Chapter Text
JANUARY 1999
When John finally woke in a hospital on American soil, he knew his life had ended. He lay in the bed, his body burnt and broken beyond belief, and didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all.
He drifted. The days came and went, doctors, nurses, physios, therapists. A psychologist tried to get him to talk, but he wasn’t doing that. A priest came and sat with him. He didn’t say anything then, either.
Eventually they sent a Major from the Airforce to tell him that he was being medically discharged. The doctors couldn’t repair his leg, he would need crutches for the rest of his life. The burns had healed as much as they were going to. He was blind in his left eye, and his left hand would be capable of gross motor skills only. The Airforce could no longer provide employment for him – a permanently incapacitated pilot had no role in combat – so they would medically discharge him, with a small pension to cover basic accommodation, food and medical care. Anything else was up to him. John had already realised all of this. He didn’t speak to the Major, either. He did, however, sign on the dotted line, severing his employment and throwing himself onto the scrap heap.
A week later, the nicest of the nurses, a short, cheerful, Irish, mother of three, carried his bag out to the waiting taxi, while he made his excruciating way down the hospital corridors on the crutches. When she’d placed his bag in the back seat, she turned to him. “John, this is the beginning of a new life. I know it’s not the one you had. I know it’s not the one you wanted. But it’s the only one you’re going to get. Don’t waste it.” And she leaned in and hugged him.
It was the first non-clinical touch he’d felt since the chopper went down.
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1992
Arguments with his Dad had led John to apply to Stanford rather than Harvard. Naturally this had led to a bitter row, and a severing of their embattled father-son relationship. John had packed his bags the day his acceptance letter came in the mail, and had never looked back.
He was okay for money because his mom had left him a substantial legacy in her Will. He would rather have had his mom still alive and loving him, but since that wasn’t the way things had worked out, John was just grateful that he had the financial wherewithal to turn his back on a place that was no longer welcoming, that had stopped being a home when his mom and younger brother had been killed.
He was bright and a quick learner. He breezed through his degree in Mathematics, skimming around the edges of the university’s social life, making friends in a light-hearted fashion and letting them go before they got too close. He took extra classes during the summer, when other students were having to work to fund their education, and so finished his degree six months earlier than might have been expected.
He’d always wanted to fly, and with the money his mom had left him, he’d started lessons at the local airfield as soon as he’d arrived at Stanford. He was proficient, exceptionally so, in a Cessna, but his heart yearned for helicopters.
When he graduated with full honors, there was no-one watching from the audience. He was proud of himself, for himself. There was no-one else in his life to care that he’d done so well, put in the hard yards and achieved his degree. He told himself it didn’t matter.
He joined the Airforce Officer training program the same day he met Nancy. She was working as a PA at the office of a local parliamentarian, and happened to be in the same café as John for lunch. The café was crowded, and they shared one of the only vacant tables. A year later, John was married and about to be deployed for the first time.
By age 23, he was a veteran of the Afghani wars, a 1st Lieutenant and a seasoned co-pilot for rescue missions, flying Black Hawks on MedEvac flights. Whilst never liking to be alone, Nancy had grown accustomed to his long absences and they had a close relationship when he was on leave between tours, exchanging letters and photos when he was overseas.
His promotion to Captain had come earlier than expected. He’d been second seat on a MedEvac that had gone very badly wrong. It was his first ever flight in one of the new Pave Hawks – so far only one of the Lieutenants had been trained in that craft, and he’d been suddenly withdrawn from the standby roster due to gastro. When an emergency call came in, John had been seconded at the last moment to take the co-pilot’s chair, despite never having even sat in a Pave Hawk before.
The chopper had successfully extracted the injured personnel, but as they were gaining height on their escape, a lucky shot from the top of a nearby building had taken the pilot between the eyes. Bullets were flying and the chopper was lurching from the sudden loss of control as the pilot slumped over the dashboard. Despite being hit through the shoulder himself, John had managed to get the helicopter under control, get out of harm’s reach and bring everyone back to base. The fact that he’d staggered out of the chopper covered in blood and brains, and vomited all over the tarmac hadn’t mattered. He’d done what needed to be done, injured and under pressure, with bullets flying and no previous experience in that type of aircraft.
Nancy had been excited at his promotion, pleased with the pay rise, but disappointed it would still be another two months before they’d be able to celebrate together. John had said it just meant he had two months to plan, in explicit detail, exactly what they would be doing to celebrate.
