A/N: This was written for Round 6 of the Last Fiction Writer Standing #3 challenge at LiveJournal's sga_lfws. The prompt required a story in which only the team appears and used at least one of the five senses (sight, touch, hearing, smell and taste) as a theme present in the H/C.
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."
Alice in Wonderland
The Secret Meaning of Words
John lay still, knowing the pain would be unbearable if he even twitched. He let the muted nighttime sounds of the infirmary wash over him, hoping to be lulled back to sleep. A quiet tapping nearby stood out against the background murmurs. A laptop. Rodney was keeping a bedside vigil.
Soothed by Rodney's presence and the softly clicking keys, John had almost fallen asleep when another sensation tickled at his awareness. There was a faint scent of lemon in the air. John's breathing quickened. The threat of the citrus tang sparked an urgent need to warn his allergic friend. Consideration for his own comfort tossed aside, John cracked his eyelids open, moaning when the low lighting drove daggers through his skull. "R-Rodney?"
"Sheppard?" Rodney shot up from his chair and set his computer aside. "Are you awake? Are you okay? You look like crap."
"Unhh." John's eyes watered with pain as he struggled to move. He managed to make a feeble gesture with one hand, but he was pretty sure it didn't convey the 'beware of lemons' message he'd intended. "Care-careful...l-lemonssss," John forced out, his tongue thick and uncooperative.
"Careful lemons?" Rodney's face fell. "I knew it. Brain damage."
"N-noo. Smell...l-lemons."
Rodney's brow furrowed in bewilderment before his expression morphed into wide-eyed panic as he grasped the message. "Oh, God." He yanked at the neckline of his uniform shirt and pulled it up over his mouth and nose, looking like a turtle disappearing into its shell.
John tried to signal the panicked man to leave the room for safety, but only succeeded in slamming his own arm against the bedrail.
A warm, gentle hand clasped John's flailing one securely. "Shhh, John. You must rest now."
"Teyla," John slurred with relief. Teyla would know what to do about the lemons he thought. But at that moment, the lemon scent evaporated. It was replaced by a woodsy fragrance — pine maybe...and fire. "S-smoke," John gasped. "S'mthin's burning."
Rodney emerged from his science-blue carapace. "You know, this is like one of those Canadian Heritage Minutes on television." He snapped his fingers, calling forth the rest of the memory. "Yes, there was one where the doctor was operating on a woman who smelled burnt toast before every seizure and—"
"He's not having a seizure, McKay," a deep voice rumbled. "But you're stirrin' him up now."
Ronon. John spotted the dreadlocks as the acrid smoke cleared and the musty odor of a teddy bear he'd had as a child wafted in.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, John sunk back to sleep wondering how Canadian television and teddy bears were connected to the agony in his head.
~~~~oooo~~~~
"Synesthesia..." McKay tipped his head thoughtfully as he chewed a mouthful of not-tuna casserole. "That's cool."
John didn't need his newly acquired cross-sensory connections in order to hear the gears of scientific possibility turning in McKay's head. "I'll let you know how cool it is once I get cleared for active duty." John scowled, hating the way his record-breaking stay in the infirmary made half of what he said come out sounding like a petulant child.
"You have been making remarkable progress." Teyla smiled warmly.
John looked at Teyla and smiled back. He'd become accustomed to the scent that accompanied her name. But it was still disconcerting to see her hands resting gracefully on the table while feeling the sensory ghost of her fingers whispering through his hair as they did when he was sick or injured.
"Does every word have a scent?" Ronon asked.
"No, mostly just things or people, especially names. Rodney's a lemon."
"Very amusing. Not," Rodney huffed.
John grinned.
"So what about the word 'Wraith?'" The gleam of curiosity in Rodney's eyes suggested he might want to inquire about every word in the Atlantean dictionary. "I imagine it would smell like organic decomposition."
"Worse." John wrinkled his nose and then felt himself pale as the sickening odor of the word permeated the air. He swallowed thickly and conjured up thoughts of peppermint, trying to banish his nausea.
"I think it would be wise to refrain from mentioning the...hive dwellers when we are eating, Rodney," Teyla advised.
Teyla's use of Rodney's lemon-scented moniker cleared the foul stench. John gratefully gulped in the fresher air.
"How about 'Atlantis?'" Rodney persisted.
John shook his head. "Nothing for that one."
"Huh. Thought it might have meant more," Ronon commented.
"Doesn't always work that way." John shrugged, hoping no one noticed the flush he felt creeping up his face. In truth, 'Atlantis' was a symphony of scents like apple pie and jet fuel and saltwater surf, and it had the tactile sensation of... Well, John didn't want to ponder that one too much himself, and he was never going to share that secret with anyone.
John glanced at his team. 'Team' was the other word that John was keeping to himself because the word felt like a hug. The sensation had been uncomfortable at first, but John quickly learned to appreciate the effect. On nights when he was ripped from his sleep by dreams that left him shaking in fear and drenched in sweat, he could whisper 'team' over and over in the dark, and he'd feel the presence of his family around him. The terror would recede and the tremors would stop. Then, safe and at peace, he'd fall back to sleep in the arms of his team. 'Team,' John knew, was the best word of all.
~~~~oooo~~~~
The End