Rodney disconnected the call to Keller, and changed over John's IV. He couldn't believe that less than a week ago, he'd been nervous to do this. Now, adjusting John's meds was the easiest and least offensive thing he'd had to do in days. John watched him with glassy, half-lidded eyes, and Rodney's heart ached over how sick he seemed to be.

"How do you feel?" Rodney asked once the IV was set up.

"Hot," John breathed.

"Well, yeah," Rodney said. "That would be the fever. I imagine you feel hot."

Last time John's fever had spiked, Keller had told Rodney he could put a cool cloth on John's forehead. John had been wracked with chills the last time, so that had been only dubiously helpful and certainly unpleasant, but if he was feeling hot then….

Rodney fetched a washcloth from the bathroom, ran it under cold water, and returned to drape it over John's forehead.

"Ew," John said softly.

"What?" Rodney asked. He could imagine a cold washcloth on one's forehead being many different things, but gross wasn't usually one of them.

John mumbled something that Rodney couldn't hear.

"What was that?"

"Please g't th't off of me," he whispered.

"Oh. No, I'm not going to do that. It's helping with your fever. It'll make you feel better."

"Makin' me feel weird."

"I think it's the fever that's making you feel weird," Rodney said reasonably.

John frowned, but didn't say anything. He didn't make any attempt to remove the washcloth himself.

"Makin' me feel sick," he mumbled after a few minutes.

Rodney froze as he tried to determine whether John actually felt sick, or whether he just didn't like the washcloth.

"Sick like…?"

John groaned and flopped his head sideways. The washcloth slipped down over his eyes, and he gave an outraged moan, but was either unwilling or unable to move his good hand enough to take it off.

"Sheppard?"

John's throat worked in a way that Rodney was now horrifyingly familiar with, and he whimpered quietly.

"Sheppard? Sick like what?" Rodney asked, aware that he sounded panicked and unsure how he was supposed to change that.

"Like 'm gonna throw up," John mumbled, and his lips thinned to a tight line.

"Why do these sorts of things always happen to us?" Rodney whined, retrieving the trash can and telling himself sternly that this time, even if John threw up on his floor again, he was not going to yell at him. "We're nice people. Well, nice enough. I'm not, but you are, that should balance it out enough, shouldn't it? This isn't fair…"

"Isn't," John agreed with him, then shut his eyes and moaned again. His good hand went to his stomach, and Rodney saw his face twist in pain.

Rodney hurried over with a new towel and hurriedly repeated his previously established nauseous-Sheppard routine. John watched him blearily out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you going to throw up on me if I turn you over?" Rodney asked him. "I won't yell at you if you do, but, I mean, I'd rather you didn't. I'd very much rather you didn't, in fact. But I realize you may not have a choice in the matter."

John didn't respond, preoccupied as he was with a high fever and, Rodney assumed, trying very hard not to throw up on himself or Rodney.

"Okay," Rodney said, sighing. "Here goes. Umm, if you do throw up on me, I forgive you."

Rodney gathered his strength and heaved Sheppard partially upright. John's eyes went wide with pain, and he sagged heavily against Rodney. Rodney struggled to support his friend's weight, alarmed by how weak John had suddenly gotten. Before he'd fallen asleep, he hadn't been strong, but he'd at least been able to take some of his own weight. Now, Rodney felt like he was trying to support something with the muscle control of a sack of flour.

John muttered something. At first, Rodney didn't even really realize that what he'd said was actually words, but then Sheppard started tapping his arm, trying to get his attention.

"Trash can," he whispered. "R'dney-"

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney said, proud of how well he kept the panic out of his voice. He settled John back on the bed, and then grabbed a trash can and nestled it into John's arms.

John, apparently, could not support the weight of the trash can. It started to tip, and Rodney realized with some alarm that he was going to have no choice but to keep it steady.

"R'dney," John whined. Rodney didn't know what he wanted. He didn't even know if Sheppard knew what he wanted. All he knew was that his friend was scared and weak and in pain, and there was nothing that Rodney could do about it.

