Chapter 26

John jerked awake, the dark, unfamiliar ceiling jumpstarting his heart rate into a frenzy. He tried to sit up but his body gave one all-consuming shudder then lay immobile. Pain wracked through him, and he reacted instinctively with a hoarse, broken cry.

"Sheppard?"

He heard the groggy voice near his head but couldn't quite place it. He turned his head—or tried to—but to no avail. He whimpered again, more out of helplessness than anything else.

"Carson, get over here," the voice was saying and he finally connected it to a face—Rodney. He felt a cool hand wrap around his wrist and he forced open eyelids that had slid shut.

"What is it? I thought you were finally getting some rest."

"Sheppard's awake."

Rodney moved, leaving behind him the cold imprint of his fingers on his arm. John's eyes had drifted closed again, and he blinked at the sound of people moving around him.

"John?"

Carson's face appeared above him, and the dark ceiling looked a little brighter than it had. John watched it blur in and out of focus for a moment before he closed his eyes. Nausea stirred in his stomach, the pressure of it haunting the bottom of his throat. He gulped, swallowing back the sensation.

"Breathe, John, as deeply as you can. We can't have you getting sick right now."

A soft flow of cool air brushed the skin around his lips, and breathing became easier. His chest relaxed and his twisting stomach settled. He risked opening his eyes again, and Carson smiled down at him, patting him on the shoulder.

"There you go."

The words floated nonsensically around him, and John struggled to make sense of what was going on. He remembered Sateda, Ronon and Melena, Kell, the Wraith. They'd run through the city's underground tunnels and emerged somewhere far north, only to turn back and see the capital in flames.

"Where…?" he breathed out.

"We're in a jumper, over Sateda," Carson answered.

"Wha…"

"The Wraith are blocking the gate. They keep dialing it before we get a chance to," Rodney's voice sounded near his feet. John looked down to see the physicist standing at the rear of the jumper, his face haggard with exhaustion. "We can't get through yet, so you need to just…you have to hang on."

"How long…since…in jumper?" John croaked out, noticing for the first time the oxygen mask strapped to his face.

"How long have we been in the jumper?" At John's nod, Carson glanced at his watch. "Almost a day and a half now. You've been unconscious for most of that."

John glanced around, the muscles in his neck finally responding to his mental commands. Behind Carson he could see Lorne lying on the other bench, looking waxen and sickly, dark smears under his otherwise relaxed face. They were in one of the retrofitted jumpers, the ones Zelenka had been modifying. Both benches had been pulled away from the jumper walls and flattened—turning the bench chairs into beds and leaving just enough space between the two of them for people to walk.

"Lorne?"

"He's doing alright, Colonel," Carson answered. "He lost a lot of blood, but he's holding steady for now. You, on the other hand, have scared more years off of my life than I care to admit. Thank God I had my staff stock this jumper with more than enough medical supplies before it came here."

John rolled his heavy head back to look up at Carson and blinked in confusion. He breathed heavily through the mask, dragging in desperate oxygen. The agonizing aches and pains of the last week were muted but still there, sharp under the surface if he moved too much.

"How bad?" he asked, more an excuse to keep talking and stay awake than because he actually wanted to hear the information.

Carson sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "Honestly, I'm not quite sure how you're still alive. That gunshot wound to your head…" he shook his head before continuing. "A centimeter or two over, and we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. As it stands, you've suffered a massive concussion at the very least. I won't know if there's any more damage than that until I can get you back to Atlantis and under a scanner. Your arm is broken, your knee is sprained, and I'd guess you have at least two, maybe three, cracked ribs. Most worrisome, other than the head trauma, is the stab wound to your stomach."

John's eyes flew open at that and memories of Kell's murderous face loomed over him. He could almost smell the man's foul breath on his skin as he pushed the glinting knife toward his gut.

"John? Are you listening?"

"Huh?" John stuttered. He forced himself to look at Carson and Rodney, both now leaning over him in concern. "Liss'ning," he finally mumbled.

