“We have to rescue them!” John insists, glaring wildly at the remainder of his team.

“We don’t have to do anything.” John responds coldly. “What we should do is report back to Atlantis, get reinforcements, and try and find tactical information that will give us an advantage. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and the best plan you can think of is to just charge in there and demand that they release their prisoners. That’s not going to work, and you know it.”

“We can’t just… do nothing!” John argues.

Rodney is trying to breathe, but it’s difficult because while two different – yet seemingly identical – Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppards are arguing about whether or not to rescue Teyla, Ronon, and the others who were taken, a third Colonel Sheppard is rubbing his back and telling him to calm down.

“I hate life.” Rodney moans, because he never would have seen this situation coming, never for a million years.

P2R-711 had been so calm, so peaceful, right up until the time the natives had accidentally duplicated Sheppard, handing the results all over to Rodney and apologizing profusely, because even Ronon could count to four and realize that four was three too many Sheppards.

That, of course, was right when the planet had to be raided by slave traders, who naturally managed to stun Teyla and Ronon, kidnapping them both to be sold to the Wraith, and leave Rodney with no time to do anything other than herd the Sheppards into the jumper and race after the slavers before they’d escaped through the wormhole.

And even that hadn’t been that great of an idea, because not only was telling four Sheppards what to do shockingly similar to herding cats, but the ensuing fight had also damaged the jumper and fucked up the cloaking device, which meant no sneaky, stealthy attacks from the relative safety of their portable spaceship.

The fourth Sheppard is leaning against a tree, going through all their packs and doing an inventory or the like, completely ignoring the commotion around him.

“Its okay, Rodney.” The Sheppard next to him croons, running his hand down Rodney’s spine. It might have been meant to be comforting, but it’s anything but, because Sheppard is touching him, and Sheppard never touches him.

“Shut up, shut up, and just… stop for a second!” Rodney yells.

They all turn to look at him.

“You!” He points at a Sheppard. “It is now your turn to speak. You have ten seconds. Go.”

“We are not risking our lives to save people who are already good as dead.” Sheppard snaps.

“You. Ten seconds. Go.”

“We’re almost out of ammunition.” The other Sheppard says, businesslike.

“And you?”

“We don’t leave our men behind.” The last Sheppard insists.

The silent Sheppard, the one who has finally stopped rubbing Rodney’s back, nods. “Right.”

“So there’s an obvious solution to your plan.” Rodney tells them.

“And what’s that, Raawd-ney?” Sheppard drawls, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, a lazy grin teasing the edges of his lips.

“We need a plan. A good plan. One that doesn’t require us to fire our weapons much, but does involve us getting away without getting hurt. You! Logic boy! Come up with a plan.” He points at the cool, rational Sheppard. “Grunt-boy here will give you all the information you need to know about inventory. And while the two of you come up with a plan…” He glares at the two remaining Sheppards. “You help me fix the ‘Jumper. And you, go… I don’t know. Find me something to eat.”

*

The plan turns out to be relatively simple, although it isn’t any of the Johns who come up with it.

“Look, a teenager.” Rodney squints, looking out the ‘jumper window because he just got the cloak working and isn’t about to compromise his position – the logical, rational Sheppard had pointed that out rather rudely – just to look at a fifteen year old girl.

“She’s a little young for you, Rodney.” Three of the four Sheppards chorus, grinning at each other. Huh, okay, so apparently teasing Rodney was still fun for all Sheppard clones.

“Well, obviously. She’s not even blonde, Sheppard, you’re missing my point.”

“What is your point, then, Rodney?” Two of the Sheppards ask, pointedly, more than a little bite to the words. It’s creepy that even the inflection is identical.

“The point is, teenagers are rebellious and are always willing to risk the wrath of the elder generation in exchange for absolutely freaking nothing. Also, she’s female, so she’ll love you.” He grabs the most laconic-looking Sheppard – leaning against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets – and strips him of his tac vest and anything that might looks suspicious. “Go get ‘em, tiger!” He calls out, shoving the surprised-looking Sheppard out of the jumper.

*

Vile, vile seducer of women. Rodney thinks, glaring at Sheppard through the windshield as Sheppard proceeds to smile lazily and look through his lashes as a girl who is much too young to know what that look even means.

“I don’t see how this is gaining us an advantage.” John says, speaking quietly.

“Reconnaissance.” Another John responds.

“Right.”

After about half an hour, they actually have viable intel. Rodney is proud of that, although he’s certain that the glint in John-the-seducer-of-alien-women’s eye does not bode well for him.