"I'm sorry," Rodney whispered, rubbing John's back as John stared mournfully into the trash can. "I'm sorry. I...I know you don't feel good, and this isn't very comfortable. But I'm not sure how else I can help."

"It's okay," John whispered, panting for breath. He started to say something else, but was cut off when he started retching.

Rodney took a deep breath, steeling himself, and kept running his hand across John's shoulders.

"Don't...w'nt this," John mumbled pathetically.

"Hey, it's okay," Rodney whispered, wondering where he had found the reserves to stand next to a vomiting Sheppard, holding his trash can and rubbing his back. "It's going to be alright, I know this isn't...it's not fun, but I'm here, and soon Ronon and Teyla and Sam will figure this out, and then we can get you into surgery, and...and you're going to start feeling better pretty soon."

John's stomach was, unsurprisingly, almost completely empty - Rodney had barely been able to get him to eat anything the past few days, and it had been a struggle even to get him to drink water. But even after he seemed to have gotten up everything he'd eaten, he was wracked with painful-looking dry heaves that hardly allowed him to catch his breath.

"Water," John gasped when he was done.

"Sheppard, I'm not sure that's such a good idea-"

"Please," John whimpered, and Rodney wasn't sure how he was expected to say no to him at a time like this.

"Okay," Rodney agreed, awkwardly propping the trash can against Sheppard and retrieving his water bottle from the bedside table. He looked at John, who blinked pathetically back, but didn't move another muscle. Realizing that John was not about to drink by himself, Rodney untwisted the cap and tilted the plastic to John's lips.

John took a few tiny sips, then shook his head slightly. Rodney took the bottle back, capped it, and replaced it on the nightstand.

John lasted two whole minutes before he was back to writhing on the bed, and Rodney had to grab hold of the trash can to stop him from tipping it over. Whimpering weakly, John gestured for the trash can, and Rodney put it back in its place just in time.

Sheppard retched into the trash can again, spitting up the water he'd just managed to swallow. He groaned miserably, and Rodney returned to rubbing his back.

"I'm sorry," Rodney whispered. He knew it wasn't his fault, it was whichever Jorian had shot Sheppard with a crossbow, but it seemed like a nice thing to say.

Eventually, John subsided, and Rodney helped him lie back down as he removed the trash can.

"Don'," John mumbled, reaching out for the trash can. "'M...sick."

"It's right here," Rodney reassured him, putting the trash can out of Sheppard's reach so he couldn't knock it over, but well within Rodney's. "It'll be okay."

John whimpered softly, curling in on himself. Rodney closed his eyes, desperately overwhelmed for what felt like the millionth time since Ronon had laid Sheppard on his bed. How was he expected to deal with this? How was he supposed to look at his best friend this sick, this injured, this unlike John, and just...keep going?

"Water?" John whispered, sounding heart-wrenchingly hopeful. Rodney gritted his teeth, trying to make the horrible choice between withholding water from his sick friend and giving it to him, knowing it would just make him be sick again.

"You can't keep it down," Rodney told him miserably. John looked up at him through his hair with the wide-eyed expression he sometimes used to use on Weir, only this was much worse because Rodney didn't think John was doing it intentionally this time.

"Thirsty," John whimpered.

"God, Sheppard, you won't be able to keep it down," Rodney said, his voice starting to shake. "It'll make you throw up again, and-and you'll be in more pain, and...neither of us want that."

"Okay," John whispered, exhaling faintly, and the naked trust in John's eyes was almost harder to bear than the pain had been.

"Thank you," Rodney said, patting his good shoulder again. "I think...we can try again with water in a few minutes, alright?"

"Alright," John whispered.

"How's your shoulder?"

"Bad. The meds...not helpin'..."

John trailed off, eyes slipping closed.

"Once your fever comes down, it might not hurt so much."

"Think...think I'm dyin'..."

Part of Rodney knew that Sheppard was no more dying than he had been earlier in the day, but it was still hard to hear. "Sheppard, you're not dying, Keller...Keller said you would be fine as soon as she can get the shrapnel out, and everyone's trying to figure this out as fast as they can…."

