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John has never slept with Elizabeth.
No matter what anyone else says, no matter the gossip milling around the city, no matter what the IOA or the SGC heads might insinuate about their relationship, no matter how much teasing he gets from both Telya (the subtle kind) and from Ronon (the not so subtle kind), and-- most especially—no matter how much he wants it, John has never slept with Elizabeth.
He didn't sleep with her that first year, when they were cut off from Earth-- so in over their heads with the weight of responsibility of holding off a war, ensuring the security of the expedition, keeping the Wraith at bay, and just surviving in the Pegasus Galaxy. Thrust into the unknown, a weight of responsibility on both their shoulders-- a sense of resposibility only they seem to understand, and most of the time they didn't know what the hell they were doing.
They would stay up late at nights, discussing military and contingecy plans; security protocols and even waste segregation, everything that the expedition needed. Those first few months these meetings would take place in her office, but somewhere along the piles of papers and the endless cups of coffee these meetings moved to one of the city lounges (the one near a balcony). People knew to stay clear of that particular lounge when the expedition leaders would hole themselves up in there, and the few passerbys who would go to and from the mess hall near the lounge could faintly hear Elizabeth's rare, shy laugh echoing from the room.
Sometimes, most of the time, after those meetings, John would walk her back to her quarters. A slow, quiet walk, their bodies almost touching but not quite so. She would always wish him good night, and he would always answer her with a laugh and would retort back a good morning. It was a thing they did, when he would linger just so outside her doorway, the moments ticking away. He would always think about taking that step inside, just one small step and he would be in her room, her life-- but she never once asked him to come inside, and he never once asked if he could come in. They never once asked each other for anything more.
He didn't sleep with her after the storm hit, when he thought she was dead and something cruel and angry curled up inside of him, and uncurled the moment he heard her voice over the radio, the sound of the rain echoing outside. And then he saved her, pulled her hand and haulled her through the chaos, telling her she'll be okay, later, after. But afterwards, he never pulled her into an abandoned corner of the city, never curled himself around her, clinging to her damp clothes, breathing her in. He never whispered how it messed him up inside when he thought he'd lost her.
He didn't sleep with her that second year, when in turn she thought he'd died, when he flew straight into enemy ships to save the city, only to be saved at the last minute. That time he re-appeared in the gate room and in a moment of weakness and self-awareness she threw herself at him and hugged him because he came home. She didn't slip quietly into his bed later that night, clutching his body while she burried her face in his chest and he drew circles on her back and whispered reassurances.
He didn't sleep with her after that alien possession, when she kissed him, but it wasn't really them. He didn't get to feel, and know, truly, what it was like to have her lips on his. What it's like to have his hands on her body.
No, he didn't sleep with her even after that Athosian party when they wandered off towards the beach, with their Athosian wine glasses in hand, laughing about silly nothings, and he brushed a curl off her face and tucked it behind her ear. The mood changed by then, and in that moment he wanted desperately to kiss her, but he didn’t dare.
He didn't sleep with her no matter how he feels such a surge of hope everytime she looked at him, how she somehow makes him feel special, like he's a much better man than what he truly is.
He didn't sleep with her, not even those times when he could practically feel and taste sex when they were both so relieved the city was safe, and they live to fight another day. John didn't sleep with her no matter how many quiet smiles, or lingering touches she sent his way. He’d never once reached out and took hold of her wrist, gently, to stop her from leaving; his thumb running circles on the inside of her wrist. He never leaned in and pressed his lips gently against hers.
He didn't sleep with her that third year (especially not then) when they were so close, when they had every excuse to do so, when she woke up to the real world, after her ordeal with the nanites in her body; and then he got fed on by a Wraith and she had to look and watch him die. They both came back, they both stayed alive and after, after, no matter how much they could, no matter how much he wanted, they still didn't sleep with each other.
Not even that time they thought they’d lost Atlantis for good, and were sent back to Earth. He went to see her at her apartment-- he thought that now without the burden of command, without the politics and it's just him and her, maybe, just maybe-- she would invite him in. He got as far as her apartment door, but never got the courage to knock. (So he called her instead, knowing that while she was home, she would let the machine pick up, just so he could hear her voice). Then they got Atlantis back, and everything was the same, yet different.
It would have been so easy, to fall into that pattern, to sleep together out of grief, out of comfort, out of want. But they were never those people. They were leaders, colleagues, and in time, friends. They were leaders trying to defend a city, a galaxy, and things were never easy-- not with them.
No, John never slept with her all those years, and now he thinks he missed his chance. Missed his chance to tell her how he really feels.
They left her there, he left her there, and deep in his heart is the doubt that he will ever get her back.
No, John has never slept with Elizabeth, and now he doubts he ever will.