"Come on, John. It's about time you woke up, yes? We're worried about you."

John groaned, disoriented and the voice that had pulled him from the grey fog suddenly sounded panicky. "Is he OK? Is he supposed to do that?"

"He'll be groggy for a few more minutes," another voice reassured. Jane. "Colonel, when you feel like it, do you think you could sit up for a little bit, let us know you're back?"

Back? The vision of his father standing in the den flashed through his memory and he struggled to sit up as Jane had asked. His arms were tangled in layers of fuzzy blankets, and he flailed to throw them off.

"Easy, Colonel. Just sit up. You don't need to pony up."

When he was upright, if slouched heavily against the back of the couch, he found Jane squatting next to him, her hand on his wrist. Dave was in the chair, a glass of juice in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. His expression was pure terror, and he was leaning forward, the cups forgotten.

"How's the head?" Jane asked, checking her watch as she felt his pulse.

"Splitting," he snapped, but he wasn't shuddering, and while the blanket of nausea and illness still felt heavy over him, he didn't feel suffocated. He looked down at himself and saw the sweatpants and t-shirt he'd gone to bed in.

"Jane says that's the second seizure today!" Dave said. "And it's only 6:30!" He looked completely freaked out.

"I'm concerned as well," Jane said, sounding serious. She let go of his wrist and stood, looking at him with such a thoughtful look that he felt like squirming.

"I feel better...now," he babbled, wanting everyone to stop looking at him. He really wanted to ask about Dad, to make them convince him it had been a dream or hallucination. Like the midnight fight with Dave, it had seemed so REAL. But another glance at Dave and he decided that asking crazy questions would only get him more scrutiny. And he just wanted to be still for a few minutes to regroup, gather his composure.

"Even still. I'm going to give your doctors a call, see what they think."

"Ok," John shrugged. He felt like a little kid.

"Do you think you could eat something? Your unit's infirmary did a good job of keeping your calories up despite nausea. We don't want to lose ground, here."

John's stomach lurched at the thought, but he knew the drill. "I'll try. Eggs? The blander the better," he suggested.

"I'll go ask Marc to make you something." Jane scurried out, leaving John with the freaked-out Dave. Dave just sat there, staring at him with a look of such scrutiny that John wanted to hide under the blankets. Or scream at him.

"John –" Dave began and John decided he didn't want to hear it.

"Look, if you want me gone, I'm gone. I know this isn't what you signed up for. You don't owe me anything. I can get the Air Force to find housing for me in Colorado." John jammed his hands under his armpits and looked away, hating how weak he felt and wondering how the hell he was going to make it back to the SGC without Conaway.

David's look went annoyed. "I was going to ask if you needed anything," he retorted, his voice forced.

"Oh."

David chuffed, rolled his eyes and his head, then abruptly lurched to his feet. "I said you're welcome here, John. I meant it." He walked jerkily to the door, then turned back, his expression closed, his tone disappointed. "I hope, eventually, you'll come to believe that." And he walked out.

Great. Now John felt like crap and an ass.

He wallowed in self-pity until Jane returned with a tray.

"That Marc guy is crazy good," she said, bustling at the coffee table, unaware of, or ignoring the thunderclouds over John's head. She picked up a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and a mug. "He's made you herbal tea from scratch that he says is a cure for nausea – cinnamon and ginger and something else. He also said the eggs have a little basil to help you keep them down and make them taste better without being too strong."

John took the cup when she handed it to him, holding it with both hands to keep from slopping. A few sips later, he had to admit his stomach did feel more settled. Jane swapped the cup for the plate and he managed several bites. They were damn good, and they didn't have that "eggy" smell that frequently made him gag.

When he leaned over to put the plate down, he stayed there, pressing his hands into his eyes until his vision sparked.

"Jane?" he asked at last.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"The seizures. I saw... Do you think...?" he trailed off frustrated.

"Do I think what?" Jane prompted at last and John opened his eyes to look at her. She was sitting stiffly in the opposite chair. She was giving him her full attention, but seemed distant somehow. Nurse Jane was back. John sighed.

"During the seizures I saw...things. Not just saw, I heard, did things."

"What kind of things?" Jane leaned forward, frowning slightly.

"Last night, I saw Dave yelling at me."

"You mentioned that last night," Jane said softly.

