"Rodney, what is it?" Keller asked when she answered Rodney's call. She sounded exhausted.

"Sheppard...he's still having nightmares. Bad ones. I gave him his medication, but his fever keeps going up. He can barely talk. He hardly knows where he is. I need you to...do something."

"Rodney-"

"Keller, please."

He heard a small sigh. "Rodney, I don't want him to be in pain anymore than you do, I promise. But Sam told me it's still not safe for me to move him to the infirmary, we run the risk of another attack, especially with our main suspect missing…."

"We could guard the infirmary."

"It's not safe…."

"He's not safe here!" Rodney practically yelled. Sheppard jumped slightly at the noise, although Rodney didn't think he really registered the words. "He's...he keeps getting sicker. He's probably dying, and there's nothing I can do. He'll...I know he won't be safe if we stop hiding him. But he's...I can't just watch…."

"You're right," Keller said softly. "I knew there was a chance he would deteriorate enough that we would have to operate even without finding the assassin. I don't want to do that unless there's literally no other choice, because not only does it put him at risk, it puts me and everyone else in the infirmary at risk too. But I am not going to let John die without even trying to save him, and we're coming up on the point where we may not have a choice."

"Okay," said Rodney, much more quietly now. That was mostly all he'd wanted to hear. "What...what do I do?"

"I want to keep him in your room as long as possible, to try to give the others a chance to find the assassin. But if his fever keeps rising, that won't be possible. I want you to call me if it gets above 104, and I'll pull him out."

Rodney glanced down at the temperature reading - 101.8. "Alright," Rodney said. "Bye."

He hung up. Sheppard turned towards him with bleary, half-closed eyes.

"You might have to go to the infirmary, you know," Rodney informed him.

John shook his head, but Rodney wasn't fully sure he understood.

"It's too dangerous," Rodney insisted. "You don't want to die, do you? Don't bother answering that, I know you don't. You're going to have to go sooner or later."

John blinked glassily at him, then shook his head again. He looked at Rodney with a question in his eyes, as though waiting for Rodney to tell him if he was doing the right thing.

Rodney sighed. For a moment, things had felt almost normal. He was arguing with Sheppard about Sheppard's health and safety, and Sheppard was, as usual, ignoring him. Of course, usually John was actually awake and aware.

"Do you understand a word I'm saying?" Rodney asked him, much more gently.

John frowned, his exhausted, fevered brain struggling to make sense of the words. Finally, far too late to be convincing, he nodded, looking almost proud of himself.

"If you say so," Rodney told him sadly, slumping back into the chair he'd placed at John's bedside. He glanced back at the machine. 101.9.

Rodney dropped his head into his hands, squeezing his palms against his temples. He didn't know if he was waiting for Sheppard's temperature to go up or to hold steady. Of course he didn't want to put John or anyone else in any danger, but he didn't think that either of them could take this much longer. Maybe it was for the best if they all got this over with.

John drifted in and out of fever-misted dreams and visions. Some of them were terrifying, others were just...strange. Sometimes, he knew he was dreaming, and he could wake himself up. Other times, he wouldn't know where he was until he felt Rodney's hand on his arm and heard his friend's voice guiding him back to reality.

He didn't know what time it was. He thought he'd heard Rodney talk to Keller at some point, something about moving him to the infirmary, something about his fever. John wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was awake now.

"Sheppard?"

John's eyelids felt very, very heavy. He struggled, trying to open them, but he couldn't move a muscle. He felt hot, so hot, and he panted for air with what little strength he had.

"Sheppard, can you hear me?"

Finally, John managed to wrench his eyes open. A blurry Rodney was floating next to him, saying words that John couldn't manage to make out.

"Your fever's reached 104. I'm going to call Keller."

Rodney reached his hand out and laid it across John's forehead, and John gasped in shock at the cold. If he could have summoned the energy to move away, he would have.

"Oh god, you're burning up, is this…this is very bad, right? I'm calling Keller."

Keller. Rodney was calling Keller. It took John a moment to remember what that meant. They were going to move him, they were going to take him to the infirmary.

John couldn't remember why that was bad, now. If it would stop him from feeling like this, he'd do almost anything.

He lost time, trapped in a haze of heat and pain. He squirmed on the bed, wondering if he was dying.

