The 2006 Rewrite

Disclaimers & Thanks:

    JMS owns these characters, but he left some crucial scene out of season 5.
    Thanks to Pfyre for beta reading and for being a constant source of inspiration, to Simon for enduring hours and hours of B5, and to Julie for humiliating me in front of my entire test team over a certain picture of a certain captain in a certain calendar .... :-)
    rating etc: m/m (Sh/G), PG-13, violence

   2001 re-write (June 13th, 2001) - thanks to Tomy for betaing in yet another new fandom!
 

"when you’re close to tears, remember, someday it’ll all be over" - from ‘High’

"...and the silence falls between us, as the Shadows steal the light...." - from 'Private Emotion', Ricky Martin

SEPTEMBER 2006

So... why do it again?  Because it's one of my favourites of all my stories from any fandom, and I'm learning more every day about how to write, I want my favourite stories to remain my favourites.

chapter one - rescue

From the word GO it had been deliberate and determined; a military operation executed with exquisite timing to a achieve a single, absolute goal.

But the reason for this suicidal raid only struck them squarely in the chest - in the heart - when they finally entered the interrogation cell.

Ten days had passed since the fight in the bar; if it could have been called a fight.  A lamb attacked by wolves; defenceless and weak he’d fallen slowly, fighting even as the drug had exploded through his system and brought him down from within as the brutes attacking him brought him down from without.

The band of rescuers rushed the cell, killed the three interrogators, found their prize.  And Garibaldi’s heart broke anew.

Despite being held by metal restraints at his neck, wrists and ankles, Sheridan still slumped in the straight-backed metal chair.  His eyes, barely open, attempted to focus first on Stephen, then on Michael.  Words crumbled from his dry lips, mumbled and disjointed yet audibly a vague threat aimed at Garibaldi.  Michael heard it, tore his eyes from the man he’d once called ‘friend’, unable to look at him, to meet his milky, uneven gaze.

Murmuring words of safety and encouragement, Stephen hauled the captain to his feet, having to force himself to ignore the pained protests torn from the man who was now his foremost concern.  His fingers dug gently into John’s side, expert touch feeling for broken ribs and any other obvious signs of injury.

To his horror he found not just broken bones but swelling, a possible sign of dangerous internal bleeding.   He said nothing, knowing it would accomplish nothing in that place.  No choice, they had to get Sheridan out of there, they had to move fast.

Michael stayed out in front, Stephen and Lyta each supporting Sheridan while still keeping their weapons up.  This was their one chance.  If they were captured they would die.  Michael had sworn that he would take John with him if that happened, that he wouldn’t let Clarke’s men harm the man any further.

The guards were never going to fall for the limp explanation Garibaldi had fed them.

In the sudden, quick firefight, Stephen had to release his hold on Sheridan to turn and fire at the guard closest to him before he himself was killed.  At the same time, another man made a grab for Lyta as he fell and she pushed the captain away to fight off the grip on her leg.

Sheridan lurched forward, vision skewed, and collided with the wall with a hiss as he tripped over the leg of the guard Lyta was grappling with.  Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw him steady himself, saw him eye the PPG lying discarded on the ground.

Apparently Sheridan was going to fight this time.  Michael's words got caught in his mouth as he watched John bend to picked up the weapon, watched him weigh it in his broken hands.   He knew what was coming and he managed this time to force John's name in a shout over the quiet mayhem, but even as he succeeded himself in wrestling his attacker's PPG from him, he knew it was too late.  He heard Stephen say they should get going, but knew John hadn't heard it - or wasn't listening.

Time stood still for just a moment.  Sheridan seemed to study the two other guards for just a moment, like the victim of a science experiment meeting its designer for the first time.  Michael had no clue if the two were personally responsible for any of John's injuries, for a single second of what he’d endured, but they wore the same uniform as those who had been.  They wore that uniform and Michael knew it was important, because in John's mind at the very least,  they were as guilty as those who had committed the crimes against him.

One of them moved, stupidly, perhaps aiming at Garibaldi or perhaps not.  But John fired, like Michael had known he would.  He shot the first guard twice before aiming at the prone figure on the ground and firing five PPG shots in quick succession.

Michael cleared his throat, watched John turn unsteadily and for the first time since his betrayal looked into the eyes he'd known so well. 

"I'm fine," John said, impossibly.  It was a lie.  Ten seconds later, he dropped to the hard ground, strings finally cut, all reserves finally depleted.

He helped Michael as they dragged the unconscious man up between them and followed Lyta as she led the way back through the labyrinth of tunnels that had brought them to this hellhole.

There was only one further encounter with the enemy before they cleared the main staging area.  Not one of their aims was off this time.  Their purpose had made them crack shots.  In their wake they left four men dead.  Whether guilty or innocent, the deceased had chosen the wrong side at the wrong time.

The unspoken question of choice sent a shiver down Garibaldi’s spine.  Accountability was something he’d thought a lot about in recent days.  But the worse pain was still to come, and he would willingly accept it if he had the knowledge that Sheridan was alive to cushion his fall.

They continued through the grey, soulless passages out toward the main perimeter.  There were the inevitable small firefights, but it seemed like no one had been expecting a rescue attempt here, not while they were still on Mars, and security beyond the staging area wasn't tight.  Perhaps Clarke had imagined that the resistance would wait, or that there would be no rescue, that the rebels were too busy to risk their lives for the life of one man.

But that one man was important, he was special.  And they had Michael Garibaldi masterminding their moves.  Having himself only just been released from his own prison, he would have stopped at nothing until Sheridan was either free or dead.

Outside the main perimeter only a few guards awaited them.  Exhausted from half-carrying, half-dragging their ward through the maze from which they’d escaped, Garibaldi and Franklin should have been flagging.  But they were close to relative safety now.  They’d come this far and to fail was unthinkable.  They carved their way through the men, killing every one of them, spurred on by the proximity of this one small triumph.

Their second wind took them away from the place from which they’d stolen the most precious of items.

They stopped as soon as they got underground.  Stephen and Michael deposited their ward rather unceremoniously on the hard, dusty floor against the rock wall.

Franklin did not hesitate.  He started a quick yet thorough examination of the man they’d plucked from right under EarthForce’s nose.  Seeing John drop as suddenly as he had had frightened the doctor.  But his tertiary exam found plenty of evidence to explain it.

Stephen didn’t need a toxicology scan to tell that Sheridan had been poisoned.  The colour of his skin and the dilation of his eyes pointed to drugs having been administered to him.

Rather than starving him, Stephen guessed that at least some of the food Sheridan had been given had contained toxins that were still ravaging his system.  After a couple of doses, he wouldn’t have been able to keep even clean food down.  He’d been given fresh water presumably, or he would have been dead by now.  But by the marks in his arms and the state of his lips, dry and cracked as they were, it looked as if IV lines had been used to administer liquids and more than likely a concoction of drugs.

But there was very little Stephen could do about it here.  He had counteragents back at the resistance base that would start to combat the toxins, but there was still a way to go before they reached that level of safety.

Beatings had taken their toll on Sheridan’s body.  Bones broken in the initial bar brawl had started to knit with deformities.  Cuts sustained in that same fight and no doubt in subsequent displays of brutality had become septic and were slowly leaking their own poisons into John’s depleted bloodstream.  Bruises caused by the boots of men were clear on his arms and under his torn clothing.  Burns from what Stephen guessed had been small electrodes mottled his wrists and chest.

"He should be dead."

But the comment was uttered under his breath and only Michael heard it because he hadn’t left John’s side.

"But he isn’t dead."  Garibaldi looked up, eyes begging.  "Don’t let him die, Stephen.  Please.  He can’t die."

Franklin momentarily met the intense expression but he didn’t answer.  What answer was there?  He wasn’t going to give false reassurances, false promises he might not be able to keep.

He cleaned and field-dressed John’s open wounds as best he could out here.  But against the need to quickly treat his patient’s injuries was the desperate need to get him proper medical help before those injuries killed him.

Returning from her brief scout around the immediate vicinity, Lyta crouched beside them.  "We have to move."

The two men knew she was right, they didn’t have the time to wait.  The trail of dead guards that they’d left would soon be noticed and followed like breadcrumbs back to Sheridan’s empty cell then out to them.

Apologising silently to his captain as they hauled him once again to his feet, they started on their way.

*

Felicia, the one resistance group member Number One had assigned to the rescue, was waiting for them.  A raised eyebrow was the only sign that they received to say she was impressed.  She either hadn’t expected them to return with Sheridan, or hadn’t expected them to return at all, Stephen summised.  But she said nothing.

When they finally reached the resistance base, Number One’s reaction was much the same.

She showed them to the makeshift infirmary without comment and immediately Stephen shifted from hero tp doctor.  With Michael’s help he made Sheridan as comfortable as he could on the low, blanketed bed before starting into the task of prolonging the man's life.

He undressed John slowly as the patient lay inert, careful not to reopen any raw wounds.   When the full story was revealed, when everything was explained, Stephen cursed anyone whose name came to his lips. ‘Bastards’ didn’t seem fierce enough to revenge the battered body, the shattered man who lay in front of him.  But it would have to do for now.  They would eventually have retribution, one way or another.

The stench of his clothes was on John's skin.  Stale sweat, urine, excrement, vomit.  Basic hygene was something they'd definitely deprived him of.   Before Stephen could do anything, he had to wash his patient with luke-warm water and the gentlest of touches.  Cleaning away the dirt revealed a catophany of injuries - burns, cuts, bruises that painted a purple-black picture over the canvas of his torso - enough to shake the doctor's faith in the human society.   He was momentarily ashamed of his own species.

It brought tears to his eyes, as unprofessional as that might have been, to put yet more needle-marks in Sheridan’s pin-cushion flesh, but he had no choice.

Getting an IV line set up was the first hurdle.  The veins in John’s arms wouldn’t be raised and finally Stephen had to opt for putting in a central line; a semi-permanent IV running straight into a chest artery.

