you..." John gasped, then had to squeeze his eyes shut against a surge of pain. "McKay will find you," he whispered. McKay will find me and Ronon will blast open the door and Teyla will cut me loose...

Curly just snorted then John heard footsteps and the creak of another chair. He still had his eyes shut, but the room seemed to be spinning anyway. Mo's voice filtered to him over a whine in his ears that was becoming deafening. "Dr. McKay might penetrate our shielding eventually, but not before we have engaged the star drive and begun our journey home. You will help us."

"No..." His stomach flared in a truly astonishing protest of agony and he groaned, writhing again.

"I think you will," Mo said and John had the strangest thought that he didn't sound menacing or angry or anything like your usual villain-type, monologueing bad guy. He sounded simply...optimistic. John thought again of the stray dog.

John's head spun and he slumped forward against the ropes on his chest. His side was burning and he felt the tell-tale consequences of blood-loss. What a crappy day. Curly was slapping furiously at a computer keyboard and John heard Mo walk towards a shelving unit then returned to jab a needle into John's arm. He didn't even flinch, the small prick hardly noticeable compared to the sword in his stomach.

"I will begin preparing the genetic sample. In the meantime, initialize this device, Colonel Sheppard."

"No..." John mumbled, only cracking his eyes open a bit to catch a glimpse of the unfamiliar Ancient doodad Mo was holding out. Mo simply grabbed John's fingers and bent them far enough off the armrest to shove the pearly casing under them. John tried to think "off" or "stop" or something that would keep the thing from coming on, but - like lots of Ancient tech - just a touch was enough. The thing glowed into life.

John sagged further, trying to keep the moan that longed to escape stuck in his throat. He heard his breath catch instead, and thought again, What a really crappy day.

"Now, initialize this device," Mo said, holding yet another gadget.

And it's only going to get worse...