"She's on her way," Rodney said. "Just...hold tight a few minutes."

"Water," John gasped. He knew he'd been nauseous earlier, and now he couldn't figure out whether or not that was still true. All he knew was that he was so hot, so dry, and he didn't think he could last another second without a sip of water to wet his lips and throat.

But, to John's horror, Rodney shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sheppard, I can't give you anything by mouth. Keller just told me not to, because she's bringing you in for surgery as soon as she gets you to the infirmary. Your stomach needs to be empty for the anesthesia to work."

"Water," John whimpered. "Please…."

John knew he could never explain this to Rodney, but his chest was starting to seize up, his dry, sore throat refusing to properly let air past. He was still taking in oxygen, but he...needed water. He needed water. He needed water, or he was surely going to suffocate.

Rodney started apologizing again, but John couldn't pay attention to him. He was too focused on carefully keeping the air moving in and out of his lungs. He was starting to feel a bit lightheaded, although he thought that might be from the fever.

And then, he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot outside of the room.

At first, he thought it might be a hallucination. But Rodney froze too, slowly turning towards the door.

"Was that what I think it was?" Rodney asked. Sheppard wasn't sure if he was expecting an answer.

And then Rodney's comms crackled to life.

Keller was yelling, so John could make out her voice just fine, although she was out of breath and sounded horribly panicked.

"They...followed me...right outside," she gasped. "They can't get in yet...Atlantis locks. Tried...shooting it...sparks...don't know if it's working."

"Are you alright?" Rodney demanded, and even through the fever John had a momentary flash of pride, that Rodney was more worried about his friend than he was about his own safety.

"For...now. They don't...care about me. But they're...coming in."

"Oh god, oh god," Rodney whispered, putting a shaking hand to his mouth. "There must be a way I can...lock the door from the inside, or...or barricade it somehow….."

There was the sound of more gunshots, this time accompanied by an angry scream in an unmistakable voice.

Ronon had joined the fight. John heard the familiar sound of Ronon's gun, and the noise outside the room increased.

"Oh thank god," Rodney muttered. "Ronon's here, and probably all of this will be over soon. Then Keller can come, and you'll get surgery, and everything is going to be alright. Okay?"

John wasn't sure if Rodney expected a response. He wasn't sure what response to give him, or if he could even come up with something vaguely relevant. And he never found out, because as soon as he tried to start forming words, he began coughing instead.

John tried to catch his breath, but his chest was tensing up and his throat was so dry that it felt like it was stuck closed. John was choking and nauseous in turns, and he couldn't stop coughing long enough to solve either problem.

"Sheppard? Sheppard, oh god-"

Rodney's hand hovered around his good arm, the other coming to rest on his chest. John paid them no mind, completely preoccupied with his inability to draw breath. The noise outside receded, and all he could hear was the sound of his own coughing.

Rodney was saying something that John couldn't hear, and then his hands slid under John's back and John felt himself being lifted. He tried to help, but what little of his strength remained was focused on not passing out, and he sagged against Rodney.

"Come on, breathe," Rodney ordered through the rushing in John's ears. To his surprise, he found that he could. Cautiously, John sucked in a shallow breath, then another, and another.

"Better?" Rodney asked, and John nodded, still struggling slightly to draw breath. The battle outside continued, the shouts blending with the sounds of his own ragged breath.

Rodney's arms were starting to hurt. Sheppard had finally stopped coughing when Rodney had pulled him upright, and now John was trembling against him, struggling to breathe and clearly unable to hold himself up. His eyes were closed, the skin underneath them horrifyingly dark against his ashy skin, and the only sounds he made were his harsh inhales and exhales.

Rodney sighed. Sitting upright didn't seem to be very comfortable for Sheppard, but Rodney was afraid that lying down would cause him to choke to death. Maybe if Rodney propped him up against the pillows….

But as soon as he got the pillows stacked behind Sheppard's trembling back, John's eyes flew wide and his breathing worsened. He began slipping sideways off the pillows, coughing and gasping and completely unable to stop himself.

Rodney hauled John upright again, wondering if there was anything more he could do. Should he rub John's back? Force him to drink some water? Get him some different medication? Rodney was completely out of his depth, and too many horrible allergic reactions over the years had taught him that once breathing was impaired, time was of the essence.