"It’ll be over soon, John, I promise."  It was all the comfort he had for the seriously injured man, and he wondered if it was anywhere near enough. .

He swabbed, stitched and dressed cuts that were more like tears in the almost translucent skin.  He administered injections through the IV that he hoped would combat the drugs wreaking havoc on Sheridan’s internal organs, against his reluctance to add to the concoction there.

Finally, hours later, after he'd done all he could without the technology available to him back on board Babylon 5, he dressed in dry, clean, loose clothing lent to them by a resistance member who was two sizes larger than Sheridan used to be.  Then he crouched by John’s head and spoke directly to him, tipping a glass of water to his lips, hoping to coax a response.  Who knew what, if anything, was going through John’s disrupted mind.

He got no response.  The water dripped from the rim of the glass, over John’s lips and down his chin.  Stephen swore softly, wiping the liquid from the cold skin with his finger.

"Come on, John," he muttered uselessly.  "I need your help here."

He rubbed his eyes and glanced up, seeing the empty saline drip hanging from the rusted pole they were using to hold it.  Rising to his feet, he stretched up to remove it in order to put in a fresh one, to keep the liquids flowing into Sheridan's parched system. 

For a man in his condition, John was lightening fast.  His arm shot out and grabbed the PPG from the holster strapped loosely around Stephen’s waist.  Stephen backed away with a shout that was more surprise than anything but it brought Garibaldi and Lyta running into the room.

Sheridan’s hand on the PPG was, incredibly, rock steady as he aimed at Franklin, broken, disfigured fingers already starting to heal wrapped around the handle which was gripped into his palm, one awkwardly rested against the trigger.

Once again, like when they'd been in the staging area, John’s muddled brain had apparently decided that he was going to fight back. 

"I know wha’you’re doing."  His words were slurred but despite his state he seemed determined to put his point forward.  "Y’can stop it.  I won’t do what you want….  I’ll kill you all first."

John might have been the instigator of a rebellion or the leader of an army fighting a war for the freedom of millions, but to his doctor he was a captured and broken man, hurt and afraid.  His hand was starting to shake with the effort of holding the weapon and he added the contorted fingers of the other for support.

Hands half up in the air, Stephen glanced back at Michael and Lyta before trying to reason with his patient.  "John, it’s us. You’re safe now, this isn’t illusion, it’s real."

An expression of mocking curled the captain’s bleeding lips.  "You won’foul me again.  I know…."  He turned his head slowly, looking at where Garibaldi stood with Lyta.  "You think he’d be here if’is was real?"  A pitiful laugh, a harsh, painful sound, escaped his throat, miserable and despairing.  But an odd light was on in his eyes and he swung the PPG to point in Michael's vague direction.  "I could kill him. Wouldn’t do any good but I could…."

He choked for a moment, throat too dry for all these words.  His eyes shone, wanting to be wetted with tears he deserved to cry.  But his body would not give up its dwindling reserves.

Tensed, Stephen glanced at Michael, watched him waiting for John to think it through, make up his mind.

Stephen himself dared not move.  Sheridan’s actions were expectedly unpredictable.  But he wondered… would Michael make any move to save his own life?  Or would he allow himself to be killed?  Did he feel that he deserved that fate at the hands of this one man?

"I could kill me."

The delicate sorrow in his voice touched them all.  Yet none could think of anything to say. 

"Even if this’snt real."  He spoke quietly, as if thinking aloud.  "I could die, and you’d never have me."

It happened too fast.  Stephen's mouth opened, shout of denial rising from his throat as the familiar PPG whine cut through the silence surrounding them.  But it was Michael's cry of "NO!" that they all heard.  In the next second Garibaldi had somehow got from the archway to the bed, launching himself over Sheridan, knocking the weapon from the weak hand at the moment it powered and fired.  The shot miraculously missed both of them, scorching the wall behind the bed, just above where Michael landed, the breath punched from him.

Sheridan too had moved, scared by Garibaldi's actions.  He'd scooted back to the very end of the bed, pulling the IV line from the port in his chest, the tube hanging from under the large threadbare sweater, and was panting; shallow, pained breaths accompanied by strangled sounds from his injured throat.   Eyes wide in terror.

"Even... even in this place... you betray me."  His broken voice added the sting where he didn't have the strength for anger.  "Why do you... hate me... so much?"

Garibaldi pushed himself up, shaking his head, denying it all but unable to find his own words, and Stephen watched as he reached out a trembling hand to John who just sank back further.

How could they make him understand? 

Slowly, Stephen crouched beside the bed and with infinite tenderness, placed his hands over Sheridan’s, mindful of the disfigured fingers.

"John," he spoke quietly, keeping his voice low, "you’re no longer being interrogated.  You’re free now, safe.  This is real."

He glanced up at Lyta and she joined the trio, coming to kneel by the captain’s side.   "Careful," he warned her, and she nodded.

Reaching up, she touched the hair at the side of his forehead, stroking her fingers over the dry strands.  Stephen watched John as the telepath touched the very edges of his mind, knowing she wouldn't try to unscramble the mess, would instead add something to it.   A certainty he could cling to.

‘We are real,’ she told him in a single whisper of knowledge. ‘You are safe.  You are among friends.’

Then she withdrew.  And once again the strings were cut.

The result was no less dramatic.  John dropped forward into Stephen’s arms, head lolling onto the doctor’s shoulder.   From awake into a deep sleep in a moment.  Stephen carefully laid him down, covered him in the lighest, warmest blanket they'd been able to scare up, and sat down into a long vigil.

*

Garibaldi studied the plans the resistence had managed to steal or sketch of the enemy bases set up on Mars.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Number One pacing the outer hall, waiting impatiently for something, anything, to happen.  There was still a war to be fought, still battles to be won, still millions to be freed.  For  Michael, John's freedom was enough.  For her, it wasn't even close.

"We don’t have this kind of time to waste!" she muttered at him.  "We rescued him so that he could lead the way for us."

She stared at him, standing inches from her, nose to nose with her, voice deadly quiet.  And then she looked away.

"I admit, I didn't expect him to be in such bad shape."  She stepped back a pace. "Even I didn't expected it, and I know what they're capable of."  The guilt was evident in her confession despite it not being hers to take.  "I'm sorry."

Michael shook his head, backing away.  "Nah, I’m sorry."  He took a deep breath.  "I caused that," he pointed to the corridor a little way from them, off which the infirmary was situated.  "And it’s not what I was expecting either.  It’s a million times worse.  I didn’t see that coming in my baddest nightmares."

Looking across at him she smiled slightly.  "Baddest?"

"’Wery, wery, bad."  Garibaldi watched a little sadly as she forced a smile at his Elmer Fudd impression.  Eternity seemed to have passed since he had last cracked a joke.  He remembered an old saying, if they couldn’t laugh, they were dead anyway.  He wondered if John would feel the same way.

Along the corridor, through the archway, Stephen dropped into a crouch by his patient’s bed.  The voices risen in anger only yards away had disturbed John’s peaceful sleep and now his eyes were open and he was silently, eerily staring straight ahead of him at nothing.  Deliberately placing himself in the captain’s line of sight, Stephen smiled.

"Hey."  He spoke the one word that had greeted so many waking patients over the years he’d been a doctor.

John focused on Franklin with some obvious difficulty.  Stephen read the pain in the creases around his eyes and mouth, the suspicion and fear clear in his gaze.

"Can I have some water?"  John's scratchy voice remained low, respectful.  Stephen knew exactly what it meant.  But for now he just told him of course he could, reached back and took up the glass he'd put on the table.

"Here you go."  John lifted his head as Stephen put the glass to his lips, controlling the drinking pace.  He didn't try to take it himself.  "Easy, now. Just sip it."

Sheridan drank a few swallows and lay back slowly, watching Stephen cautiously.  The doctor waited, and gradually the fear gave way just a little to a small amount of wary trust.  Franklin wondered how many others had seen that expression recently and had been far from deserving of it.

For a short time John simply seemed to be gathering his thoughts and Stephen let him, understanding how much time he was going to need now..  Knowing, even if he hadn't heard Number One's outburst before, how little of it they had.

Finally a word formed on Sheridan’s lips. "Where…?"

"We’re at the resistance base on Mars."

Unbelieving.  "How…?"

"Garibaldi."  Stephen spoke the word quietly.  "He came to us, told us where to find you.  He helped rescue you."

With some considerable effort John pushed himself up into a sitting position and cautiously, Stephen allowed it.   He'd been denied his freedom for long enough.

"John?"

Stephen watched the disfigured hands start to tremble, watched as that clear symptom of shock drove its way through Sheridan’s body.   "John...."  He took a seat on the end of the bed, reaching out to once again take Sheridan's hands into his own, holding them with professional care.  "It’s all right."

"Why…?"  A whisper, almost accusation.

"Why what?" 

John looked up from his hands to the man who was supposed to heal him.  And the light dawned.

"You mean why haven’t I reset these?"  John nodded, the movement jerky.  Stephen ached for him.  "I will, John.  But I don't have access to x-ray, and can’t do it unless I anaesthetise you.  I don’t want to put anymore drugs than absolutely necessary into your bloodstream quite yet."

"This is real?"

Stephen nodded.  "Yes, John, this is real.  You know that, don’t you?  You can sense it."  He hoped Lyta's message had remained strong in his head.

John nodded and closed his eyes, rubbing them carefully with the heels of his hands.  "What about… the fleet?"

Franklin hesitated.  He knew he shouldn’t hold anything back now; they didn’t have much time.  But to put his patient, one still so weak, into a position where he had to act was something he was loathed to do.

"It’s fought its way here, to Mars.  There were heavy casualties, but they’re ready.  They’re waiting…."

"Waiting?"

"For you, John.  For what has to come next.  Everything’s in place."

John took a deep, shuddering, rasping breath.  "Then I have to go."

He couldn’t help but argue the point.  "John… you’re not in a good state, you know that as well as I do.  I can pump you full of anti-toxins, anti-inflamitories, slow-release meds, but I'll be honest with you, I don't know how much more time you have.  You have serious internal damage."

