MISCONSTRUED - Part VI - by NotTasha
tee hee... thanks for the delicious feedback.

CHAPTER 19: LIKE MUM USED TO MAKE

Beckett blew out a breath as he leaned over his breakfast in the conference room. Dr. Weir sat across from him, and had asked for this meeting – a chance to sit quietly and talk before the morning activities took them away. "He's not doing so well," the Scot admitted.

"I thought Rodney was recovering?" Elizabeth responded, poking at her plate of scrambled lookoo eggs from M77-336 and some sort of Athosian sausage.

"Aye," Beckett responded, spreading a marmalade-like substance on his toast. "He was, but he's been making little progress. I think he's still in a lot of pain, but hasn't said much about it."

"You're giving him something for that, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Beckett replied. "But honestly, he needs to be awake more than he is. I've cut back as much as I'd dare, just to keep him lucid, but it doesn't seem to help, and he won't increase the dosage." He sighed and muttered, "Stubborn man."

"You won't let him suffer?" Elizabeth asked.

"Oh, Lord no," Beckett assured. "It's the last thing I'd do. I'm just concerned about him, that's all. He's been so… lethargic. Not eating well either."

Weir looked concerned. "That's not like him."

With a weary sigh, Beckett said, "It's just light liquids now, and he barely touches them." He bit into his toast and grimaced. "The marmalade isn't like home," he muttered, waving the bread for emphasis. "The Gandakans just haven't got a knack for it." He took another bite, seemed to weigh his comment and perhaps decided that it wasn't so bad, and then he continued. He went on about the specifics of McKay's situation as he ate and as Elizabeth stared at her plate. The surgery to repair the internal bleeding had gone well. The fracture of his arm would heal nicely. The concussion seemed to be fading. But McKay was still having difficulties. "Troubling," Beckett stated. "He just isn't getting better."

Then he explained briefly about Zelenka – there was little to add – the Czech still hadn't come to. And two full days had passed – today started their third. "It's not good," Beckett commented. "The longer he remains unconscious, the lower his chances of ever awakening."

Letting out a sigh, Elizabeth watched Beckett tuck in, mopping up his sunny-side-up eggs with his toast as he went. She couldn't manage a bite of her own meal, and she continued to push it around. "What's their prognosis?" she asked finally.

"For Radek, we wait. I just hope not too long. And Rodney? He's hardly ever awake, or at least doesn't let us know if he is," Carson said unhappily. "He just doesn't seem to have any spirit in him. Not like him at all."

"No, it's not," Weir admitted. "Few people in this world have as much 'spirit' as he does."

"Aye," Beckett admitted. "That he does." He exhaled and stated, "Finally sent Silvia back to her room – that was last of Merritt's team. I'm just hopin' that if those bloody fools stay out of my infirmary, he might start gettin' better. He's had to listen to them all this while. And I doubt they were sayin' anythin' friendly regardin' him. I'm thinkin' that may have a lot to do with his current disposition."

Weir nodded, feeling disgusted with herself. "We have trouble, don't we?" she asked. "The rumors are flying."

"Been hearin' it all over," Beckett responded. "Can't exactly stop it when everyone's just statin' the facts as we got 'em."

Giving up on her meal, Weir reached for her mug. "The problem is, the facts just don't add up. They just don't seem right."

"Even though Rodney's admitted to everythin'?"

"Even so."

With a smile, Beckett stated, "Glad to hear you say that." He nodded to her plate. "You should eat."

"Not exactly hungry," she said with a shrug.

"Doctor's orders," Beckett responded. "Let's have a compromise. You eat the toast and the eggs. I'll take care of the meat."

She smiled at the barter and nodded, pushing the plate toward him so that he could retrieve the sausage. "So you've become rather fond of Athosian sausage."

Beckett laughed softly. "Reminds me of the bangers me mum would make. Hers tasted horrible, too."

Drawing her plate back in front of her, Elizabeth stared down at the remaining breakfast until Beckett cleared his throat. She looked up at him, seeing him sitting with a chuck of sausage on his fork, waiting for her. "Go on," he encouraged.

