Time Immemorial
Chapter 37: Divine Intervention
July 17th
2015 Hours
"All right, he's as stable as he's goin' to get. Set him up on a standard post-op saline, morphine, and Cefotetan drip. Continue to monitor him closely and call me if anythin' changes."
"How's he doing?" Elizabeth asked, jumping to her feet.
A hospital bed carrying an unconscious Major Sheppard was wheeled into view. Dr. Beckett and Dr. Cole trailed, pushing medical equipment and an IV pole. They weaved through the crowd of patients, RNs, stretchers, and supplies, all crammed into every nook and cranny of the infirmary.
Carson wiped the sweat from his brow, weary, and ran his hand across his crumpled blue surgeon's smock. After a grueling eight-hour surgery, he was exhausted. He was momentarily surprised by the sight of them all — Elizabeth, Teyla, and Rodney — but he should have known better. Of course they had remained through the surgery. They huddled around him, eager for news.
"I winna sugar coat anythin'," he explained with a reluctant sigh. "His injuries were extensive. The blade ran him straight through. He lost a lot of blood. I repaired all of the internal damage and sewed up the entry and exit wounds, but a tough road still lies ahead."
"Is he going to make it?" McKay asked, his face as white as a sheet.
Beckett looked to his shoes. Even after years of practice, delivering difficult news to family and friends was something with which he still he struggled. "I honestly canna say. With the trauma he sustained, the major shouldn't even be where he is now; that alone is a wonder I canna explain. The only thing we can do now is wait and pray."
"I'd like to stay with him," Elizabeth said.
"I thought you'd might. I'll do you one better." He walked over and patted the empty gurney next to Sheppard's. "Your very own one day and one night, all-expenses paid stay at the infirmary."
"That won't be necessary, Carson—"
"Oh, no, I wasn't askin'. I'll hear no protests from the until recently dearly departed Dr. Weir. Now come, up you go."
"There are still plenty of frightened and confused people scattered across the City. I need to start coordinating the recovery efforts—"
"Dinna make me pull medical rank, Elizabeth."
Sighing in defeat, Elizabeth blinked several times to keep herself awake. Maybe a quick reprieve wouldn't be such a terrible thing. "Fine. Teyla, can I ask you to make sure all our personnel are accounted for? See to it that no one's trapped or cut off, that the injured are taken care of, and that we can say with absolute confidence there are no more Lacedami or Wraith left on this base."
"Of course," Teyla responded.
"As power allows, take a scan with our long range sensors. Make sure there are no other uninvited guests headed our way."
"Yes, Dr. Weir."
"And under no circumstance does the shield get lowered—"
"Dr. Weir," Teyla interrupted tactfully. "It will be done. You must focus on resting and healing. We can survive one day without you."
Elizabeth reddened, embarrassed. "Of course," she said apologetically. Reluctantly she crawled up onto the bed. It felt good to be off her feet.
"As for the rest of you," Beckett said, "out you go. Go on, out, out."
"Wait, wait, wait," Rodney exclaimed. "There are two people who should be dead, alive in your infirmary, Carson."
"Typically that's what us doctors strive for, Rodney, " Dr. Beckett replied dryly. He retrieved a thermometer from a nearby kit and placed it under Elizabeth's tongue.
"Yes, yes, but there must be some sort of medical explanation for what happened. You said it yourself: it shouldn't be possible—"
"No, it shouldn't be, but explanations are goin' to have to wait!" Beckett snapped. "Right now I'm busy tryin' to ensure Major Sheppard and three other people dinna succumb to their wounds. Now if I was in my right mind right, I'd threaten you all with examinations and keep you overnight for observation, but I quite simply dinna have the capacity nor the time. So until then, please leave!"
McKay stood staring at the Scot, dumbfounded. Never had he heard such rancor in his friend's voice.
"Come, Rodney," Teyla beckoned quietly, tugging on his arm. The two left the infirmary.
"How are you holding up, Carson?" Elizabeth queried cannily once they had gone.
"I feel like a dog's breakfast," he grumbled.
She nodded questioningly at his arm.
Beckett looked down and noticed the tiny needle still embedded into his forearm, a small run of clear tubing dangling loosely against his skin. "Bloody hell," he muttered, pulling the needle out and pasting a bandaid over the incision.
"How long has it been since you've gotten any rest?" Elizabeth asked.
"As long as anyone else, I suppose." He rubbed his tired eyes as he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her right arm.
"Promise me you'll at least grab a few hours of sleep tonight."
"We'll see how my patients are doin—"
"Promise me. Don't make me pull rank."
