Part of the "A World of Hurt" series – an ongoing, only slightly AU series of whumpy tag fics to the each of the Season 3 episodes. By hook or by crook I will work some Shep whump into every episode.. if TPTB won't do it, then I'll just have to do it myself :) These stories are designed to fit in with the canon of Season 3 – imagine, if you will, that they take place "off-screen" before, during or after the episode, as appropriate.
This fic, third in the series, is the tag fic for Irresistible – for some reason this chapter insisted on being written in a slightly more humorous style than my usual fare… hopefully the overall effect is somewhat in keeping with the tone of the episode :) More chapters to follow.
Please read and review.
SPOILERS FOR IRRESISTIBLE!
John Sheppard woke up feeling like crap.
His head felt stuffy and heavy, he couldn't breathe through his nose and his chest felt tight and congested. He tried to take in a deep breath and his lungs erupted in a paroxysm of coughing that rasped in his throat and made his chest ache like hell and left him gasping for breath.
"Crap," he cursed feelingly. His voice sounded awful too, deep and rough and ragged.
He rolled over sluggishly, the sheets tangling around his torso, and looked blearily for his clock.
"Oh shit!" The exclamation set off another coughing fit and for a moment or two it was all he could do to breathe through the spasming of his chest muscles and the rasping pain in his throat. Eurgh. He swallowed back a miserable moan and looked again at the clock, hoping he'd been mistaken. Nope. Dammit. Not only did he feel like the proverbial seven shades, he'd also overslept and was late for the briefing.
He was hurriedly pulling on his pants when his radio clicked and he heard Weir's voice, "Colonel Sheppard, come in?" He nearly took a headfirst dive for the floor, stumbling awkwardly as he tried to simultaneously pull up his pants and run to the bedside table where he'd left his headset. He was out of breath and his voice still sounded rough and thick as he fumbled the earpiece into place and clicked the transceiver, "Yeah, I'm on my way. Be there in a minute.."
There was a moment's silence and he hurriedly fastened his pants and reached for his boots. "Are you okay, John?" There was a note of enquiry in Weir's voice, mixed with the merest hint of concern. He felt a cough building in his throat and had the presence of mind to hit the switch and cut the transmission before he deafened Elizabeth. He bent over slightly, his fist to his mouth as a series of hoarse coughs rattled in his chest.
The radio clicked once. "John?" Yeah. Definite concern now. He grimaced.
"I'm fine. I'll be there in a sec. Sheppard out." He clicked the radio off before another series of coughs shook him and cleared his throat noisily as he sat down on the bed to lace his boots. Oh this was not shaping up to be a good day at all…
They were all waiting for him when he hurried into the conference room, still settling his belt comfortably around his hips, and he could feel four pairs of eyes track his progress as he mumbled a brief "Sorry guys," and slid into the nearest empty seat at the table.
He'd hoped they could just get down to business, seeing as he had already put the briefing fifteen minutes behind schedule, but he should have known there wasn't much hope of that.
"What's wrong with you? You look awful."
He threw a McKay a look that was a combination of a death glare for broaching the subject and a sarcastic smile of thanks for the, admittedly backhanded, expression of concern.
"I'm fine. Just a bit of a cold," he explained to the room at large, his dismissive tone making it clear that it was no big deal and that the subject was now closed and could we please move on? Fat chance.
McKay's face wrinkled in distaste and he not too subtly edged his chair a bit further away from John's. "Oh, great. Are you contagious?"
Sheppard really didn't like feeling ill and he was starting to feel that his patience was being severely tried this morning as he fixed McKay with a glare that spoke volumes but, before he could reply, Elizabeth stepped in and effectively neutralised the escalating conflict.
"I'm sure you're perfectly safe, Rodney," she soothed with practice born of years of diplomacy and a long experience of dealing with the idiosyncrasies of Dr Rodney McKay, "but nonetheless, John, you should get Carson to check you over before you go off-world." She smiled at him reasonably, though he swore he saw a hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes. "Just to be on the safe side."