"The stab wound wasn't as deep as I'd feared, but it caused quite a bit of bleeding. I've stitched it up as best I can in the back of a jumper, and we've got two IVs running, but…you've got a fever brewing, lad. I'm afraid you might now be fighting off an infection."

"Teyla, Elizabeth?"

"Are you paying any attention, Sheppard? You almost died. You might still—"

"Hush, Rodney," Carson said. He pressed a hand against John's forehead, wiping away the drops of sweat beading on his forehead. "They're fine, son. They're both asleep right now. As you should be."

"…okay…"

"No, not okay, Sheppard," Rodney snapped, ignoring Carson. His waving arms were barely visible in the low light of the jumper. "He's saying you have to rest but you also have to fight, you have to stay alive until we can get through the gate."

"Sateda? How…" John asked, his eyes drifting closed despite his best efforts.

He missed the look Carson and Rodney gave each other, but there was a long pause that almost persuaded John to open his eyes again. Rodney finally answered, the horror of what was happening on the surface palpable in his tone.

"Not good. They're…they're destroying everything."

John knew they would. He had known it from the very first moment Tremek had told him about their great plan. Sateda's military was good, but they didn't have the numbers or the technology to combat the Wraith—not like this, on their home planet. The Hive ship would hover in the atmosphere, beyond reach for as long as it took to crush Sateda into dust.

He felt a shudder run through his body, the pain bright and raw as it moved closer to the surface. His chest tightened, choking off the oxygen trying to reach his lungs. He could feel a blanket being pushed down to his waist, then fingers pushing and pulling at his skin. A suffocating agony lit up in his stomach, around the stab wound, and he moaned. Minutes passed before Carson finished checking him over, and then a sharp cold sting raced up his arm.

"That should take the edge off for now, John. Rest, while you can. You're going to need all of your strength."

He felt Carson pull the blanket back up to his chest and tuck it in, then wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm. The IVs pinched his skin, and the oxygen mask cut into his cheeks. He could hear the faint hiss of air running to his mouth and nose and the rustle of Carson's jacket as the doctor moved around. Rodney shifted from foot to foot, breathing heavily through his nose.

The painkillers ran through John's veins, pulling a heavy fuzzy lethargy over his already exhausted body. He sagged into the bench, letting his last tenuous grip on consciousness go. Beyond the jumper's wall, through the black void of space to the surface of the planet below, John could almost—almost—hear the screaming death throes of Sateda itself.

Sateda burned. Rodney watched it all from the jumper's front window almost to the point of obsession. He could not tear his eyes away. Lieutenant Swanson had moved the cloaked jumper well away from the planet and the Wraith Hive ship, but they had to stay close enough to monitor the gate, to know when it would be safe to return home.

That was his excuse. He knew it was an excuse, but he used it anyway. He was monitoring the gate so they'd be ready to get home the very second they were able to. Rodney was watching the gate.

He was watching Sateda die.

The Hive ship's bombardment of the planet was relentless, worse even than the onslaught of darts against Atlantis' shields so many months before. The night side of the planet was both horrifying and mesmerizing—the fires glowed in deep orange pinpricks against the blackness of space. He could always tell when the planet revolved enough to reveal the capital city. It was the largest of the burning fires, and every time it passed, the fires had spread, like molten lava from an erupting volcano.

"Rodney?"

Rodney glanced over his shoulder at Elizabeth but didn't say anything. He returned his attention back to the burning planet, his eyes riveted. The capital would be coming up again soon, sometime within the next few minutes. Despite the brutal fires, the gate was still there, still active.

"Anything new?"

Rodney shook his head, half wondering what she was expecting to hear. They'd been sitting up in their cloaked jumper for over two days now, and nothing had changed. Or maybe she wasn't actually asking him about Sateda or the Wraith or the gate. Maybe she was just making small talk—a lead-in question before she urged him, again, to get some rest, to take a break from his "monitoring," to stop watching Sateda's destruction.

"You've been up here for hours. You should get some rest. I'm sure either Lieutenant Swanson or Sergeant Ross would be willing to monitor things up here for awhile."