John just groaned, curling more tightly into himself.

Rodney adjusted the trash can, so it was within easier reach of John if he needed to get sick again, and then retreated slightly from John's bed. He knew he couldn't call Jennifer again, she was clearly trying to get some rest and there was nothing else she could do to help. Unless John's symptoms got worse, which Rodney thought was in fact a distinct possibility at this point, he didn't want to bother her. Could he call Sam? He just felt...he felt like he needed someone to talk to. He couldn't get through this alone.

Ronon and Teyla would probably both be asleep. Ronon didn't keep his comms near his bed, no matter how many times John asked him to, but Teyla did, and if Rodney called, she would be woken up.

He didn't really want to bother her either, but watching John writhe on the bed as his nausea mounted again convinced him that he needed to talk to someone else.

He tapped his comms. It took Teyla a moment to answer, but when she did, she sounded more alert than Jennifer had.

"Rodney? Is something wrong?"

"I-" He didn't know what to tell her. He had really just wanted to hear someone's voice.

But before Rodney could gather his thoughts enough to respond, there was a knock at Teyla's door, barely audible through the comms.

"One moment," Teyla said. Rodney heard a faint voice come through the comms - female, he thought it might be Sam. It was impossible to make out what the person was saying.

"Oh," Teyla gasped, suddenly sounding afraid. Sam said something else, and then there was the soft sound of a door shutting.

"What? What is it?" Rodney demanded.

"One of the suspects...is missing," Teyla told him, her voice halting. "Locklynn is gone. We think...we think that she is the one who shot John. Somehow, she must have discovered that the Colonel is still alive. She...she may try again to-"

"Oh," Rodney squeaked, wishing that he hadn't called Teyla after all. It was better to know that he and Sheppard might be in danger, he supposed, but just barely. He hadn't wanted to call Teyla and discover that a maniac with a crossbow was hunting for them, he'd wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be okay.

"Why were you calling?" Teyla asked.

"Oh, nothing," Rodney said, embarrassed now that Teyla was actually on the line, now that he had something bigger to worry about. "It's...it's nothing."

Rodney looked back at the bed, at Sheppard, covered in sweat and doubled over, his good arm wrapped tightly around his stomach. Rodney could only imagine how bad the cramps felt on top of Sheppard's broken ribs.

"Rodney," Teyla said gently. "What is it?"

"It's just that Sheppard's worse," Rodney blurted out. "A lot worse. He keeps throwing up, and his fever is way too high, I'm sure it's dangerous but Keller says she can't do anything about it. And he's having these horrible nightmares, and Keller can't do anything about that either, and he's just in so much pain…. He should have had surgery already, and now he probably won't be able to because Locklynn is trying to kill him and she's going to kill Sheppard and probably kill me too and I can't do ANYTHING!"

Teyla sighed sadly through the comms, and Rodney could picture her face, gentle and sad and reassuring.

"Do not worry, Rodney. I know that this must be very difficult for you, but we will not let Locklynn hurt you or the Colonel. I promise you that. You just...you just have to hold on for a little while longer."

"But-"

"Now that we know who attempted to kill John, we can let Ronon do as he wishes," Teyla pointed out. Rodney was surprised by how much better that made him feel, at least about the whole John getting shot again piece. He was still alone with a very ill Sheppard, and he still wasn't sure what to do.

"You are doing very well," Teyla said, as if she was reading his mind. "Hopefully, it will all be over soon."

"Okay," Rodney said. "Alright. I...I can do this. Umm, I better get back to Sheppard…."

"And I must go help Colonel Carter look for Locklynn," Teyla agreed. "Good luck, Rodney."

John was in pain. He didn't know much, but he knew that. He could hear Rodney talking to him, something about an escaped suspect, and this would all be over soon. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't care that this would all be over soon, what he wanted was for it to be over now. He felt like he was falling apart, and there was nothing Rodney could do or say to fix it.

Nausea churned through his stomach, cramps tearing at his abdominal muscles. He curled himself up as much as he could, but the movement made his shoulder and leg scream in pain. He panted, wishing he could just pass out already.