He gave her a somewhat sick smile in return, his heart sinking into his boots. He hated infirmary check-ups… as she well knew. Besides, what was Carson going to be able to do about a cold? Big fat nothing, that's what. The only thing an infirmary visit was gonna get him was being poked, prodded and lectured - and probably a needle stick for good measure – and a diagnosis of a cold; treatment for said condition being, effectively, "suck it up until it goes away on its own".
Between feeling really quite crappy, being late for the meeting, and the prospect of an enforced visit to Carson's domain, John felt was beginning to feel quite justifiably sorry for himself and more than entitled to discretely sulk his way through the briefing.
"Sorry, Colonel."
Sheppard threw Carson a thoroughly disgruntled look, feeling a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment at his predicament. He felt like a prize idiot sitting on an exam bed holding his shirt up whilst Beckett held a stethoscope to his chest and he was sure the nurse assisting Carson was hiding a smirk at his involuntary flinch at the touch of the cold metal against his skin. Despite his distracted apology, Carson didn't actually sound remotely sorry.
"Aren't you medical types supposed to be all caring and sympathetic and stuff?" he groused just a little petulantly.
Carson actually looked up at his reluctant patient at that and gave a distinctly insincere smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, Colonel. Next time you're in a grumpy mood we'll make sure we keep you hanging around that wee bit longer while we take the time to warm up the stethoscope for you. Shall I ask Melissa to get you a lollipop while you wait?" Beckett turned his attention back to listening to Sheppard's lungs do their wheezing thing without bothering to wait for an answer and John was left to face the nurse's wide grin as he sullenly mumbled, "No, that's okay.."
He really should know better by now than to complain to Carson about medical matters; it only ever earned him, at best, a lesson in the proper use of sarcasm that could rival McKay's best efforts and, at worst, a literally pointed reminder that Carson was the man in possession of not only all the big pointy needles on Atlantis but also the know-how and the will to use them. So far this visit, Sheppard had gotten away with his veins intact but he had a feeling that might cease to be the case if he pushed Beckett too far.
The stethoscope had moved around to his back. "Breathe in deeply for me, Colonel."
He did as requested, reluctantly, and was rewarded with the not-unexpected result: a bought of coughing that had him hunched forward on the exam bed, his hand to his mouth as his lungs tried to exit his body via his oesophagus. His eyes were watering when he finally straightened up and the slightly blurry Carson standing before him had a much more sympathetic smile on his face.
"Well, Colonel. I'm afraid you've got a cold."
It took an effort of will but Sheppard actually managed not to say anything he would come to regret. Instead he nodded meekly, like a good little patient, and waited for the other shoe to drop.
"There's not much I can give you for it, I'm afraid," Carson continued, far too cheerfully for John's liking. "Decongestants and painkillers can help alleviate your symptoms but anything too heavy-duty will knock you for six and would mean no off-world activities."
The doctor slung his stethoscope around his neck as he spoke, "It'll clear up in its own time, son. Until then, I'm afraid, you're going to be feeling a wee bit the worse for wear."
John held back a sigh. He could have given that exact prognosis to Elizabeth in the conference room and saved himself 20 minutes of infirmary-related torture. He gave in to another brief coughing fit and grimaced as he hopped down off the exam bed, shrugging his jacket back on over his standard black t-shirt.
"Thanks, Doc." His voice sounded thick and hoarse and he could see Beckett eyeing him with a mixture of sympathy and concern even as he patted the man casually on the shoulder and beat a speedy retreat from the infirmary.
"Are you sure you don't want a decongestant, Colonel?" Beckett called after him.
"No thanks, Doc." He turned around to reply but kept moving, walking backwards as he spoke; no rotten cold was gonna keep him from going off-world and flying his beloved jumper.
"Don't have the luxury of time off right now. We've got gates to scout for the harvesting programme and Rodney has been muttering something about a "schedule".
TBC…