"I have to go, Stephen."  His voice cracked, and he swallowed, mouth dry.  "You know that."

He did, all too well.  "You need time."

"I know.  But I don’t have it, do I?"

Reluctantly, Franklin gave in.  "We have to take the bases before the White Star comes in.  There’s a transport ready to take you to the Fleet.  The last message from Ivanova requested that you dock with the Agamemnon and command the battle from there."

A smile touched John's lips but it faded quickly, and once again he rubbed his eyes with this hands.

"They bothering you?"

"They itch."

"You're incredibly de-hydrated.  Your body's put what little moisture it has where you need it most.  You have a catheter in, you have a central IV port in your chest."  You're in no state to command an orchestra, never mind an army at war.

"I know you've done everything you can."

Stephen watched his patient, already starting to beat himself up over the decision they were making. "Tell me how do you feel.  And for once, John, tell me the truth."

John dropped his hands to his knees carefully.  "I’m really tired, exhausted…."  He paused.  "I feel… like this body doesn’t belong to me.  It’s broken.  I'm broken."

Stephen swallowed back on tears pushed to his eyes by an intensity of emotion so powerful that it surprised him.  Yet there was nothing he could do because there wasn’t time.  His heart and mind engaged in a battle neither side could win.  He was a doctor, he could not knowingly harm another living soul and yet here he was, about to send a traumatised, terribly injured man into battle.

"You’ve been so strong," he murmured softly, "and we need you to be strong for just a little longer."

John nodded, looking at Stephen like he wasn’t sure he could keep his word this time. "I’ll try."

*

Before the rescue, Garibaldi had been like a man on hot coals.  Now he was content just to wait, to see what happened next.  Damn the universe.  Damn them all if Stephen couldn't get Sheridan on his feet in time.

Number One was passing him, heading for the infirmary for an update on the captain’s condition, when John and Stephen appeared in the corridor.

Michael looked up, looking directly into John's eyes, seeing the terrible suspicion there.  There hadn’t been time to explain, there still wasn’t time.  But John at least knew that Michael had come for him and for now it had to be enough.

Garibaldi kept it all business.  He stepped up to them, eyes remaining on Sheridan, trying for something somewhere between deep concern and some level of joviality. "How are ya?"

"I’m…."  John swallowed, shaking his head.  "I’ve been better," he surrendered in the end.

Michael looked him up and down once.  His right arm was crossed over his chest, a saline bag grasped with difficulty in his right hand, in fingers cased in braces, the line still draining the fluid into his artery. He was standing with his weight on one leg.  His eyes were unevenly dilated, cheek bones more prominent than they had once been, lips dry and cracked.  His whole expression betrayed the pain he was enduring.

Garibaldi smiled a smile that only served to highlight the misery in his eyes.  "John…."

But the other man shook his head and reached out shakily, putting one trembling hand on Michael’s arm.  "I give you my word that we’ll do this later."

Michael didn’t feel the tears until they spilled onto his cheek.  He swiped at them harshly.  "I’ll hold you to that."

John nodded.  "Good."

*

Stephen stepped down from the transport having strapped John inside.  It wouldn’t be a comfortable or easy ride and the doctor was worried sick.  He instructed the pilot to go gently.

"You have a very precious passenger," he told the man, voice thick with emotion.  To Sheridan, he said, "Drink as much water as you can without making yourself ill but only…"

"Only water and no food." John repeated the orders Stephen had given to him countless times.  "I know, Stephen.  I’ll be fine."

Franklin nodded.  "Okay."  The door of the small transport vessel closed and locked.  There was nothing more he could do, and he headed off to join the others for the final push.

*

Only one man was there to meet Captain Sheridan as the transport docked aboard the ex-EarthForce cruiser Agamemnon.  He watched Captain John Sheridan step off the small vessel, even that little effort exhausting him, saw the misery and pain in his face.

"Johnny."

Sheridan looked up, losing the battle with his waning control when he set eyes on the one waiting for him.  A single tear blossomed in the corner of his eye. "Stinky…."

Etiquette out of the airlock, Captain Jack Maynard wrapped his arms around his old, dear friend and held him while he cried.  There were few tears; John’s body still couldn’t spare the moisture.  But the sobs came anyway, from deep within him.

There was nothing Jack could say.  Nothing that would heal the wounds inflicted upon this man at the hands of his enemies, people who were part of a government he had once been sworn to protect.  Those who had done this to him were his own people, his own kind who should have been on the same side.  Somehow that made it all the worse.

After a time Jack loosened his hold without taking away the offered and obviously needed embrace.

"You must want to kill them all."

John nodded against his shoulder, too tired, too emotional to hide the truth from his friend.

"We have to do this, Swamp Rat.  We have to win this.  But I’ll be here with you.  Take whatever strength you need from me."

John dropped his arms from around his friend’s back, pulling the sleeves of the sweater he wore down over his hands.  "I’m glad you’re here."

"Where else could I be, Johnny?"

Jack gave Sheridan the time he needed to pull himself together as best as he could.

And a minute later, John looked up. "I could do with a uniform."

"Of course."

Of course.

But the reality wasn’t as simple.  Many of Sheridan’s wounds were fresh; he’d only been free for fifteen hours.  The clothes he’d been given were light, comfortable and soft.  EarthForce uniforms were none of those things.  And with six out of ten fingers in braces, he couldn’t get his borrowed clothes off, never mind the shirt, heavy jacket and trousers on.

The physical state of his friend had shocked Maynard perhaps more than the mental state of him.  How Sheridan was still standing baffled him.

"Johnny, no one is going to question your authority just because you’re out of uniform."

But John’s expression was one of pleading, and Jack had to relent.  He dressed his friend, trying to leave Sheridan with as much dignity as possible.  Carefully removing the empty saline bag from the IV port, he fastened the clips on a large sized white shirt, carefully avoiding the valve fixed into John’s chest.

With some effort he got the captain’s arms into the sleeves of the jacket.  But the material was heavy, and when it was dropped down onto Sheridan’s bruised shoulders, he flinched, face contorting.

"John!"  Jack stepped in front of his friend. "A compromise?"  He found himself staring into dark, frightened eyes.  "Please, Johnny.  You’re hurting yourself."

The silence fell between them until John nodded, accepting his old friend’s help to shrug off the jacket.  He would command this battle in the snowy white shirt he’d worn as an EarthForce captain and the leader of the Army of Light.

They stepped onto the bridge together ten minutes later.  When they faced the crew, Sheridan looked outwardly in control at least.  He gave his speech.  And Jack reiterated his ancient blessing.  And then the first signal came in from Garibaldi on Mars, and Sheridan sent Marcus and Ivanova in for the first hit.

* * *

They won.

The cost of triumph had been so very high.  Too many had died.  Too many had suffered.

Sheridan gave himself over to the authorities on Earth and Maynard remained at his side, ensuring he wasn’t alone.

So much was happening in the aftermath that with Sheridan was under lock and key where he wasn’t going to cause any more trouble for a while, the politicians were happy just to ignore him for the time being.

And from the moment they did so, Ivanova demanded to see Sheridan.  She stared by asking, at first quietly and then louder, as loud as she could get to gradually more and more important people.

She was worried that he was locked up somewhere, worried he was back in a damned cell.  In her mind’s eye she could picture him, sitting on a cold, hard floor, recent wounds still causing him pain, recent experiences still flooding his memory, intruding on the private places behind his closed eyes.

She imagined his silent screams, his unending his suffering.  He was only human!  How much more was he supposed to take before he broke?  His enemies hadn’t succeeded.  Would those whose lives he had saved inadvertently finish the job?

Despite the promises made by everyone who deemed to speak to her, Ivanova refused to be silenced.  The ideas formed in her mind were much louder than the voices and words of the people giving their word that he was fine.  How could he be fine?  Less than a day ago he was being brutally abused by Clarke’s interrogators.

Finally, after two hours of her hearing her concerns, her persuasions and by the end, in the face of her desperate anger, they caved in.  One General Carter, who had been her target for most of the morning, released her from custody and handed her a key and waving his arms around he gave directions to a conference room in the East Wing.

Susan stared at him.  "Conference Room?"

"Like we’ve been trying to explain to you for the last... gods know how long!"

She looked down at the key in her hand.  "Oh."

And he stared at her, arms starting up again.  "Are you going or what?!  We have a lot to do here!"

There weren’t even any guards outside the conference room when Susan approached with Marcus and Delenn in tow.  She put the key in the lock and turned it, opening the door, still expecting something terrible.

Jack looked up at the small party.  "He needs the sleep," he murmured to the entourage, at the same time holding out his free hand for Susan to grasp when she reached them.

Tears slid down her cheeks when she saw John and he understood her reaction.  He looked like hell now.  The battle itself, holding the facade of strength together in front of the troops and in front of the enemy, had all taken its toll.  And taking that final decision to sacrifice his life and those of his crew, by taking out the last remaining defence platform, had been made with the last ounce of his determination.

Now what he felt on the inside was clearly visible on the outside.  The pain was etched into his expression even as he slept.  His skin was grey rather than white, pale and stark contrast to the blood on his white shirt; proof of reopened wounds that had been joined by new ones inflicted by shards of spaceship during the fierce battle.

Jack smiled gently.  "He needed medical attention when he arrived on board the Agamemnon.  I mentioned it when they showed us in here but obviously I wasn’t convincing enough."

Ivanova, on the other hand, was convincing enough.

An EarthForce doctor took one look at Sheridan and had him immediately transferred to EarthDome’s infirmary.

Jack again went with him, staying close by as he was made comfortable and another saline IV was set up.

He might have been medically more comfortable, but his sleep had been again disturbed and his equilibrium upset.  His mental balance still unstable, he woke disoriented.

Jack didn’t hesitate to take John’s hand into his own, to brush fingers gently over those bent out of shape.

"It’s all right, Johnny," he promised, "we’ll have you home soon."