"It's okay, you'll be okay," Rodney whispered.

John opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a round of dry-heaving. He couldn't seem to get his stomach muscles to relax. He had a moment of horror that he was going to throw up on Rodney's bed, but he soon realized there was nothing left in his stomach. Now it was just a matter of getting his insides to untwist enough that he could go to sleep, answer Rodney, even just catch his breath.

"This is gross," Rodney whispered, but there was no malice in his voice at all, only worry.

"Sorry," John whimpered, a gag catching in his throat.

"Hey, one second, I have an idea," Rodney said. John tried to squirm away from Rodney - his last ideas to help with John's nausea had not been very pleasant at all. He heard Rodney fumbling for something, and then a gentle hand was flattening him out somewhat, easing him backwards on the bed.

"Here you go," Rodney said, and then something warm was being placed over John's abdomen. "Carson gave me this that time I had to eat that weird root during the Athosian holiday ceremony and it gave me food poisoning. Couldn't keep anything down, so he couldn't give me any medication, and…."

"I remember," John croaked. They'd been off missions for a whole week. He didn't want to think about it. "Whatdya do to me?"

"It's a heating pad," Rodney said. "It'll help relax the muscles in your stomach."

"Hot," John whispered, looking down at the simple red heating pad that Rodney had placed over his middle. He squirmed, trying to dislodge it. He couldn't remember why Rodney had set it would help.

"It's supposed to be hot," Rodney said quickly, spreading one hand over the heating pad and placing the other on John's shoulder. "Stop moving, leave it on there for a second and see if it helps."

The heat was helping, John thought. He could almost catch a full breath now, at least, and that was certainly better than it had been before.

But marginally better just meant that he wasn't in so much pain that the only sound he could make was a pitiful whimper. It didn't mean that he felt like anything even remotely approaching "good." And even though Rodney's heating pad was helping, John's stomach was still cramping so intensely that he couldn't lie still through it.

John squirmed again as the next cramp hit, sending a horrible twisting sensation through his stomach and causing all of his abdominal muscles to go rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could stop moving, wishing he could just let the heating pad do its job and make him feel better.

John rolled over and curled into himself, choking back a whimper. And when he stopped moving, he realized the warmth was still gentle against his midsection. The cramps eased up slightly, and he let himself flop onto his back. The heating pad came with him, and as John's mind cleared from the unforgiving pain, he became aware of Rodney's hand, spread across his stomach, keeping the heating pad in place. John would have been mortified, if he wasn't so busy being grateful to his best friend.

After a few more minutes, John found that he could lie still without the cramps forcing him to move. Rodney took his hand away from John's stomach, but left the one on his shoulder.

"Better?"

John didn't open his eyes, but managed a nod. The pain was still there, still everywhere, but the warmth at his core had spread to his limbs and he could focus on that instead. Suddenly, he felt very, very tired.

"Th'nks," he managed, and he felt Rodney's hand give his shoulder a squeeze. Within a few more minutes, John was asleep.

Rodney had originally been planning on going to bed himself as soon as Sheppard went to sleep, but that plan had changed when he'd seen John unable to lie still from cramps. What if he rolled in the night, and knocked off the heating pad? The cramps had looked incredibly painful, they would probably wake him up, and then John would have to fight through the pain all over again.

Besides, Rodney was fairly sure that heating pads carried a warning that you weren't supposed to leave them on unattended. He was also fairly sure that it would be fine, but he wasn't completely sure, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he set his best friend on fire.

He also wasn't really tired. He felt wired with the nervous, horrible sort of energy that he could now recognize as adrenaline. Even if he got onto his cot again, he didn't think he would be able to sleep.

The night passed like that, feeling both shorter and longer than it really was. John never came fully awake, although occasionally he would squirm or mumble in his sleep. Rodney got him to drink a few tiny sips of water. They stayed down, although it seemed touch and go for a moment. John's fever continued to rise. It never got quite as bad as it had the first night, but a week of lying injured in bed had weakened John greatly, and he didn't seem much better off.

