Time Immemorial

Chapter 41: Doctor's Orders

July 23rd
0712 Hours

Aiden easily kept pace with his CO as they passed the gym for a third time. The marine had insisted on joining Sheppard on his morning run, his first since extensive surgery only six days prior. While he was healing remarkably well, it wasn't the pilot's physical shape that concerned him most.

In fact, it was concern for John's psychological state that had prompted Rodney of all people to join them, clad in an old Superman t-shirt and running shorts that Aiden theorized must have been borrowed. But after a quarter mile, the scientist had dropped out, wheezing profusely and complaining of a foot cramp. Still, Ford respected the man for trying.

After their third trip around the one mile circuit, the pair pulled out onto a balcony for their first scheduled rest break. John stopped the timer on his watch, grimacing at the result. He shook his head as he braced his hands his on knees and gasped for air.

Ford had barely broken a sweat. He tried not to let it show. He squirted some water into his mouth before offering the bottle to Sheppard. John dismissed the offer with an indignant wave. Shrugging, the captain waited for him to recover and cranked the volume up on his iPod.

Thankful for the cool breeze, John leaned heavily on the balcony railing. He could feel his calf muscles tightening already. Soon they'd feel like cement blocks, he knew. "Son of a bitch," he groused, kicking halfheartedly the rail's base. He cursed his frailty.

Turning, he heard Ford mumbling something under his breath, his head bobbing to his music:

"This here's a tale for all the fellas
Try to do what those ladies tell us
Get shot down 'cause ya over-zealous
Play hard to get, females get jealous—"

"Knock that off, Ford, and put that thing away," John chastised. "Any other CO would have your ass for listening to that while on the clock."

"Yes, sir," Ford muttered sheepishly, tearing his earphones out. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"Besides," John continued churlishly, "were you even born yet when that song came out?"

"No, sir." The young officer eyed the major from head to toe. "Major, if I may… are you doing okay? You're going pretty hard on yourself."

"This is just what it looks like when you're 35, Ford. Enjoy your twenties while you can."

"Yes, sir, but that's not what I mean."

"Spit it out," John ordered, sensing Aiden's hesitance.

"You and Dr. Weir have always been close. Lately, that seems… different."

John was careful not to make eye contact. "Things change, Captain."

"Yes, sir." Another pause. "You know, when my mom and dad use to fight—"

"Okay, stop right there. Now you're really making me feel old."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"And stop saying that."

"Yes, sir — I mean, yes, Major. I apologize if I was out of line. But if I can say one last thing?" Aiden recognized that his CO was done with the conversation, but he wasn't. He summoned his inner courage, stood tall, and silently dared his superior officer to charge him with insubordination for telling him what he needed to hear.

Sheppard sighed. "What is it, Captain?"

"Suck it up and go talk to her. Sir."

John watched the captain run off, continuing down their circuit, their break time apparently over. He had every intention of following. He'd catch up with that twerp and gently remind him what the phrase 'chain of command' meant. Spotting a crimson stain on his gray Air Force shirt, though, he was forced to reconsider. He lifted his shirt. Two of the sutures on his abdomen had torn, discharging a small but steady trickle of blood.

"Great," John muttered to himself. "Just great."

Five minutes and a transporter ride later, he was in the infirmary. He sank heavily onto the nearest hospital bed, bringing with him a clear agitation that upset the calm of the room.

"Dear Lord, what have you gone and done to yourself now?" Carson chastised, noting the blood-stained clothes. Calling for the nurse to finish up with his current patient, the doctor crossed over to John and lifted his shirt. "And may I ask how a recently released patient who is supposed to be takin' it easy manages to tear out his stitches?"

"Running."

"Runnin'," Beckett repeated disapprovingly. "I'm beginnin' to think our problem here is not one of disobedience, but rather a fundamental misunderstandin' of the phrase 'takin' it easy'."

"Look, Doc, I'm not really in the mood to be scolded. Can you just patch me up so I can get out of here?"