Rodney used one hand to tap his comms on. "Keller!" he yelled. "Can you get in here?"

"Not yet!" she yelled back. He could hear the gunshots in both ears, terrifyingly loud and separated from him by only a thin wall, and tinny and echoey through the comms.

Rodney could only assume that Keller didn't understand the importance of the situation. Sure, there was a gunfight going on outside, but she was a doctor and John was dying too. "He can't breathe!"

"Oh god...," Keller whispered.

"What's going on out there?" Rodney demanded.

"I don't...I don't know," she was out of breath still, but her voice was a little clearer than it had been before. "I was about to go into your room when I saw that there was someone behind me. I turned, and they...they shot at me. They tried to force their way in through your door, but Ronon was patrolling, and he must have heard the gunshots. He told me to hide, and now I'm...I can't see as well. But he's here, and Teyla too. A few other Marines. Maybe Sam."

"What?" Rodney said. He must have misunderstood - it was, after all, difficult to pay attention to Jennifer when he was also focused on keeping John's head tilted up, running a calming hand up and down his shoulder, counting his breaths in the back of his mind. But it had sounded like Ronon, Teyla, a host of John's soldiers, and Sam Carter were all failing to take down a single Jorian. An armed Jorian, granted, but...still. "Why haven't they killed him yet?"

"Rodney, it's...not just one. It seems like...a bunch of the Jorians were in on it. I'm sure you can hear it, it's...turned into a firefight out here. There must be at least ten, it's a miracle none of our people are hurt…."

John gave a particularly nasty wheeze, and mumbled something that Rodney couldn't make out.

"What was that?" Rodney asked.

"Need...help…."

"I know, Sheppard, Keller's...it sounded like she's pinned down right now, but she'll be here as soon as she can…."

"No," John whispered, and even the single word sounded like it had scraped its way out of his throat. "They...need...help…."

Rodney blinked down at John, a little unsure what he was trying to say. "They can handle it?" he eventually hazarded.

"Ronon…Teyla," John whispered. "Need help."

Sheppard twitched, his head sliding forward, away from where Rodney had managed to prop it against his shoulder. John coughed again, the sound raw and painful, and he twitched again.

"Stop moving," Rodney told him gently.

John shook his head, his cough thickening. "Gotta...help," he gasped, and managed to push himself away from Rodney.

Rodney gaped at his friend. Surely, John couldn't be saying what Rodney thought he was saying. It was the fever, or the gunshots, or even Rodney's own panic that was clouding John's true meaning. He couldn't possibly think that he was in any kind of condition to affect the fight in any other way than bringing it to a quick end by his immediate death.

And then John moved again, looking longingly to the door, and Rodney remembered who it was that he was dealing with.

"No," Rodney said sharply, grabbing John's good shoulder. It felt thin and bony beneath his hand, the heat from John's skin warming Rodney's fingers. John tried to pull away, failing miserably.

"Leggo," John coughed, and Rodney felt him tremble as his breathing came in stops and stutters.

Rodney knew that Sheppard would hate him for it later, might even hate him for it now if he was aware enough to process it, but Rodney would rather have his best friend alive and angry at him than choking to death in the middle of Rodney's floor. Tightening his hold on John's shoulder, Rodney pulled John back towards him, his back against Rodney's torso, his head falling backwards against Rodney's shoulder.

"Nnno," John breathed, trying to squirm away from Rodney again.

"You can't go out there, Sheppard," Rodney insisted, wrapping his arm across John's chest. Sheppard was weak enough at this point that he was effectively pinned, which was worrisome in and of itself. Rodney wasn't exactly known for his feats of strength.

"But…."

"If you can't push me away, you're not going to help in a fight against ten armed aliens who want to kill you," Rodney pointed out. "And that's assuming you could even make it to the door. Which I really, really doubt you can."

John coughed again, but it sounded less defiant this time and more defeated. "You...go...then…."

If the situation had been any less dire, Rodney might have laughed. John wanted him to join a firefight? How did John think that was going to help? But John was clearly worried and desperate, which Rodney completely understood. Rodney could hear the gunshots outside, along with occasional grunts of pain or shouts in voices that he recognized. It painted the sketchy beginnings of a picture that was frankly rather terrifying. It was impossible to tell whether or not his friends were winning, and there was a chance that at any moment, someone could shoot through the door.