*

“We need to get out of here, in the next seven minutes.” John informs the group. “Find Teyla, find Ronon, and get out of here ASAP.”

The other Johns split up immediately, running through separate corridors in the search for their teammates.

Rodney looks into the first cell, sees a small child stare at him with huge, green eyes. “Shit.” He says, to nobody in particular because they’re all off looking for a really hot Athosian woman in the miniskirt. Sighing, he opens a wall panel.

Seven minutes isn’t a long time.

*

Not a long time at all, but it’s plenty long enough for Rodney to unlock every cell in the building at once. Alarms are going off and sure, he’s fucked up the plan – they have two minutes less than they had planned, to get back to the ‘jumper, but at least he didn’t leave eighty people to die.

John is furious with him, and Rodney is very well aware that these people can’t all fit into the jumper with them, can’t all be saved, and they’ll just end up being caught again and sold, traded to the Wraith.

He hands his P-90 to a twelve-year-old boy and shows him how to reload it.

It probably says something about the Pegasus galaxy when all four Johns seem to approve of his action.

*

Flying to the orbital gate is slightly more complicated than it should be.  “C’mon, let me drive now!” John whines.

Rodney finally capitulates, gives up. “Whatever, Colonel, just… shut up.”

John grins at him, all childlike glee and barely-contained enthusiasm, all oh-gee-this-is-fun and reminding Rodney of an overexcited puppy. “Thanks, Rodney!” He chirps, barely even drawling out his name.

The other Johns look a little disappointed that they aren’t flying the puddlejumper, but they don’t really mind enough to say anything. “Whatever, flyboy.” Rodney snaps, trying not to pay attention to the child that is staring at him, staring at him, staring – “What do you want?” he finally asks, turning to look at the kid.

“Thank you.” The boy says, his eyes big and green and watery, clearly about to spill over with tears.

“Hey!” One of the other Johns says, grabbing the child before it could cry on Rodney, and wrapping an arm around the boy’s small shoulders. “We couldn’t just leave you behind, could we?”

My Hero, Rodney thinks, irrationally.

The look on Rational-John’s face says that yes, they really could have, but he thankfully doesn’t say it aloud. “Don’t worry about it.” He says, thinking intently. “If we can’t find your parents, there are plenty of families on the mainland that would love to have you stay with them.”

“You won’t be alone.” The last John says, quietly, giving the kid a look of understanding.

Rodney understands the difference between them, now.

“Let’s just get to Atlantis.” Flyboy-John says, expertly maneuvering the Jumper. “We’ll figure everything out, soon enough.”

And then, they flew through the ‘gate.

*

[ (John) = 1/4 + 1/4 + 1/4 +1/4]
[ (John) = 4 x (John/4)]

*

John and John and John and John are all sitting morosely, side by side by side by side, on one bed in the infirmary.

“Oh, cheer up, Colonels.” Rodney snaps. “They’ll release you, eventually.”

“Doctor Keller thinks I might be a security risk.” John says, clearly affronted.

“She has a point.” John replies pointedly. The John beside him nods in agreement.

“Are we going to get dinner?” John asks.

This is going to get very old, very quickly, Rodney realizes. Childlike-Puppy-Flyboy-John is running his hands through his hair, smoothing down the fabric of his BDU’s, practically trembling with nervous energy. Strong-and-Silent-Brooding-Grunt-John is sitting peacefully next to Smartypants-Asshole-Mensa-John, who looks tense but very, very calculating. The last John, Heroic-Moron-With-No-Self-Preservation-John, is leaning against something, smirking.

Rodney can’t tell the Johns apart by their looks – they look exactly the same, down to the scars and the freckles and the flecks in John’s hazel eyes. They are identical, physically, but it’s their personalities that are different.

Keller probably thinks that one of them is the ‘real’ John and the rest are copies, but Rodney knows differently. The crazy aliens on P2R-711 haven’t copied him, they’ve split him apart, the several pieces of the puzzle that made Colonel Sheppard who he was, all fragmented and separate, now.

Puzzles aren’t nearly as fun if you don’t have to figure them out, first.

“Gentlemen…” Keller looks visibly distressed, but her eyes are confused instead of foreboding. Rodney allows himself to relax a moment. “You’re free to go… but I am going to require that you check in to the infirmary every six hours. There are some particularly strange brain-wave sequences we’ve picked up on the scanners and I need to keep a close eye on you.”

