Author's Note: I started this story just for some lighthearted John-whumping fun, but the silly thing yanked the keyboard away from me, started writing itself, and came out rather bitter-sweet and sad. Not in a morbid or depressing way, but a surprise none-the-less and I actually really like it. Oh, and the whump is still very much intact. Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated.
Atlantis, 3:00 p.m.
"Dr. Weir!" The shout from the control room jerked Elizabeth from her pensive daydreaming and she was walking briskly through her office door even before she quite realized she'd gotten to her feet. The sounds of the Stargate below preparing to receive a connection made the technician's next words unnecessary, "Incoming wormhole!" She was already moving to the communications station, her heart racing with anticipation even as she tried to force down the hope that she feared would yet again be unfulfilled. Tapping her fingers nervously against her crossed arms she watched blankly as the Stargate's protective shield hummed into life, cutting off the usually spectacular flush of the wormhole's initializing wave.
Long moments passed in silence with only the quiet gurgling of the active 'gate to fill the large, beautiful space. Elizabeth closed her eyes. For three days every incoming connection had pulled her to the control room only to suffer keen disappointment. Routine check-ins and contact from their friends and allies in Pegasus had become almost painful. For three days she'd been sitting in her office, pretending to work, yet thinking of nothing other than three people she cared about growing sicker and sicker in the quarantine units of the infirmary -- and one person she cared about who was still missing.
"Receiving IDC!" Elizabeth jerked her eyes open in surprise and turned towards the voice just as the technician continued, "It's Colonel Sheppard!"
Muted cheers and a noisy babble of hopeful conversation broke out, but Elizabeth was already racing towards the steps, too consumed by her own hope that had at last escaped its constraints and was pounding in her ears. She should have given the command to lower the shield; she should have ordered a medical team to the gate room. Instead she just ran to the foot of the Stargate where she stood on bouncing toes for a first glimpse of John. Luckily, her crew was too qualified to let protocol get in the way of a triumphant, if belated, return: the shield was down even before she had reached the bottom step. She seemed to wait an unusually long time, watching the flickering light, squinting into its shimmer.
When the familiar splut of sound that indicated something had finally materialized reached her ears, she frowned in confusion for a moment until she realized that the emerging figure was not striding purposefully through the center of the shimmering puddle. Instead, John Sheppard stood off to the side, barely a step inside the gate, looking like he'd been leaning against the ornate ring's edge and had let go just long enough to force himself through. Even as she began to move over to him, he wavered, and put a hand out to steady himself on this side. The other hand he held tightly clutched against his chest, wrapped around a small object.
The smile that had found its way to her face was fading and the hands she'd reached out to indulge herself in an embrace extended instead in preparation for a catch; John looked as if he would fall over at any second. "John?" Elizabeth voiced the worry that was beginning to send shivery chills down her back.
John raised his drooping head and seemed to finally notice her. "Hi," was all he said before he slowly held out the precious object in his hand, pressing it urgently into hers, taking special care not to release it completely until he was certain she had a firm grip on it. The Stargate shut down beside them and the room seemed strangely quiet.
"What is this?" She was confused and growing more worried by the second as she took in more of his haggard appearance, his flushed cheeks, and the tight lines of suppressed pain around his glazed eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead and plastered fine strands of hair against too-pale skin.
"Give it to Beckett," he whispered. He looked around the gateroom bemusedly for a moment longer, nodded wearily to himself…and dropped to his knees. Calling for help, she reached him as he gently toppled to the side. She managed to just catch his head before it struck the cold floor. Heat radiated from his body and her arm and hand felt damply hot where she touched his head and arm. Sudden activity around her drew her attention from John's limp form. The two SOs were hovering nearby and a medical technician was reaching for John's wrist, none-too subtly edging her out of the way.
She reluctantly backed off just as one of Sheppard's men shouted, "Dr! Look!" Elizabeth pushed closer again as the paramedic rolled John slightly to get a better look at the back of the shoulder the SO was pointing at. A large, ragged hole in the rough non-uniform fabric revealed blackened, charred skin oozing dark blood. The edges of the awful burn were still smoking slightly and Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth in horror.
The activity around the unconscious Colonel became frenzied as the technicians gave up triage and simply heaved the man onto a gurney and bolted for the infirmary, managing to do so and still protect the wound. Elizabeth watched them go, needing a moment to gather her composure. Suddenly remembering the object John had handed her, she held it up to look at for the first time.
It was a small glass vial, stoppered at one end with rough-hewn cork. Peering even more closely she held the clear tube up to the light and realized it was actually filled with a clear, viscous liquid. The glass was warm from John's hand clutching it so tightly. "Give it to Beckett…" she repeated to herself, then "Could it be?!" Suddenly she was running down the steps, into the hallway beyond and through the corridors that led to the infirmary, clutching the vial tightly in her own hand and holding it pressed against her chest.
Atlantis 8:00 p.m.
It had been several hours before Beckett called her back into the infirmary with such a cheerful tone that Elizabeth had smiled just upon hearing his voice through the radio. She had happily looked in on Ronon, Teyla and Rodney as they slept, finally unencumbered by the trappings of quarantine barriers. Beckett assured her that each of them was responding well to the vaccine/antidote Sheppard had brought through, and that they would all fully recover after time and plenty of rest. Beckett was not a man who begrudged a cure just because he hadn't discovered it, and Elizabeth was just as relieved to see the Doctor's improved condition. Her worry for him as he battled the disease and poured every ounce of himself into researching treatments had been as acute as her worry for those who were sick.
