John was lying in a bed. His head hurt, worse than any headache he'd ever had in his entire life, and if it weren't for the pain, he'd have thought he was dead. He tried to move, but couldn't. It was only after a few moments that his sluggish mind processed he was strapped in the bed. A band went across his chest, and another was on his waist, with a third strap tight against his legs, just above the knee.
He tried to resist the restricting bands, but the best he could do was manage to wiggle, the combination of the tight material and his weakened condition didn't allow him much progress. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't cooperate. The pain in his head kept him from being afraid. It kept him from almost all regular thought. He felt a hand touch his chest, and his heart responded, even if his mind didn't, leaping into action.
"John?"
His name. The person touching his chest called his name. The pain in his head began to fade, and he swam against the confusion that was muddling his thoughts.
"John!"
The voice was stronger, the hand on his chest was pushing harder. His own hand come up, and grabbed it. He grabbed it? Hadn't he been strapped down? His eyes flew open, and the disorientation caused him to stare blankly into Marie's face. He wasn't lying in a bed; he was sitting in a chair. He looked around, trying to recover his equilibrium. He was next to Rodney…in the hospital.
Marie was watching him, and she looked unsettled. "John?" she asked, trying to catch his gaze, but he was too busy looking around the room. Maybe there was a bed here, and he hadn't imagined it? It had seemed so real. It wasn't like the other flashbacks…this time he'd thought he was really there, and not just watching it play back in his mind. "Do you need me to get Doctor Yarrow?"
"No," answered John, too quickly. He sat up straighter in the chair, and this time he allowed his attention to linger on Marie. "I'm fine," he said with false confidence.
He could tell she wasn't convinced, but she let it go. "It's getting late, you need to rest." Marie tugged on his arm, telling him to get up with actions instead of words. He figured she knew he'd resist her verbal instructions so she'd decided to not give him a choice, and just started pulling on him in order to get him to act according to her wishes.
John's surprise must have registered on his face, because she stopped tugging for a moment to tell him, "It's been four hours. You fell asleep sitting up," she pointed at the still figure in the bed. "He's not going anywhere. You're visit tired him out."
Tired him out? He'd barely spoken to Rodney. McKay…Rodney McKay. He said it to himself because having that small amount of knowledge made him feel better. Made him feel not so insane. "I don't want to leave," John said. He didn't want to be somewhere else when Rodney woke up.
"You can't stay," protested Marie.
John wanted to say 'why not', but common sense prevailed. Something was wrong with his head. He was growing more aware of that with every day. The staples had fixed the outside, but whatever was wrong inside was still there. He wasn't a fearful person, but he felt like a time bomb, and the damage inside was ticking down to detonation, and when it went, he'd go with it. "Bring Rodney to the house," he said, as the idea formed.
He could tell Marie's initial reaction was to tell him no, to tell him he was being silly, but she must have read the desperation in what he didn't say. "The move will be hard on him," she said instead.
John didn't know if she was trying to play devil's advocate, or make him feel guilty hoping he'd opt to leave Rodney here, or maybe she was really considering what was best for Rodney. "It's hard on me, yet I've made it three times now," he refuted.
"You wanted to come," she argued. "Have you asked him if he wants to go through that pain, and take that risk with his health?" She tilted her head to the side, and frowned at him. He watched as the strands of hair slid over her shoulder with her movements. "John, he should make that decision, not you."
"Then I'll ask him."
Marie threw her hands up. "He's asleep!"
John's shoulder's slumped. He was tired, and the pounding in his head was growing. He exhaled slowly, trying to control the pain and fatigue instead of it controlling him. He hated to be a manipulative bastard, but at the same time, he knew he wasn't above that behavior. "You said you cared," he said flatly. He tried to put as little emotion as possible, knowing that would get to her more than anything else he could do.
He saw his words hit, and knew his instincts were still good, brain damage or not, because she physically winced. "I do," she protested.
"Then do this. Have him brought to the house," pressed John. A flare of pain, and another image played across the insides of his mind. He was standing on a balcony, and the brown haired woman was standing next to him, and she was angry. It's the right thing to do, why? Because it is. She was hurt by his words, but she didn't let it show. He lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead, just above his right eye.
