Title: Aftershocks
Summary: There is no way, in my world, that John Sheppard suffered no repercussions in Remnants.
Spoilers through same.
Rated PG, one swear.
Disclaimer. If I had anything to do with the show, it wouldn't have been canceled.
You torture yourself every day, John…
It was only as the jumper's autopilot kicked on and the craft lined up with the gate that John realized he had used only his right hand for the whole flight. The left was still curled and resting on his thigh.
The DHD dialed and the wormhole whooshed into place. And still he stared at his left hand. Pale. Fine, dark hairs sprinkled over knuckles notched with small scars. He felt an ache, like he hadn't used the hand in years as he opened it, turned it over in his lap. Calluses covered each fingerpad and roughened the palm. The tips were from years of rock climbing. That one was from gripping the reins of his horse. That one from the trigger of his Glock and one immediately below it from the P-90. He was a righty but a good soldier can use both hands. You never know when you might lose the use of one in combat…
"Colonel?"
He started, looked up and over to the empty co-pilot seat.
"Colonel?" The voice was timid, quavered. And was from behind him.
He turned in his seat, saw the two botanists staring at him. Kiang was studying him, like he was some goddamned alien begonia.
John's eyes narrowed under her scrutiny. Her buddy, Parrish, flinched and averted his gaze. She lowered her eyes but not before John saw something. If he'd been in a more forgiving mood he'd have said worry, but all he saw was pity.
Rattling off his IDC in a monotone, the jumper lurched forward at his thought before Chuck had time to respond that the shield had been lowered.
He took his time, leaving the jumper. His heart was still hammering in his chest, his tac vest felt too tight and the metallic bite of adrenalin lingered on his tongue. The fear had been real even if what had happened wasn't. And the anger that seethed though his blood and flushed his skin was real.
Not at Kolya, or the alien creature that had warped his mind with hallucinations so vivid his wrist still ached. At himself. For falling for it all. Carson had declared Kolya dead. Dead and gone and never coming back. Only… sometimes they do come back. Carson… Elizabeth. So he was right to allow himself the belief. What had the alien said? You were the architect of your own deception. You chose my form. He had ultimately been responsible for everything that had happened.
I tortured myself?
You torture yourself every day, John. You were the architect… you controlled… you…
"--You--"
He winced at the voice. Peeled his eyes away from the hand he'd once again been staring at and looked up to see Chuck standing at the mouth of the open jumper hatch. "What?"
"I asked if you were coming out, Colonel?"
He rubbed his hand on his BDUs, made a point of smiling at the bewildered gate tech. "Yeah, thanks, Chuck."
"You okay, sir?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
But he waited until the gate tech had left before rising shakily from his seat. His knees buckled as he stood and he lurched forward, banged his chest into the co-pilot seat. Well, that answered one question. Apparently, he really had made that bone-jarring fall off the cliff, and wouldn't that have been something fun to have caught on video. His ribs shouted at the impact and stars filled his vision.
When it cleared a few seconds later he closed his eyes and took a deep, painful breath at the realization. No doubt about it now, John. You are officially a mess. He could have braced himself but his left hand still hung useless at his side.
By the time he'd made it to the infirmary for his check-in his heart rate had finally slowed from hummingbird to nearly human. A cold sweat coated his body and prickled at the collar of his shirt, pooled at the top of his BDUs and made vees of darker black on his tee at his pits and where his vest pressed against his sternum.
Medics came over, ushered the two scientists over to gurneys and pointed John towards a third. He sat down and began working on the vest zipper, swearing and muttering to himself as the pull tab stuck partway down. After a particularly colorful and inspired choice of words he heard a little gasp and looked up in time to see Kiang talking- no, whispering- to the nurse doing her exam. The nurse gave him a head to toe scan then nodded and disappeared behind a screen.
Unsurprisingly, Keller soon emerged, bright and smiling, stethoscope in hand and headed right for him.
"Problems, Colonel?" she asked with raised eyebrows.
He gestured with disgust at the vest zipper. "Damn thing's stuck."
Her brows rose even higher as she reached out and picked up the pull-tab in one hand and gripped the bottom of the vest with the other. With only the slightest of hesitations the tab ran down its metal rails and popped open at the bottom. "Huh. I think it just needed a little tension is all. Two hands," she added as she helped him off with the vest and tossed it on a stool.
He didn't bother holding back the wince as his ribs were stretched. Pain meds were sounding better by the minute and he knew well she'd figure it out before long. With no desire to prolong the exam any longer than he had to, he figured confession would be the better part of expediency.
"I thought this was a field trip? You know… plants and pretty botanists," Keller said quietly but with a smirk. "What happened?"