Standing by, Susan hoped he was right.  They’d done what they’d set out to do three years ago.  Now they wanted to go home, John deserved to go home.

"Commander Ivanova."

Susan turned.  Acting President Luchenko stood in the doorway of the MedLab.

She straightened herself, finding a salute from her past and passing it off with success.  "Madame President."

Luchenko looked around the small group and finally at the man restless on the bed.

"I was informed that Captain Sheridan had been brought here."  She stepped around them then, eyes lowering when she saw for herself the pain inflicted on this man by her own people.  "Gods...."  She stopped at the foot of the bed and met Captain Maynard’s gaze.  "You were with him, on the Agamemnon?"

"Yes, Ma'am."  He paused.  "He gave the order to ram the ship into the final defence platform.  If the Apollo hadn’t come along....  He was willing to give his life, my life, and those of his crew, to save the lives of everyone on this planet.  The war’s over, Clarke’s dead.  He needs to go home now."

The president nodded.  "There are... formalities.  The chiefs are still making up their minds about Sheridan’s fate."

Jack’s eyebrows rose.  "His fate?"

"He may have to stand trial for his crimes."

"Trial?"  The captain shook his head.  "Look at him.  You don’t think he’s already stood trial?"

*

Safe on Mars, Garibaldi and Lise sat in the Edgars’ living room, perched on the leather sofa.

Michael played Lise’s fingers in his hand, hoping he was explaining clearly enough.

"I would love to stay with you," he told her emphatically.  "I miss you more than I missed myself."

"But...?"

"Lise... there’s been someone... very special.  And I’ve caused that person more harm, more hurt and pain than I could ever have imagined."  He watched the gentle smile cross her face.  She understood, and he breathed a little easier.

"It wasn’t your fault, Michael."

"I know."  He nodded.  "I know.  But... I still did it.  I have the memories.  I only have to close my eyes to see... to see them take him down in that bar."

"Michael...."

"We were close," he admitted.  "Before all this, before he went to Z’Ha’Dum.  Bester... that bastard... he used me, used us against one another."  Michael shook his head, his anger almost unbearable.  "I have to go back, Lise, because I have to put it right."

Taking her hand from his she put her arms around him, hugging him close.  "I know you, Michael.  I know you have to do this but please stop taking the blame.  You need him to forgive you but first you have to forgive yourself."

He hugged her back.  "I love him.  I’ve loved him for a long time.  That’s why... what Bester did to us was more cruel, more barbaric than he could ever have meant it to be.  When I turned my back on John I was turning my back on more than my captain, more than my commanding officer.  He was my friend.  And once in a while, when things got bad, he was my lover."

She pulled back, letting her hands slide his arms.  "When things got bad?"

"When we needed one another, needed... a warm body to lose ourselves in."  He swiped at his leaking eyes with his hand.  "He could be everything I needed.  Gentle, kind, submissive, rough, forceful, dominant....  He was the best thing I’d ever known."  He met her hot stare directly.  "I destroyed that."

"Not you."

"Lise, while he sat in that cell do you think he cared, even imagined, that I wasn’t responsible for my actions?  You didn’t see him when we pulled him out.  I’d guessed they weren’t treating him as well as they claimed on ISN, but hell.... Lise, the things they’d done to him shocked even me."

"You all won the war," she reassured, "and he’s alive.  You saved his life."

"If it hadn't been for me, I wouldn't have had to.  And you don't know him.  Whatever state he’s in he would have played the facade for all it was worth.  When Stephen put him aboard the transport from Mars he still had a saline IV in his chest.  He hadn’t eaten safe, clean food since his capture and there was no way he was eating anything the state his system was in.  He was far from okay when he left to join the fleet.  I doubt he’s okay now."

Taking his hands, Lise held tight.  "They’ll look after him."

"I know.  But I have to be there.  I’m the only one I trust to protect him from the fallout of the war.  Whatever happens next, if he’ll have me back at his side that’s where I need to be, where I want to be.  It’s the only place I want to be."  He regarded her hopefully.  "I’m sorry, Lise.  I love you more than any other person alive.  But I owe John my heart and soul."

She nodded, understanding in her gentle smile.  "How could I ever compete?"  There was no anger or bitterness.  "Just promise me one thing and it’s all I'll ask."

He squeezed her hands.  "Anything."

"Come back once in a while?"

He nodded, he promised, and then he kissed her.

*

Stephen met them when the transport docked at Babylon 5.  Sheridan stepped off the vessel, Jack on one side, Susan on the other, Marcus and Delenn flanking them.

Stephen smiled wanly as he stood in front of his captain.  "You look like shit."

John returned his smile.  "Thank you, Doc."

"What was the outcome?"

"A quarter of them wanted my resignation, a quarter wanted me shot and half hadn’t made their minds up."

"They’re still trying to dig themselves out from under the red tape."  Ivanova put in helpfully.

"So I’m still captain of this station until we hear otherwise."  Sheridan finished.

Stephen nodded once.  "Good.  In that case, from this moment on, until I’m satisfied you’re fit for duty, I’m putting you on medical leave."

Stephen saw the sudden tears blossom in John’s eyes.  He sighed gently, smile fading.  He understood as he’d understood on Mars. 

Stepping forward, closing the gap between them, he murmured, "Let us take care of you now, John."

Sheridan nodded, trying to contain the emotion.  It was over, finally.  It was all over.  Whatever came next, he was in the hands of his family.  Here, now, finally, he needed to let himself break in two.

More and more tears formed in John’s eyes now that they could.  Too many for him to wipe away.  The cracks that had been obvious when he’d stepped aboard the Agamemnon split open.

Unable to hold Stephen’s gaze any longer, John lowered his head, his shoulders starting to tremble.  Like he’d been there before, Jack put his arm around Sheridan’s shoulders and lowered them both to sit on the boarding platform.

The others silently left the three alone in the bay.  Jack Maynard had been dragged into this situation by virtue of being aboard the Agamemnon when all this had blown up.  Stephen could only thank the gods that he had been there.  Jack was someone who would have stood by John no matter what, would have reassured and comforted him when he needed it and backed him up when the time came.

John leaned into the embrace, eyes screwed shot, the sobs rising from him unstoppably.  More exhaustion and stress than any real sorrow, more relief than misery, he couldn’t have held back if he’d tried.  It was all over, and in the safe haven of his friend’s arms he cried.

*

Five hours after docking at B5, John Sheridan was fast asleep in his own bed.

Despite his injuries, Franklin knew he’d be more comfortable, more at ease in his quarters. With a little effort they could care for him as adequately there as they could in MedLab.

It had taken time for Sheridan to calm, to cry out all that he needed to.  Jack had accompanied him to MedLab where Stephen had subjected him to a full medical examination and then took him under to perform several surgical procedures – one to break and reset broke bones, one to clear blood from his intestines and two to test liver and kidney functions. 

While he'd been moved into Recovery to wake from the anaesthetic, Doctors Franklin and Hobbs had done a couple of alterations to the captain's quarters to ensure they'd be able to cope with a medical emergency there. 

Finishing up, setting yet another saline IV to drip slowly into Sheridan’s parched body, Stephen pulled the quilt up over his patient and slipped out of the room silently, leaving his captain to begin to catch up on some of the rest he desperately needed.

*

Stephen and Susan had collected Chinese take-away from the Zocalo and were slouched on John’s comfy, battered leather sofa, feet up on the coffee table, wine glasses hanging from their fingers.

"How long do you think he’ll sleep for?"  Her voice was kept quiet, as they had been for the whole evening, not wanting to disturb their ward.  In the background, a favourite disk of John’s was playing softly; white noise that they hoped would aid in keeping his sleep as undisturbed as possible.

"I would say twenty-four hours give or take.  The medication I gave him will kick-start his system.  We’ll need to get fluids into his body then, more than the saline lines."

"He will recover, right?"

Stephen nodded.  "Eventually."

Both had their heads dropped back against the sofa, their eyes closed.  They were on the brink of nodding off themselves, but the soft bleep of the door surprised them both to temporary wakefulness.

Jack dropped down into the armchair, pinching a prawn cracker from the basket on the table.  He turned down Susan’s first offer of a glass of wine, ‘ummed’ and ‘arrred’ to the second offer and accepted the third.  He couldn’t remember when he’d last had alcohol and warned them that he’d probably be asleep and snoring after just one sip.

"Just snore quietly," Stephen instructed.

Jack smiled.  "I’ve been walking," he told them idly, "just taking in the station.  People kept stopping me, asking me if the captain was okay, giving me messages for him of thanks and congratulations and best wishes."  He was smiling with his own amazement.  "You know, once upon a time I told him he would be wasted here, wouldn’t be able to make the difference I know he wanted so much to make."  He stared into the pale green liquid in his glass. "I don’t think, in my whole life, I’ve ever been so wrong."

Susan shook her head.  "He wasn’t sure at first about being here.  He was a pilot, a starship captain.  He wanted to feel space beneath his feet."  She smiled at a private memory.  "He kept taking out Starfurys just to experience flight."

"I have never served under a CO who has been so much trouble," Stephen mused as he settled deeper into the sofa.

Susan could still hear Garibaldi's message, "...bringing our wandering captain home." She let out a deep breath and for a while they just sat in silence, each with their own memories.

The Babcom unit interrupted the varied thoughts.  "Go ahead," Susan commanded quietly.

Zack seemed ever-present on Babylon 5, and seeing his face appear on the screen now settled her further.  The war had been won, celebrations and commiserations were happening on the station, on Mars, Earth, outposts and colonies throughout the galaxy and yet Zack was on duty as if tonight was just another night.  She wondered if there was a party hat she couldn’t see, hidden just out of sight of the camera.

"Commander Ivanova, Doc, sorry to disturb you.  I thought you’d want to know, Garibaldi’s ship has just docked."

*

No one was going to stop him.  He asked only one question.  "Where’s the captain?"  But no one would answer him.

*

Ivanova moved to get to her feet, but as soon as she did so Stephen’s hand shot out to land on her thigh.