When the pain had receded back to the previous level, he looked again at Marie, and he cringed inwardly when he found she was wearing a similar look as the woman in his vision. He'd hurt her, to get his way, but he'd do it again. He had to, and he felt that same need as he'd felt in the vision.
She let his arm drop, and he was surprised to realize she'd still had a grip on him. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay, John."
He exhaled. He could relax now. "Can we go now?" The day was catching up with him, and he didn't want to push so far that he wound up out of it for another three days, or worse, longer.
Despite what he'd done, she smiled kindly. "Yes, we can go now. I'll arrange for Rodney to be brought to the house."
He felt guilty. He always felt guilty. But he knew he'd do it again. "Good," he said. And he let her lead him to the coatroom, and even let her help him into his things. He could give her that without a fight. He tuned out the trip home, and he let her lead him into the house. He shrugged out of his clothes, with her help, and headed for his bed. He would nap, for a little while, and when he woke, Rodney would be here.
The Next Day…"Psssst, Major!"
John turned restlessly in his sleep. He was looking at Rodney, sitting in a chair, with a man standing next to him, McKay's okay, he…fainted, he heard himself say, and he watched a small smile come over the face of the man in the white coat, as Rodney protested, Oh yeah, that's very sympathetic, let's all mock the dying man. He felt the humor of the moment, and grinned along with the other man.
"Major, I'm dying here," a voice persisted, outside his dream world.
He blinked, and his mind reeled back to the present. Who was dying? He struggled to separate the vision from reality. "What?" he asked the ceiling.
"Over here," an annoyed voice answered.
John let his head roll, and he was startled to see a small bed where the nightstand used to be, and lying in that bed was Rodney. He was pale, sweaty, and flushed all at the same time. Alarmed, John leaned up on his elbow, and stared, trying to process the gaps in his memory. "When did you get here?" he asked stupidly.
Rodney attempted a dirty look, but it was lost in a grimace of pain. "That's what I'd like to know. I went to sleep there…I woke up here."
John racked his mind. He had done it. He'd asked for Rodney to be moved. "I asked them to," he explained, as the conversation was reconstructed in his thoughts. "At least I think I did," he muttered. The line between the here and now, and the increasing flashbacks, was blurring.
Rodney grunted. "Good. This way I can keep an eye on you."
"On me?" Incredulous, John looked at him. "Give me a break, McKay, you can barely keep an eye open." The words flowed out of his mouth without conscious thought, and they startled him. He'd called Rodney McKay like it was as natural as the sun rising in the morning.
"Major, that sounded positively normal," observed McKay. "Besides, one of my eyes is better than the two of yours."
His mind was overtaken again, and he and Rodney were walking through a field of grass, and Rodney was talking to him. You have no idea which way to go, do you? John had defended himself, Just trying to get my bearings, he'd said. "Just trying to get my bearings," repeated John, in this time, to this Rodney.
"What?" Rodney asked sharply. He narrowed his eyes at John. "Would you quit doing that," he snapped.
John frowned back at Rodney. "Doing what?"
"That," Rodney said, and waved a bandaged hand in John's direction. "Acting like you're somewhere else. It's creeping me out."
A flash of light, and John shut his eyes against it, hearing McKay, but not seeing him this time…it's that, or there are ghosts…John opened his eyes, "There's no such thing as ghosts," he said, not even sure of where that piece of conversation had come from.
"This is not good," claimed Rodney. He let his hand fall back on the bed. "Where's Beckett when you need him?"
"Beckett?"
McKay let out a tired sigh. "Short loud man who hates to go through the gate, and makes Doctor McCoy look less neurotic."
"McCoy?" asked a puzzled John.
"Would you stop that?" snapped Rodney.
"Stop what?"
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Repeating everything I say."
John rubbed his hand against that same spot, right above his eye. "Then quit talking." His head was aching badly, and he could use some peace and quiet. Maybe bringing Rodney here wasn't such a good idea.
