John tucked his poles in and leaned forward, feeling the wind against his face sharpen into a bitter sting as his speed increased. Powdered snow whipped around his goggles and floated in a frosty rooster tail in his wake. God this is perfect, he thought squeezing out a last few feet of speed before the slope steepened and he was forced to begin zig-zagging again.
His lean torso floated over his skis, letting his thighs do all the work. More plumes of powder arced away from each turn. His skis left deep "S"s in the otherwise pristine snow behind him. This was most perfect snow he'd skied on since that vacation in Austria as a teenager. He couldn't figure out why no one else was up here. The lifts had emptied out the closer to the top he'd gotten and he hadn't seen anyone else since.
"Their loss," he whispered to himself, turning into a patch of moguls dug out by months of previous skiers. It was late in the season.
The next half hour was spent in fierce concentration as the run began to live up to its black diamond. When he hit an easier patch again, he dug in and twisted to a stop at the edge of the run beside a pretty overlook to catch his breath. The lodge twinkled warmly far below. He thought it looked rather like a power plant from up here, with all the wires from lifts and trolleys radiating outward in all directions into the mountains.
He was just re-situating his goggles and kicking back out onto the run when a screaming flash of hot pink blazed past. Literally screaming. The high-pitched wail Doppler shifted and kept on going.
"Oh crap!" John breathed and drove his poles into the snow to launch himself after the out of control skier. He'd been on this run yesterday. There was a wicked turn up ahead just below a 45 degree dropoff.
Pulling hard, he reached the steepest patch of slope he could find then tucked his poles to gain as much speed as fast as he could. The pink skier was still careening down the hill, knees locked forward and kicking up snow in straight line. Dead straight. Deadly straight if she didn't slow down and get herself under control before the dropoff launched her over the mountain. For a few pounding heartbeats he began to gain on the woman, but his footage was running out faster than his ideas about what he might do if he did catch up. He'd knock her down if he had to. They'd both probably end up with damage that way, but at least she wouldn't find herself wrapped around a tree.
"Slow down!" he shouted, inching closer, throwing more weight to the front of his skis. He was close to his own boundary for slowing in time to navigate the dip safely, but the woman was still too far away for a grab. She'd stopped screaming at least.
The edge of the drop was racing towards him, a heart-jolting emptiness beyond a rounded curve of snow.
"Ditch!" he yelled. "Take the fall!" He wasn't going to reach her. They were both going over.
The woman didn't or couldn't stop and she sailed over the drop, John only a few meters behind her.
John twisted and dug his edges into the powder, shoving an avalanche of spray ahead of him and over the lip of the drop. His skis scraped on a layer of ice under the powder and slipped out from under him, throwing him onto his hip to slide a few more feet further down the incline. He skidded to an abrupt halt on his butt, panting and staring in disbelief as the woman tucked her knees, threw out her poles and landed with a light bump and perfect form halfway down. At the bend, she pulled the fastest, hardest turn he'd ever seen and continued down the run.
Before she glided out of sight, she slowed and pumped her arms. The scream that drifted skyward was, this time, obviously a whoop of victory. John threw himself backwards into the snow feeling like a first-class fool.
"You OK up there?"
John scrambled upright, checking to make sure his skis hadn't unhooked during his abrupt braking, and bumbled around for his poles. When he floated (relatively) slowly down the incline and through the turn, he found the woman in the pink snowsuit waiting for him.
"You OK?" she repeated with a grin, sizing him up with a head to toe once-over. She looked perfectly calm, not even breathing hard. John was panting like an overheated mule.
"Yeah I was just- What the hell were you doing back there?!" he exploded suddenly, embarrassment still coloring his cheeks and his knees still a little weak. "That was way too fast to take that hill and turn!"
She narrowed her eyes at the outburst. They were a startlingly royal blue, John couldn't help but notice, gulping back his annoyance under her fierce scrutiny. Her dark, almost black, hair was glossy underneath the strap of her matching pink goggles.
"You new on the ski patrol?" she said finally, her tone sarcastic. He instantly had no doubt that she knew exactly who was and wasn't on the local ski patrol. Just like she knew that turn back there inside out, he realized.
"No," he stammered. "I was just… I thought you were…"
"Ah. I see. You're the heroic type." Her expression flicked to mocking admiration. "I'm very sorry not to have needed any rescuing. Maybe another day, tourist."
As she spoke, she began gliding backwards, away from him. She snapped her goggles over her eyes, executed a neat 180 and pulled on her poles a few strokes to get her speed back up. He was still staring when she zigged towards a bump and launched herself airborne again. She landed out of sight.