"I uh, fell."
Keller prompted him with a look and he sighed. "Fell off a cliff. Not off a cliff so much as over-- I technically went over but never landed."
"Oookay. Well, let's see what 'over but not off' looks like," she observed while she helped him slowly peel the tee shirt up and off. Her fingers skated through the slick of perspiration and palpated gently before finding the sore spot. His gasp made her pull back quickly.
"So, scanner it is," she noted dryly. "Anything else I should be looking for while you're under there? You hurt your hand?"
He blinked, surprised by her question, then looked dumbly at where his hand still lay clawed and useless on his thigh. "What?"
"Your hand," she repeated. "You haven't moved it once since you got here." She picked up his hand gently, giving him a sharp, appraising look when he flinched and pulled away.
Slowly, as if not wanting to spook a wild animal, Keller eased his hand back into hers and rotated it slowly and carefully. "No bruising, no swelling… what's wrong with it?"
"Nothing." He almost laughed. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his hand. It had all been in his head. So why could he feel the raw ache in his wrist? Why was fresh sweat beading on his forehead and his breathing getting harsher? Each intake bellowed his chest and the pain made him gasp but his breathing only quickened.
His vision tunneled in on his hand still cradled gently in Keller's. He forced himself to clench a fist, to dig his nails in his palm and whiten his knuckles. His hand was real. This was all real now. There was nothing wrong. If he could feel the cramp in his bones, the pull of the tendons, the ache in his joints. If he could feel his nails furrowing crescents in his palm. If he could grab on to reality and hold it there as he held his fist tight.
He began to shiver, felt a rivulet of sweat trickle a path down his back. His vision began graying and he squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of dizziness.
What followed was a blur. Keller shouted for help; he allowed himself to be pushed back onto the gurney. Felt his legs being raised, then hands at his belt, at his boots. Keller demanded an ABG, barked out words like shock and hypothermic. Then diaphoretic and acidosis. He was freezing, his body shuddering with bone wracking chills. An oxygen mask was clamped over his mouth, then there was a deep, fiery flare of agony as something sharp pierced his wrist.
A warm blanket was laid over him finally and he allowed himself to slip away.
He awoke to the sound of voices talking quietly, too softly to make out what was being said or who was speaking. A second blanket had been layered over the other and weighed heavily on him.
He pushed the covers down and shivered as the air brushed over flesh still moist with sweat. His hand shook as he swiped at the hair glued to his forehead and wiped away the sheen on his face. He felt damp, itchy. The sheet was wrinkled underneath him and the damp fabric of his gown stuck to his chest.
A cannula rubbed under his nose and the normal tubing and monitoring equipment scattered at various points on his body tugged and ached and just generally pissed him off. So much for there being nothing wrong with him.
He cleared his throat and shifted to find a dry place in the narrow bed without success. His maneuvering must have alerted the staff to his rousing because the curtain was pulled back and Keller stood there, smiling and bright as always.
"How are you feeling, Colonel?" she asked as she moved closer and tugged his blankets back into place.
"Warm," was the first word that popped into his head. Then he shivered and added, "or not."
Keller smiled and tucked the blanket in tighter.
"I'd imagine you're feeling a bit soggy right now; I'll have a nurse come in and change the sheets and get you something dry to wear."
"I… I don't understand. What happened?"
Keller stopped fussing with the blankets and snagged a nearby stool to sit on. "Shock."
"What? From what? None of it--" He stopped himself from finishing. None of it was real. "From what?"
Keller cocked her head, gave him a long appraising look. "I don't know," she finally replied. "Was thinking you might tell me."
"I don't…" There was nothing wrong. None of it was real. "Am I hurt?"
"You have two cracked ribs from your fall over but not off the cliff," she said with a slow nod. "But nothing else showed up on the scanners. I'm thinking it was a response to something traumatic in a different way…"
He could tell she was leading him, wanted to know. But there was nothing to tell. He'd had a play put on for him; a one-man show. He was star and singular audience to it.
The covers were quickly shoved back down and he struggled to sit up, to be rid of the pool of cold sweat and wrinkled sheets.
"What are you saying? I - I had like a panic attack?"
Keller shook her head firmly, folded her arms decisively. "Nope. Make no mistake about it, John, you were in real shock. You passed first base and were well onto second, the compensatory stage. You were diaphoretic, acidotic--"
"Pretend I don't know what you're talking about, doc."