"And just now I saw...my father."

"Your father is?"

"Dead!" John snapped. "The last time I was here was a year ago for his wake."

"But he was alive in your dream?" Jane's voice continued to be soft, professional.

"He made me go to some meeting upstairs in Dad's office. Dave's office. Whatever." He was confused and starting to regret saying anything. It sounded stupid out loud.

"What's your question?" Jane asked simply.

John cocked his head. That was exactly what he needed her to ask – not "tell me about your father", not "poor baby", definitely not "it was probably nothing", just "what's your question".

He clasped his hands together. "Is that a common symptom of seizures? Visions or hallucinations, I mean." It was so much easier to ask in the abstract and his gratitude for Jane just kept going up.

She thought for a moment. "A seizure is like an electrical storm in the brain. Neurons fire off and go crazy for a bit, to be not particularly medically accurate. Some patients have described experiencing phantom feelings and scents, flashes of color, that sort of thing. Dreams are essentially the same thing in a healthy form – random neurons firing that the brain tries to make sense of from memory or imagination. I would say the visions you describe are within the scope of medical expectation."

"But why all the visions of Dad and Dave? Why not have dreams about...home?" He suddenly felt cheated. Even in his hallucinations he was trapped here.

Jane nodded, knowingly, as if reading his thoughts. "I think you just answered your own question."

"Huh?"

"You haven't been here in a long time."

"No."

"You aren't close with your family. The last time you were here was stressful."

"That's an understatement."

"You don't want to be here," Jane finished with the finality of truth. John just squirmed. Jane sat back, cupped her own mug between her hands like she was warming them. "So don't be surprised that what your banged-up subconscious is working on is related. Just give it time. Give it all time."

He groaned, and flopped onto the couch. He covered his eyes with his arm. "I'm sick to death of giving it time," he whispered.

Jane was quiet for so long that John turned his head to look at her. She was frozen in her chair, still in her pajamas, he realized, her hair sill mussed, though she'd twisted it into a tail at the back. Her eyes were distant, completely turned inward. At last she noticed him watching her and her expression went fierce.

"I understand," was all she said. And John was absolutely certain that she did.

Jane let the Colonel sleep on the sofa until lunch, then she bullied him back to his bedroom. As he continued to remain lethargic through the afternoon, she amped up her care to full maintenance. Which meant waking him for snacks, restroom breaks, and shoving as much liquid down his throat as he would drink. The fact that he let her intrude to such a degree worried her even more than his blood pressure, which spiked twice – each time after a mild seizure that he seemed not to notice or remember.

When her cell rang mid-afternoon, she was relieved. His doctors from Peterson were finally returning her request for a call. After the exchange of a spat of medical jargon, she found herself hanging up with a new prescription and an upped dose of one of those "unusual" meds. Because he had asked, she'd also mentioned the hallucinations that he was concerned about and the doctor's response had been stiff, coy almost. That was what had prompted the increased mystery medicine.

That afternoon, she had the presence of mind to check in with Marc the chef and Dave early, and they agreed to postpone the fancy dinner for another evening when John felt better. The delay was a relief for more than just her patient. Dinner with the Sheppard brothers sounded like more work than she got paid for. Imagining the hours of awkward small talk made her shudder.

She was just about to wake the Colonel for the high calorie meal she had requested when a hoarse shout blasted out of the monitor. When she skidded into the Colonel's bedroom, he was standing beside his bed, his fists clenched, his fresh t-shirt drenched in sweat again, his eyes wild and unseeing.

"Damn, you, I said I won't do it!" he growled so fiercely that Jane looked behind her, expecting someone else to be standing there.

"Colonel Sheppard?" she asked, keeping her voice calm and raising her palms towards him in a placating gesture. His body was poised for combat and her hand-to-hand was really rusty.

"Stay out of it, Jane," he barked, and she snapped her mouth shut, surprised. Before she could recover, he looked inward again and spat, "I won't fly your damn drugs for you. You and the whole family can go to hell. Dave, come with me. Please come with me."

He held out his hand, beckoning, seeing and responding to images only he could see. His shoulders began to shudder and she could see the pounding pulse at his throat. His chest was heaving with deep, gasping breaths. She had sudden visions of him collapsing from a blood pressure induced stroke.