"I'd like to, but it's a nervous thing, you know," defended Rodney. "When I'm nervous, I talk. And right now, I'm really nervous, Major."
"Well don't be," John tried to assure him. He was still watching McKay, and the man looked like death warmed over. "How do you feel?"
Rodney snorted. "Like crap. I've got burns over most of my upper body. You could shoot me, and put me out of my misery. I won't sue you."
John grinned weakly. "There's a problem," he said.
"What?"
"No gun," explained John.
The creaking of the floor outside the bedroom door interrupted them. John waited, and was rewarded by it being pushed open, and he wasn't surprised to see Marie walk in with a tray. She brought it to the left side of the bed, where John realized the nightstand had been moved to. "You're up," Marie said, and he didn't know if she was talking to him, or to Rodney.
"Not willingly," grouched Rodney. "Don't you have anything better for the pain?"
Marie dipped a cloth in a basin full of water, and wrung it out. She was wearing a white apron around her waist, and John noticed her hair was mussed, and it looked like she'd been working too much. She took the cloth to McKay's side, and began wiping the exposed skin on his face, and Rodney didn't protest. "I'm sorry, these kinds of injuries are unheard of here," she told him, while she worked. "The doctor will be by to change your bandages shortly."
She went to get up, and John figured she was coming back for the water, so he saved her the trip, and lifted the basin to the other side of his bed, and held it on the edge so she could use it without spilling. She smiled gratefully, and dipped the cloth again, following the same process as before, but this time she began to wipe down an area on Rodney's shoulders that was exposed to air. The skin there was reddened, and peeling, but it didn't look worse than a bad sunburn. John wondered what the skin looked like underneath the bandages.
"What do you remember?" John asked Rodney, noticing how much pain he was in; he thought keeping Rodney talking would keep his mind off of the hurt, and focused on something else.
Rodney gasped as Marie hit a tender spot. "We crashed, I pulled you out, you died. Next thing I know, I woke up in that place they call a hospital, and when I asked to see your body, they told me you were resting."
"I died?" John repeated.
"I thought I told you to stop that," snapped McKay. "Obviously you didn't die, but I thought you had."
John laid back. His elbow was wobbly, but he kept a hand on the bowl to keep it steady for Marie. He was suddenly in another place. It was dark, and he was afraid. He felt something hard, and sharp, pressing into his back, and someone had a strangle hold on his throat. He fought to breathe, and looked up, and only in his nightmares could he have seen such a face. It was pasty, with ghoulish eyes, and long red hair, but he realized she wasn't what was holding him down. How's the hand, he'd asked, and he wondered how he managed to say it so calmly, when his insides were quivering. Then the pictures sped up, and he was standing inches from the ghoul, and he felt the weapon in his hand pierce the body in front of him. That has to kill you. It slid through the flesh like a hot knife through butter, and he felt the revulsion crawl up his throat. He gagged.
"Major!"
John realized he was on his back, and he rolled over to the side, and threw up, retching and choking for what felt like hours. It'd felt so real. He'd let go of the basin when he'd moved, and he felt the lukewarm water seeping through the sheets, and touching his back, and it reminded him of the hand around his throat; clammy, and cool. What was going on? He was losing his mind.
Marie was kneeling beside him, and she produced another rag, at least he hoped it was a different rag then the one she'd used on Rodney. She wiped his mouth, and eased him back. He felt the wet bedding against his back, and he wanted to move, but he was so tired, and leaning over the bed had made his head beat louder than he'd ever thought it could.
She was looking at him with anxious eyes. "Did you take your pills this morning?" she reproached.
John tried to remember, but he couldn't. He shook his head, and instantly regretted it as the drum beat increased tempo. "I think…I forgot," he croaked.
The queasiness was receding, and he let his head drift to the side, and he saw Rodney, but Rodney wasn't looking at him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored. "McKay?" he shouted, alarmed. "Marie, something's wrong with Rodney." John watched as the man's lips began to turn blue.
