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John tips his head under the spray of the shower and imagines what it’s like to drown, to be trapped with the water rising, spraying in from every crack until there’s no air left to breathe. It’s not how he’s ever imagined dying before, but he can’t get the image out of his head now. He feels hollow, the thought of drowning the only thing left in the wake of Old Weir’s story.
Except it’s not just his death he’s imagining—it’s everyone’s. Zelenka and Ford and Carson—Sumner and Grodin and McKay—
Taking a breath, John tries to clear his head, tries to make those thoughts as small as possible, to bury them far away under the pressure of the shower so he doesn’t have to examine them too closely. By the time he steps out of the shower, he feels more like himself than he has since Old Weir looked Elizabeth in the eye and said, I’m you.
It’s not a surprise to find McKay standing in his room when he opens the door to the bathroom. McKay’s been at his side all day and it’s only right that he’s here, too.
“This is stupid,” McKay says, crossing his arms over his chest.
John grabs his sweats and t-shirt off his desk and steps back into the bathroom, leaving the door open. “You breaking into my room at three in the morning? I agree.”
McKay grumbles something that John doesn’t catch, but he’s still there, still staring at John when John comes back.
“Look,” McKay says, shifts forward, like he’s going to take a step, but stops short. “This thing we’re doing. I know I’m not imagining it.”
John knows exactly what McKay is talking about. There definitely is a thing—a thing where they flirt and bicker and pick at each other and stand too close and lean on each other for support. There’s a thing, one that’s nice and comfortable just as it is, but John’s barely imagined doing anything about it.
McKay waves a hand between them. “Everyone knows. So it’s stupid that we’re still pretending we don’t.”
“No one has any idea, McKay,” John says, crossing his arms defensively. He’s been careful. He has to be careful. He knows how to be careful.
Shaking his head, McKay makes a sound that’s almost like a laugh. “Weir knows—both of them. I think Teyla and Zelenka, too. Carson guessed it back in Antarctica. I wouldn’t even put it past Ford at this point.”
John bites back the denial that rises up in his chest, clenches his jaw against it. There’s no point. McKay’s brought it up—McKay’s going to do something about it—so there’s no point in denying it any longer. Now that he’s thinking about it, John doesn’t want to deny it at all.
“They died, Sheppard,” McKay says, eyes plaintive. “That other us. They died and they never let this happen. It would be so stupid if we let that happen to us, too.”
Around the sudden tightness in his throat, John manages to say, “What are we supposed to do about it?”
McKay scoffs and says, “Of course.” Before John can really react, McKay’s in front of him, pulling him down for a kiss, his hand warm on the back of John’s neck.
John’s not sure how long they go on for, not sure how they held out until now. With McKay everywhere and his own hands holding McKay right there, he’s not sure how he’ll ever be able to move on from this. It’s like drowning, except McKay’s breathing life right back into him and John knows there’s no going back.