"Susan, wait."  She turned to face him but he still had his eyes closed, was still maintaining the issue of being relaxed.  "Garibaldi came to us on Mars, he begged us to listen and when we wouldn’t, when I threatened to kill him, he begged Lyta to scan him.  Bester programmed him, flipped his mind inside out, convinced him that everything he stood for, everyone he loved, was wrong, was against him.  Bester never planned on him handing Sheridan over, but when it became obvious that he could be pushed into it, Bester pushed.  He continued, playing Garibaldi to the end, getting what he wanted from right inside Edgars Industries.  And then he called Garibaldi to him and undid what he’d done, leaving Michael with the knowledge of what he’d caused and no method of retribution."

He gave the whole speech without moving.  "Michael got John out of that cell.  Without him, without who he was and what he’d done we would never have gotten close."

"Stephen, without what he’d done, John wouldn’t have been in that cell."

He opened his eyes then and looked at her.  "I know.  But Bester is an evil bastard.  We knew that before.  If I ever lay eyes on him again I will kill him myself, and that’s me talking.  Of course, there’s a queue…." He enjoyed her smile.  "But Bester is the one to blame, he is the one that put John in that cell.  He’s the one that hurt both our friends."

*

Michael rounded the cRorner and stepped in to MedLab one.  It was quiet, one or two patients recovering from various ailments.  Doctor Hobbs was at her desk and when she looked up he saw the expected accusation and hatred in her eyes.  She said nothing, just stared at him.

He found this harder than he’d expected.  People he’d considered friends had been regarding him with at best hatred, at worst disgust.  He needed people to know, but more than that he needed John to know, everything, the truth.  That was his goal now, everyone else could wait. "I was looking for the captain." He stammered out. "I thought we would have been brought here."

"He was brought here. Stephen checked him over quite thoroughly and operated before we tranferred him to his quarters.  He’s under maximum protection, Mr Garibaldi…."

But Michael was already ahead of her.  It made sense.  John hated MedLab.  Stephen wouldn’t have kept him here unnecessarily.  "Thanks, Doc."

He was out of MedLab and missed whatever reply she’d given.

*

Susan was at the door when it chimed.  When it opened, she didn’t say a word, just opened her arms to him.

Garibaldi accepted the embrace happily, utterly relieved.  He wasn’t sure, hadn’t been certain that he’d even be allowed to dock at B5.  But obviously someone had told someone who’d told someone else... and he was standing here, where he hadn’t believed he’d ever be welcome again.

"Susan.... I... I’m sorry."  He felt her shaking her head against his neck.

"Don’t apologise when it wasn’t your fault.  Stephen explained."  Michael opened his eyes, smiling thankfully at his friend over her shoulder.  Franklin looked up and smiled, shrugging once before he went back to his snoozing.  When Susan pulled away from him, he saw the emotion in her expression.

He mirrored that on his own face.  "John?"

She indicated the sliding doors closed between the living area and the bedroom.  "He’s sleeping."

"I have to see him."

Susan started to stop him, but her hands dropped as he opened the doors as quietly as he could.  She stepped behind him.  "He’ll sleep now, for about a day."

Michael felt his heart squeezed.  His John was sleeping peacefully, lying curled on his side, the quilt pulled around him closely for warmth or comfort or even safety, he couldn’t tell.

Stephen had shaved off the ten-day-old beard to perform a full examination of his throat and futher bruising was coming out now, the visible skin on his face and arms mottled in purple and black.

"I’d like to sit with him, just for a little while."

Susan glanced at Stephen who opened his eyes and nodded once but warned, "He’s had little or no privacy for the last ten days.  Just be careful."

Michael closed the doors behind him, frankly touched that the people outside trusted him enough to let him alone with the precious life they cradled between them.

He took a chair from the corner of the room and turned it around, placing it next to the bed and straddling it. Folding his arms across the back, he set his chin on his hands and let out a deep breath.  He couldn’t do as Lise had asked, couldn’t forgive himself until John had forgiven him.  Reaching out, he brushed his hand over the hair dropping down across John’s forehead.

"I hope you can forgive me," he murmured.  "I hope you can help me forgive myself."  He brushed the back of his fingers over the captain’s face, barely touching warm skin.

He sat for a long time just watching John breathe.

For the first time in all the time he could remember, it was peaceful.  The station, perhaps the universe itself, was resting.  Perhaps it was giving John time to heal.  It owed him at least that much.  He’d done everything it had asked of him.  He’d fought, losing friends in the process.  He’d gone to Z’Ha’Dum, sitting in a ship full of nuclear explosives, and died while blowing up the enemy’s homeworld.  He’d been given twenty more years of life by the grace of the eldest of the Ancient Ones, and by the grace of the one who’d loved him more than any other, the one who had died to give him what he’d asked for in the name of the Light.  And after all that he’d continued fighting, continued until the Shadow war was over and then turned his attentions to freeing Mars and Earth.

Michael felt exhausted, drained by the events of the last six months.  The gods alone knew how Sheridan felt.

Michael stroked his hand over greying hair.  "Rest easy now, John," he whispered. "You have all the time in the world."

He stepped out into the living area, pulling the doors closed behind him.  Susan crossed the carpet, two mugs of tea in her hands. "You okay?" she asked him.

"Yeah. You got some more of that tea?"

"Sure."  She handed a mug to Stephen who was somehow still awake and giving Michael hers she went back to the kitchen.  As she passed him she hesitated. "We all need time," she told him, not to push him away but to bring him closer.

"At least now, we have time."

He sat down, making himself comfortable in the second armchair.  Across from him, Jack Maynard was sleeping without snoring.  His presence surprised Garibaldi slightly, but he guessed that over the years Sheridan had touched a great many people deeply.  Jack presumably was one of them, a friend from the past who'd got caught up in the horrors of the present..

"Is he still sleeping?"  Stephen sipped at the tea.

"Yeah.  Susan said he’d sleep for a day?"  Stephen nodded.  "Has he eaten?"

"No.  His system’s all screwed up.  The poison they fed him decimated the lining in his stomach and intestines.  We need to fix that before he can eat.  He’s getting all he needs from the saline and nutrient lines for the moment."

"He’s in a bad way."  Michael murmured to himself.  He stared into his tea.  "How much longer would he have lasted?"

"Couple of days.  No more.  We’ve got him on medications to combat the poison and the psychotropics.  He is healing, Michael.  He’s going to be okay.  It’ll just..."

"...take time.  I know."

*

Susan dumped the four bags of supplies on the counter in the kitchen and started to unload, pondering on what she could put together for tonight.  Stephen closed the bedroom doors behind him, meeting her questioning gaze and answering her unspoken query.  "He’s still asleep.  Temperature’s a little high, blood pressure’s a little low.  Just about what’s to be expected.  Anything from EarthGov?"

"Nothing.  I guess it must be slightly chaotic in EarthDome at the moment."  She pulled out the ingredients for Cannelloni.  "How does pasta sound?"

Stephen leaned on the work surface surveying the collection of foods.  "You don’t think you might have gone just a bit over the top here?"

"No.  And not a word about nutrition or diet!  None of us have eaten a proper meal for weeks!  We need to start worrying about ourselves now."

The doctor in him frowned.  He picked up the Choc & Orange Mousse.  "And this is your idea of a proper meal?  That’s worrying."

She took the desert from him.  "It’s good for you," she insisted.

Michael seemed to think so too.  When midnight struck he could be found curled into an armchair in John’s living room, huge bowl of mousse in one hand and a spoon in the other. 

He was almost through scraping the remaining chocolate from the bottom of the bowl when there was a noise from the bedroom, and the smashing of a glass.

All four of them reacted at once, but Stephen was the first to his feet.  He put both hands out, palms down.  "Stay here," he instructed quietly.  And for all the right reasons, they obeyed. 

Franklin opened the doors and closed them behind him. 

John was lying on his side, staring down at the broken glass and water on the floor.  When Stephen stepped into the room he turned his head, fear and apology clear in his eyes.

"John."  Stephen approached slowly, hands out.  "It’s all right."

Sheridan glanced down again at the floor.  "I’m...  sorry."

"It’s all right.  It’s just a glass, it doesn’t matter.  You’re safe, John.  You’re on Babylon 5."  He stepped forward, slowly.  "It’s not a trick, I’m real, you’re really here."

Sheridan eased himself up, his weight on his elbow.  But his body refused to sustain him and he collapsed back, a fit of coughing overwhelming him. 

Crouching down, avoiding the glass, Stephen touched his fingers to the captain’s forehead.  "You have to take it easy now," he murmured.  "You’ll be very weak."

Satisfied that at least things weren’t getting worse, Stephen filled a clean glass with water from the sink in the bathroom.  He left it on the side while he cleared up the shards from the floor, giving John time to stabilise. 

By the time the doctor finally crouched beside the bed and offered his patient a drink, he was confident enough to accept it.  He took the glass between his shaking two hands, Stephen assisting him in sipping at the cold liquid.  If anything he seemed in a worse state than he had been on Mars after his rescue.

"How do you feel?" Franklin asked, holding the glass himself for a moment.

Sheridan gave that some thought, head dropped back to the pillow.  "I don’t know."

Stephen sighed thoughtfully.  "On Mars, you said that your body felt broken.  Does it still?"

Another pause, then nodded.  He brought a hand up to touch his own face.  "I’m tired."

"I know."  He nodded.  "You will be.  You hadn’t slept in days and your body’s been stressed to its limits for over a week.  You’ve been asleep for twenty-four hours and you'll sleep much more over the coming days."  John’s brow furrowed.  "It's what your body needs."  Sheridan’s eyes closed for a moment and Stephen touched his arm.  "You’re going to make a full recovery."

"Am I?"  His question, murmured as it was as he slipped back into sleep, wasn’t actually a serious query.  It was almost bordering on sarcasm.  And it brought a tear to the doctor’s eye.

Stephen sat out a vigil.