She smiled, glad for his friendship, and started her breakfast.

CHAPTER 20: A JELL-O WORLD

Time seemed to trickle past, coming in dribs and drabs. McKay spent most of his time silently listening to what was going around him. He hurt, from his head to his chest to his arm. The pain in his gut had lessened, but everything else still ached. His mind was already too clouded and he didn't need anything else messing with it, so he'd resisted using the painkiller as much as possible.

The doctor had been by often, checking on him and Radek. McKay would steal glances at the Czech when one of the medical staff attended him, wanting to see if Zelenka was going to be okay – they were on the third day and still Radek hadn't moved at all. That couldn't be good, McKay knew. It wasn't good at all.

So damn disgusted with himself, McKay could only wait and watch. Come on, Radek, he thought. Come on, show them up. You got to wake up. But he didn't.

Beckett and other members of the medical staff were constantly bothering Rodney, forcing him to wake up, asking questions about how he was feeling. The nurse brought by another tray – this time it was yellow Jell-O and chicken broth. He might have eaten some if the Jell-O had been cherry or blue -- or the broth had been beef, but he didn't have the stomach for yellow or chicken at the moment.

He felt as if he'd been trapped in a Jell-o world at that moment, all formless and pointless.

He was responding less and less as time went by. He ignored Beckett's pleas, and closed himself off against the nurses – even the feisty Hispanic who was kinda sexy.

People came and went. Various scientists from his staff visited. It was nice to see them. They all seemed so eager for him to speak to them, but what could he possibly say? They usually ended up talking about their latest projects, but didn't seem to be asking for his input in the matters, so he really didn't understand the point of it. "Everything is going fine," they'd say. "We got it under control. Just rest up and feel better."

Some of Zelenka's friends came by. It was good to hear them talk to Radek. Grodin stopped in every day, filling him in on everything that was going on in the Gateroom, told him about the lack of progress with the device. Damn… damn… if only that thing proved useful, McKay thought. Maybe all of this would have been worthwhile. But it's worthless– why… why did I risk so much to obtain it? What could I have possibly seen?

Elizabeth visited. Ford sat beside him often, struggling for things to say, sounding lonely and rather sad. It was a pity because the young man should have been elsewhere else – where someone might watch out for him. He wished he could think of something to say to Aiden, some decent sort of response that might make the young lieutenant feel better, but he had nothing to offer.

He wished he could tell Aiden how much he appreciated his presence if nothing else. If he were lucky they'd just go away and find some worthwhile way to spend their time.

Time passed so damn slowly – three days already, and he wondered how much longer it would take.

CHAPTER 21: LIKE A TIGER, SET ON A KILL

John Sheppard stepped through the event horizon with a grin and an armload of supplies. "Good Afternoon, one and all," he called out. "I bring gifts from the Capilanos!" He indicated the crate in his arms, then the tube tucked inside it, "And a contract for more in the near future!"

He was smiling ear-to-ear, feeling damn good about himself. Sure, the breakfast feast that stretched into the afternoon helped. The Capilanos were damn fine cooks. Then, the ceremonial massages did wonders to relieve his cramped muscles. When bathing at the hot springs was mentioned, he couldn't say 'no'. He didn't even mind all the hugging just before he slipped through the Gate to return home. When all was said and done (and behind them), it was a damn successful mission.

Travis, Teyla and Bates came alongside him, and they stood together, looking pretty smug about their good fortune.

"Welcome back," Grodin called, smiling tightly at them from above. "It went well?"

"The results are satisfactory," Teyla informed them. "Our agreement will bring much needed supplies to Atlantis throughout the coming year, and the Capilanos have been generous in their negotiations."

"Yeah, we got food," Bates agreed. He hefted the duffle from his shoulder and settled it to the ground. "Their granola isn't half bad."

Travis displayed a basket of baked goods. "We'll need a MALP to haul everything out when they make their first delivery," he said with a grin. "We won't need to worry about starving for a while."