Marie ran over to McKay's bed, and rolled Rodney on his back, pulling his head up to clear his airway, and she began to listen to his chest. John's vision dimmed, and he fought to stay conscious, but he was losing the fight. "Rodney," he groaned, knowing it was his fault, and that was the last thing he was aware of, because the room faded to black.
Atlantis…Elizabeth was pacing in her office. She'd attended the memorial service. She'd given her speech, and felt it entirely inadequate to sum up the two men in the time allotted. How could you explain the uniqueness of a man that walked outside the lines, because he had such a strong sense of right and wrong in five minutes? How could you tell everyone that behind the bluster and ego was a man willing to give his life for every member of the expedition, even Kavanagh, ass that he was? If she'd had hours, she mused, she couldn't have done the two men justice, but isn't that the way it is for remembering great people? The people that come along once in a lifetime, and leave their mark in indelible ink, so that it can never be washed off, regardless of how many tears you shed.
She was rolling a stress ball in her hands as she paced. It had been a gag gift years ago from Simon, and it had seemed like a good idea to bring along at the time. Sumner had issues with her bringing Sheppard on board, and she had foreseen a lot of aggravation between the two. She'd thought she'd have to spend more time keeping the two apart. She hadn't realized that Sumner wasn't going to make it to the end of the first week, and that Sheppard would become her military leader. She hadn't realized how damn much she'd grow to care about someone she'd brought along just for his genes.
In a fit of anger, she threw the stress ball across the room, and enjoyed the resounding thud as it hit the wall, and rebounded weakly. The material being designed to give, it bounced only enough to fall back from the wall and roll under the desk.
"Am I interrupting?"
Weir looked up. Carson was standing not a foot away from where the ball had hit, and from the look on his face, she'd almost hit him. "Yes, you are," she answered bluntly.
Beckett came in anyway. "Doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that," he remarked, and then winced, because he knew they were both thinking of one specific rocket scientist…astrophysicist. "Sorry," he said lamely.
"What do you need, Carson?" she asked tiredly, not acknowledging his foot in the mouth moment.
He folded his arms, and leaned against her desk. "Ford and Teyla should be released tomorrow. I thought you'd want to know."
She eyed him critically. "You came up here to tell me that?"
Carson hated to give her false hope. He'd debated back and forth about telling her, but ultimately, he figured any hope was better than none. "Elizabeth," he started, "The blood work on Ford and Teyla revealed something that I thought you should know about."
For the first time, he saw a spark of interest in her dull eyes. "What is it?"
"It's a compound that I've never seen before. I believe it's hallucinogenic in nature. I'm not sure of the purpose," he paused. "It might have been native to the planet."
Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry. The implications of what he said…did he even realize? "Carson, did you ever read any of the mission reports from SG-1?"
"Some," Beckett replied. "Not many," he added honestly. He'd been primarily concerned with the medical files, but even those had been staggering, and he'd had his own research to cope with regarding the Ancient gene.
"There was a mission years ago where three members of SG-1 were made to believe their teammate, Doctor Jackson, was dead."
Carson frowned, trying to figure out where Elizabeth was going. "If you're implying that's the case here…"
Elizabeth had a triumphant gleam in her eye. From the beginning, something had felt off with this whole thing, and now her intuition was leaping to connect the dots. "That's exactly what I'm implying. It's almost the same thing, down to the others dying in a fire…on the original SG-1 mission it was volcanic eruptions that supposedly claimed Jackson."
"It's been over a week," protested Carson. "Do you really think it's possible?" There was a lot he wanted to say. That she was grasping for straws, that whatever had happened to SG-1 was a long time ago, in a different place…but he didn't. He didn't say it because he wanted to believe as much as she did.
She was nodding, and already moving to the intercom. "If there's even the slightest chance, don't we owe it to them to check it out?" she asked. She didn't wait for an answer, instead she depressed the comm, "Sergeant Bates, gather a team, and meet me in the briefing room in fifteen minutes."
She looked towards Beckett, as if she expected him to object, but he shrugged. He wanted Major Sheppard and McKay back as much as anyone, and if she thought it was possible, who was he to argue. He only hoped she wasn't letting herself get carried away, because if the floor dropped out from under her feet, it was going to be a long hard fall. "If you're right, I've got a vintage bottle of scotch that's on me," he said, and followed her out of her office, towards the briefing room.