On the floor with his back to the bed, he took up the captain’s chart from the dresser.  Low blood pressure, high temperature.  That was how it had been from the moment they’d stepped aboard Babylon 5.  He could only hope that he could change that.  Yet pumping Sheridan full of drugs hardly seemed the best route to take.

"Stephen."

The doctor turned, smiling at his patient.  "Hey there.  All right?" It was a pointless enquiry.  "Drink?"

"Yes, please." The words were whispered roughly.  Again Stephen helped John with the glass, watching while his patient took a couple of sips. 

John pulled back when he’d had enough, and slowly he sat himself up as he’d tried to before.  This time his body allowed it.  Stephen sat up on the bed with him, watching for body language that would tell him something about John's state of mind and body. 

But for a minute or so John just sat there, settling, looking around him. 

Perhaps he was searching for signs of deception.  Perhaps he was just gathering his thoughts.  Stephen waited.  And after a time he covered one of John’s hands with his own. 

"You can talk to me," he reassured.  "You can just talk if you want."

John smiled slightly, not pulling his hand from the contact.  "Is it just...  me and you?"

"Here?  It’s just me and you in this room.  No one’s watching us if that’s what you mean.  But out there," he indicated the doors, "Susan, Jack and Michael have kept an almost constant vigil here since you got back."

This time, John’s smile was sincere, all the more striking because it was his first real smile in several weeks.  His eyes, still rimmed darkly with red, lit up for just a moment.  "Can I say hi?"

Stephen’s expression also brightened.  "I guess I could let you loose for a few minutes.  But John… there’s something I have to tell you first, and it won’t be easy to hear."

*

Doctor’s orders were one thing, but Michael and Susan were both on edge, Michael being the worst.  "What’s he doing in there?"

Jack glanced from one to the other as Susan reasoned, "He has to look after his patient."

"I did this to him, Susan!  I need to..."

"No, you didn’t."  She sat forward to make her point.  "You know you didn’t.  Don’t start taking blame that rightfully belongs to Bester.  I want enough to pin on him so that he never gets near any of us again."  Hatred crept in to her voice. 

Michael eased off like it helped somehow to knowing that someone else shared his rage.    Maybe it made sense, Jack pondered.

Michael Garibaldi was the man ISN had been thanking publicly for handing John over to Clarke’s men.  But if what Stephen had told Susan last night was true then Michael had been cruelly used and if Susan and Stephen were comfortable with him being there then he was too.  Who was he to judge these people?  And if it was true, then it must help Michael to have back some of what this man Bester had taken from him.

Stephen slid open the bedroom door and watched Susan and Michael spring to their feet.  They were ready to pounce on him, by the looks of them, but when John stepped around him into the lounge, they were thwarted, held back, uncertain of John's mental state at that moment.  Stephen saw their hesitation in their eyes,  then saw Jack too get to his feet, reach out and touch John's arm gently, simply anchoring him, and it spurred Susan into movement.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her captain - her friend - holding him as tight as she dare, joyous at the feeling of his arms coming around her.

"Whoa… easy."  Stephen put a warning hand on her shoulder and she loosened her hold immediately, looking up at John, wincing and Stephen wondered if she'd felt him shaking.

"Sorry.  Welcome home."

John felt the pain of a multitude of injuries and ignored it as much as he dared, remaining silent, happy to just breathe her in.  She was his friend, pure and simple, and he loved her.  Perhaps more than anything else the feel of her in his arms was the one thing to give him hope that this was indeed real and not part of the coercion Clarke had in store for him at the hands of his interrogators. 

As if reading his mind, she turned her face into his neck and kissed him lightly there.  "I’m real, John, I’m here, I promise you."

He combed his fingers through her long hair, enjoying the closeness, needing this just as much as he needed to be alone.  "I missed you," he whispered finally, inadequately. 

"Gods, John…."  She was determined not to cry, but her emotions were beginning to betray her.  "I missed you too."  There was a smile in her voice, as if that could say everything else she wanted to say, as if that in itself could put over to him the desperate worry she’d felt at his capture and her anger at the lies ISN had fed them.

And as if reading her mind in return, he murmured to her, "It’s over."

As she stepped back, his head came up and his eyes locked onto the man who stood behind her.  Everything around him seemed to fold in on itself until there was just the two of them and a whole mountain of pain in between. 

"Michael…."

Garibaldi watched John put one foot forward, lose his fragile balance and quickly reach out to steady himself against the armchair.  Stephen and Jack immediately reached out in turn to steady him, and Michael stepped forward to offer support, as if John would accept it.

But in his usual style, John waved them all off.  "I’m okay."  He took a couple of deep breaths.  "Michael, Stephen told me what happened."  Michael nodded, grateful for that at least, throwing a glancing smile over Sheridan’s shoulder at the doctor.  John’s next words brought his attention back.  "I should have known."

Michael stared at John across the gap that he'd believed would be too wide to ever cross.  For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn't get words passed the not unexpected lump in his throat.  Then finally he found his voice.  "John… don’t, please."  Don't take any more on to those narrow shoulders.

But Sheridan was nothing if adamant.  "Why not? I should have seen it."

The others faded into the background, giving the two of them some space.  "Why the hell would you think that?"

"I turned my back on you."

No.  The lump melted, became tears that leaked from his eyes and he reached back to touch one or two of the memories Bester had uncovered.  "I didn’t fight it, I couldn’t fight it.  I don’t even know if I tried."

"You had no idea what they’d done…."

"I should have!"  Michael tore his eyes from his captain’s face.  "When he released me, I felt this surge of horror, a knowledge of what I’d done.  I knew it had happened but it was as if for the first time I knew that I’d been responsible, that I’d been the cause.  If I could have moved then I would have killed him with my bare hands."  His voice shook, the emotion close to being overwhelming.  "I am so sorry, John."

Sheridan stared at him, eyes glistening.  Finally, silently, he reached out his hand. 

Crossing the space, nervous, anxious as hell, Michael cautiously wrapped his fingers with loving care around John’s hand, fingers gentle, effectively shattering the animosity that had been forced between them with their strength of their sorrow. 

Slowly and with infinite gentleness, Michael gathered John into a loose embrace and was unutterably relieved to have it returned. 

They held on to one another for sanity’s sake. 

John felt painfully thin in Michael’s arms, a subtle trembling pulsing through his whole body in waves - just the effort of staying on his feet and as soon as he realised, Michael pulled back, drawing John with him until they collided with the edge of the sofa and dropped back into it, Garibaldi guiding his captain.  He could feel Stephen's eyes on them, all the time watching for signs that John shouldn't be out of bed.

And as if to back up his theory, John closed his eyes as soon as his body was supported in the sofa’s comfort. 

Michael watched as John attempted to find some hidden reserve of strength.  During his journey from Mars, he had run a speech through his mind a hundred times.  He’d expected anger from John, hatred, blame… anything but the complete acceptance he was faced with now.

Finally he gave up trying to work things out.  "How do I apologise?"

John’s eyes opened, regarding him with nothing much beyond exhaustion.  His reserves were all used up, he had nothing more to draw on and his system was demanding rest.  He was fighting a lost battle and he knew it.

"You don’t, Michael.  Because you’re not to blame for any of this."  His eyes closed again, his breathing evened out. 

Stephen stepped back into Michael’s perception.  "We should get him back to bed."

Michael nodded once.  Carefully he moved to slide his arms under John’s arms and behind his knees, lifting him, mindful of his injuries.  His captain weighed half of what he had before.

Depositing his ward on the large bed, Michael pulled the duvet over John and for a few seconds he stood and watched Sheridan sleep.  There was so much between them now, so much pain and hurt.  To him, it was all flashbacks.  For John, the memories were frighteningly real and very close to the forefront of his mind.

He only hoped there was some way back.

* * *

Ivanova linked her hands behind her back and waited for the Babcom unit to put the message through.  Two seconds later, President Luchenko’s face appeared before her. 

"Commander Ivanova."

"Madam President."

"We’ve come to a decision.  Finally."  So, no small talk then.  Susan tried not to fidget.  "No one denies what Sheridan did was right, and no one will say that he went about it in the right way."  She seemed loathed to be saying this.  "Personally, between you and me, I think he should be shot at dawn in public to make a statement," she held her hand up, palm out in a gesture of quiet, "but he did save the lives of everyone on Earth at the end.  And things are better, there’s no denying that either.  We’re sending someone to Babylon 5, not a replacement, but someone who will mediate between the station’s command staff and EarthGov."

"Captain Sheridan…."

"Is still the captain of B5."  She sighed.  "To remove him at this moment, after everything that has happened, would be a politically suicidal move."

Ivanova smiled widely.  "Thank you, Madam President."

"Well, that’s all.  Expect Commander Lochley to arrive with you tomorrow."

"We will.  And, in case you were wondering, the captain’s making a slow but steady recovery."

The president scowled, and then the image winked out.

*

One of the measures put in place by Franklin before he’d agreed to John recovering in his own quarters was a panic button.  John wore a loose strap around one wrist which, if squeezed, would sound an alarm in MedLab. 

Stephen hadn’t been aware just how intensely he’d been listening out for it until it went off.  Doctor Hobbs took over from him immediately as he practically ran out of MedLab.

"John?"  Stephen stepped inside Sheridan’s quarters, the door closing behind him.  He looked quickly around the main living area before sliding open the bedroom door. 

John was sitting against the far wall, knees drawn up under his chin, head bowed.

"John?"  Stephen approached his patient slowly, taking care not to startle him.  "John.  It’s me, Stephen.  What happened?"

The doctor had crouched down in front of Sheridan before he heard the quiet words being whispered.  "I just wanted to go to the toilet."

"You didn’t want to use the bed pan."  Stephen could understand that.  "What happened?"

"It hurt like hell.  And everything started to spin."

Lifting his head, at Stephen’s gentle coaxing, stretching his legs out and parting them slightly, John sat in silence for a few moments and allowed the cursory examination. 