The morning after his promotion had come through, John had risen, showered in the requisite two minutes, dressed, and had a hearty breakfast in the mess. He’d laughed with some of his mates, had played a hand or two of cards, and then a call had come in. MedEvac needed. He’d gone straight to his Black Hawk – as a Captain he was now elevated to being the pilot, with a co-pilot of his own – and had flown into the heart of a battle, to extract personnel wounded in the line of duty.
It was as they were making their escape, the injured men secured in the rear of the chopper, that a missile had sheared off half the rotors. The chopper had immediately veered into a nearby cliff and, at the last moment, John had managed to turn the craft a little so that his side of the pilot’s cabin would bear the full brunt of the impact, trying, as always, to protect others with his own life.
Rescue had come, but not before John had been crushed and broken and burnt. One of the injured men he’d originally extracted had managed to pull John free of the wreckage, roll him to smother the flames, straighten his body. But John hadn’t known a thing about it. He’d been unconscious, bleeding from a head wound, his leg crushed beyond repair, broken bones all over and burns to nearly half his body.
He’d been so critically injured, the Airforce had airlifted him to a top hospital in Germany, and that’s where Nancy was directed to go. She’d been warned of his injuries, the severity, the extent of the burns, the likelihood he’d never walk again. She’d said she loved John, he was everything to her, they could survive anything as long as they were together. She’d walked into the hospital ICU, taken one look at the extent of the injuries, and walked back out, tears pouring down her face. The Medical Administrator assigned to John’s case had taken her to a private room, talked about John’s prognosis, brought up the 3D imaging of how he would look when all the skin grafts were done and healing was complete. Nancy had vomited into the wastepaper basket next to the desk. And then she’d caught the next flight home to America.
John hadn’t seen or heard from her since. An envelope had arrived, marked to his attention, and inside were divorce papers. He’d signed them without even reading them. What could he possibly offer her? He was a cripple, a shockingly deformed cripple. Nancy was light and love and freedom. She would never have coped with a millstone around her neck. He let her go as easily as he’d let the friendships go in college, hiding the devastation of abandonment and loss deep inside.
And so, eventually, he’d been stabilised enough to be shipped back to the States, and now, his rehab had progressed to the point where he was free to leave the hospital and re-start his life. Whatever that meant.
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APRIL 1999
The taxi dropped John off outside the unit the Airforce had rented for him. It was a ground floor unit, one bedroom, one bathroom. The bathroom was at least big enough that he could crutch his way in and out to use the facilities. It was in an okay neighbourhood. There was a café on the corner of his block, not so far that it hurt his leg and hip to get there. He had to run the gauntlet of horrified looks and gasps as he crutched up the street, but the ambience in the café was warm and welcoming. John usually came mid-morning when the breakfast crowd had left, and the lunch crowd hadn’t yet arrived.
He was very sensitive about his appearance. Once an eye-catchingly handsome man, the burns and blind eye had left him looking like something from a horror movie. He hated seeing himself in the mirror, but as the burnt side of his face didn’t grow hair, he had to still shave the other side, or he’d look even worse. But he did it as quickly as possible, keeping his eye only on the area needing attention, and the moment he was done he’d turn away. His hair didn’t grow at all over the burned areas, and the rest he ignored completely, leaving it to fend for itself. It wasn’t as if he needed to look nice for anyone. He didn’t have anyone. The few friends he’d made in the Airforce were either posted overseas or dead. He had no family to speak of and he didn’t know any of his neighbours.
It was lonely. He was lonely.
He finally admitted that to himself one miserable Sunday morning, sitting on the window seat at the front of his apartment, watching the raindrops chase each other down the windowpane, betting to himself which would reach the sill first.
And with that admission, his true healing finally began.
Within two weeks, he’d cleaned himself up a bit, put the apartment to rights, bought a couple of pictures for the walls, and a throw rug for the sofa. He’d also bought a bread maker and a coffee machine, so that when he came home, the house smelled welcoming. He started to smile a little at people when he passed them, and sometimes they smiled back. Mostly they recoiled in horror at seeing his injuries, but now and then, someone would smile at him. It was mostly the people who had dogs, and their compassion sparked the idea of getting a dog of his own, someone to keep him company.
The unit he was renting didn’t allow pets. And that brought him to the next point. What was he actually going to do with this life he didn’t want?
