A/N Thank you to all who have continued to follow Sheppard's tale. I think he will need the company and support in this chapter.......
As always comments welcomed and loved.....:D!
Chapter 11
".....into surgery to flush it out and realign the bones....."
"... lucky. Blood loss alone..."
"...Time will tell, but knowing him......."
"...hear us?..."
Snatches of conversation drifted down through the layers of drugs that weighed on him, the words lost in the haze. He felt like he was floating on the ocean, cushioned from the world outside, safe. He saw no reason to fight the pull of sleep and drifted back under.
His next foray into consciousness didn't even remotely resemble the first. Hands touched without permission, causing pain where there had been but a dull ache. Each new sensation added to the nausea churning in his stomach and with a particularly strong pain he lost his battle. The hands stopped what they were doing to roll him onto his side. Dry heaves sent more pain cascading through his broken body before oblivion reclaimed him.
Slowly awareness came to him, again. This time there were no hands and for that he was grateful. Remaining as still as possible, he tried to assess the seriousness of the damage he had caused himself. His right arm was immobilized in a cast and strapped to his chest, a muted ache telling him that moving either arm or shoulder would result in a world of hurt. He could feel the tight binding of a brace wrapped from ankle to mid thigh encasing his left leg, the itching beneath it beginning to register in the catalogue of signals his brain was receiving.
Then it truly hit him. He was alone. His own thoughts echoed around his head, sending a wave of relief through him.
He had survived. She was dead.
But she was not the only casualty of this battle. His breathing became ragged as he thought of who had not made it through this ordeal. He had watched as the light faded from terror filled blue eyes as his friend died by his hand.
Why had he survived but not Rodney?
His monitors began beeping, a strident noise adding to the rushing in his ears. Grey encroached on the corners of his vision as footsteps rushed towards him.
Hands once again touched without permission. Placing an oxygen mask over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. Nausea reared it's ugly head again as the guilt weighed heavy on his heart. The hands helped him, rolled him, held him as he vomited, and replaced the mask as the cramping subsided.
"Relax, John, you need to let us help you," a Scottish brogue instructed.
Why would anyone help him? He'd killed his friend. He wanted to scream at them, yell at them to leave then curl up in a ball and let the world, the universe, disappear.
Beckett was still talking but his words were lost on the man laid on the bed before him as sleep once again claimed John Sheppard.
It had always taken a lot of sedation to knock the colonel out and keep him under for any given time. Carson was loathe to keep administering that amount of narcotics so was gently weaning Sheppard off of them. The pain medication would stay for a while but at lower doses. He hoped withdrawing the drugs would finally bring his friend out of his stupor.
John noticed the lack of haze the next time he awoke. His mind finally feeling clear for the first time in months. The only problem was the clarity left him with the ability to keep reliving moments he would rather forget. He wished he could live in that moment of waking, the one before he remembered what had happened, for the rest of his life. That moment when everything was normal. The moment before reality came crashing down upon him.
The nurses came and turned him every two hours through the night to maintain his skin integrity and try to allow him some comfort. This was fine until he had to move again. Why they couldn't turn him back before he woke was beyond him, but then the pain served as a punishment for what he had done. Taking as deep a breath as his healing ribs would allow, he turned from his side onto his back with a grunt. Staring at the ceiling, he licked his dry lips and tried to breathe away the nausea and attempted to keep his mind blank.
His stomach would clench with anguish every time his guilt dragged him back to the moment on a roof top billions of miles away. Remembering with crystal clear images the last moments of Rodney McKay's life. The machine beeping across the room a mockery of the fading pulse he could still feel ebbing beneath his fingers.
Beep...beep...beep.
Closing his eyes he tried to block everything out again. He'd almost succeeded when a cough beside him brought him back. A nurse, Rose if he recalled rightly, began his morning check up. Checking his vitals and making sure he was comfortable, noting down her observations on his chart.
Her happy, friendly, nature only added to the pit of despair within him. No matter what she said or did he refused to engage with her, turning away from her as he was trying to turn away from the rest of the world. He only turned back to staring at the ceiling once she had left, wishing the incessant beeping would cease and leave him in peace.
Beep...beep...beep.
No sooner had he thought it than he felt a twist of guilt. He didn't wish the person dead just the machine to quit its annoying monotone. Raising his head up enough to see the person lying on the bed across the infirmary he tried to see who it was. His effort was in vain as the motionless figure was partially obscured by a screen. Poor guy, he thought, judging by the machines, he was in a bad way.
Sheppard let his head fall back to the pillow, grimacing at a twinge from his shoulder. Across the way a distressed choking cough was heard. The infirmary erupted into what seemed like chaos to the untrained eye but each person knew their role as they hurried to aid the person behind the screen. The beeping of the machines picked up the pace.
"It's okay, Rodney, just relax. Relax. You're okay."
The coughing died down and the machines settled back into their rhythmic tone.
John felt his heart quicken. He levered himself up, threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Already breathing heavily and sweating profusely, he took a moment to steady himself. He pulled off the cables from his monitors making them scream until a nurse silenced them. He grabbed his IV stand for support and slid from the bed, ignoring the nurse and her attempts to keep him in his bed. The pain that shot up his leg almost had him sitting again but the need to see if he had heard right gave him the incentive to continue on his course. Limping as fast as he could without sprawling flat on his face, he made his way across the room.
He made it half way before his vision swam and the floor beneath his feet seemed to lurch. Great strong arms encircled his chest preventing his descent to the tiled floor.
"Idiot." Ronon said in his usual gruff tone. He started to help Sheppard back to his bed until John began to struggle.
"No...no...I need..." He twisted weakly in Ronon's arms, but the Satedan seemed to know what John was asking for.