"Showoff," he muttered sulkily, but he got himself moving down the hill, hoping for another glimpse of her.
Whether by luck, or simply because they began to meet more people as the run merged with others towards the bottom of the mountain, the woman set a manageable, but exhilarating, pace and showed no further inclination to kill herself. John followed at a respectful distance for a while, watching her ski, learning her style and preferences.
Once he thought he had her figured out, he debated for a moment. His pride gave him a nudge or two - and then he began to move up. The first time he passed her was in a crowd that was crossing their path on a blue run. That was the first time she seemed to realize that he'd been keeping up, and he thoroughly enjoyed her frown.
She zipped by him in the next straightaway, and he let her go. The second time he got ahead was at the bottom of a wicked steep, but wide, slope that his weight and strength gave him a slight advantage. She had better technique, but he could pull it off for one short run. Again she passed him in the straightaway, this time cutting across his line in a fit of pique, then zoomed away.
He stayed tight on her tail after that, and felt his competitive juices flowing each time she glanced back to find him hustling in her wake.
The last klik was a vast wall of moguls that dumped out at the back door of the lodge. The end of the run was so close to the hotel, that John could see guests lounging on the deck. This side of the mountain was already in late afternoon shadows, and the wind blew cold against his exertion heated collar as he tipped his skis towards the first rippling mound.
He'd been waiting for this. He was better on moguls than she was. He'd watched her struggle through the last set and knew he had the edge. She went over just ahead of him. He planned a route that would take him around and let himself go. His chest floated over the snow with hardly any vertical movement. All the work was in the legs and hips – but it wasn't work if you set up your rhythm and simply concentrated on the shock absorber like motion of the skis against the ice.
A little chant sang through his head in time to his pumping legs, and soon – almost too soon – he was sliding on his heels, curving in a long arc to look back up the way he'd come. There was nothing quite like that moment at the bottom when, for an instant, you'd conquered an entire mountain and there was nothing but glory behind you.
When the woman in pink finished her run a minute behind him, (he was a lot faster than her on moguls) he was waiting with his skis on his shoulder, feeling very smug. She dug her edges in to stop, kicking snow onto his boots. He didn't twitch. She looked pissed.
"Not bad for a tourist," she said finally, then shoved off towards the lifts without a look back.
John grinned, feeling quite content. He took in the sky again and decided he'd had enough. He'd clean up, grab some dinner and check in with Prowl at the lodge's bar. All in all, the end to a perfect day. Another snowfall was expected overnight, making tomorrow's slopes look just as promising. There was only one thing that could possibly make his leave time any better…
He looked at the lifts where a splash of hot pink was swinging back up the mountain.
…And he really couldn't expect to get that perfect.
Teyla stood against an infirmary wall watching Ronon pace. The wing was otherwise empty, the expedition remarkably healthy and happy at the moment. Nurses and doctors that weren't working with John were happily busy at workstations, pursuing their own research and pastimes.
She rubbed her hands over her arms. She couldn't shake the sense of unease that had followed them from John's room to the infirmary. It felt like ozone in the air before a storm, or the prickle of warning before a predator pounces. And it felt like nothing at all – literally. The shock of finding John desperately ill had left her numb for the last ten minutes as they waited for some word from Marie.
"Were there any insects on the beach? Did John complain about any bites or stings?"
Teyla threw the question at Ronon as he paced past, forcing herself to think, to analyze, to help.
"No."
Ronon's answer was the snap of frustration. Teyla heard it, but chose to ignore the tone.
"Perhaps there was some contamination in your water source."
"We took all our own water. The biology team resupplied us on Wednesday."
"Then maybe John swallowed some seawater while you were swimming –."
"Teyla, he was fine. I'm fine. This happened here. Last night."
She fell silent. A sudden memory of John's happy, dirty face in the door of the jumper brought a sting to her eyes. The relaxation from a week of vacation had been utterly wiped away in a single moment at John's stricken side.
More agonizing minutes of waiting passed. Motion at the door of the infirmary drew her bleary gaze and she watched Mr. Woolsey walk in. If she was interpreting his jerky stride correctly, he looked frustrated. He took one swift look around, then headed directly towards her.
"Teyla! I received your message that Colonel Sheppard is ill?"
"Yes. He is in intensive care. Marie and her team are working to stabilize him."
"Stabilize? This is serious?" He looked completely taken aback.
Teyla understood Woolsey's surprise and shock. He took her pained silence as answer.
"What happened?" he asked, his tone transitioning from annoyance to concern.
"We found him in his room, unconscious and hypothermic. That is all we know."
"Hypothermic? How is that possible?"