She stopped, smiled briefly in apology. "Cold sweats, hyperventilating. A build up of lactic and pyruvic acid in your body as if the result of blood loss--"
His wince made her pause but she continued gamely on with her explanation. "Breathing faster helps rid your systems of CO2; it's the body's way of trying to bring the acidity down." She gestured at the IV. "We pumped you up with fluids and gave you oxygen, and everything righted itself. You're…" She smiled and shrugged. "For lack of a better word, you're 'fine' now. Probably feeling like a worn out dishrag but aside from being sore, you should be okay to get out of here in the morning."
He collapsed back into the damp sheets, pulled the blankets up and tried to process everything. "How? … Why?" Was all he could manage.
Keller stood and wrapped up her stethoscope. Made one final pass of her hand over the cotton blanket and patted his shoulder. "While I have no idea what happened to you on the planet, I will say this. The mind and body are inextricably connected. Biofeedback isn't just junk science you read about in magazines. If the mind perceives a threat to the body, the body reacts accordingly.
Now, I'll ask a nurse --"
"Harrison."
"I'll ask Lt Harrison to come in and get you comfortable. And yes, that can mean tube-free and scrubs," she continued as he barely got his mouth open. "Rest," she added firmly. "Stay the night and let me keep an eye on you and you'll probably be out in time for breakfast. Sound like a plan?"
"Yes, ma'am," he muttered grumpily.
"Good. You, um, have a visitor, if you're feeling up to it. I think he may have some of the answers you're looking for."
Mystified by the pronouncement he just nodded mutely at her.
A minute later Richard Woolsey stood at the curtain opening.
"Colonel, I, um…" Woolsey took a hesitant step into the cubicle and wavered in place, his hands wringing together. Then he appeared to gather himself and stood straighter. "I know what happened, on the planet."
John's eyebrows rose and he squirmed uncomfortably in his bed.
"Not!" The bureaucrat added with quickly raised hands, "not exactly what happened… but I do have some idea of whom you met. Down there. Actually, not whom but uh… what I'm trying to say is that I too was visited, I guess you would call it. And Vanessa -- my visitor - told me that you had met one of her… one of their…"
John nodded tiredly. "Yeah. Vanessa, huh? What was she like?"
Woolsey blushed, and his hands tugged at his uniform top. "Brunette. British. Beautiful. I'm assuming yours-"
"Wasn't," John affirmed with a sigh. You were the architect of your own deception. You chose my form. "Was she… someone to you? I mean, aside from the uh, visage they chose?"
The older man's blush grew deeper and he looked away. For the first time, John wondered if he wasn't the only one still feeling the effects of his hallucination.
"She was not," Woolsey replied softly. "Although it felt as if I had known her… which, I suppose, was the point. As if a man like me could ever hope to have a woman like that interested … I… I should have known from the start that it was an illusion."
John found himself in the odd position of doing the reassuring. "Look… Richard. Trust me when I say that there was nothing - there was no way you could've known." Sometimes they come back…
"Yes, well, be that as it may, the AIs served their purposes. I am committed to returning the seeding mechanism to an appropriate planet, where, despite the unfortunately grievous harm you suffered, I… I hope she, that is to say, they, succeed in their mission."
"No grievous harm," John sighed. "Just a few cracked ribs and a night in the infirmary." He balled his left hand into a fist and felt a phantom ache as he rolled his wrist.
"If it is any consolation… John. Vanessa- after she… revealed herself to me, and told me that you had been … I believe distracted was the word she used, she knew that it had been… less than pleasant for you. And she expressed great remorse."
You torture yourself every day, John.
"I… let's just say that I understand why they did what they did. They did what they had to to survive. I can… I can sympathize, with that," John said, holding the older man's gaze. "I'm glad this time you were able to make the choice you did, to give the Sakari a chance to start over."
Woolsey nodded in acceptance. "Me too. Well, I'll let you get some rest. Dr McKay is prepping the seed carrier for transport in the morning. I hope you can join us."
"I'll be there," John replied, snuggling down deeper into the blankets.
"Hm. Um… John? If I may be so bold as to ask?"
Peeling open one eye, John grunted out a, "Yeah?"
"What are you going to put in your report? I mean, your mission report, for… the mission, earlier."
John froze, having forgotten about that part. It'd all been in his head, where he kept most things. With a snort he pushed his face deeper in his pillow. "That they found some rare begonia or something." He waited, wondering if he'd be ordered to do what he didn't want to face yet. "Why? What are you gonna write for your daily report?"
"Hm. I'm thinking something along the lines of first contact with a new species."
John nodded. "Sounds good."
"A begonia, you say. I'm sure that'll make some fascinating reading. Sleep well, Colonel."
"You too, sir. Thank you. Guess I'll see you in the morning. Can't wait to meet Vanessa."