Rodney knew there were guards outside his room. He could hear them talking as they...switched posts, or reported it in, or did whatever it was that military men did when their commander was too sick to lead them. He knew they were carefully positioned to always have a line of sight on Rodney's door, but not look like they were carefully guarding Rodney's door. According to Teyla, Locklynn seemed to have vanished, and could be anywhere on Atlantis. Sam didn't want to send anyone to Rodney's room until she had been found.

Hearing Zelenka's voice suddenly crackle through the comms was a horrible surprise. For a moment, Rodney was confused - why was Zelenka calling him in the middle of the night? Then, he realized it wasn't the middle of the night anymore. It was about seven in the morning, and Zelenka, like everyone else on Atlantis, had started working.

"What is it?" Rodney snapped. He hadn't exactly meant it to sound so mean, but god, when had he gotten this tired? He didn't want to deal with...what was it that Zelenka wanted to talk about? He should probably figure it out, because he knew by this point Rodney himself was desperately and irrevocably behind on his work and Zelenka was almost certainly the one picking up the slack.

"I'm trying to get ahead on your...it looks like you were trying to adjust the power output to the Gateroom?

"Make it more efficient, yeah," Rodney said, remembering this time to keep his voice down to avoid waking Sheppard. He could have kicked himself for snapping at Zelenka, he was trying to help, and his work was going to keep Rodney from falling too far behind and possibly getting in trouble.

"Yes, well, I'm having some trouble understanding the base readings. I think they might be...wrong? It looks like perhaps you misplaced a decimal, and then that threw everything else off…."

Rodney had done these charts the day he had drugged Sheppard to get some work done in his room - he'd been pretty distracted, so there was a good chance they were wrong. He didn't like that Zelenka had pointed it out, though.

"I'll share them with you," Rodney promised.

"Wonderful. I also had some other questions about-"

Rodney stopped paying attention, because John had just whimpered slightly. Zelenka continued talking into Rodney's earpiece, but Rodney's full attention was focused on Sheppard. John whimpered again, beginning to squirm on the bed. A few more pained sounding noises, and Rodney recognized the telltale signs of a nightmare.

"Rodney? Are you listening to me?"

Rodney disconnected the call without a second thought, already hurrying to John's side. If Sheppard was having a nightmare, Zelenka could wait. He would have to wait.

"Sheppard?" Rodney shook John's shoulder, but John whined softly and twisted away from Rodney. His eyes didn't open.

"Sheppard. John."

Rodney shook his friend again, a little harder this time. John's breathing was harsh and ragged in his chest, the accompanying machines speeding up and out of control.

"John. Wake up!" Rodney didn't want to shake John too hard, for fear of hurting him, but from the look on John's face, whatever he was dreaming about was plenty painful already. Rodney shook John one last time, and his friend's eyes finally flickered open.

"You were dreaming," Rodney said, sighing with relief. He waited for John's breathing to calm, but John's exhales kept ripping their way out of his chest, and his eyes didn't seem to be focusing on much of anything.

"Sheppard?"

John's breathing was almost at a whine now, and Rodney grabbed his friend's shoulder and held it tight. He recognized this territory, or at least he would have if he was alone with himself. This looked an awful lot like the precursor to one of his own panic attacks, but John…. John didn't get those. Not like Rodney. If John was on the edge of hyperventilating, trapped in a half-dream and unable to calm himself, he must be very, very sick indeed.

"Hey...hey, Sheppard. Umm, John. It's...it's okay. It's just a dream. A dream, okay? Can you hear me?"

Rodney wasn't sure if it was due to the fever, the panic, or the nightmare, but it took almost two minutes to get John's eyes to lock onto his.

"Can you hear me?" Rodney asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time, and finally, John nodded.

"It wasn't real. Sheppard, I promise, it wasn't real. You're safe here."

John nodded again, but he didn't look totally convinced. His eyes were still wide with panic, darting frantically around the room, and Rodney's chest twisted. He kept one hand on John's good shoulder, and used his other to tap his comms - Keller was going to fix this, and he wasn't taking no for an answer.