Up this close, it's easy to pick out all the details. The lingering smell of smoke on his clothes, the slight burn on his lower arm one place, the sheen of sweat on his skin and the swim of his focus as he looks at her. As much as John claims that he's fine, something the way he'd been coughing as he stumbled down this alleyway had already undermined, like this it's easier to get a sense of it all.

She's probably disappointed in him, he thinks. She should be. She should be disappointed, should be angry. It makes sense

"Under what authority," he prompts, because anything she has here is ceremonial at best. There is no Atlantis. The Air Force as they know it has changed. He doesn't know if there even is or ever was a Stargate Command on this version of Earth, and he isn't sure if it's safe to find out.