"Excellent," Grodin responded, still looking uncomfortable.

Sheppard narrowed his eyes. Everyone in the room seemed tense – uneasy. "What?" he called up. "What's going on?"

Grodin looked on them with a concerned expression. "You need to talk to Dr. Weir," he stated.

No… no… something was entirely wrong about that response. Sheppard dropped his load and came up the stairs, looking like a tiger set on a kill. "Talk to Weir? Why?"

"I've called her to the Gateroom," Grodin went on. "She will want to talk to you before you go."

"Go where?" Sheppard continued, reaching the balcony.

Grodin stepped back. "Anywhere," he responded weakly.

"What the hell's going on?" Sheppard pressed. Something was wrong – definitely wrong – and he had the indisputable realization that everyone in the room was expecting some sort of explosion out of him. "Grodin?" Sheppard continued.

Peter held up his hands. "Dr. Weir is the one who should tell you," he stated.

Oh God… Sheppard knew … knew for certain that something had happened. He scowled at Grodin and started to come toward him again, ready to get the answer out of him some way or another – when a voice called from behind him.

"Major!"

He turned, seeing Elizabeth emerging from one of the hallways. "What's going on?" he tried the question on her, stalking toward the expedition's leader.

"My office," she commanded, leading the way.

Sheppard glanced down to the others of his group. Teyla, Travis and Bates still stood around the hard-earned supplies. The Athosian looked up at him with an anxious expression – and he followed Weir into the room.

The door shut as she settled herself behind her desk, and Sheppard took a chair. "It's good to have you home, John," she started.

"Good to be here," he responded tepidly.

"I take it the negotiations went well."

He regarded her bland comments and returned in a clipped voice, "We got everything we came for – and more. Had to give less than we figured, too."

"Everyone happy in the end?"

"Except for some blisters from the dancing, Travis' writer's cramp and Teyla's ego getting a bit bent out of shape by the girl who thought her hair looked like a pony's mane." His words came quickly. "Now, that we got that crap out of the way… what's going on?"

Weir folded her hands on her desk. "There was an accident on P6M-301."

"That the planet with those giant dragonflies?" he tried.

"No…" Weir started, taking a breath to continue. She was cut off before she could speak again.

John was on his feet. "Goddamn it, that's the planet where McKay and the others went, isn't it?"

"Yes," Elizabeth responded.

"What happened? What happened to him?" There was no doubt that this involved McKay somehow – because didn't it always?

"There was a cave-in at the underground site."

"Son of a …" Sheppard turned sharply, pacing toward the door.

"Sgt. Moody and Dr. Merritt were killed."

He stopped moving, laying one hand against he doorframe to steady himself.

"Rodney and Radek were hurt. They were trapped in the chamber for some time."

And he pressed his head against the frame and he asked, "How bad?"

"Rodney required surgery," Elizabeth explained. "He's on his way to recovery, but is having a slow time of it. Radek is still unconscious."

"Still?"

"It's been three days and according to…"

"Three days?" Sheppard's eyes widened and he spun around to face her.

"Yes," Weir responded. "And they've been…"

"Three goddamn days?" Sheppard leaned on her desk, looming over her. " And nobody told me?"

"I'm telling you now," Weir replied, trying to keep her voice even.

"No… no…" Sheppard punctuated the exclamations with a fist to the desk. "I just spent the last three days dancing, messing with papers, filling my face, and getting a goddamn massage. Meanwhile, one of my team was injured? What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about our future, John," Weir answered evenly, folding her hands before her. "I was thinking about the future of Atlantis. If we were to disturbed the negotiations, then the agreements would have fallen through and we wouldn't have been given a second chance."

John scowled. "How long did it take to get them out of that cave-in?" he demanded to know. "How long?"

"A little over four hours," Weir told him.

Nearly shaking with fury and frustration, John growled. "And you thought it was fine that I was dancing like a moron while they were trapped and injured in that hole? I should have been there!"