He almost smiled, but he knew Elizabeth was watching him closely, and she might think he was losing it. He'd been right, though. He'd guessed her game. Well, two people could play at this…whatever this was.

God, he was so tired.

"I'm fine," he said, then winced at how much he sounded like Colonel Sheppard. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed tired eyes. Even when he wasn't looking at Sateda, he could still see it. It was etched into his memory.

Elizabeth sat next to him in silence for a moment. They'd been good, actually, about giving him his space. They were cramped in the jumper—the five of them who'd been on Sateda, including Lorne and Sheppard sprawled out on the benches, and then Swanson and Ross, who'd been holed up in the jumper for days waiting for them to arrive. They'd rotated sitting in the chairs in the front part of the jumper, alternated sleeping on the floor near the back hatch, and left Rodney to stare at the planet with only the occasional urge to lay down for a few hours.

"How are Lorne and Sheppard?"

Elizabeth didn't answer right away, and Rodney felt his heart leap into his throat. He finally dragged his attention away from the windshield to look at her.

"Elizabeth?"

She took a deep breath, and Rodney steeled himself. Had Sheppard died? He'd been sitting here watching Sateda die when his teammate—his friend—had been dying a few feet behind him, and no one had said anything? They hadn't yelled at him or anything? Or maybe that's what they were doing now. That's why Elizabeth was talking to him now—

"Major Lorne is holding on, even doing a little better now that Carson has managed to compensate for some of his blood loss."

No offense to Lorne, but he really didn't care about the major. Well, no—he did care, but they'd always known Lorne was going to be okay eventually. His injuries weren't as life-threatening as Sheppard's.

"And Sheppard?" he asked. Did he really want to know? No, he didn't, but yes, he did.

"Not good," Elizabeth answered. "Carson's managed to keep him going with the extra supplies Atlantis sent with Lieutenant Swanson, but…"

"But?"

"But he's getting worse. His temperature's up and he's starting to struggle with his breathing. Carson's afraid he'll have to intubate, but there's no ventilation machine—he'd have to breathe for him by hand. He needs surgery on that stab wound, and his head injury…he's so weak…"

Elizabeth's voice cracked and she stopped. They sat in silence for a moment, staring out the window. The Hive ship was just visible, lines of weapon's fire showering down in steady streams toward the surface. The capital had floated into view, bright and crackling, alive and dead all at once.

"As soon as we can get through the gate, do it. I don't know how much longer Carson can keep John alive."

Rodney nodded, and Elizabeth slipped out of the chair and back to rear section of the jumper. He could hear the soft mumble of voices behind him, the words low and incomprehensible but the tone clearly anxious. In front of him, Sateda burned.

The race back to Atlantis was a blur. Carson sat in his office trying not to think about it, too tired to move even if that involved walking the short distance to his quarters and sprawling on his bed. He knew he was at the end of his rope, and knew he needed to be in peak condition over the next few days, but he couldn't seem to will himself to get up.

The three days in the jumper over Sateda had been beyond hellish. He'd heard the reports of what was going on down on the planet's surface, but his focus had been on his two critical patients. Lorne had lost a lot of blood, but the man was strong and in good physical condition. He'd been critical but had become less so, and Carson had been optimistic about his recovery.

John, on the other hand, had been in the worst shape he had ever seen him. The extent of his injuries had been appalling, and his condition had gradually deteriorated. It was all he had been able to do to keep the man breathing, to keep his heart beating. By the time they made it through the gate—first to an uninhabited planet in case any remaining Wraith followed and then to Atlantis, he'd been ready to collapse.

John's fever had raged and his breathing had grown ragged. The final wormhole trip to Atlantis had been too much for him, and he'd stopped breathing completely. Carson had chased the gurney to the infirmary, forced to watch his staff's desperate measures to save the colonel's life from the sidelines. He'd heard enough to know they'd managed to get John breathing again before he was whisked away for surgery.