"You have a urinary infection," the doctor told him simply.  "I’ve given you something for it in the concoction you’ve been taking.  It’ll clear up real soon, but for now you need to keep drinking as much water as you can, even though it hurts to pee.  I can put a catheter back in if you want me to, but I seriously doubt you do."  Sheridan nodded emphatically.  I’m having some solutions made up for you, they should give you the nutrition you need."

John nodded once.  He understood all that.  He just wished that for a moment all the pain would go away.

Stephen helped him up and back to the bed.  Leaving him for a minute, giving him space, Stephen went through to the living area and took another bag of saline from the cooler. 

"I’m going to hook up another IV," he explained when he came back into the room. 

John was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard.  "It hurts, Stephen," he complained quietly.  It was a moment before the doctor realised he wasn't talking about his groin any longer.

"Can I see?"  Sheridan nodded and pulled up his grey sweater with only slight difficulty.  Pushing the material the final few inches, Stephen looked at the site around the central IV line.  The skin around where the long, thin tube feed into John's body was red, irritated by the invasion.

"I’m sorry, John."  The last thing Stephen had wanted was to cause his patient any more discomfort.  He shook his head.  They’d had so much to worry about that he hadn’t considered he might have introduced new infection.

Pressing an antiseptic swab to the area, Stephen pulled the tube out from John’s chest and treated the small injury. 

"I’ll set another semi-permanent line into the back of your hand," the doctor explained as he worked.

John watched, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. 

"Stephen?"  Dark eyes met John’s.  "Thanks.  For coming to get me.  I… couldn’t have held out… too much longer."

Closing his own eyes for a moment, Stephen shook his head.  "We almost killed Michael when he first came to us.  I hated him so much for what he’d done to you, to us…."  He looked up, really looking into John’s eyes.  He could see the remnants of fear still lingering there, the shadows of what he’d endured.  Every time he thought about it, he wanted to kill someone, anyone, preferably Bester. 

"Before we got to you, as we were making our way to the staging area, we agreed that… if they captured us on the way out, we would kill you to stop them hurting you any more."

Sheridan’s features crumpled as he heard the truth.  "Thank you," he whispered, utterly sincere.

Stephen smiled softly.  He completed fitting the new IV line and taped it in place, hooking up the new saline bag.

Still holding John’s right hand in his own, Stephen lifted his free hand and touched the soft, greying hair at John’s temple. 

For a time they just sat together.  And then Stephen sat back.  "Try to get some sleep, okay?  The more rest you get, the better you’ll feel."

John nodded, and carefully slid down under the light duvet.  The simple activity of going to the bathroom had obviously exhausted him and his eyes closed.  Stephen watched as he brought his right hand up to the edge of the duvet, inadvertently pulling on the IV line, wincing as the action pulled at his flesh.

Stephen loosened some more of the transparent tube and John settled quickly.

The doctor stayed for a while, watching his patient sleep.  He remembered back, just one week, when he’d been trying to come to terms with the hardening fact that the next time he saw his captain, Sheridan might well be standing on a podium betraying everyone and everything he held dear.

Like the Shadows before him, Clarke had taken away this man’s support system and left him alone and defenceless.  Then Psi Corp had used his best friend to capture him.

More than him being alive, they were lucky John was sane, still had a mind of his own.

Shaking his head, dislodging his own thoughts, Stephen got up slowly from the bed and wondered through into the living area, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Activating the BabCom Unit, Stephen paged Michael and asked him to come and babysit Sheridan for a few hours.

*

Eighteen hours later, Garibaldi looked up from his book when the frosted glass door slid open and Sheridan stepped through, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. 

"Michael…."  He seemed surprised to see his ex-security chief sitting there.  Surprised and a little concerned, a little jumpy.

"Stephen called me, asked me to do the babysitting detail.  He was worried about you."

John nodded and cautiously wondered to the armchair.  Michael watched him lower himself gingerly into the chair.

"Want me to call him?" 

A shake of the head this time.

"Should you be up?"

And a shrug.  "Don’t tell Stephen and we’ll never know."

It was good to hear that dry humour again.  Michael closed his book and dropped it to the glass table next to him.  Swinging his legs off the sofa, he sat up.  "Can I get you anything?"

"A glass of water?"

Michael winced at the polite tone of his request.  He got up and went into the kitchen, boiling the kettle to make tea. 

"Stephen dropped in some of his ‘solutions’ while you were sleeping.  He suggested – in his own commanding way – that you should drink them."  He chuckled at the face John pulled.  "Want some in your water?"

"Why not?  I’m sure it’ll taste wonderful."

John let his head fall back against the back of the chair, absently rubbing the tape on the back of his hand.

"That bugging you?"

John opened his eyes again at Michael’s gentle question spoken close to him.  He nodded, taking the proffered glass. 

"I’ve had enough things stuck into me recently."  Michael smiled at his captain’s tone and at his expression when he saw the colour of the liquid in the glass.  "It’s green."

"Yeah."  Michael returned to the kitchen to make his tea.  "He’s not known for making his medicines easy to stomach."

Waiting for Michael to come and sit back down, John held his question in his mind. 

"Are you all right, Michael?"

"Me?"  Garibaldi shrugged.  "I have an almost permanent headache from Lyta’s fishing about on Mars – Stephen says it’ll pass."  He smiled, tilting his head, gaze settling on the pale man across from him.  "Seeing you there, John… that’s enough to make everything okay."

He had no response to that.  Silently, he sipped from the glass, almost spitting it out again.  "Ugh.  Gods, that’s… revolting!"

Michael chuckled.  "I did warn you."

"It’s worse than I imagined."

Garibaldi glanced back toward the kitchen.  "You better get used to it.  There are three kilos of the stuff."

*

Returning from the Zocalo with some supplies, Michael pressed the door chime a fourth time and waited. 

When no one answered, he over rode the ID and let himself in.  There was no one in the living area and a glance through the open glass doors told him there was no one in the bedroom either.  He frowned, and was about to leave when he heard the distinct sound of someone being violently sick.  It was a sound he was all too familiar with.

Stepping into the room he crossed through to the bedroom.  The bathroom door was open and he saw John immediately.  He was kneeling on the hard floor, arms rested on the bowl of the toilet, hands gripping the sides.  As Michael hesitated, the retching took Sheridan again and he leaned forward, throwing up God only knew what. 

Michael approached the bathroom, not wanting to startle the other man. 

"John...."

Sheridan turned his head, and Michael’s stomach did a flip-flop of its own. 

He was grey, as grey as he'd been on Mars.  His eyes were brimming with tears.  His hair was plastered to his head with sweat.  No longer worried about intruding, Michael stepped into the bathroom, grabbing a cloth from the sink and holding it under the cold tap to soak it.  With the other hand he took a glass from the small shelf and filled it with water. 

Then he knelt beside the captain, watching as Sheridan glanced at him, expression somewhere between desperation and terror. 

"Some might think you didn’t have anything to throw up," Michael said lightly, trying to diffuse the tension there, wanting to take the fear from the man’s eyes.

Michael held the wet cloth to John’s forehead, catching John’s left hand ever-so-gently with his free one when it came up to push him away. 

"It’s all right," he told him meaningfully. 

John looked away but he at least let Michael continue.  Picking up the glass, he offered and John took it.  The moment his fingers closed around the glass, his hand started to shake uncontrollably.  Michael covered it with his own, helping him raise the water to his lips and sip. 

A second later, he pulled it away as John leaned forward and vomited harshly into the toilet yet again.  Michael could do nothing.  He touched his hand to John’s back, uncertain if his presence was a comfort or a hindrance.  But he wasn’t going to leave the man alone in this state. 

There was nothing for John to bring up, Michael wasn't convinced there ever had been, and his retching soon turned to dry heaves that were painful to hear.  Michael rubbed his hand over John’s shoulders, easing him back slowly. 

"Take it easy," he murmured.  "Just relax.  Take a couple of deep breaths."

John did as he was told, accepting the advice, just wanting the pain to stop.  He sat back against Michael’s arm, relaxing his body, releasing his grip on the toilet bowl.

Reaching up, Michael flushed the toilet.  He helped John put the glass to his lips.  "Don’t swallow it," he advised, "rinse and spit."

John followed the suggestion.  And then when there were no adverse effects he did it again.  Michael wiped the cloth over his face, cooling him.  He was grateful for that.  He was so hot.  His clothes were damp with sweat. 

For a few minutes they sat like that. 

"Anymore?" Michael asked casually.  John shook his head, no.  "Okay."

Taking the glass, Michael got to his feet, aiming to refill it.  John moved his legs and tried to stand, but they gave way.  Michael watched him sway, watched the expression change on his face, and knew what was coming.  He retched, hands reaching out to grab at whatever he could find to stop himself from falling. 

Michael managed to catch him before his head hit the toilet bowl. 

"John!  Jeez…."

Slowly, he lowered them both the short distance to the floor, cradling John.  The man should have felt like a dead weight, but Garibaldi bore him easy, sliding one arm around his waist, settling his hand over the man’s stomach, cushioning John’s head against his shoulder. 

He was trembling, and Michael knew it was taking physical and mental effort to allow himself to be held.  But he closed his eyes when he touched the cloth to his face again, and told him quietly that they would stay here for a while.  The last knots of tension went very, very slowly from John's frame, and he very slowly fell asleep.

*

Stephen keyed in his override and stepped into John’s quarters.  "Michael?"

"In here, Stephen."

The doctor rounded the corner and stopped, unable to prevent the sad little smile that turned his lips.  Garibaldi was sitting up against the wall, legs out to one side.  John was asleep his in arms, head rested against him, hands wrapped over Michael’s arm which was loosely around his waist. 

"You took your time," Michael accused.

"Yeah, we’ve had a few emergencies.  And you did say that you had the situation under control."  Stephen fished a couple of things from his bag and crouched down beside his patient.  "He was sick?"

"He was being sick when I got here."

"So," Franklin mused, presumably to himself, "what brought that on I wonder?"

He took John’s temperature and blood pressure.  His temperature had sky-rocketed.  More worryingly, his blood pressure had fallen further.  "Damn," he muttered under his breath. 