"Your presence wouldn't have changed things if we were to recall you."

"You got that wrong!"

"We couldn't risk losing this trading partner…"

"Don't talk to me about risk," Sheppard shot back as he turned toward the door. "I'd take that goddamn risk. We'd find another goddamn trading partner."

"It wasn't up to you to make that decision."

"You shouldn't have been making decisions about MY TEAM!" He slammed his hand onto the panel to open the door. "Infirmary?" he demanded to know as the door opened.

Weir stood – "John, wait!"

But he didn't wait for her confirmation and was through the door. "Teyla!" he shouted as he moved through the corridor. He heard her storm up the stairs and she fell in at his side even before Elizabeth joined them.

"Rodney's been hurt," John informed the Athosian.

Teyla looked stunned. "Is he badly injured?"

"Yes." He glared over his shoulder at Weir. "It happened three days ago and he's still in the infirmary."

"Why is it that we were not informed?" Teyla asked, coming to an abrupt halt to face Weir.

"Because of the goddamned granola!" John barked, stopping to give Weir a vicious look.

Elizabeth was starting to sound like a broken record. "It was for the future of Atlantis. We had to ensure good relations with the Capilanos, and so the negotiations could not be interrupted. They would not continue speaking to us if we did."

Teyla looked confused and then angry. "The Capilanos are not malevolent, Dr. Weir. If you were to come to them and inform them of the situation, they would have understood. They value friendship above all and would recognize our need to return if a companion was hurt."

Weir dropped her gaze and a sullen look came over her. "I didn't know," she sighed. "I asked Halling. He said that we shouldn't interrupt the ceremonies."

Teyla shook her head. "Halling is not fond of the Capilanos. They find his size amusing. They make him perform the … Dance of the Spinning Scarves. His judgment is clouded regarding them."

"I wish I'd known," Weir whispered, all attempts at looking stern falling away. "Because I really could have used you here. Rodney really could have used that."

John furrowed his brow, noticing the people who moved along the hallway – some looked a little smug, others looked relieved to see him. "What do you mean?"

"Things have been rough on him," she said quietly.

"How?"

Weir nodded toward her office again. "Let me explain everything," she pleaded.

John turned toward the infirmary, wanting… needing to get there immediately to check on his teammate… Damn it! Why'd I even go to that hot springs? The damn ceremonies were over hours ago, but I had to go the fucking hot springs!

"John," Weir repeated. "Please."

Realizing that it would be best to come armed with the facts, he nodded curtly. "I'll give you five minutes," he told Weir and stalked back toward the office with Teyla right behind him. "Not a minute more."

CHAPTER 22: THE CRAYON SNAPPER

If anything, John Sheppard was even angrier when he left Weir's office for the second time. After listening to what had gone on over the past three days, he wouldn't wait another second to reach the infirmary. His footsteps rang out in the hallways, and a path was cleared before him. Teyla, walking a little quieter, did nothing to dispel the furious mood as they stormed the infirmary.

He was ready to bang some heads together.

Sheppard thought about the four hours that it took to find McKay and Zelenka. Was McKay awake during that time? God, he must have been in a world of hurt. Hurt, trapped, alone, probably scared out of his mind. Sheppard wished he could have been there – God, he SHOULD have been there.

Then, three days with the rumor mill grinding away and McKay getting chewed up in it, without anything to deflect their accusations. How could McKay have confirm this story? Goddamn, his mind must be messed up. Sheppard knew how the allegations must have affected the man, knew how it would have hurt him.

Weir had carefully explained to him that some of the scientists from Merritt's team were spreading their innuendos – but she'd made it clear that they'd said nothing beyond what McKay had confirmed. Her look had told him – "Don't go after them." Well, we'll see.

And Weir had told him that Rodney wasn't getting any better… hardly speaking. That should have been a clue to the whole world that something was wrong with McKay. And Carson thought he was spending all this time pretending to sleep so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone… damn it… damn it all to hell!