The major had followed John into the surgery bay, and then Elizabeth, Teyla, and Rodney had wandered in. It took another grueling five hours before they heard word that John had survived the surgery, and then Carson had collapsed. He'd woken up twelve hours later, dressed in scrubs and sprawled on an infirmary bed, an IV taped to his hand.

John was still alive. They were all still alive. It had only been two days since the surgery, but his prognosis was good. Carson pulled up the latest scans on his computer and studied the results. By some miracle, John had not suffered a subdural hematoma. The gunshot wound had given him quite possibly the worst concussion he'd ever seen in anyone, but no bleeding on the brain. No swelling or brain damage.

His arm was broken in two places—one a hairline fracture, one a little more serious—but that was now set and heavily encased in a cast. The ribs were slowly healing as well and the myriad bruises were beginning to fade. Even the infection was showing signs of letting up its tenuous grip.

Carson sighed and pushed himself up from his desk. He really did need to get some rest before his staff mutinied and sedated him themselves. He'd check on John and Lorne one last time then head to his room for a few hours.

As he walked through the quiet infirmary, he couldn't help but think of the hospital on Sateda. He'd spent hours in that place. They hadn't been nearly as advanced as Atlantis, but they'd been well on their way. They'd been a growing, vibrant civilization, full of life and hope and expectations for a bright future.

It was late, and the infirmary was dark and quiet. The night shift nurse smiled at him, not completely hiding her concern. He must look like he'd just stumbled home after a three-day bender. He certainly felt it. He waved at her without a word and kept walking. John was set up in the bed closest to his office, and he arrived quickly.

He paused at the foot of the bed and stared down at the sick and injured man. John was buried under equipment—tubes and monitors all clicking and hissing as they measured and tracked every single bodily function. The sight reminded him of General Tremek, buried under just as many contraptions, looking pale and lifeless and floating on the edge of death.

John would live. Carson was confidant of that. Tremek would also have lived, but there was no doubt that the man was dead now. If he hadn't been killed by the Wraith or some explosion or another, he would languish quickly without anyone to care for him. So senseless.

He shook his head and walked farther down the bay toward Major Lorne. It would take all of them some time to get over this. He knew for a fact that Doctor Heightmeyer was already setting up appointments with them. They'd seen a lot of awful things in their brief time in the Pegasus Galaxy, but the destruction of Sateda ranked near the top.

Major Lorne was pale and tired-looking, but he was sleeping peacefully. His surgery had been shorter than John's, and already he was showing signs of quick improvement. Some rest and physical therapy would see the man back on his feet in a few days and back on at least partial duty in a few weeks.

If only his Satedan patients had had the same chance.

Teyla walked into the infirmary the evening of their fourth day back. She came every morning and evening to sit with John. The infirmary was quieter at those times, and she relished the silence. His bed was the first in the area designated as the intensive care unit. Someone had moved in a bigger, softer chair—Rodney maybe—and Teyla eased herself down and pulled it closer to the bed.

She grabbed John's hand with both of hers and rubbed some warmth into the cold fingers. The memories of the last few weeks still haunted her, but she forced herself to put away the negative and focus on John's recovery. They had almost lost him. It had been much, much too close this time.

He was still connected to more machines than she could count, and she'd given up trying to decipher the purposes of all of them. Some, however, were obvious—the ventilator, the heart monitor, the feeding tube, the IV stand. Others remained endlessly elusive, but she didn't care. As long as their numbers told the doctors that John was getting better, that was all she needed to know.

She leaned forward and brushed her fingers along his pale cheek. His head was ensconced in a thick white bandage, covering his hair, and she missed the messy spikes. She realized they made him look alive and vibrant the way they stuck up of their own accord.

"Good evening, John," she whispered. She had no idea if he could hear her, but on the slight chance that he could, she wanted to assure him he was safe and home. "You look better tonight."

John, in fact, looked terrible, but it was a slight improvement from the way he'd looked when they'd first gotten him home. He was still pallid, looking sick and frail and so utterly still in the bed, but he seemed to have moved further from death and closer to health. She would take whatever he could give her.