He helped him cross the room, John leaning heavily on Ronon for support lest he collapse. Beckett was disposing of the intubation tube he had just removed from the mans throat, he turned to John and smiled.
John looked upon, a very alive if somewhat battered, Rodney McKay and tried to comprehend.
John had seen better pallor on corpses. McKay, although breathing, looked like he had one foot in the grave already. Sheppard couldn't tear his eyes from Rodney's chest. Each breath seemed to defy what Sheppard took as fact.
Ronon helped him onto a chair, making sure he was steady before backing off and giving the colonel the space he always craved.
"How?" He finally managed to ask.
"The Graiden." Ronon replied. "When you...jumped, the connection broke, they helped him."
John stared in disbelief.
"He's stubborn." Ronon said, a small smile on his face.
"Yeah. He is." John replied, still stunned.
He saw the dressing that covered the wound that should have been his friends death, his own stomach churning at the guilt he still felt.
Teyla stepped forward, flashing a warm smile at John, clearly pleased to see him awake, hoping that her friend would now throw off the feelings of despair that she knew weighed down his heart.
He was aware of someone speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder that squeezed offering him warmth, comfort. He could hear words telling him he was not responsible, not to blame himself, no one blames him and other platitude's that didn't ring true in his mind.
Sheppard remained at Rodney's bedside long enough for his eyes to see the damage he had caused, long enough to know he was a danger to his friends, a liability. Shrugging the hand from his shoulder he pushed himself back to his feet. Gritting his teeth to the pain, he slowly unsteadily turned and with the aid of his IV stand made his way back across the room.
Breathing fast and trying to shake off dizziness that threatened to floor him, he finally made it to his bed, ignoring the voices that called his name. Even though he knew she was gone, he imagined Carsa's evil cackle within his head, mocking him.
Beckett was there, trying to get him back into bed, asking worried questions regarding how he felt. John pushed him away, looking everywhere for his clothes, then deciding it didn't matter, the scrubs he was wearing would do. The walls were closing in on him, the claustrophobia breaking a cold sweat and spreading goosebumps over his body. His hearing was dulled and his vision blurred. An indescribable urge to run came over him, ripping the IV from his arm he didn't even notice the spray of blood as the needle bent coming out. With legs threatening to buckle he stepped away from the bed and managing to stay upright, pushed passed Beckett then headed out of the infirmary before staggering down the corridor outside.
Ronon went to follow, only to be stopped at the door by Beckett's arm on his. Turning, he glared his annoyance at the Scot. He didn't like it but he knew the doctor was right. Knowing what John Sheppard had been through over the last few months, perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to let him be for a while. Beckett only hoped that he did not cause himself any more damage during that time, it had taken a lot of work to put him back together again, but that was not to say he would stay together. Better that John was allowed to cool down and come back, he decided.
"Follow and keep an eye on him. Give him space, and help when the fool finally realises he should not out of bed." He said, sighing as the Satedan ran after the escapee.
Ronon knew where he would be heading. Where he always went when he needed time to think.
When he fled the infirmary he had no destination in mind. He only knew he had to get out, get as far away from there as possible. As far away from everything as he could. His leg had gone from a muted roar to a full on inferno of pain, each step a new torture. He made it to the transporter and crashed into the back wall.
His shoulder popped painfully on impact almost bringing him to his knees. He waited for his vision to clear before he pressed the control panel and felt the familiar tug as he was moved from one side of the city to the other almost instantaneously. As the door opened he pushed his tired, abused, body away from the wall and began his ungainly walk down the deserted corridor. Each step left him on the verge of blacking out and the warmth he felt spreading down his leg could not be anything good.
He didn't know when the tears started to fall, or even why, but he let them fall unchecked as he made his way slowly to where his feet were taking him. The door swooshed and the cold night air sliced right to the very marrow of his bones. Limping to a spot he could curl up on, he sat and tried to come to terms with all that tormented him.
The sound of the sea had always had a calming effect on him, washing away worries that troubled him. But today the sound had no effect at all, his misery remained like a raging storm. He sat there for a long time, thoughts and images running through his mind as he replayed the last few months, trying to find some peace within, some way to move beyond what had happened.
Huddling against the balcony shivering in his scrubs, his good arm hugged his chest. He rocked back and forth in time to the waves crashing against the pier below him, lost in his own little world.
Ronon stood for a while in the doorway, watching John. It pained him to see the man before him suffering so much. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he supposed it did not matter so long as he was there.
The Satedan approached him slowly not wanting to startle the poor man, placed a blanket over John's shuddering frame then sat down beside him, offering his body heat and his support.
"When I was a runner, I did what I needed to survive. Some of the things I did, I still see when I close my eyes, that is my punishment. But you have no need to punish yourself. Unlike me, your actions were not your own." Ronon said in a gentle low voice.
John remained silent, but his rocking slowed.
"No one blames you and I am sure McKay wont either."
The words rang true to some deep sense within the colonel. Turning his head he finally looked at the warrior beside him and saw no trace of hatred on the mans face only concern and compassion.
"Let's get you back before Beckett works himself into an early grave and takes me with him." The Satedan said with a smirk.
At a weak nod from Sheppard, Ronon was on his feet and offering a hand to pull John to his feet. With a rush of movement John found himself upright with his head leaning against the Satedan's chest as the world spun around him. He did not care how weak he appeared, he knew he would not make it back to the infirmary on is own. Ronon's strong arms held him steady as he fought through wave after wave of dizziness that made his stomach heave.
Even before he took one step, he knew he was going to pass out, thankful that Ronon was there to help him. To catch him when he falls
TBC........