Carson smiled wryly. "Very well, I promise." Removing a penlight from his lab coat pocket, he shined it in each of Elizabeth's eyes, one at a time.
"That was really something you did for Sheppard."
The doctor tried to brush off the compliment. "You dinna have to thank me, dear. It's all part of the job."
"Carson, I've never seen a doctor perform surgery — a minor miracle in of itself — while donating blood from his own arm. Quite frankly, I don't know how you're still standing."
"Major Sheppard is blood type B-, but my supplies had already been expended, what with all the fightin' and all. I'm O-, the universal donor type and the only one on this base. It only made sense. Now take a deep breath in and hold it," he indicated, placing his stethoscope to her back.
"All the same, it was very selfless of you. Thank you."
"After he's back to his normal cheeky self, you can decide then whether or not you want to thank me. Now breathe out." She did as she was commanded, once, then twice.
Letting the stethoscope hang around his neck, Carson fell into the silence of the rest of the infirmary. Though it was over capacity with injured marines and civilians alike, most by now had been stabilized. The commotion of hours ago had died down, leaving only the humming of machinery and the occasional footfalls of the medical team. For the first time in 36 hours, he allowed himself to breathe easy.
"I'm sorry I put up such a fight in the morgue," he muttered sheepishly, cleaning and dressing the lambda gash carved into her shoulder.
"You had every right. I'm sure I sounded a little…."
"Irrational? Aye, a little. But irrational or not, it turns out you were right."
Elizabeth's eyes fell on John's unconscious form. "Well, that remains to be seen."
As he placed the last piece of surgical tape over the dressing, Beckett noted how her eyes had unfocused, lost in thought. He couldn't even imagine the feelings churning inside her. He attempted to bring her back to the present.
"Blood pressure is normal; no signs of a concussion. You've got few bumps and bruises, as I'm sure you're well aware. Your temperature and pulse are slightly elevated, but nothin' too worrisome. I'll start you on fluids, but first I'd like to put you under the scanner and run some more tests."
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to save that for tomorrow," Elizabeth apologized. She looked away, but her eyes landed on John again. "I'm… just having a little trouble processing everything that's happened, and I… I need some time to absorb it all."
Noticing her quaking hands, Carson took them in his own. He'd forgotten how good she was at hiding her emotions, but some things not even the most unflappable of leaders could suppress. "He's goin' to make it, Elizabeth. He's been in bad situations before."
"Not like this."
"No," he sighed, "this one's new, I'll give you that. But if there's anyone who could pull through after an ordeal like that, it's him."
She nodded tightly, unconvinced.
Carson squeezed her hands in support. "Why dinna you try and get some sleep, love? We'll pick this up in the morning."
"Thank you, Carson."
"You're quite welcome," the Scot said with a sympathetic smile. "I suppose I have to go apologize to Rodney now. Call me if you need anything."
With a long exhale, Elizabeth leaned back onto the bed and shut her eyes. She tossed and turned, but the events of the last day played on the back of her eyelids like a movie projected onto a screen. She resigned herself to the fact that sleep would be eluding her tonight.
Elizabeth rolled to face John on the stretcher next to hers. A cocktail of medications she didn't recognize pumped into his left arm, while much needed blood was fed into his right. An oxygen mask was strapped over his nose and mouth, doing little to obscure lacerations along his jaw. The electrodes of an EKG were adhered to his chest; a pulse and blood pressure cuff were secured to his finger and wrist, respectively. Each sensor was tied to its own display via one or more wires, giving Elizabeth the sense that John was more machine than man, like some cursed Borg or android.
Over the course of the night, she watched as nurses checked over his vital signs very 30 minutes or so, her own every several hours. She politely waved away their continued attempts to make her more comfortable. Here was John, fighting for his life — no, she didn't need an extra pillow or a glass of water, dammit. She had done this to him; this was her fault. Why should she be treated like a queen while John walked the razor's edge between life and death?
As the night wore on, Elizabeth continued to stare at his wan face, the consequences of her poor decisions staring right back at her. She prayed that whatever luck the man lived by was strong enough to overcome her own failings as a leader.
Just 19th
1920 Hours
The rhythmic bleating of a machine pulled John from the depths of unconsciousness like an alarm clock. It was joined in chorus by its brethren, the soft beeping of multiple health monitors pulling him from his slumber.
John's eyes fluttered half open. An IV. Nurses. Hospital beds. He was in Atlantis' infirmary.
For several heartbeats — yes, his heart was beating — the major let the haze clear. He pushed to his elbow, the motion causing a muffled mmff of pain to escape his lips. The sound didn't go unnoticed.
"Easy now, easy," a heavily accented voice cautioned. Carson rushed over to help Sheppard up, supporting his weight as he shifted to a seated position on the cot.
