It's over in five minutes, ten tops. A ten-minute blur, really: being grabbed by big scary guys, some kind of official pronouncement, Sheppard screaming about leaders taking responsibility, knives being passed out, a circle forming around Sheppard and the biggest scariest guy, Sheppard tripping--
The first things Rodney actually registers are that he's been released and Sheppard is a crumpled heap with blood fast soaking into the dirt around him.
"John!" he yells, for the first and last time ever, and dashes across the circle, falling to his knees at Sheppard's side. Even against the black shirt, Rodney can discern multiple stains, all rapidly spreading. Most of them are in extremely vital places.
Sheppard opens his eyes and, inexplicably, smiles, although his teeth are more than a little red. "Hey, Rodney," he greets hoarsely. "What's up?"
"You idiot," Rodney says fondly, cradling John's head in both hands. "You crazy, suicidal, heroic idiot. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking--" John coughs scratchily a few times. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. "Of you." His hand twitches upwards, brushing faintly across Rodney's cheek before dropping back to his own and pressing weakly on Rodney's hand. "That I'd do anything to save you."
"You idiot," Rodney repeats, meaning something wholly different now. "You shouldn't've done it," he whispers, stroking his thumbs over John's cheekbones. "It's not worth this. Nothing is."
"But it is," John rasps. "For you, Rodney--" He starts coughing again, hacking up more blood as his eyes drift shut. His head rolls to the side, heavy in Rodney's palm.
A moment later, John's hand falls limply away from Rodney's.
Rodney kneels there, head bowed. Around him, he can hear the crowd leaving, murmuring to each other; for them, the show's over.