"It's a date," she said. The easy part was finding something to allow the possibility for them to be alive, and Beckett had given her that. Now came the hard part…finding if there was any truth to it, or proving it to be only a fool's errand. Time would tell. She steeled her nerves. Time…
Back on M4X-578…"Major, wake up!"
John groaned. He didn't want to wake up, because every time he was awake, his head hurt. Already the calling voice was dragging him from a world without pain, and he didn't want to leave.
The voice tried again. "Major Sheppard, please. You must wake up, or I won't be able to save you, or your friend!"
That made John pay attention. He blinked rapidly, focusing on Marie's face. He was still in the room, and he remembered what had sent him into unconsciousness. "Rodney?" he asked, and he was scared she'd say it was too late…but hadn't she said she was trying to save him, and his friend?
"Alive, but he's very sick," she confirmed. He noticed her eyes were wide, and frightened, and he wondered why.
"What's wrong?" he asked. While he waited for her to explain, his mind processed that he wasn't lying in a wet bed any longer. She must have changed the sheets while he was out. He looked to the right, and saw Rodney was there, and he was breathing, but he was out for the count, not even flinching when Marie began to talk.
"I thought I could do this…I thought I could go along with it, but…"
Her words made him focus back on her, and he realized how uncomfortable she was. She was sitting on the bed, and if her back were any straighter, it'd snap in two. She was twisting the blanket in her hands. "What is it, Marie?" he asked again, but this time his voice was lower, and more demanding, and at the same time, he tried to project a calmness in his question, so that she'd trust him enough to explain.
"John, before I say more…" she leaned forward, and grabbed his face, pulling him to her, and she kissed him, deeply. At first, he was shocked, and remained unresponsive, but as she continued, he felt himself kiss her back. Her lips were soft, and he wasn't immune to her touch.
She pulled away, and he saw her reddened lips, and knew his probably looked the same. She was smiling, but it was bittersweet, an unwelcome portent of what was to come, and he narrowed his eyes because he suddenly knew he wasn't going to like this. "I never wanted to hurt you," she said. "I never meant to fall in love…"
"What did you do, Marie?" He couldn't believe how calm he was being, because there was a growing dread in the bottom of his gut. He knew that all that he'd come to know was about to be shattered, and he was willing her not to say what he thought was coming, but at the same time, he knew he needed to hear the truth.
"My people are dying," she swallowed, and she couldn't keep looking him in the eye. She turned her face down, and stared at her hands. "We had no choice." She was speaking so quietly that he could barely hear her what she said.
"What did you do?" his voice rose higher, forcing her to listen, and hear him. He wasn't going to let her get off with whispering away whatever wrong she, and her people, had done.
"We used your head injury to get inside your mind. We've been giving you drugs that made you susceptible, so we could find out about you, and your people." She finally said it, and John felt himself grow stone cold.
He sat there, and he felt a hatred grow where he'd once cared. "You tricked me," he accused, but it was more than that. They'd gotten into his thoughts, his memories, and taken from him, without permission. "I trusted you."
There were silent tears cascading down her face, and he felt a thrill of pleasure, because he was hurting her, yet it wasn't even close to what he felt, and he wanted it to be. He wanted her to feel as horrible as he did. "I'm sorry," she sobbed.
He shook his head. Sorry didn't cut it, not for this level of betrayal. "Why?" he bit out. "Tell me why!" He grabbed her wrist, and tugged her forward, not caring if it hurt her.
"The Wraith don't know we're here," she said, and her voice dropped, and broke, as she exposed the biggest secret of all. "We had to make sure you weren't involved. That we hadn't been discovered."
All those flashes of memories, they'd been doing it to him. All of it, how much did he remember? How much had they seen? "What's real?" he asked, wondering now about everything that had happen since he had woken in this house.