“Cool.” Grunt-John stands up, shrugs, and walks out of the infirmary. Hero-John checks his watch, concentrates for a moment and Rodney can practically see his thought processes – “Will they still be serving pudding in the mess?” – And then he leaves, too.

“You should probably keep us under guard.” Smartypants-John tells Keller. “It isn’t certain that we aren’t a security risk, especially as you haven’t been able to determine if there are any physical anomalies that distinguish us from the original. Perhaps we are all copies, inherently flawed, and the real colonel is out there somewhere?”

Keller sighs. “Would you feel better if I had Ronon watch you, John?” She asks.

“I don’t think Ronon could take four of me.” John says contemplatively. “Each one of me should probably have an armed escort – and I’d like to request being taken off active duty for the time being.”

Keller seems slightly horrified. Rodney isn’t, because it’s John – Just, not a part of him that you’re likely to meet very often.

“Also, I’d like you to explain the medical issue, here. I’ll brief my counterparts afterwards, but if this is something that you think could negatively affect our health, I think we should be informed before it becomes a serious problem.” Smartypants-John is like the worst kind of Geek, pushy and aggressive, talking a little bit too fast, and very, very logical. Rodney wishes he didn’t find it endearing.

With the pointed ears, he also has more than a passing resemblance to a Vulcan.

Flyboy-John moves and stands beside Rodney, bumping him with his shoulder.

“What?” Rodney snaps, irritated. Since when does Sheppard touch him?

Flyboy-John just grins at Rodney, a slow, secret smile that seems terribly intimate.

Rodney takes a step back.

“Ronon said he’d save us some muffins.” Flyboy-John tells him, reaching out and pulling him forward, his hand skimming across the skin of Rodney’s forearm. “They’re chocolate chip.” His fingers have lightly circled Rodney’s wrist, lightly stroking his pulse.

Rodney whimpers.

*

Senior Staff Meetings have suddenly become more interesting.

Elizabeth is pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger, her lips moving slightly as she counts to ten in four different languages.

Rodney grins, leans back. Flyboy-John seems to be the most laid-back of the bunch, although he’s practically cackling in fiendish glee, because his counterparts are driving Elizabeth insane.

Geek-John is still asking quick, pointed questions, so fast that Lorne can’t even finish his answers before he’s being interrupted again. Strategies, numbers, logistics are all thrown out and assimilated and computed and then before even Rodney can say something sarcastic, Geek-John has already come up with a logical, reasonable solution.

The other three Johns are just sitting, smirking, and, looking longingly at the notebook that had previously been used to make paper airplanes. Elizabeth took away all the paper when one flew into her cleavage.

“Is your mind always working like this?” Rodney asks Flyboy-John, as Geek-John supplies Lorne with detailed, specific instructions for his rescue mission. (Parrish accidentally got married on MT8-426, and rather than risk a diplomatic incident, he stayed behind for the three days necessary to brainwash him into declaring his love of not only his lady wife, but also their mud hut and the poetry carved into its walls.)

 “Nah, not anymore.” Flyboy-John shrugs. “He gets to do all that logical stuff, now. Hey, do you wanna take a quick trip in the ‘Jumper, fly to the mainland and go surfing, later?”

“I don’t surf, Flyboy.” Rodney snaps.

Flyboy just grins. Rodney is the only person who can distinguish between the different parts of John. John – all of them – doesn’t mind that he’s given each of them nicknames.

*

“You should probably make an attempt to be more respectful, Rodney.” Elizabeth points out, when Rodney has had Grunt-John in his lab all day long, mocking him mercilessly when not busy taking notes about the ancient technology being activated.

“Why? The Grunt is happy doing whatever I tell him.” Rodney looks fondly at him, at this unquestionably military side of John that isn’t very visible, either. He would have assumed that John didn’t have this side at all, but here he is, following orders, relaxed and not offended.

“The Colonel is not here entirely for your convenience, Rodney.” She reminds him. “I understand that it seems wonderful that he can be in more than one place at a time. However, he’s not a robot, Rodney!”

Rodney nods. “Yeah, just lift that onto the second shelf from the top.” He points at the extremely heavy box of valuable equipment, which Grunt-John lifts without so much as an eye-roll.

“Rodney, you aren’t listening to a single thing I’m saying, are you?”

“Yes, yes, don’t treat the Grunt like a pseudo-person, seriously, Elizabeth, he’s not a moron. If he doesn’t want to do something, he’s more than capable of saying no. Right, Grunt-Boy?” He yells.