"Aye," the Scot obliged, sensing the major's rancor. He gathered the necessary supplies. "Just sit back, relax, an' I'll have us both out of here in time for Elizabeth's 0800 meetin'. Off with your shirt, now."

John's shoulders slumped at the mention of the meeting. He groaned and sank into the cot.

"Forget about the meetin', did you?" Beckett asked as he cleaned the wound.

"No, Beckett, I didn't forget."

"Not lookin' forward to it, then."

"You could say that." Though she hadn't outright confessed to the meeting's agenda, John knew what she sought from her team leads. Just thinking about it agitated him, his muscles already tensing for the fight.

"I see," was all that Carson said.

John rolled his eyes. "Come on, don't pull that all-knowing doctor bullshit on me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," was the dry reply as Beckett deftly inserted a needle and its attached length of thread into Sheppard's skin… using a little more force than was necessary.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, trying not to jump in pain.

"This may pinch a bit."

John glowered at the man. Accepting the poke for what it was — a justified retort to his unwarranted animosity — he was content to let the surgeon work without further provocation.

"Major," Carson said unhurriedly, keeping his eyes on his work, "you may not want to be here right now — dinna worry, I dinna take offense. But you're in my infirmary — through your own doin', might I add — which means that like it or not, you're goin' to listen to what I have to say until I either run out of things to talk about, or until the last suture's knot is tied. As Scotsman, I can assure it winna be the former. Understand?"

John nodded, regretting his prior hostility.

"Good. Now, it is both my professional medical opinion and my opinion as your friend that you and Elizabeth have to work through whatever bitterness has developed between you. It's taken a toll on you, mentally and now physically," he said, nodding towards the sutures. "And while your personal business is your own, the wellbeing of my patients and colleagues is mine, so dinna go criticizin' me for carin'."

"I won't," John said drolly. "You're the armed one."

"Aye," Carson agreed, regarding the needle. "Have you talked to her?"

"Did Ford get to you, too?" John sighed. "I've tried, a couple times, but she's shutting me out."

"Oh?"

"Then there's this whole IOA thing. She's afraid of them, I can see it in her eyes. It's like she wants to hoist the white flag now and surrender before they even show up, but I've never seen her back down from a fight. I don't get it."

"Maybe she's afraid of what it'll mean for you."

John looked the the doctor seated on the stool beside him. "What do you mean?"

Carson shrugged. "When the Daedalus and its crew land here tomorrow, you'll no longer be Atlantis' rankin' military officer. After they arrive, it'll be quite easy for the IOA to simply keep that newcomer in charge, a person, by the way, who has had the IOA's ear for four days straight with naught else to do on that ship but promote that very line of thinkin'."

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "What, so you're saying that by throwing herself on her sword instead, she appeases the IOA enough to keep me off the chopping block, too?"

"It does seem very much like an Elizabeth thing to do."

John sighed and rubbed his face in exasperation. "Goddammit, Elizabeth…."

"Dinna act so surprised. You're important to her. You keep her grounded."

"It's more the other way around," John muttered truthfully. He reflected on Carson's suspicions. "It's a stupid idea. She has no idea what the IOA is thinking, about her, me, or any of this. She had a gut reaction and is turning it into a piss poor plan."

"I hate to say it, Major, but she knows the IOA. I'd trust her feelin' on this one."

"Still, that's an awful lot for her to bet with and some pretty long odds."

"A proclivity you both share," Beckett said with a wink. "Besides, and this is only my personal opinion, but I think she feels that through this she can atone for what happened to you."

"All the decisions that ended with me in the morgue were my own. No one else gets the blame for that."

The doctor paused thoughtfully. "Major, six days ago I met a man who let past tragedies define him. I saw what that man looked like after what made him whole was torn from him."

"Commander Antigonos had years—"

"Commander Antigonos isn't who I'm talkin' about."

