Who's Crying Now...?
By Ann3
Writer's Note: Well, the bad news is that I've come down with a stinking cold. And as much as I'd love to have Carson around to look after me, mopping my fevered brow and fetching me chicken soup... well, I've had to be practical.
So rather than lying in bed, feeling all icky and miserable, I thought I'd get up, make myself a nice big mug of tea, and... well, share the suffering around a bit.
Hands up all those who didn't think Shep would escape the events of Irresistible unscathed...? I didn't think so either. Be afraid, Sheppy. Be very afraid... ;o)
Lots of references here to various episodes - see how many you can spot, and the winner get a Walnut Whip !
Enjoy !
He'd faced the Wraith. The Genii. Kolya. He'd almost been sucked dry by the galaxy's biggest, ugliest bug. He'd been thumped, shot at, stunned, tied up, drugged, possessed and just plain abused more times than he could count.
And he'd faced most, if not all, of those threats to his long suffering body with a flippant irreverence. But all those traumas combined couldn't begin to compare with the one John Sheppard faced now.
His monthly physical. The requirement which he himself, in a moment of madness, had recommended that all his military teams took.
A solid half hour of being poked, prodded, blinded by penlights and... oh yes, of course. Pointy bits. Lots of 'em.
And the doctor in charge of this undignified, inescapable torture...? Well, it just had to be, didn't it...? With the sadistic luck that followed John Sheppard around like an unwanted puppy, it just had to be –
Dr Carson Beckett.
The same Dr Carson Beckett who, just three days ago, he'd ambushed and zapped with a stun gun.
Tied up.
Kidnapped.
Tossed in the back of a Jumper
Yelled at.
Thumped on the shoulder.
Denied his breakfast.
Oh, yeah, and the whole reducing to tears thing, John sourly reminded himself. Let's not forget that.
...snap...
Talk of the devil.
Literally.
"So then, Colonel... an' how are we this bright and bonny, lovely sunny mornin'...?"
Oh God, he was cheerful. Much too cheerful.
'Oh, crap... take a deep breath, Sheppy-boy, and get ready to kiss your butt goodbye...'
"Wishing I was in another galaxy right now, doc... and you...?"
Laughter.
...snap...
'Bloody sadist...'
"Och, I'm fine, thank ye, son... aye, just fine..."
Rarely had one word conveyed such menace. Or soft whistling instilled such complete and utter dread.
Resigned to his fate now, John groaned, rolled onto his stomach – and silently prayed for a miracle. The last time he'd heard such a cheery sound had been during McKay's exam the previous day, and – well, he'd come out staggering out of the Infirmary looking like a cowboy who'd left his horse behind.
And if he'd suffered that much, just from 'accidentally' revealing his best friend's secret talent, then –
'Oh, jeez... someone, please, just shoot me now...'
"Colonel...?"
Right on cue, the voice of Dr Diablo addressed him once more. Then things got worse. Much worse. His sanctuary was lifted from his head, replaced a few moments later by two gently amused blue eyes.
"Ah, there ye are. Would ye care to tell me, son, why you were hidin' under this wee pillow here...?"
Face to face now with his soon-to-be tormentor, John Sheppard mustered up his very best smile.
"I was gonna to... well, you know, use it to dampen the screams so I don't scare your other patients..."
An eyebrow rose. Then the other. Two muscled arms folded themselves across an equally broad chest. Then, horror of horrors.
Oh no, not those...! No, please, anything but those...! No, not the... not the... dimples.
'Crap...'
"Well, that's right considerate of ye, son... it is..." Carson said at last, all brightly beaming approval as he reached smoothly behind him – biding his time, choosing his moment, before laying on the misery with a grin of pure, sadistic glee.
"But jus' to make sure, though... absolutely sure... here, you'd better have this other one too..."
'Double crap...'