“No means no, McKay.” Grunt-John calls back, good humour apparent in his voice. “I will not give you my pudding cup, and I refuse to wear a French maid’s uniform.”

Rodney gestures impatiently at Elizabeth.

“You shouldn’t call him that.” She says, sighing. It isn’t really a suggestion.

Rodney sighs. “Fine, whatever you say, Dr. Weir. The Colonel and I will be at least another forty minutes in here; can you find the Flyboy and ask him to bring me a snack from the mess?”

Elizabeth shakes her head and leaves the lab.

*

Ronon and the Gr- and the Colonel, get along wonderfully. He doesn’t mind Geek-John either, and he seems to enjoy sparring with Flyboy-John.

After something cryptic happened in the gym, though, he refuses to sit at the same table as Hero-John.

Hero-John doesn’t look surprised. Teyla sits with him, instead.

*

Rodney isn’t quite sure how they decided on it, but things settled down into a routine. Flyboy-John was his John, the one that had declared himself Rodney’s best friend. Grunt-John, or Colonel-Sheppard, was the one who ran the military side of things on Atlantis. He filled out paperwork and gave orders to Lorne and made things very, very efficient, sometimes with the help of Geek-John.

Hero-John and Geek-John were everywhere, though. Geek-John liked to hang out in the labs, playing Prime-not-Prime with Radek and occasionally discussing military things with Grunt-John-Slash-Colonel-Sheppard.

Hero-John flew the puddlejumpers a lot. He liked to show up just in time to shove someone out of the way of a flying projectile, or shield them from an explosion.

Rodney didn’t mind him being stupidly heroic, just as long as he didn’t get hurt.

*

“Hey, are you okay, Flyboy?” Rodney asked, because the other man was starting to look ill.

“I’m fine, Raaawwwdeney.” Flyboy drawled, leaning back against the lab bench. “But you were supposed to be finished these calculations twenty minutes ago. I’m boooored. Can we go fix that time-traveling Puddlejumper?”

“No we can’t fix it. We’d have to totally build it from scratch as the entire database only has three references to that technology at all, and hey, hey, are you okay?” Rodney asks, worried, because Flyboy-John suddenly went shockingly, horrifyingly pale. 

“Um.” He said, staring into Rodney’s eyes, hands slipping a little bit as he tries to hold himself up. “My legs aren’t working. Infirmary?” 

He couldn’t walk. Rodney had to carry him there.

*

“…completely breaking down.” Keller’s entire speech had fallen on deaf ears.

Geek-John was standing beside his counterpart’s bed, looking stressed. “So we’re all going to die?” He asked, quietly.

Keller shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

“So, yes.” Hero-John clarifies; his voice low. “We’re all going to die.”

Grunt-John, who no apparently longer demanded respect now that he was half-translucent on an infirmary bed, laughed. “Some of us, sooner than others.”

Rodney didn’t think that was something to laugh about.

Flyboy-John wasn’t in nearly as bad of a state. “Gee, Doc, isn’t there something you could do?” He held his hand out, the slight tremors the only indication that anything was wrong with him. “I don’t mean to put too much pressure on you, but… well; I really don’t want to die.”

“You won’t, John.” Rodney says, quietly. His statement is met with absolute silence. Rodney wonders if it’s strange, that he can’t remember ever saying John’s name aloud. “You aren’t going to die, John.” He repeats himself, because once he believes it, he can do anything.

*

“Nothing you can do.” The medicine-woman in the village tells him. “He will waste away, disappear. There is nothing anyone can do.”

Rodney comes back from P2R-711 with no more information than when they left the first time. There is only one of him, though, so he supposes that the mission was at least partially successful.

Maybe there is nothing that anyone can do, but Rodney isn’t just anyone. He’s never been just anyone, and on Atlantis he can do anything, he’s God and Buddha and Samantha Carter all rolled into one, he just needs more time. Just a little bit more time.

He spends eighteen hours straight in his lab, working with the biologists and Keller and even Heightmeyer, but in the end they still haven’t found a solution.

*

“You aren’t going to die.” He tells John – and he doesn’t know which John this is; only that he’s pale and trembling and standing in the middle of Rodney’s quarters.

“I might, and you know that.” John says, eyes flickering back and forth. He looks like a trapped animal, except the door is right behind him and it’s still open, anyways.

“No, you… you can’t, I won’t let – John. I’ll figure something out.” Rodney promises. “You aren’t going to die.”