John scowled, feeling suddenly betrayed. "Why don't you stick to your day job and leave the mind games to Dr. Heightmeyer, Beckett. You're not very good at them."

Throwing his needle and suture thread onto a nearby tray, Carson folded his arms defensively. "I'm not tryin' to be your psychologist, I'm tryin' to be your friend. But since you brought it up, maybe you should see Dr. Heightmeyer. She is here to help, you know."

"Are those doctor's orders?" John challenged.

"If you dinna want to talk to her or me, that's fine, but talk to your other friends at least. You have plenty of them; dinna ever forget that." Beckett reached for his tools, letting the tension subside. He began again, quieter. "All I'm sayin' is that you were in no mental state to bear the burdens of this City alone. We asked a lot of you durin' that time — too much, I fear. And those choices you made that led you to your death — to chase Antigonos through Atlantis on your own, to follow him onto that pier — were motivated by somethin' other than rational thought."

"There was a reason I did what I did."

"Was Elizabeth part of it?"

"She was all of it."

Carson smiled sympathetically. "Your guilt over her death drove your decisions. Now Elizabeth is doing the same. To dismiss her for it would be the pot callin' the kettle black. Understand now?"

John nodded. "I understand. I just don't want her to make a choice that she's going to regret later."

"Speakin' of which, that bit about her fallin' on her sword: is that a fear or a bit of truth?"

"I have a feeling we're all about to find out in a few minutes."

"Then our timing's impeccable," the doctor said, using forceps and scissors to cut the excess thread. "There's the last of it. Your time as my captive audience is mercifully over, as promised."

"Thanks, Beckett," John said gratefully. And he meant for more than just the stitches.

"You're welcome. Listen, mony wirds, muckle drouth; Corporal Kirkland and I are meetin' Dr. Rosenblum tonight for a round of Athosian ale. Dr. Beckett will say drinkin' so soon after surgery isn't good for the body, but Carson insists one round is good for the soul. Care to join us?"

Sheppard didn't have a good excuse. He just didn't feel like socializing. "I'll take a raincheck, Doc."

Carson nodded in empathy. "Consider it a standin' offer. You're free to go, but remember this: you and Elizabeth both have somethin' to live for now, not just somethin' to die for. Make the most of it. And those are doctor's orders."

His words struck a chord, and for the first time all day John felt the ire subside within him. He relished the feeling while it lasted; he knew it wouldn't survive the meeting.


July 23rd
0848 Hours

Corporal Liam Kirkland, Sergeant Dean Bates, and Corporal Vicky LaDage all stood in the Gate Room, methodically sorting through the recovered Lacedami and Wraith weaponry. The loot they had salvaged was bountiful.

LaDage stared dauntingly at the towering pile in front of her. "Remind me where in my contract it mentioned sifting through other people's trash?"

"Trash?" Bates argued. "This is some highly advanced, first-rate tech, Corporal. A lot of Marines back home would kill to get their hands on this stuff."

LaDage plucked a Lacedami pistol from the heap. It had seen better days. Its barrel was a mangled mess of molten slag, its grip sheered in half. She raised an eyebrow at Bates.

"I didn't say it was all first-rate."

"I look at it like this," Kirkland offered. "These are the most Wraith goodies we've ever recovered and the first lot of electrodynamic weapons we've ever seen. The brainiacs are already getting all tingly over it. Our job is to sort the swag from the shit — not a glamorous one, but it's the one we got, and the sooner we're done with it, the sooner we can all go off for some deep sinkers, yeah?"

Bates and LaDage exchanged confused looks before mumbling vague concurrences.

"Besides," Kirkland continued, "you'd rather be up there in the middle of that little chat?"

LaDage followed the corporal's gaze to the conference room above. The askew louver doors offered little privacy. Much of the discussion within had wafted out and down to the Gate Room below. LaDage suspected that might have been the case anyway had the doors been fully closed; it was hardly a conversation and more of a shouting match, with two heavy-hitters delivering most of the blows.