"Is that the most constructive thing you can think of?  ‘Damn’?  He can’t be comfortable like this."

Stephen regarded his patient.  "I don’t know," he observed, "it’s cool down here.  He’s sleeping, which is good."

"This floor’s hard.  That can’t be great for his bruises.  His saline pack’s empty.  And there’s no blood left in my legs."

Franklin chuckled.  "Okay."  He put down his equipment.  "Let me take him."

Putting one arm under his patient’s knees, one arm under his shoulders, Stephen lifted John easily.   He’d lost so much weight it was frightening. 

"What is that?" Michael asked quietly.

"Security.  I think."  Stephen touched his patient’s hand briefly.  "I’ve seen it in other victims of torture and abuse.  A grasp at something which implies safety."

He fastened a monitor to the end of John’s right index finger, setting up a small readout instrument on the bedside table.  It was silent and the readout simple.  Blood pressure, temperature, heart rate. 

"An alarm will sound here and in MedLab if any parameter drops or rises dangerously."

Garibaldi nodded.  "I’ll stay with him."

Franklin nodded.  "I’ll be needed in MedLab.  But I will drop in later to check on him.  And call me if you need anything.  Okay?"

"Okay."

Once Stephen had left, Michael lay down on the other side of the bed, settling on his side, careful to stay clear of John.  He closed his eyes, and for the first time in ages he slipped easily into sleep. 

It was to be a dreamless sleep and when Michael woke up several hours later, John had turned over and was lying facing him.  He looked peaceful and Michael hoped that no nightmares would intrude on this peaceful calm.  He silently dared the universe to try anything at that moment.

*

Chapter Two - Conflict

G’Kar looked up from the book that Garibaldi had bought him.  The door chimed a second time.  "Come."

He was surprised to see Sheridan step cautiously into the candle-lit quarters, looking a little apprehensive.  "If it’s not convenient…."

G’Kar put down the book and unfolded himself, getting to his feet, amazed.  "Captain, it’s never inconvenient as far as you are concerned.  Come in, make yourself at home."

He watched as John glanced over his shoulder when the door closed behind him; an unconscious gesture that G’Kar easily understood.  "I can leave the door open…."

"No.  No, it’s fine."  John sounded like he was laughing at himself, a nervous edge to the sound.  "I’m… a little jumpy I’m afraid."

"Of course you are."  He spoke matter-of-factly, to him it was the most obvious of observations.  "Please, sit down.  Can I get you some tea?"

"Water, please."

"Doctor’s orders?"

John nodded, and a few moments later G’Kar handed him a glass.  As did so, he saw the bulge on John’s right arm, under the long, loose sleeve of his deep blue sweater.  He touched the soft material quizzically.  And John saw it.

"Saline IV," he explained quietly, pulling up his sleeve from where it fell over his hand to his knuckles.  "Stephen has allowed me out of his quarters only under certain conditions.  I have to wear a medical monitor and I have to keep up the saline drips.  I can't eat, can't drink, they're kinda the only nutrition I'm getting at the moment."

G’kar’s tried not to let his empathy show on his face, but he wasn't sure he'd been entirely successful.  "How are you?  And I mean it.  I don't want to hear the sugar-coated explanation."

John hesitated.  "Stephen’s worried about this and that, but isn’t he always?"

He didn't point out that he hadn't asked how Stephen was.  He didn't push it.  Instead, he pointed out, "He cares for you.  He has a right to worry."

But his gentle words hit a nerve and a single tear formed in John’s eye, which he wiped it away, muttering something under his breath.  G'Kar reached out, touching his arm. 

"Don’t hold in what must be released."

His touch lingered for a moment before he sat back.  "You wanted to talk."

Sheridan nodded.  "Susan… mentioned that you’d… spoken to her."

He had.  "I told her that if you needed an ear, someone who had been through similar trials as you had, then I was available whenever you were ready."

"I appreciate that.  I don’t know if I am ready.  But I do have some questions, if that’s all right?"

"Of course.  What would you like to know?"

John looked up, straight at him.  "How do you know what’s real anymore?"

Perhaps for the first time in a long while, it hit G’Kar just how vulnerable humans were.  Many times he’d wondered at how much pain they could cause one another, but to do this to one of their own was, in his mind, abominable.  At least he could blame the enemy.  At least he could see himself as a prisoner of war, as a casualty of battle. 

But Sheridan had suffered at the hands of his own people.  He had suffered because he was considered a threat to his own government.  He looked into dark, tired eyes and wondered where the rage was, how deeply it was buried and how long it would take to surface.  He was struck by the sudden uncertainty that Sheridan didn’t know it was there at all.

"John…."  G’Kar started softly.  "This is real.  This is where you are and where your friends are.  They played mind-games with you, played with you until you weren’t sure of anything.  But you can be sure of this, you can be sure of me and of them.  They love you, John.  That is something you can believe in."

He paused, watching for a reaction, only seeing a slight nod.  "Tell me, what’s your clearest memory from before?  What’s the thing that haunts you most?  The ‘what if’ that plagues you, plagued you from the moment you were incarcerated?"

John closed his eyes, and G'Kar knew that in his mind he was seeing a smokey bar and hearing an old friend's betrayal. 

"It's the greatest pain I've ever known," John whispered.  "Greater than any of this."

(flashback)

Sitting down, John searched Michael’s expression.  "You heard anything more about my father?"

Cagily, Michael leaned closer.  "Just that he's being held on a facility here on Mars.  He's not being heavily guarded ‘cause Clarke hasn't announced that he's got him yet."

"We need to move before that happens."

He nodded.  "Yeah."

Sheridan opened his hands.  "What do you want me to do?"

"You've already done it."

Michael’s hand was suddenly flat to the back of John’s.  There was a moment of sharp pain and then his vision tilted.  The ambient sounds around him dulled, and a static buzz started far away that quickly closed in on him.

"What…?"

Confused, he looked at Michael, nausea spreading through him like wildfire.

Michael kept his hand on John’s a moment longer, trying to calm him in a way, trying to make it easier.  "It's a tranq."

"What? What?" John looked around him, saw the men closing in, and knew.  ‘What have you done? Gods, Michael, what have you done?’ But the thoughts never found voice. 

Michael was quietly talking to him. 

"Don't fight it.  Just give it up or they are going to hurt you."

John’s voice wouldn’t respond now, but in his mind the panic started to overwhelm him.  ‘Hurt me? No… not now! Not after everything we worked for? NO!’

When the first fist struck him, he could barely control his limbs.  He tried to fight but he couldn’t, he didn’t stand a chance.

And Michael was still sitting, watching him, watching as he was beaten….

(end flashback)

Sheridan sat forward and G’Kar could read the plea clear in his eyes.  "They beat me, Clarke’s men.  Until I was unconscious and maybe beyond that.  And Michael watched.  I tried to fight, I tried!  But they were too strong!  And I…."

"You had been drugged."

"Yeah."  John released his breath, deep and uneven.  "And all I could think, all I could get through my mind was one question – what had I done to make him hate me that much?"

G’Kar waited a moment, giving John a chance to compose himself as best as he was able. 

"Do you feel guilt at yourself for not seeing through Mr Garibaldi’s behaviour to the cause behind it?"

Sheridan swallowed, nodding.  "Yeah, in a way I do.  I feel terrible because the whole time I was in that cell, the whole time they were beating me or questioning me, that whole time I just held onto the rage I felt for him.  Until I couldn’t hold on to any thought, until I’d forgotten why I was in there…."

G’Kar felt for the human captain.  Sheridan had always been a friend, despite their differences.  Everything that had been done to him, before his capture and during his detention wasn’t deserved by anyone.  The worst criminals could expect better treatment at the hands of their wardens.  He’d done what he’d believed to be the right thing.  And he’d suffered for it, was still suffering for it.

"What do you feel now?  Regarding Mr Garibaldi."

John looked away as more tears blossomed then fell.  "Stephen warned me... about... emotions."

G'Kar knew what the good doctor had said.  "Chemical imbalances in the brain caused by the toxins in your blood stream and the lack of nutrition over time.  They always put it so scientifically, but in the end it means the same thing.  You're hurting, and everytime someone asks if you're okay you want to scream."

*

At the gate to Docking Bay 2, Ivanova met Commander Elizabeth Lochley at sixteen hundred hours that afternoon. 

They shook hands, all friendly and polite.  But Susan’s whole demeanour was protective and proprietary.  This was John’s station, and while he was recovering it was hers.  They’d fought long and hard for this place and she was not going to give it up for some mediator appointed by EarthGov.

She showed Lochley around, starting at C&C and ending at the quarters they’d assigned to her.  She was a straight-forward woman, apparently very clear in what she was doing here.  As long as she stayed out of the way, Ivanova didn’t much care. 

"If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to contact me," she told the commander as she turned to leave her to settle in. 

"There is one thing.  I’d like to see Captain Sheridan as soon as possible.  We have a lot to discuss."

"The captain’s on medical leave at the moment, I’m in charge while he’s off duty."

"Still, my orders are to see Captain Sheridan."

Ivanova stepped back into the room, eyes locked with the hard gaze of the other woman. 

"And I said that you will work through me." She spoke deliberately.  "Captain Sheridan is on medical leave.  If you have a problem with that I suggest you speak to Doctor Franklin."

*

Stephen put the scanner down onto his desk rather harder than he meant to.  "…and I will not have my patient put under further stress!  I don’t care what your orders were.  Commander Ivanova will handle any queries or problems you may have.  You were told to interact with the captain of this station and for the near future she will be in that role."

Lochley dropped into the nearby seat, frowning and sighing with frustration, watching as Doctor Franklin also sat.  He leaned toward her, trying to put his point across. 

"You’re going to have to learn to be accommodating for a while."  He felt for her slightly.  The command staff had closed ranks.  For some time at least any outsiders were not going to be welcome.  "He needs time to heal, we all do, to recover from the pressure and stress they’