"Let's find out," Ronon interrupted. Teyla turned to see him striding purposefully towards Marie who was just leaving the small room where critical patients were treated. The doctor approached them, and began speaking immediately.
"We have Colonel Sheppard in warming blankets to get his core temperature back up, and we have attached him to full life support so if it becomes necessary to intervene we'll be ready. For now, though, he's holding his own."
"Doctor, do you have any idea what has caused this?" Woolsey went straight to the point and Teyla understood as well as Marie that he was thinking about the rest of the expedition. If they were facing a communicable illness, or technological side-effect, he needed to know. Marie just shrugged. With Jennifer on leave, along with Rodney and several others from the expedition, Marie was placed in the unenviable head position. She seemed to be coping by staying professionally strict.
"We are running a complete set of scans and blood tests. There are no immediate indicators for the symptoms the Colonel is exhibiting. Since there were no external factors that could have led to him becoming chilled," Marie shot a glance at Teyla who confirmed the fact with a nod, "we are concentrating our scans on the hypothalamus and liver, the most likely suspects when the body is unable to maintain temperature."
Woolsey nodded slowly. "Is the Colonel able to answer questions? Perhaps we could learn more by speaking to him?"
Marie's shake of negation was sober, bordering on stern. "The Colonel is in a severe coma. It is possible, though, that he may begin to respond as he warms."
"Possible?!" Ronon challenged, not hearing the reassurance that was intended by the statement. Marie just met he gaze firmly.
"As we do not yet know the cause of either the hypothermia or the coma, it would be unfair to make more satisfying promises, Ronon."
Ronon glared back as if unable to decide whether to continue the argument. Teyla spoke up hastily, "I know you are using every skill and resource available to you, Marie and I thank you. What do you need us to do?"
"For now, we all wait. I will let you know immediately if there is any concern for the rest of Atlantis, or if we need anything else."
"Very well. May we see him?"
Marie nodded and Teyla moved towards the intensive care room. She heard Ronon following her softly, and Woolsey speaking his farewells along with repeated offers of help. Teyla smiled slightly. Woolsey could be as strict and unreadable as any bureaucrat she'd met since joining the Earthlings on Atlantis. But he seemed genuinely concerned with the welfare of his people, and especially with those he worked most closely with. Lately he had even been making more of an effort to spend recreation time with the expedition members.
Once inside the quiet and sterile intensive care room, the chill of unease returned in force as she took her first step towards John's bed. It was like walking into a mist of malice. John lay under an Ancient diagnostics scanner, stripped of his nightclothes and dressed instead in an unusual set of textured and gurgling blankets. One was shaped like a cap and fit snugly over his head, another was hung on his torso like a vest. Tubes of water, warm to her curious touch, fed into the blankets and snaked to a large machine pushed close to the bed. They were the source of the gurgling she'd heard. A light sheet covered him to the edge of his vest, hiding another water blanket around his calves and feet.
Ronon propped himself uneasily against the wall as she sat lightly on the edge of the bed, careful to stay out of the line of the scanner that seemed to be focusing its attention entirely on John's head. Lines of blue light flickered in intricate patterns on the waxen, smooth skin of his face.
"He doesn't look any better in here," Ronon complained from the wall.
"He's still cold," she agreed, feeling the stiffness of the hand she held. Another doctor was in the room, monitoring the scans and John's vitals.
"His temperature is back up a half degree, but it's important to go slow. Warming him too quickly can cause more problems than the cold."
She sat there for perhaps a half hour, holding his hand and trying to heat at least one patch of skin with her concern. John made a few quiet noises in his sleep as she watched, and he twitched slightly when a nurse drew yet more blood from his arm. When he began to shiver slightly, followed by more severe shuddering, she jumped up in alarm, looking around for Marie.
"That's good," Marie said once she was called to the room. "He's moving out of stage 3. His body is trying to warm itself again."
"Good?" Teyla repeated softly, unable to see the rigid tremors as a hopeful sign. John's brow had begun to furrow. He looked tense and uncomfortable, but Marie seemed pleased.
"He seems more responsive, too," she confirmed.
Ronon just chuffed and walked out of the room. Sadly, Teyla realized she should also go. She had duties to perform, or reschedule at least. She would take the hope Marie offered and try to embrace it.
"I will return soon," she told the doctors. She gave John one last touch on his bare forearm, then turned to leave. She was just passing through when a hoarse groan halted her steps.
"Sharon!" John called out, the word as clear as if he were speaking to someone across the room.
Teyla watched him for another long moment, but John relaxed immediately, returning to random minute moans of discomfort. She exchanged a look with Marie who only shrugged. Puzzling over the name, Teyla finally left, leaving the chill behind her.