"No thanks," LaDage muttered before resuming her task. "What do you think they'll do, the IOA?"

"That's a decision way above my pay grade," Kirkland replied. "Sometimes I thank god I make shit for wages."

"You're missing my point," shouted a voice from above.

"No, you're missing mine," hissed another.

"Everyone, settle down! There's no point in arguin'," entered a third.

"I heard they're going to gut the organization," said Bates.

LaDage's eyes widened. "From who?"

Bates gave a noncommittal shrug. "Just some of the guys over chow."

"Enlisted men," needled Kirkland with a shake of his head. "Get all of you together in the mess and you gossip like a bunch of old ladies."

LaDage looked between Bates and Kirkland before deciding to ask the sergeant, "So what else did you hear?" The Aussie rolled his eyes.

"Just that Dr. Weir wants to play mea culpa, lay down, and beg for mercy. She figures the less resistance she puts up against the IOA, the better it'll be for the expedition."

"So why the family feud upstairs? What's stopping her?"

"Major Sheppard," Kirkland injected, nodding toward to the room above. Even now, through one of the crippled doors he could see his CO's hands on his hips, his torso bent slightly forward, adversarial. "He wants a chance to defend themselves to the IOA. Personally, I don't think he can stand to lose anyone else, even if it's just to politics."

"Oh."

"I don't get it," Bates continued as he reassembled a Wraith stunner. "Weir's the expedition leader; it's not like she needs his vote."

"No," the sharpshooter explained, "but she doesn't want to do this without his buy-in. Someone's got to convince him. That's why she's brought all the top brass in."

"Yeah?" Bates spied Ford, Teyla, Beckett, and McKay through the openings. "So who's your money on to convince him?"

"Weir," Kirkland said simply.

Bates put down his stunner. "But you just said she brought in all the top—"

"You must be bloody blind, mate. She doesn't need them, she just doesn't know it. She's always had him dialed in."

"You don't think they'll take her side, right?" LaDage asked about the department heads. "I mean, they'll dissuade her, right?"

"I think they'll try. But Dr. Weir is one tough cookie when she wants to be."

Bates grunted without looking up. He'd been on the wrong side of that toughness, more than once.

The three pairs of eyes looked up as the few functioning doors pivoted open. Four of the conference room's occupants departed. They remained silent, but their faces said it all. Teyla looked completely demoralized, while Beckett and Ford exchanged disconcerted glances. McKay's features were scrunched in thought, but LaDage didn't know what that meant; she thought he always looked like that.

LaDage thought the soap opera might at last be over. But she again spotted Dr. Weir through an open gap, pacing the floor combatively. "So who's left in there with her?"

"The other tough cookie," Kirkland answered dryly.

"The IOA will be here tomorrow!" they heard Dr. Weir shout. "We need to present them a united front!"

"If you're asking me to corroborate your guilt, I won't do it, Elizabeth," snapped back another speaker from out of sight. But they needn't have seen him to identify the voice as Major Sheppard's.

The conversation continued in more hushed tones until LaDage saw the major throw up his arms in consternation and storm out. Her eyes trailed him until he was out of sight. She swung back to Dr. Weir, pensively pacing the length of the conference table, now alone and in silence. Abruptly she stopped, sank heavily into a chair, and buried her face in her hands. It was as if whatever tense energy that had fueled her temper had suddenly left her body. She wasn't crying, of that LaDage was confident, but she looked as though she was trying to will away her frustrations. It was a private moment of weakness, and LaDage suddenly felt terrible for intruding upon it.

Corporal LaDage didn't know the woman too well, but in that moment she felt for her.

Then just as quickly as the moment had started, it was over. Dr. Weir righted herself, used her fingers to comb her hair back in place, straightened her collar and exited the room, key decisions certainly awaiting her somewhere. LaDage didn't envy her.

"So," Bates concluded, "I guess that went well?"

TBC