The amazement, confusion, and wonder she'd been experiencing in rhythmic cycles drew Elizabeth to Sheppard's bedside at last. How had he made it home with the precious antidote his team needed so desperately? How had he known what to look for? What had happened in those missing 72 hours? The curiosity was driving her crazy and she patted John's hand idly as she studied his unconscious form, her relief at his safe return overcoming the professional distance she usually kept between them in their easy working relationship. Despite all his confidence in his own abilities and leadership, he was a man easily embarrassed by gestures of affection.
He didn't look all that good. He lay on one side in deference to the burned shoulder that was nearly mummified in gauze and tape. His upper body was otherwise bare and the heart monitor leads, oxygen tubes, and IV lines made him seem incredibly fragile. The lightweight blankets were pulled well over his hips and up his torso, but she tugged them up a bit further none-the-less, unacknowledged maternal instinct compelling the act. He's still too pale, she thought, and as her gaze lingered on his face, she felt he still looked stressed, as if he was fighting pain even in the deepest of sleep.
"What the hell happened out there, John?" She whispered at last, letting her exasperation get the better of her.
"That's the million dollar question, now, isn't it!" Beckett purred into her ear from just behind and Elizabeth jumped, jerking her hand away from John's in guilty reaction. But Beckett was too happy at having all his patients safely on the way to recovery to notice, or care about, her imagined impropriety. He bustled to the monitors and wrote notes on John's chart for a few minutes before Elizabeth, still studying the small shadows of expression playing across John's face, finally gained the courage to speak.
"Is he OK? I just mean, he looks so pale and…uncomfortable."
Carson sighed and moved next to her to look critically at his patient. "He's been through the wringer, alright. In addition to recovering from the same illness his team had, he's got that nasty burn from some sort of energy weapon, I'm guessing, and a couple real beauties on his back and lower abdomen. Someone with a size 10 shoe took exception to the Colonel's ribcage."
Elizabeth just shook her head, trying to resist the impulse to take John's hand again. "You said he's recovering from the illness. Did you give him the vaccine?"
"No, and that's another puzzle to add to your collection. From the traces of the vaccine's preservative in his blood samples, I'd say someone gave him the dose 24-36 hours ago." Carson's expression grew harder as he continued, "Which means he suffered the symptoms of the illness a full two days after he sent Teyla and the others home without the benefit of any medical intervention, or relief."
Elizabeth looked at Carson in wonder. When Teyla and Rodney and Ronon had stumbled through the gate without John three days and some odd hours ago, they had already been miserable. The disease or illness, or whatever it was, caused high fever and painful inflammation of joints making all movement excruciating. Late in the cycle, they had all developed respiratory problems that were nudging towards full-blown pneumonia. The thought of John enduring the pain and discomfort she had watched her people go through without any of Carson's pain-killers and bedside manner was almost too much to bear. She blinked back the emotion, deciding to hell with decorum, and slipped her hand into John's after all, squeezing fiercely as if she could transfer some of her strength and outrage into him.
Carson nodded, understanding her gesture and her fury completely. He sighed again, but his voice was encouraging as he said, "The Colonel is a strong lad, and aside from a pretty ugly scar on his shoulder, he'll be right as rain in no time. He's in no danger. Rest and time will cure all his ills." The doctor patted Elizabeth on her shoulder and walked off with a spring in his step.
Elizabeth lingered, finding that watching John eased her anxiety over what he had been through, where he had been. After a long while, she noticed that he seemed to be moving around a little, his head rolled on the pillow, his fingers twitched. But even as she was just having the thought that he might be waking, his face contorted in an expression of agony and he thrashed his head before throwing it back with an excruciating grimace, all the more terrifying because no sound slipped out of his tightly clenched jaw.
"CARSON!" Elizabeth yelled because she didn't know what else to do but hang on to his hand and hope Beckett could help. But even as the noise of several pairs of feet came running up, John relaxed again to curl up, panting and mumbling, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Carson quickly checked the monitors again and then leaned over to pry John's eyelids open.
"We saw his heart rate spike on the monitors," Carson told Elizabeth. "But I really think he's just dreaming and restless from the combination of his injuries and the aftereffects of the illness. The others are also experiencing periods of agitation."
"Carson, that wasn't agitation! That was pure terror and terrible pain. The look on his face…" she trailed off as the memory choked her.
"I said he'd been through the wringer. But I'll add a painkiller to his meds in case he's being disturbed unconsciously." Carson left and Elizabeth blew out a breath of anxiety, resting her hands on the edge of the bed and leaning over John. He was still tensely curled into himself and she began to realize that his breathy mumbles were actual words. Looking around nervously, afraid someone might misinterpret her motion, she leaned even closer to his flushed face to listen.
He seemed to be repeating the same few phrases over and over, "Go, go, go! … Get help from Beckett… Nalia… Don't Nalia! … Don't come back, too dangerous… Nalia!" He shuddered slightly, then muttered on, "Go, go, go!" She smiled slightly and eased herself into a chair, dragging it closer so she might catch more of his words.
So. He'd ordered his team to go home to Beckett. That much tracked with what the others had said. He'd met someone named Nalia. The little bits of information were tantalizing, inflaming her curiosity even more. Beckett came and went and John relaxed a little, slipping into quieter sleep.
"What the hell happened out there, John?" Elizabeth repeated.