"Can you hear me all right?" the doctor asked, shining a light into his pupils. "How are you feelin'?"
"Like I just went ten rounds with Mike Tyson," John rasped, his voice nearly gone. He squinted against the brightness, breathing heavily from the exertion.
The droll answer seemed to assuage the doctor. "Welcome back, Major," Beckett said sincerely, placing a supportive hand on his patient's shoulder. "I think I speak for the entirety of this city when I say: it's good to have you back."
John gratefully accepted a cup of water from a nearby nurse and downed it like a fish as Carson read through his charts. "Did I go somewhere?"
Beckett looked up from his tablet. "Aye, you very well did. You dinna remember?"
"Remember, sort of. Understand… not so much."
"To be honest, I'm not certain any of us understands it. We'll worry about that later, you just focus on gettin' your wits about you."
Steadying his spinning head with a hand, the major had no problem understanding the Scot's brogue, but his words came through slow and warped. He struggled to focus. "How long was I out?"
"Surprisingly, only two days."
"Atlantis?" John asked.
"Still standing, an' in one piece even, minus a couple of walls an' ceilings."
"Elizabeth?" He remembered holding her tight, the scent of her hair in his nostrils, the softness of her skin against his. She had been alive. He suddenly panicked. Please, God, tell me it wasn't a dream.
"She's doin' quite well. She was released yesterday morning. Other than twice daily checkups—"
"Sheppard!" came a gleeful shout from the infirmary's entrance. McKay, wearing an enthusiastic grin, bounced in with Teyla and Ford on his heels. They made straight for his bed, eyes wide with delight.
"I hope you dinna mind," Carson apologized as they entered. "They're never too far away and they demanded under pain of death that they be notified as soon as you awoke. If you're not up for visitors—"
"No, no," Sheppard quelled the doctor's misgivings. He took in the sight of his team, alive and well, and his heart swelled. "I can't think of a better medicine." Suddenly self-conscious, he attempted to sit taller atop the thin mattress, straightening his hospital gown and blanket. He cleared his throat.
"Captain," John greeted Aiden, relief lacing his hoarse voice. "It's good to see you alive and well."
"Yes, sir," Ford answered, shaking his CO's outstretched hand, "but I think we can all say it's better to see you the same."
"Last time I saw you you took a Wraith blast to the chest. I thought you were a goner."
"Saw me, sir?"
"In the mess hall, during the attack."
Ford looked to his peers, perplexed. "Right, but you weren't…." Carson dissuaded that line of conversation with a subtle shake of his head. He didn't understand the comment either, but he didn't want to overwhelm his patient.
Teyla caught on and stepped in, ever tactful. "Captain Ford was very fortunate, as were we all."
"Is that a scratch I see?" John teased the Athosian. "You're slipping, Emmagan."
"You may tell that to the fourteen Wraith I dispatched," she answered with a wry smirk. "How are you feeling?"
John looked at his friends, crowded around his cot. "Like I just had the strangest dream… and you were there, and you were there, and you were there…."
"Har har, very funny, Dorothy," Rodney scoffed, feigning resentment.
"Rodney," John addressed the scientist, extending his hand sincerely. "I see you managed to save the day. Again."
Clearing his throat bashfully, he clasped John's hand. He studied his teammate: the oxygen tube in his nose, the bags of meds being fed intravenously into his arm, the cuts and bruises. "You look… good."
"Thanks for lying."
"Well, what are friends for."
"Actually, I feel pretty good. Must be one powerful cocktail you've got me on, Beckett."
"You are healin' quite well," Carson confirmed. He made that inquisitive hmmm noise all doctors somehow knew. "Abnormally well, considering."
"Considering…?"
"It is a long story, as you say," Teyla interjected deftly.
"I don't know about you," John said, "but I've got the time."
Teyla glanced sidelong at Beckett. It seems they would not be tiptoeing around the subject after all. "Major Sheppard, what exactly do you remember after retrieving the ZPM?"
"I took a Lacedami blade to the gut," the pilot answered, seeing no need to beat around the bush. Even as he said the words his abdomen ached. "The next thing I know I'm standing over myself in the morgue, feeling perfectly normal. I spent the next hour running around Atlantis, trying to make sense of it all, trying to help defend against the attack."
The Athosian's brow arched in surprise, but she remained silent. She could not be the one to deliver the news; she did not know how. She looked to Carson.
The doctor shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Major, I dinna know how to say this delicately, but… you died."