But that wasn't Rodney's most pressing concern. "I can't leave you," he whispered, not entirely sure if John could even hear him over the sound of his own labored breathing. "You'll die."

John slumped backwards, not getting enough air but too weak to even pretend to hold himself up. He tilted his head slightly and looked at Rodney desperately - Rodney could tell he wanted to say more, but couldn't draw enough breath to form words.

Rodney realized, suddenly, that John's lips were turning blue. A pit of horror grew in his stomach. John was dying, really and truly, not in some indeterminate future but now. He needed more medical assistance than Rodney could give him to survive the next few minutes, and he needed the poisoned shrapnel removed from his shoulder. If he didn't get that, he...he was going to die in Rodney's arms.

Rodney tapped his comms on again and screamed into the open channel. "I don't know who can hear me," he yelled, "but I need Keller in here now!"

"Rodney, we are trying to make it safe!" That was Teyla's breathless, panicked-sounding voice. "We are-"

"He can't breathe!" Rodney yelled, sure they must not understand. "He'll be dead by the time you're here."

He heard a sharp intake of breath. The comms clicked off. There was another volley of gunshots, and Rodney recognized the distinctive sound of Ronon's gun again.

Then, silence.

"I'm getting Keller!" Ronon yelled through Rodney's door. "They're all dead."

A second later, he heard small hands pounding on his door. "Rodney, they damaged the lock!" Keller yelled. "You need to let me in!"

Even knowing John was about to receive medical attention, it was hard to leave him. But Rodney carefully eased him backwards onto the pillows, wincing when the wheezing instantly got worse. He ran to his door and threw it open, and before he had time to even process what he was seeing, his room was suddenly buzzing with people.

Rodney was pushed back, against the wall, as Keller shoved past him towards the bed. Rodney took a half-step forward as John struggled for breath, but he checked himself as Keller began bustling around him. As much as Rodney wanted to stay near Sheppard, he would just be getting in the way. He'd wanted Keller in here, and now he had to let her do her job.

"What's wrong with him?" Ronon demanded, leaning over John and obscuring him from Rodney's view. "Sheppard? You okay?"

"His fever's too high," Keller muttered anxiously. "We have to move him. Now. Get him upright-"

The machines by John's bed began beeping insistently, and at first Rodney assumed that Keller had just disconnected the wires, but from Teyla's sharp intake of breath, that wasn't the case.

"Sheppard?" Rodney couldn't stop himself from starting forward, now.

"Oh god, he's not breathing," Keller whispered. "Ronon, pick him up. The gurney's in the hallway, we have to go now."

Ronon scooped John into his arms and left the room at a dead sprint. Rodney's question - Will he be okay? - died on his lips as Keller followed. John...John would be okay, he had to be, there was no way they'd gone through this terrible week for nothing. He was always okay.

Numbly, Rodney began to follow. He grabbed the first thing that came to hand, one of John's comic books, and brought it with him. If he had this, if he brought something to entertain Sheppard when he woke up, then he would have to wake up. Nothing else would make sense.

Rodney clutched the comic in his fist, and watched as John left his room for the first time in a week.

John hadn't been in Rodney's room since the surgery, so it was a little strange to be back. He didn't remember much of the last day of his stay, but from the way everyone had talked about it, it had been a very close call. The last time he'd been here, he had almost died.

John had thought he might have to wait in the hallway - Mckay sometimes took a while to answer his door, depending on what he was doing. But instead, it had only taken about ten seconds for the door to swing open, which was a relief, because John was pretty uncomfortable with a crutch tucked under his good arm, his other arm in a sling.

John would have thought that after a week stuck in Rodney's room, he would have liked nothing better than to get a little distance. But as it turned out, he missed Rodney. He knew the scientist had come by to visit him in the infirmary, but even after Keller had removed the poisoned shrapnel from his shoulder, it had taken quite a while for John's body to fight off the infection. Most of the past few weeks was a blur of drugs and pain and half-sleep, and he remembered Rodney's presence without really recording anything specific.

"Hey," Rodney said, gesturing towards the bed. He looked a little alarmed, and John understood why.

"You can say it," John said. "I look like hell."