"It has been quiet here on Atlantis today, although there was quite the excitement at dinner tonight. The chefs surprised everyone with peach cobbler. They asked how you were, by the way, and promised they would make another batch as soon as you are able to enjoy it."

The blood pressure cuff around his arm clicked and hissed, and a number flashed on the screen. Teyla knew just enough to know that while it wasn't good, it was okay. The ventilator pumped steadily, and John's chest rose and fell in time with the quiet sounds. Carson had said he was getting strong enough that he might be able to remove the ventilator. It had been breathing for him for four days. Only four days. It felt like much longer, but waiting usually did.

Her stomach clenched at the thought of what he had been through, the week of suffering he'd undergone without Carson's help. If Carson had been able to reach him within the first few days, John would no doubt be up and talking, griping about staying in the infirmary and well on his way to recovery.

Thank the Ancestors for Melena and Ronon Dex. They had saved John's life under nearly impossible circumstances, sacrificing everything—maybe even their lives. The image of Sateda being battered into the ground surged to the front of her mind, and she forced herself to push it back. Rodney had been unable to tear his eyes away from the destruction, but she had found herself unable to watch it at all. She'd stayed in the back of the jumper, with John and Major Lorne, helping Carson where she could, but the few glimpses she'd caught of the Wraith assault had been enough to haunt her nightmares for days.

A nurse came by, checking on John and the various monitors, and smiled at Teyla without a word. They'd quickly gotten used to having someone constantly by his side. She left a moment later, and Teyla leaned toward John again, whispering anything she could think of to him.

She was so engrossed in her one-sided conversation that she almost didn't notice the slight change in rhythm of the heart monitor. She jerked her eyes up at one of the screens over the bed and then down to his hand still wrapped in her own. His fingers had twitched—the movement was slight, but it was more movement than she had seen in days.

Carson, never too far from his patient, had obviously heard the change on the heart monitor as well, and he came around the corner as John slowly struggled up from unconsciousness.

"He is waking," Teyla announced, simply.

"Aye, that he is," Carson responded. He fiddled with some of the monitors and IVs, then bent closer to John's face. "John, can you hear me?"

John was moving more and more. At the sound of Carson's voice, he turned his head slightly toward the doctor. Teyla held onto his hand and could feel John's fingers feebly opening and closing around her own.

"John, lad, I need you to open your eyes for me. Just for a moment. Come on," Carson prodded, his voice gentle but insistent. John's eyes fluttered some more and Teyla thought she heard him moan faintly.

"We are here, John," she said, squeezing his hand. At the sound of her voice, John tried to turn toward her and he was partially successful in opening his eyes. He gagged slightly against the tube in his throat. Normally, he would have made some attempt to pull it out, but though his hand twitched slightly, he seemed incapable of moving it anywhere near the tube. His broken arm lay unmoving.

"John, relax. You've got a tube in your throat helping you breathe. You've had a rough time of it these last few weeks," Carson explained. John blinked a couple of times before looking up at the doctor. Teyla could see the confusion and exhaustion clearly in his eyes, but she smiled at the sight. She had missed the sight of those eyes.

"You're still very weak, so we need to leave the tube in. Are you in any pain? Squeeze Teyla's hand if you are," Carson said.

John looked up at him, still dazed as if he wasn't quite sure where he was. He blinked a few times, the confusion in his eyes slowly morphing to fear. Teyla wondered if he had understood Carson's question. She continued to hold onto his hand and noted that he'd made no attempt to squeeze it. John seemed to be struggling to stay awake, and his moment of consciousness quickly sapped his energy. His eyes slid shut and he settled back into a deep sleep.

"Carson?" Teyla asked, unable to mask the fear of John's less-than-exuberant response to either her or Beckett.

"He's weak, Teyla. Very weak. We can't expect too much from him just yet."

"I understand," she said, but she wanted more. She wanted John to look at her, to smile, to squeeze her hand and tell her he was fine. They made too many demands on him sometimes—she knew this, but she could not always help it.