John's eyes scanned their faces, trying to ascertain if they were pulling his leg. Their sober expressions indicated they weren't. "No, no, I was there," he refuted, shaking his head. "I saw the shield go up. I saw a Dart get taken down by a howitzer. Christ, I was even there in the mess hall when the Darts decided to go ballistic against the shield, and when all three cruisers opened fire from orbit."
"Sir, you weren't in the mess hall," Ford broached delicately. "I hauled your body to the morgue myself."
Again, John shook his head in disbelief. It didn't add up.
"Do you recall anything after the events in the mess hall?" It was Teyla again, cautiously moving them forward.
Thinking carefully, the major put himself back in the cafeteria, seeing in his mind's eye his marines fall like dominos to the invading Wraith. He cleared his throat, tense. "I remember feeling frustrated, furious that we were getting our asses kicked and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I thought: wouldn't it be something if the Wraith and Lacedami were just suddenly gone, destroyed? If, somehow, we could take back the City? Then, after feeling like I stuck my tongue in an electrical socket a few times, I was back in the morgue with you guys." He looked to the others for a response.
Four faces simply stared back at him, eyes wide in disbelief.
"What? What'd I say?"
"The Wraith and the Lacedami were all destroyed, pretty much all at once," Ford said, finding his voice. "No one can explain it. There was a flash of bright white light that whizzed through the City before it shot up into the sky. The next thing we knew, Lacedami and Wraith soldiers were dropping to the floor, dead. The three Wraith cruisers exploded in orbit. The debris burned up in the atmosphere. Our guys were all okay."
John's forehead scrunched in incredulity. "And you're saying I did that?"
"Chaya Sar, the lady we met on Proculus, did the same thing," Ford offered.
"You mean Athar, the Ancient lady we met on Proculus," Sheppard corrected. "Ford, a lot's happened in the last few days, but my last blood test came back negative for Ancient."
"Yes, sir," Ford said sheepishly.
Suddenly John snapped his fingers in revelation. "The Ancient ascension device. I remember waking up in the morgue with it plastered to my chest. Rodney, tell me you used that thing on me."
"I tried, but…." Rodney met his gaze, apologetic. "I recovered the device yesterday and ran a few diagnostics. It's still broke, the interface still out of whack. There's no way I could have activated it."
Stifling a laugh, John assumed this was one of those rare times McKay was being humble. "I walked right through a Wraith, Corporal Kirkland, and Doctor Perrot. Someone must have done something to me."
"I'm telling you, it wasn't me—"
"Lume," Teyla interrupted. All eyes turned to her for an explanation. "Lume, the Ancient word for 'light', like that which fell the Wraith and Lacedami two days ago. According to Dr. Perrot, the word also described the device's power in Earth's historic texts. That power aided the Athenians in their victories over the Spartans, though it was, at the time, attributed to the power of the gods. It was worshipped."
"Like Athar, the Ancient lady we met on Proculus," Ford repeated confidently. "Ancients were worshipped as gods for their powers in both galaxies, right? No wonder Commander Antigonos was so eager to get his hands on the device. With the power to destroy entire armies?"
"Wait a second," Sheppard interjected. "Ascended Ancients were worshipped for their godlike powers. Athar was an ascended Ancient. Not only am I pretty sure that I'm not Ancient, I'm pretty sure I have never ascended."
"You did die, sir," Ford said. "That's usually step one in ascending."
Teyla shook her head, disagreeing. "The intent of the device, as I understand it, is to imbue the wearer with the powers of the ascended ancestors, without the need for death."
"See" John decided. "Not dead."
"You bled out on the floor of the hallway, right next to me, of that I am quite certain," Rodney insisted, his eyes dark. "Please don't argue with me — that is not a memory I care to revisit. I never fixed the device, okay? I never fixed it and you died!"
His words sucked the air out of the entire room. Hearing the anguish in his voice, John felt an immediate pang of remorse. "I'm sorry, McKay," he muttered.
"Just… don't go doing it again," the Canadian replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Deal," John agreed, clapping his friend on the arm. He ran his hands through his unkempt hair in vexation. "Death or ascension, death and ascension… I don't know, this all sounds impossible."
"Dying's not the impossible part," Beckett assured, "bringin' you back was." Seeing the puzzled look from Sheppard, he explained. "When you died it shocked us all, Major. You are one stubborn fellow; I dinna think Death had the patience. But via the ascension device or not, someone on the other side must have liked you enough to send you back to us."
"Now we're talking divine intervention?"
"Divine intervention, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, who can say for certain. Perhaps the Ascended sent you back as punishment for helping us mortals. All I know is that your body lied lifeless in the morgue for some two hours after suffering massive blood loss. As much as I would like to credit for performin' a daring feat of medical heroism, there is no bloody way my defibrillation should have resuscitated you. You canna fix a leaky pipe by jump startin' it."