He sat in the café, cradling a cup of coffee and considered his options. Nothing physical – obviously. Nothing that needed two eyes to see, although the glass eyeball they’d finally put in a couple of months back looked pretty realistic and helped with his appearance, but it didn’t actually work. Nothing that needed energy or physical fitness, or the ability to stay upright for long periods of time. John sighed and shook his head.
“Hey, you okay? You look kinda down today.” It was the friendly barista who remembered how he liked his coffee and always smiled at him. She was standing next to the table, her head canted to the side, looking at him with a concerned expression.
He nodded. “Just trying to work out what to do with my life,” he said. It was this café, this barista, that had made him start talking again, all those weeks ago. He’d awkwardly crutched his way in, wanting a coffee, and then realised he’d have to ask for one, tell her how he liked it. That first morning, his voice had croaked and cut out part way through, and he’d been terrified that there was actual damage to his voice box, and no-one had told him. But it seemed to have just been from him being silent for so long, because within a few days, he was sounding normal again, his drawl back, just as it had always sounded.
“Oh, well, I’ll get you the newspaper then. You can read through the jobs section and see if anything catches your eye,” and she was off and away, returning within moments to drop the thick Saturday paper on his table, then dashing back to the counter to serve some new arrivals.
John flicked through the paper until he reached the classifieds, then he began to read. An hour later, he’d discounted more than three dozen possible career paths, but there was one – one – precious job that had stood out. Stanford Uni were seeking a TA for the School of Mathematics. John sat back in the seat. He’d enjoyed his time at Stanford, and he’d done very, very well. His degree was in Mathematics with a minor in Aeronautics, so surely he’d be qualified for the job. He’d need to move closer, but that was okay. Apart from this café, there was little else that attracted him to the area in which he lived. And if he moved… he could maybe get a dog.
That was the deciding factor.
John tore the page from the newspaper, and stood, his leg making him cumbersome, the need to get the crutches into place before he rose making him ungainly. He paused once he was up… would a TA with a broken body, a glass eye and a burnt face and arm be acceptable? He sighed. Maybe not, but he had to try something. At least this might show him what he was up against. And so he caught the barista’s eyes, smiled his thanks and made his slow and clumsy way out of the café.
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It was ten days later that John’s phone rang. He’d been checking the letterbox the last couple of days, hoping that maybe there’d be a response to his application. And he’d actually been feeling a little upbeat, the anticipation giving him something to do with his day, a reason to exist. So, when his phone rang, his breathing picked up a little with nerves. It wasn’t one of his medical team, because their numbers were all saved in his phone and their names came up on the screen. The screen this time said, ‘unknown caller’. Taking a deep breath, John answered the phone.
“Hello, this is John Sheppard.” It was the University. And they wanted him to come in for an interview. They were happy to wait a few days to give him time to arrange the journey. Yes, he could call them back to agree the day and time of the interview once his travel plans were finalised. And that was that.
So John booked a flight and packed a bag.
After a rocky beginning, when one of the three interviewers had startled so badly at John’s appearance, she’d fallen backwards off her chair and had then stood and over-apologised for her reaction, it actually went really well. The interviewing committee were very impressed with the grades John had achieved, and the speed with which he’d completed his degree. They were accommodating of his physical needs, understood that he needed to be able to sit more than he stood, and foresaw no problems with integrating him into their mathematics team. He was offered the job on the spot, and accepted it, feeling a sense of accomplishment, of purpose, suffusing his whole body. He stood there at the end, leaning on his crutches and smiling inanely at them, but they didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps his emotions were easy to read, and they were happy for him.
The new academic year was due to start in just a few weeks, so John took a couple of days to hunt around and find somewhere to live. After a few false starts, he found the perfect place. It was an older building and had been refurbished into flats. The ground floor flat was available, and it was spacious and airy, with two bedrooms and a large living space. The advert had said ‘no pets allowed’, but when John enquired, pointing out that the floors were all wood, not carpet, and offered to pay for any damage, the owner had agreed that he could have a dog.
John flew home feeling hopeful. He scoffed at himself, thinking it was stupid to feel that way just because he now had a simple job as someone’s helper, when once, in another life, he’d flown helicopters in war zones, saving lives.
Really though, the sense of hope and anticipation was because he’d crawled through a long, dark, tunnel, remaking himself from scratch, and now the sun was just starting to shine for him again.