He'd only been let out of the infirmary that morning, and he knew he looked pale and thin and fragile. His leg was in a walking cast, and he had a crutch tucked under his arm to take some of the weight off it. He really probably should have two crutches, but that was impossible because his injured shoulder was still in a complicated-looking sling.

Keller had suggested a wheelchair, but John had resoundingly refused.

"You do look like hell," Rodney conceded. "Are you sure you're supposed to be up and about just yet?"

"Keller gave me permission," John said with an accidental shrug that sent a bolt of pain through his arm. "I'm just here to return this."

He held out his hand, which contained the sweatshirt that Rodney had lent John when he was sick.

"Oh this, thanks," Rodney said. "I forgot I gave you this."

Rodney looked like he possibly expected John to leave, but John didn't want to. The sweatshirt hadn't really been his reasoning for visiting Rodney, instead, it was more of an excuse. He couldn't go on missions yet, probably wouldn't be able to for a while. But bothering Rodney while he was trying to do work - that was the next best thing.

He plopped himself down on Rodney's bed. "See you washed the sheets," he said.

"I replaced them," he said with a grimace. "Even Dr. Keller's super high-powered cleaning solution couldn't get all the blood and stuff out."

"Ew," John said.

"I'll say. Now I have to sleep on this bed knowing your...bodily fluids were all over it, but, well, at least it's better than sleeping in a cot, and hey, it's probably better than sleeping in the infirmary too, all that...beeping and stuff…."

John pulled a face - they'd both spent enough time in the infirmary to know how hard it was to get a good night's sleep there. John was exhausted, and he thought that once he was finished talking to Rodney, he would probably go back to his own room for a nap.

"Oh!" Rodney said excitedly. "Did you hear about who ended up being the assassin?"

John shook his head. He'd asked Keller, once he'd been aware enough to process information, but she'd said that Rodney had wanted to tell him and she didn't really understand the whole thing much herself anyways.

"All of them," Rodney said dramatically. "All of our suspects. We got it right."

"They were working together?" John asked, the thrill cutting through his exhaustion. "All of them?"

Rodney nodded, looking very smug. John shot a glance towards where the board had been, but sometime in the past few weeks, Rodney must have taken it down.

"Oh, don't worry, I have pictures," Rodney said proudly. "I made sure to get the proper proof, before I took everything down. Sam…well, Sam's been very busy sorting out what to do about the Jorians, and she wasn't as vocal as she could have been. But she's very impressed. Deep down."

"She should be," John agreed. "Really."

"Exactly. We solved the whole thing, without talking to any of them, and you were high as a kite most of the time."

"Sherlock and Watson," John said, thinking of the half-remembered movie they'd watched while attempting to solve the crime.

"I suppose I do make a good Sherlock, don't I?" Rodney muttered.

John frowned at him. "Why do you get to be Sherlock?"

"I - I am a genius," Rodney sputtered.

John swallowed a smile and risked a one-armed shrug. "Me too."

"Watson is sometimes considered to be very intelligent too, you know," Rodney mumbled, then, somewhat surprisingly, backed down. "Fine, fine, you can be Sherlock. But only because you almost died."

John graced Rodney with a smile and shifted to a more comfortable position on Rodney's bed. "So, what else did I miss?"

Rodney brightened. "Speaking of you almost dying, guess what Ronon did."

John could not even begin to guess what the Satedan might have done, and he said as much. Rodney made a sort of undignified snort that John thought might be a giggle, and sat down in his desk chair.

"He actually tried telling people that you rose from the dead."

"I thought all of Atlantis knew I was alive."

Rodney giggled again, nodding. "Exactly. That was the best part, watching Carter's face when Ronon tried to make an unauthorized announcement to the Marines."

John could only imagine. "I'm sorry I missed it," he said.

"Me too," Rodney said quietly. There was silence for a moment, and then Rodney stood up awkwardly, fiddling with his laptop.

"Want to, uhh, watch a movie or something?"

John had been planning on sleeping, but that could wait. He had a horrible feeling that over the next few weeks, he'd be doing a lot of sleeping and not much else.

"Sure. Maybe something with zombies. In honor of Ronon."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Or ridiculously indestructible pilots."

"Or brilliant detectives."

Rodney glared at him, dropping the laptop on the bed. "I didn't miss you, you know."

"I know," John said smugly, knowing full well that Rodney meant exactly the opposite. "C'mon. Let's watch the movie."