She pulled her hand, the one that he still had clasped in his own, and touched his face. "I'm real," she whispered, "You're real…"
He forced her hand down. He wasn't going to give her the comfort she was seeking. "You were never real," he said. She'd lied. From the beginning, it'd all been a lie. "Can you help McKay?"
She nodded, wiping away the wet streaks on her face. "That's why I'm telling you this. John, you are dying, and they won't help." She was scared. He could see it now, even through his anger. "I tried to get them to see that you aren't a danger, and some of my people agreed with me, but the council wouldn't listen."
"The injury?" he asked. It was real. "I don't…how can I trust you? What about Rodney?"
Marie looked over at McKay, and John saw that his bandages were clean. The doctor had to have come when he was out. "Same for him, if I don't get you two out of here. They're only willing to treat your injuries enough to keep you alive. Once they get what they need, they'll let you die."
John didn't get it. He closed his eyes, and he saw himself and McKay, sitting at a table, look, what you people do with your C4 is none of our business, we just need food, as far as your little secret down here goes, well…John saw himself look over at McKay, who looked at him, and back at some men in a uniform. Rodney nodded slowly as he caught John's train of thought; Rodney smiled self deprecatingly, we say 'what giant underground bunker'. John tried to shake off the memory. That had been another culture that had tricked them, but he couldn't remember what it had been about. What had those people done to him? What were these people doing to him? He opened his eyes again, and Marie was watching.
"You had another flashback, didn't you?" she said. "John, we need to go, if they find out what I've done, then I'm as dead as you two are."
"How can I trust you?" John knew the skin on his forehead was bunching up, as he tried to concentrate. If he could just get his mind to clear, he could figure out what he should do, but his mind didn't want to cooperate, and his thoughts were foggy, and confused. "How do I know you're telling the truth now?" What he'd seen of the people, and what she was telling him now, it didn't seem to go together. It wasn't like all the pieces of a puzzle fell into place. It was more like someone was taking a serrated knife and tearing at the fabric of reality.
"You don't have a choice," she said bluntly. Marie got to her feet, and she began to move away from the bed. He reached out, and grabbed her hand. She froze, and looked at his hand on hers, before meeting his gaze.
He pulled his hand back, as if burned. "How?" he asked. What choice did he have? Trust her, and maybe live, or not trust her, and die. He wanted the flashbacks to stop.
She understood what he was asking. "Ada agreed to help get you two to safety. We've got to go through the mountains."
"Mountains?" His mind flashed back to a vision of the mountain, the same one he'd seen before his ship had been shot down. "My ship?"
"I'm sorry, it's gone," she said. To his eyes, she didn't look sorry, but maybe that was more to do with his rose colored glasses being removed. She'd destroyed any illusion of his that she was a nice little alien, only out to help, and he shoved the disillusionment to the side. He'd deal with it later.
"Then we really did crash?" he asked. He saw again the terrain rushing up through the window, and felt the impact jar his body, even though he knew he was lying in bed, and not in the ship.
She saw that he had a lot of questions, and wanted the answers, but she couldn't give them to him right now. "Later, John," she promised. And she slipped out the door, leaving him lying in bed, hating her, and wishing at the same time that he could trust her. He had conflicted emotions that were made all the more troubling by his inability to rely upon past experiences to show him the way through the minefield he'd been thrust into. He looked again at Rodney, and it bothered him that McKay hadn't moved during Marie's confession. He wanted to get up, but he knew he'd never make it.
It seems Marie was being truthful about one thing, he was getting worse, and so was McKay. He closed his eyes, and fell again into a vision from another day and time. I'd like to say something while I still can, and he felt the pain from that time, he had known he was going to die. A voice replied; Don't, you're going to get through this. He chuckled, and he felt himself chuckle in sync with his memory, in the present, on the bed, and he felt himself saying, in the dream and out loud, If I was…he wouldn't have let me go. Was it happening again? Was Marie pulling another fake, another tactic, in which he and McKay would die, and there hadn't been any hope of escape to begin with? He didn't have any answers. He didn't even know where here was. He'd have to trust, and pray it didn't cost them their lives. He closed his eyes, and waited, riding out the visions that continued to assault him.