"Colonel!" she called loudly. "You need to wake up. Snap out of it. Lie the hell down before you fall down."

He startled, dropped his hands slightly from where he'd raised them defensively and looked at her. Confusion flashed in his eyes. She stepped closer, desperate to keep his attention.

"John," she said quietly, using his first name in the hope he would respond with equal familiarity. "Why don't you lie back down?"

A fearful expression flashed over his face – as if he was afraid for her for some reason – then an instant of resolve flickered just before he grabbed for her, spun her around and threw his arm around her throat, pinning her in a hell of a choke hold.

"What the hell?" she spat and struggled, squirming in all the avoidance moves she'd been taught. He countered them all and she felt her vision grey a bit as he tightened his squeeze on her carotid artery. She had about 30 seconds before she'd pass out. Great, she thought, choked to death by a hallucinating patient. Didn't see that coming.

"Hold still," he whispered very softly, his lips brushing her ear, "I won't hurt you. Just play along. I'll get us both out." He shifted again and began backing out of the room slowly, dragging her along. "Just let us go and you can go back to doing your damn dirty work. I'm out of the family business. Permanently." The latter was apparently for the phantom assailants he was escaping.

Jane felt his heart thundering against her back that was pressed against his chest and sudden determination kicked in. She relaxed, waited until he'd pulled them almost to the doorframe. When he glanced over his shoulder to check the hallway, as she knew he would, she yanked and slammed her elbow into his side. It was like hitting a brick wall but his hold faltered enough for her to grab the arm that was around her throat and throw him over her shoulder. As he fell, she crouched with him and grabbed for his head.

He slammed into the floor on his back, his heels just missing the mattress, and her hands cradling his skull to keep it off the floor on impact. She'd gotten the spacing right. Any closer to the bed and he'd have hit it first and gone down on his head no matter how good a hold she had on him. Breathing hard herself, she crawled beside him, pinning his hands down, ready to shove a knee into his chest if she needed to immobilize him further.

But the fight seemed to have gone out. His eyes were screwed shut, and his lip was curled into a snarl of pain.

"What the hell is going on?" A voice from the door demanded. Crap. Jane couldn't get a break. David Sheppard flung himself into the room and crouched protectively over his brother, glaring daggers. "Did you just throw him to the floor?"

"He was hallucinating," she explained, angry at the situation and at herself for not finding a better solution. "He had me in a choke hold. I had to immobilize him, or I'd have been toast."

"Holy Christ!" David exclaimed, his shock now centered on his brother. "I heard John shouting and ran to check on him and then you just..." David stared at her in awe. "Are you OK?" he asked, genuine concern on his face. Jane gasped sighed in relief. He believed her.

"I'm Fine. Get a pillow. And some blankets. He's shocky again. I was able to protect his head, but I'm sure it still hurt like hell."

David did as told and she checked the Colonel's pulse rate and took his blood pressure (which was skyrocketing). Then, they sat on either side of him until he relaxed, then rubbed his eyes and groaned softly in a normal sort of way. Jane was still wary when he cracked open his eyes. They widened when he saw them hovering over him and his expression went nervous.

"Did I fall out of bed...again?" he asked, sounding like a scared kid.

David slumped, buried his face in his hands.

It took everything she had not to burst into nervous, adrenaline-fueled giggles.

"Let's get you off the floor, Colonel," she managed instead. He was able to roll to his knees and use her shoulder to push himself to his feet. She wrapped her arm around his waist to guide him to the bed. He held tightly to her shoulders and her side was warm again when she eased him down.

"Headache?" she asked.

"Splitting," he answered, rubbing his temple.

She touched his neck lightly, pleased that his pulse rate was returning to normal. He just watched her, looking pathetic.

"David, would you mind getting the Colonel's dinner and bringing it here. I'm sure he'd appreciate the company, too, if you haven't eaten yet."

"Of course!" David actually looked eager to comply, though the Colonel threw her a dirty look. She took his blood pressure again (it was dropping, thank God), then watched him rest and gather his composure.

"Feel better?" she asked when he'd stopped shaking and seemed fully alert.

"Yeah," he answered after thinking it over. "Nausea's fading, finally. First time all day."

She nodded, relieved. David returned with a tray of not two, but three plates. "Marc said you haven't eaten, either," David said by way of explanation.

