2.

"This isn't working!" John heard a crash as Ford banged his head against the body of the puddlejumper.

"Hey, there's no need to get all worked up about it," John said placatingly. For some reason, despite the fact that he felt as though he hadn't slept and Mckay was being even less helpful than usual after someone spilled the beans that he could use his day off to play translator, John wasn't at all frustrated. And I'm not usually known for my patience. "Everything has it's own time, Lieutenant. And we've got a dozen other jumpers ready. No rush."

Ford paused for a second, and John was sure he was wondering why John was suddenly channeling Buddha. He had been the one screaming at Mckay to 'get your goddamn ass in gear before I shift it with my foot!' just the other day when the scientist was dallying at some ruins close to a dangerous nightfall.

Doctor Zelenka, the ever-helpful Czech, had told them they might try cycling through the control relays to find out the problem. He even gave them his notes on what not to touch. Of course, the second Mckay heard he was helping out, the friendly doctor was shipped off to 'more important' pastures. Now it was just a matter of press and wait, press and wait. Jon could do this. It was nice mindless work . . . if he couldn't sleep, he could at least rest that lump that sat on top of his shoulders.

Press and wait . . . press and wait . . .

He was sitting in the pilot's seat, lost amid the familiar blanket of the stars. His heart rushed forward trying desperately to pull time with it . . . time when he could make it back into her arms. The engines strained and he could feel it as a tightening in his chest.

The enemy ships chased after him like darts - narrow and sleek, flanking and moving in for the kill. He saw the target before him, the calm shimmering pool of water, like the ocean in the dawn light, when they would stand at the edge of the city and call out to the nymphs and sea monsters to come and play. If he could just make it to that familiar safety . . . he could warn the others, tell them the dark secret he had learned. And he would see her again, the blue-green of her eyes even more beautiful than the salvation hanging in space in front of him.

That was when he felt it - the familiar tingling in his limbs that told him that they had been hit and where. It was as though the ship had become his body - his now-failing suit of armor. It shouldn't hurt, but it did - not in the vacuous substance of the flesh but in his very soul. They said you could taste defeat on the tip of your tongue like blood but they did not speak of how you could feel its pain beyond your bones.

John awoke to find himself just beneath the nose of the jumper, tracing a hand down the ghost of burn marks he hadn't even noticed were there. He must have let out some sort of involuntary gasp because Ford poked his head around the corner and asked, "Are you alright, Sir?" Why do people keep asking me that?

"Got a bit of a headache." He ignored the throbbing in his temples in favor of a reassuring smile.

"Maybe you should see the doctor. It looks . . ."

"I know, I look like shit." John gave a wry grin. Why did everyone have to be so damned concerned. If he wanted someone to smother him, he would have gotten married. He knew coming here would be a mistake . . . there were just too many . . . people. At least they had a whole city to explore. He could take off walking like he used to do on the base - wander out along the ice cap - listening for the symphony of glaciers falling into the frigid sea. Maybe later he would walk along the edge of Atlantis, call to the sea monsters and see if they wanted to play.

"I wasn't going to say that." Ford raised his hands in defense. "Well . . . not in those words."

John chuckled. Ford, he could deal with . . . until he started with the mother-hen routine. Weir wasn't half-bad either. She could be too much of a political type at times - so calculating, but she definitely wasn't an eyesore. And he liked Beckett, bad jokes and all. At least it was his job to be a mother-hen.

As for Mckay . . . well, speaking of the devil. The Canadian bumbled in, trying to look purposeful, but only succeeding in looking constipated. "Major Sheppard . . . I would really appreciate it if you could talk to Chen and Wu for me. I mean, I have a translation program, but it takes so long for me to type things out and I think we're just about to discover something important. I know Chen has an idea how to open that box, but he can't get it across to me . . . and that box is the only thing with that particular stone on it and we haven't been able to identify it's composition. This could be a weapon to fight the Wraith and I don't think I need to tell you how important that is. I mean, we're still vulnerable here and we haven't got many allies and . . . I just need a few minutes of your precious time, okay?"

"Are you done yet?" John asked, yawning and rubbing his forehead. The headache had gotten worse, but he attributed that to Mckay's presence.

"Yes . . . no, I'm not going to be done until you come with me!"

"There's plenty of other people around here who speak Chinese. Weir does, doesn't she?" He was going to kill the person from personnel that told Mckay he could help.

"Yes, but you're the only one who is doing the functional equivalent of twiddling his thumbs. Now let's go."

"The box isn't a weapon." John surprised himself with his own certainty. Did I mean to say that?

"And how would you know that? How many doctorates in mechanical science do you have?" Well, he did have a master's in math, but if he let Mckay know that he'd never get so much as a wink of sleep - not to mention free time. He had this strange feeling that finding out what damaged this ship was a whole hell of a lot more important than whatever was in the goddamn box.

"I don't need one to know that if the Ancients had a weapon capable of destroying the Wraith, we wouldn't be in this position to begin with." But that wasn't it. He knew beyond logical reasoning skills, that it wasn't a weapon in that box. "Besides, did you ever hear of, 'You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours?' Give us a hand with this, or at least give us Zelenka back. He seemed interested."

"Zelenka's interested in everything. He's busy adjusting the interface on one of the naquadah reactors . . . we're having trouble with the intermix again . . . I just . . . there's not much more that could go wrong without a major catastrophe . . . and I haven't eaten in . . ." He looked down at his watch, and John pounced on the opportunity to cut him off.

"How badly do you want to know what's in that box?"

Mckay seemed to consider it for a second than threw up his hands. "Fine. I'll find someone else. Keep doing whatever it is you find so enthralling." He stalked off down the corridor.

"I think we should start rationing his caffeine intake," John commented.

"So you want him to babble slower?" Ford asked incredulously, coming to stand next to him.

"Never mind. I just can't believe he doesn't want to know what happened to this thing - why it's the only one left damaged."

"If it doesn't involve insanely complicated physics or mortal peril, I don't think it even shows up on his radar."

"Good point."

They were about to go back to work when Ford asked, "Hey, why don't you give the thing another try. Maybe something we did actually worked."

John shrugged and climbed back inside. He was just about to sit down when they heard a muffled scream from down the hall - from the high pitch, John guessed it was Mckay. "What now?" He didn't mean it maliciously, but his headache was getting worse.

He and Ford took off running, following the screaming voice. John could just make out a couple of swear words. At least he's still moderately articulate. Though John wondered if that was a good thing.