Anamorphosis

Disclaimer: This is a fan production. I have no association with any of the folks or companies involved in producing 'Stargate: Atlantis' and I am making no profit off this bit of scribbling. I do, however, admire their work.

Writer's note: For drama's sake, I'm going to move through this a lot faster than I really should – I'm going to cram months and months of emotional evolution into what will amount to only a couple weeks. That's a result of the flurry in which this story was written, and a lack of patience for long-term drama. Please forgive the obvious indulgence.

Anamorphosis

Part two

His team did not come to see him. This was not entirely unusual. They didn't have the same close relationship some of the other gate teams shared. They were all good guys, of course. Lorne would swear by any one of them. But they didn't spend their spare time braiding each other's hair, either.

Still, he would have expected somebody to drop by with a report. Yuri was always by the damn book, at least. He usually liked to report in to his team leader at the soonest possible moment.

Instead, Lorne found himself alone and with a great deal of time to think. By the next morning, he had worked himself into a black, black mood.

He couldn't remember anything. There was a great big gap in his memory that was taking on a life of its own. The longer he failed to remember anything, the worse his imaginings became. He couldn't even associate any particular ache in his body with what must have happened. He hurt all over, but he hurt all over whenever he took a beating.

Had he struggled? He remembered snapping at the nurse when he woke up, like he was going to bite her. He hadn't felt afraid, but he had never reacted like that before. Had he been fighting?

There were no bruises on his hands or wrists.

That was not a valid indicator of anything.

Besides, he'd been drugged. Beckett had said so.

Had he just lain there?

Had he...?

How could he not know?

He needed to stop thinking about this. It was a sucking black hole. If he went down that route, he really would freak out.

Jesus Christ, what if they had given him something? What did they have in the Pegasus galaxy? He didn't even know. This was...this was...

Too much.

Lorne flipped the blanket off and dropped his feet to the floor. His feet were still bare, he noted clinically. He had probably lost his damn shoes. The bastards had his shoes.

When he stood, the blood dropped out of his brain in a sudden whoosh and he swayed unsteadily. His hand found the wall and he waited for the spell to pass. He had been lying down too long. And the drugs. The drugs were still clearing his system.

When he had found the ground again, Lorne took a deep breath and pulled the curtain back.

The night staff had been quiet, leaving him to a broken, restless sleep with little interference. The day staff was a lot less accommodating.

"Major Lorne!" A young nurse snapped the folder she was perusing closed and rushed over. "You should be resting, sir. If you need anything, just let us know and we'll fetch it for you."

"Ah," Lorne deflected, and told himself she wasn't slathering him in sympathy – she was just doing her job. "No. I just thought I'd head back to my quarters now. You don't need anything more from me, do you?"

The nurse fluttered. "Dr. Beckett hasn't discharged you yet. He'll be here in a couple hours. Why don't you just lie back down...?" She cupped her hand solicitously around his elbow and Lorne's skin crawled. Not because he didn't like the touch – well, he didn't like the touch – but because her tone was all wrong.

Lorne was a good looking guy. He was polite, and confident, and he knew how to look a woman in the eye. Women smiled at him. They glanced up at him under their lashes and turned their bodies towards him when they talked to him.

The nurse was staring at his shoulder and her cheeks were flushed.

Lorne jerked his elbow away from her. "No," he said, a little too forcefully. "I'm going to my room. If Dr. Beckett needs me, he can find me there."

"Ah," The nurse fluttered after him even more frantically, but Lorne lengthened his stride and high-tailed it out of there before she could come up with some asinine reason for him to stay. It wasn't until he was in the corridor that he realized he was still in the hospital gown and bare feet. He'd forgotten to ask her for clothes.

Awesome.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone had wandered through the halls in the near buff.

Lorne squared his shoulders and put one foot in front of the other.

Two corridors and one transporter later, he decided whoever put the infirmary square on the other side of the compound from the personal quarters was an idiot. How was a person supposed to make a dignified escape if he had to tromp all over creation in a glorified nightgown to do it? Sheppard, surely, had put some thought into this issue. The man was always escaping from the infirmary. He was a regular Houdini. Lorne had never seen him walking through the corridors in his bare feet.

Sheppard must be keeping secrets.

The problem wasn't the walk. The last of the heavy, dulling fog had cleared from his head as he walked. The problem was everybody he crossed paths with kept looking at him.

It wasn't...they didn't know anything, obviously. Beckett was downright honourable when it came to things like doctor-patient confidentiality. And Lorne was wearing something that could barely be considered clothes. But...

Dr. Greenhorn nearly dropped his papers when the door to the transporter opened and Lorne stepped into the man's path. Dr. Michelson definitely dropped her eyes. And a couple of the marines actually stood at attention when he passed, which was downright weird given the loose standards of Atlantis and his total lack of uniform.

Lorne was feeling paranoid.

Sheppard was waiting at his door when Lorne rounded the corner. Lorne rolled his eyes heavenward. It wasn't paranoia if they were actually out to get you.

"Major."

"Lieutenant Colonel." Lorne returned in kind.

And Lorne hadn't thought it possible, but the man's spine curved even more insolently at the formality.

"Beckett radioed," Sheppard said when Lorne didn't give him an easy out. "Said you were on the lam."

Lorne waited to see if he would say anything further. Sheppard tried to stuff his hands in his pockets, then realized he didn't have any.

"How very considerate of him." This was some kind of evil revenge, for the number of times Lorne had been sent after Sheppard. Lorne just knew it.

Sheppard seemed to read what Lorne was thinking loud and clear. "Um, well, is everything okay?"

"Just hunky-dory, sir." Lorne said with false cheer, and wished-wished-wished Sheppard would move.

"Okay then. Well. You're off duty for the next two days."

"That won't be necessary, Sir. I'm fine." Lorne really did feel fine. He could be back on duty within the hour, if Sheppard asked.

Instead, Sheppard got this sour, cornered look on his face. It was a look Lorne had never seen the man wear before. "Take your damn time, Major. It's rare enough as it is. Come see me in two days and we'll talk about duty-time then."

"If you say so, sir."

"I do." Sheppard stared at him, and Lorne had no idea what the man was waiting for. Was Lorne supposed to pull a rabbit out of his ass, or start spouting sonnets, or what?

"Well, then," Sheppard said a little helplessly, when Lorne didn't do any of that. "I'll just...let you get back to what you were doing. Glad to see you up and about, Major." And with an odd little abortion of a wave Sheppard hustled down the hall like the place was on fire.

Paranoia, Lorne told his room when the door whooshed shut behind him. He was totally imagining things.

Then he slept like the dead for a solid thirteen hours.