"Thank you, I'll... I'll just take this to my room. Give you two some privacy," she stammered and snatched up the plate and bolted from the room.

She shut her door behind her and set the food down. Then she stumbled to the bed and finally let herself react. It stared with giggles, then full body shudders. She wouldn't say medical emergencies happened all the time, but they were at least part of the job description. She hadn't used her hand-to-hand training in a hostile situation since that mugging in downtown Baltimore last year (and the mugger had been more scared of her than she was of him when that ended). She'd certainly never had to shoulder-throw a patient before!

Holy fuck, she'd been scared.

But not of John, she realized. Somehow, though his hold had been secure and forceful, she believed what he'd said – that he was somehow trying to rescue her from whatever he'd been afraid of.

She'd been scared for him. That'd he hurt himself. That she had hurt him.

She finally became aware that the brothers were chatting idly over their meal and that David was telling John what had happened. She reached over to turn off the monitor to give them the privacy she'd promised, though the words had merely been an excuse to get out.

Just before she hit the button David's voice snorted with a deep, relieved belly laugh.

"God, John, you should have seen it. I was standing behind you, I couldn't really see her, and then you went flying – heels over head!"

The silence from the monitor was expressive and Jane hesitated, guiltily curious about how the Colonel would respond.

"She shoulder-threw me?"

"Yes, she said you had her around the neck and so she just threw you. Like a sack of potatoes." David laughed again. There was another pause.

"Did I hurt her?" This time the voice was strangled, fury directed inward. Jane blushed.

"No, no. She was more worried that she'd hurt you, I think."

Jane turned the monitor off and curled up against the headboard. As the adrenaline faded, only confusion was left behind, and the kind of exhaustion one only felt after a rush. They'd called it "The Crash" in the field.

She must have dozed off, because when she heard the light tap at her door, she startled and found her heart racing again as she scrambled for the knob. She flung it open to find John standing there, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, jersey sleep pants, his shoulders easy and his expression thoughtful.

"What's wrong? What can I do?" she blurted, still groggy and still flushed from the startle. John chewed his lip.

"Are you OK?" he said finally, his voice edgy, his eyes scared.

"What?" She felt completely flustered. And dammit, it didn't help that the elastic on his pants was slipping low, revealing the curve of his hip below his too-tight t-shirt. His hair was extremely spiky from a day in bed, and his cheeks were scruffy, but it suited him. The rugged look suited him extremely well.

He took his hands out of the pockets (thank god) and scrubbed the back of his hair with a nervous swipe. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm really sorry. Dave told me what happened."

"Oh." She finally got it and she relaxed a bit. "Oh. It's OK, really," she managed.

"It's not," he retorted firmly, then rolled his eyes in frustration. "All I remember is being scared and desperate to get out. To get you out, too. I had no idea I was really...grabbing you."

"I know that," she answered firmly and meant it. "It must have been some hell of a hallucination."

He shuddered, then just looked miserable. "But if they're getting worse. If I'm getting...dangerous..."

Jane stepped forward, gripped his forearm, hard. "You were hallucinating, but you were yourself. And I can tell that "yourself" would never hurt anyone you cared about, even in a hallucination. You're not a threat to me, Colonel. I can handle myself. My only worry is that you will hurt yourself, but that's why I'm here. I've got your back. I'm on your six."

His look went calculating and she could tell he was putting some things together. Things about her.

"I appreciate that," he said at last, a new look in his eye that sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't attraction exactly, it was trust. And that was almost worse. He nodded slightly to himself, then jerked a shoulder at the door to his room.

"I'm calling it a night," he murmured.

"Goodnight, Colonel," she said formally. He gave her a closed look.

"Call me John," he said and the words were almost a command. She just jerked her head in a nod to acknowledge, then stood frozen, watching him make his way back to his own door. Before he went in, he turned, his hands back in his pockets.

"Don't let me hurt anyone else, either," he said, just as firmly. "Especially Dave."

And then he was gone.

Jane listened to John manage himself through his nighttime meds and heard him settle himself down. Once he was snoring, she took a hot shower to try to wash out the persistent scent of him on her clothing, in her hair. She crawled into bed, exhausted. But sleep wouldn't come. Her mind kept drifting to the soft sounds of his breath over the monitor and her body tingled, remembering the brush of his lips against her ear.