“The Colonel…” John licks his lips, nervous, and how weird is it that he’s referring to himself in the third person? “He died, just now. He… faded away, like he was never there at all. One second, there was a heartbeat, and then nothing. Not even a body.”

Rodney is, for a second, glad that he missed it. He wouldn’t be able to watch John die, even if there were three other Johns in Atlantis.

“I…” John looks at him, real eye contact, and he takes a deep breath. “I’m scared, Rodney.”

Rodney’s never been good with people but this, this is something else, because John has to know that he isn’t going to know what to say.

“I just don’t want to be alone.” John explains. “When it happens, I don’t want to…”

This much, Rodney can do. He pulls out his laptop, puts in the first Farscape DVD. “Sit.” He orders, and John does. That’s surprising because the John who follows orders is dead, maybe that John will never be around again. Rodney knows that if he doesn’t figure out how to re-integrate them, maybe they’ll all be lost, forever, and John will be dead and in pieces, fragmented in the afterlife.

Right now, John is looking at him, scared and not showing it, just waiting for the first episode of Farscape to start.

“The science is so wrong.” Rodney says, getting comfortable, even though he hasn’t slept in almost a day and hasn’t had any coffee for at least five hours. “And I’ll tell you why…”

John – and this must be Flyboy-John, because this is the John that trusts him and thinks of him as a best friend – leans up against him, their sides pressed together, and they watch as John Crichton fall into an infinitely more interesting part of the universe.

*

[(John) - (John/4) = 3(John/4)] 

*

By the third episode, Geek-John has joined them. Rodney knows that it’s Geek-John because he’s insulting the logic and science in the show, almost as enthusiastically as Rodney is. Occasionally, they say the same thing at the same time, Rodney smirking at him and Geek-John blushing and saying “But of course you know that, you taught me that,” before lapsing into silence.

The last John, who must be Hero-John, walks into Rodney’s room like it’s his own, flops down on the bed even though there isn’t enough room and they’re all squished up, limbs sprawled all over each other and four heads trying to see the one screen, but Rodney just huffs and starts the fifth episode again, from the beginning.

“D’Argo’s cool.” Hero-John says, to Rodney.

The other Johns agree with him.

Flyboy-John is trembling, his chin resting on Rodney’s shoulder and his chest pressed to Rodney’s side. Tiny, tiny tremors, running all the way down his spine and Rodney can feel them, running through him too.

He’s pathetically grateful that the other Johns are here. Flyboy-John might have liked him best, but it kills Rodney to think that the part of John that was his best friend might die and leave him with the parts of John that don’t like him at all.

Hero-John puts a hand on Flyboy-John’s shoulder, wraps his arm around both him and Rodney, trying to stop the trembling.

They start the next episode of Farscape.

Rodney knows, now, that there’s nothing he can do to help John, anymore. Just… this.

*

[(John) - 2(John/4) = (John/2)]

*

It’s four in the morning and Flyboy-John is barely there. If you look right at him, you can see the bedspread and the wall behind him, right through him, and Rodney concentrates on the feel of the fabric of John’s shirt, holds him close and shares his warmth. “John.” He says, looking at the Flyboy, and sees him solidify, just a little, just for a second. “John.” He says, again, and then Geek-John squeaks, looks at his hands, for a second, confused, and then he disappears.

Hero-John jerks awake, gasping. “No.” He says, looking at the spot where he had been sitting just a few minutes earlier. “No, it’s not fair.” He says, voice breaking.

“God damn it.” Rodney swears softly, still holding on to Flyboy-John, petting his hair and wishing he weren’t fading, too. “God damn it.”

They don’t watch any more Farscape.

By five-thirty, they’re all asleep.

*

[ (John) - 4(John/4) = 0 ]

*

Rodney wakes up, and it’s eight o’clock in the morning, his radio is squawking obscenely in his ear, and he’s incredibly cold. He can’t remember the last time he fell asleep in a tiny bed, with two other people, on top of the covers – probably because it hasn’t happened before, he’s much too smart for that – but when he does remember why he isn’t in his comfortable flannel pajamas sleeping underneath his extra-warm Athosian quilt, he sits bolt upright.

John is curled up next to him, hair still sticking out at odd angles, looking strangely vulnerable and peaceful and oh, thank god, solid. Rodney turns off his radio and throws it across the room, turning back to John, who is still sleeping on his bed.

He places a hand on John’s chest, feels his heartbeat, slow and regular, flesh solid and warm underneath his fingertips.

“Hey.” He says, quietly. “Wake up, flyboy.”