"He really is doing better," Carson said, jarring her from her thoughts. "We should even be able to take him off the ventilator later on today. Trust me when I say, the next time he wakes up, he'll be feeling a lot more comfortable." He patted Teyla's shoulder and Teyla nodded back in gratitude at the gesture of comfort before turning her attention back to her ailing friend.

Evan eased himself off the bed, wincing at the muscles that pulled across his chest and shoulder. Beckett was watching him closely, and he straightened up, smiling.

"Feeling good, doc."

Beckett laughed, shaking his head. "I doubt that, but since you didn't fall flat on your face, I suppose I can't keep you cooped up in here any longer."

"I've been walking around for days!"

"Aye, you have. Major, you are officially released from the infirmary, but I want you resting. You are not on active duty. You are not even on semi-active duty, including paperwork. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Evan answered. Beckett handed him a bag of pill containers and a stack of instructions.

"Take your meds and wear your sling. If I catch you out of it for any reason, I will land your arse right back here in the infirmary."

"Even in the shower?"

Beckett threw up his hands in exasperation. "Off with ye," he griped, but Evan caught the small grin on his face. The doctor had been under a tremendous amount of stress, but he was glad to see that was beginning to ease. With a mock salute, he slid away from the bed and headed out of the infirmary.

He had just reached the door, when he paused and looked over at the ICU area. Colonel Sheppard had made slow but steady progress in the last week, and he wondered if he was awake at the moment. He twisted on his heel and walked over to his CO's bed.

Sheppard was half-sitting up but dozing, and he'd slid over into a hunched position in the process. It looked extremely uncomfortable, but straightening him out would definitely cross the CO-XO boundary. Besides, Evan only had one good arm at the moment.

He'd retreated a few steps just as Sheppard groaned and shifted on the bed. His eyes blinked open before Lorne had the chance to dart out of sight, so he stood there, waiting awkwardly.

"Lorne?"

"Hey, sir. I was just on my way out, and thought I'd stop by. How are you feeling today?"

Sheppard grunted, wavering his hand in a so-so gesture. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth against the pain but eventually managed to sit up a little straighter. Lorne watched him helplessly. The man still looked like he was in bad shape. The feeding tube had been removed, but the nasal cannula was in place. The bandages on his head made him look small and fragile, and his casted arm rested heavily against his stomach. Lorne found himself again cursing the men who had done this.

He'd known Kell was up to something. He'd sensed it the moment he'd met the man. Every cell in his body had screamed its distrust, but he'd had no choice but to listen to the man, no evidence to force him into a confession. He thought of the policemen he'd roamed all over the city with in their search for the Colonel, the hospital staff who'd asked after all of them, the innocent military personnel who'd searched the base and the riverside for days on end.

Where were they now? Dead. Bodies amongst the wreckage of their civilization, or worse—culled. They'd been advanced, well on their way to making something of themselves, of having an impact on the galaxy. They'd been good people and would have been good friends. Lorne felt a rush of anger and grief at their loss.

"You okay?" Sheppard rasped.

Lorne shook his head, blinking back the memories. "Uh, yes, sir. Sorry. Just glad Doctor Beckett finally released me."

"Good. S'good," Sheppard whispered, his eyes already pulling closed in exhaustion. The man slept almost all day long, but it still didn't look like it was enough.

Maybe that was a good thing for now. Sheppard had asked occasionally about Sateda and Ronon Dex, but he was still too tired and out of it to really grasp their short detail-less answers. When he was well enough to start thinking straight, Sateda's fate would hit him hard. Their lack of answers regarding Ronon's and Melena's whereabouts would be just as troubling, if not more so. Lorne shook his head. They'd have to deal with that when the time came. For now, the colonel was healing and that was all that mattered.

"Get some rest, sir," he said, needlessly. Sheppard's breathing had evened out, and the man was sound asleep again. Lorne rubbed at the ache in his shoulder and studied his CO for one last moment, then fled the infirmary, losing himself in the busy daily life of the Atlantis expedition.

TBC…