John remembered the debilitating jolts of electricity that had sent him to his knees. "Like sticking my tongue in an electrical socket…." It had been the defibrillator. The pieces were starting to fall into place.
"But against all odds — again — you came back," Carson continued. "That shouldn't have surprised me, knowin' you, but.…" The doctor glanced at his shoes ruefully before meeting John's gaze straight on. "You were in quite a bad state, Major. I dinna think you would make it this time."
Letting out a shaky breath, the pilot felt the gravity his situation finally sink in. "Divine intervention or not, Carson, something tells me that if it weren't for you I wouldn't be sitting here. Thank you."
"You're welcome," was the earnest response. "But I'm not the one you need to thank. Dr. Weir wouldn't give up on you."
"Where is she?"
The team exchanged glances, like they were privy to something John was not. It didn't escape his notice.
"Oh, overworkin' herself already, I imagine," Beckett tried to cover.
"She wanted to come," Teyla added apologetically, "but…."
"I see," John said quickly, sparing Teyla any further awkwardness. "She's... probably got a lot on her plate."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. They all shared the same thought: Elizabeth should have been there, but she was just too mortified at her hand in John's death that she couldn't bear to face him.
Carson cleared his throat before his patient could feel any more publicly pitied. "All right, shoo, all of you. Visitin' hours are over. You can return to see him tomorrow."
"Don't forget to punch his frequent patient card, Carson," Rodney said drolly as he turned to leave. A hint of a smile indicated his normal self was still down there somewhere, beginning to burn through they layer of remorse.
Nearly at the door, Aiden called over his shoulder, "What was it like coming back to life, sir?"
John shrugged, having long given up on logic and reason. "Like I rode a bolt of lightning back into the world."
Aiden smiled. "Cool."
John didn't remember it feeling particularly 'cool' at the time. He tossed Teyla, Rodney, and Ford a wave as they exited the infirmary. Though he'd last seen them only two days prior, it had felt like an eternity. It was good to see them again.
"A lot to take in, I imagine," Carson sympathized once the trio had left.
"Yeah, no kidding," Sheppard said with a sigh. He suddenly felt displaced, off kilter. "It's not every day you get to come back from the dead."
"Especially given the injuries you sustained. Are you ready for the tally?"
"Hit me, Doc."
"Fatal exsanguination, one perforated appendix, one perforated spleen, one concussion, one broken nose, two broken ribs, one cauterized bullet wound, one rather fanciful epidermal laceration, and more scrapes and cruises than I can count."
"Don't forget the partridge in a pear tree."
"Aye, and this Christmas your gift to me can be your promise to stop comin' to my infirmary," the doctor said cheekily. "Now you understand why I canna take credit for your recovery. To put it bluntly, you shouldn't have survived."
"And what about Elizabeth? She wasn't wearing an ascension device."
"No," Carson said, frowning. "She wasn't. I'll have to put some more thought into that one." He changed his patient's bandage. "She has been in and out to check on you, you know, while you were unconscious. She's not taken it very well, what happened to you. I'm no psychologist, but I think she harbors quite a bit of guilt over it."
"Guilt?" John questioned. "It wasn't her fault."
"Be sure to tell her that when you see her next. I've tried, believe me."
John suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to see her. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, gingerly testing out the strength of his muscles. "Does that mean I'm free to go?"
"Sit back down," the Scot admonished. "I still need to run some more tests, and your body still needs some time. You may have risen from the dead, but dinna go thinkin' you can walk on water just yet."
"Right," the major said with a resigned sigh. The motion, as minimal as it had been, had made that abundantly clear. "I get the distinct impression she doesn't want to see me, anyway."
"Well, she's got a lot to process."
"You're telling me. Speaking of which, can you hand me that tablet?" John asked, motioning to a shared expedition laptop.
Beckett frowned. "Surely you're not thinkin' about workin' now?"
"If you're going to keep me locked up for days without even the courtesy of the standard doctor's office magazine selection, what else am I supposed to do for entertainment? Unless you want to send me back into a coma, I'm going to start my mission report."
"I dinna think it's a good idea for you to be dwellin' on the incident, Major, especially not in your current state."
All hint of sarcasm and levity left John's voice as he said, "I'll be dwelling on it for the rest of my life, Carson. The least I can do for the program is write my report while it's fresh in my memory."
Beckett' shoulders slumped in defeat. "If that's what you want," he acquiesced, fetching the tablet.
Opening the computer's word processor, Sheppard tapped at the keys swiftly, determined to suppress the images Elizabeth that surfaced as he wrote.
TBC
