PART 4: OATMEAL

"McKay?" Sheppard ducked into the bathroom he had vacated moments before, scanned it quickly and dove back out. "McKay! Where the hell are you?" In the palm of his hand rested the bee. He clenched it tightly as he moved further down the hallway. "McKay!" he shouted, "Stop screwing around!"

There was no response. The only sound that filled the corridor was the gentle lapping of the ocean beyond the railing. "Oh shit," Sheppard muttered as he turned and leaned over the edge, feeling an odd sense of vertigo that never usually assailed him. "McKay!" he called again, gazing down at the tumbling ocean. Nothing moved on its surface except for the foam. "McKay!" he cupped one hand around his mouth, wondering if his voice could carry, wondering if the bee would have allowed McKay to be tossed over the edge.

He felt odd as he stepped back, as if his head were full of mushrooms, or oatmeal, or fudge.

It has a failsafe, Sheppard told himself. It wouldn't let anyone get hurt. It wouldn't have dropped Rodney over the edge. God, that failsafe better work! John lifted his hand and stared at the device in his palm. The bee no longer glowed – it was as plain as any brooch worn by anyone's grandmother. Whatever had powered it before, had apparently failed – or worn out.

Sheppard grabbed at his radio, affixing the earpiece and keyed it on. "McKay!" he called, hoping the scientist's device was on. "McKay, respond!" He couldn't recall if McKay was wearing the radio earlier. Had the scientist left it in the lab again? Goddamn him!

Clutching at the bee, John regarded it – not a flicker of power seemed to arc through it. Still, he tried to press the transparent discs inward, concentrating on finding Rodney – but the disks didn't move -- the whooshing, flying sensation never commenced and he was left alone on the balcony. He slipped it into his breast pocket. Useless.

Sheppard glanced up and down the hallway, waiting – hoping – that Rodney would pop out of one of the nearby doorways – laughing at him about his little joke. That would be just like him, wouldn't it? Smug as a cat, infuriating and superior. Where the hell was he?

No doorways opened. The major moved down the corridor, trying any door that would open – finding only empty, dark spaces – smelling of rooms that had been shut up for too long. He searched for thirty feet in one direction – then thirty feet in the other. But he felt so tired, and moving along the hallway was becoming harder by the moment.

The ocean beyond continued to roll, and empty, dark rooms were all that were yielded. Suddenly, Sheppard leaned against he railing. His head was spinning and his throat felt parched. That thick, oatmeal sensation seemed to be getting worse. "Rodney," he sighed. "Where the hell are you?"

In his ear, the radio chirped, and Sheppard heard, "This is Dr. Weir. What's going on?"

Sheppard groaned, knowing that he'd best let the others know. "I got a problem," he explained. "I've lost McKay."

"Major Sheppard?" Elizabeth's voice returned. Her simply stated question implied volumes.

"He's gone. I can't find him." John blinked, feeling lightheaded and terribly thirsty. The world around him seemed to tilt, and he only managed to mutter a frustrated, "Oh, crap!" before he fell hard on his butt. His teeth clattered painfully.

"John?" Elizabeth called, her voice startled. She started calling to others around her – summoning help, issuing orders. "John?" she called urgently into the radio.

But her voice went fuzzy, and the need to lie down took over. Sheppard let himself slide to one side, and he closed his eye as a terrible weariness overtook him.
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A/N: Ever get that oozy feeling? That's how I usually feel after a couple shots of Nyquil and some Jägermeister. I call it a Nyquermeiser... mmmm... it's tasty over ice!