And not eating? What the hell was the matter with these people? Are they totally blind?

Teyla kept pace with him, the same strained and intense look on her face.

Beckett was waiting for them as they entered the infirmary. "Major!" he cried, "Teyla, it's so good to see both of you back." He smiled, relieved as all hell. "It's been bloody awful and…"

"Where is he?" Sheppard asked.

Beckett nodded the way. "He may be sleeping," he warned. "But I can't say for certain because…"

But Sheppard had already left the doctor and was making a beeline toward back of the room. Ford was sitting in the chair between the last beds, talking quietly. He scrambled to his feet at the sight of his CO. "Sir!" he greeted cheerfully.

Coming to a stop, Sheppard regarded the occupants. McKay was haggard and drawn out. He seemed thinner. Part of his face was black-and-blue as if someone had clobbered him. There were dark circles around his eyes but he was otherwise pale as hell. His left arm was encased in a cast, and an untouched food tray waited beside him.

Zelenka was quiet, unmoving. Ford didn't even look very good. There was an anxiousness about the young man that was just unnatural.

Since Sheppard hadn't spoken, Ford filled him in. "I've been here for about an hour now, and he hasn't said anything in a while."

Beckett, who'd followed, examined one of the monitors and shrugged. "He's been in and out a lot. Could be he's just restin' his eyes. You awake Rodney? Rodney?"

Fed up with everything, and not wanting to waste any more time, Sheppard leaned in and grasped a bit of Rodney's good arm between his finger and thumb, and twisted it, pinching hard.

Rodney's eyes shot open with a "Son of a…!" He looked up with a frightened expression, and then focused on Sheppard. "You pinched me!"

"You were pretending to sleep!" Sheppard shot back.

"I wasn't… I was… dozing, okay?"

"Dozing… while Ford's just sitting here twiddling his thumbs, talking to you… waiting for you to answer him."

"He didn't have to stay," McKay answered petulantly. "I didn't ask him to sit there." And then he started coughing, a rough, painful sounding cough that got Beckett moving in a hurry.

"It's all right, Rodney," the Scot crooned softly as he moved in to help. "It's gonna pass in a moment."

Ford stood beside the Major and said softly, "Good to have you back, sir."

"Yeah," Sheppard returned, crossing his arms.

"Things have been pretty crappy here," Ford told him.

"I heard. How're you holding up?"

"Me, sir? I'm fine."

Sheppard glanced toward the lieutenant, then back toward McKay. "You don't look so good," he commented.

"It's just…" Ford started. He tried again, "I haven't been able to manage much of anything. I tried to shut some of those idiots up, but it didn't seem to do any good."

"They're still talking?"

"Yes, sir. I should've been out there, trying to stop it. But, I thought I should be here with him."

Sheppard gave him an approving nod. "I'm glad you stayed with him," he assured.

Beckett was still messing with McKay and whatever he was doing seemed to be helping. McKay was resting on his pillows again, even paler than before, gasping for breath. He looked absolutely horrible, Sheppard decided – and it had been three days.

"Can you all give me a minute?" Sheppard asked, gazing about at Beckett, Teyla and Ford. "I need to talk to McKay… in private." All stepped back except Teyla.

She leaned beside the injured man, smiled warmly and said, "It is good to see you."

"Ah…" McKay paused, not sure what to make of her closeness. "Likewise."

"I am sorry we were not here earlier," she stated serenely.

"Well," McKay responded. "You can't be everywhere. You have to make choices sometimes. Anyone could understand that."

"Yes," Teyla replied. "We make our choices. I would have preferred to have been here." And she leaned further forward. McKay gave her a startled look, trapped and unsure of what she was doing. He tried to press his head further into the pillow, but he couldn't get away. She touched her forehead against his and laid her hands gently on either side of his face. "It is good to see you," she repeated and stepped back to join the others.

Sheppard waited until Beckett ushered them away. McKay's gaze followed Teyla. Sheppard waited a moment after they'd left the area, waited for McKay to look at him, but his gaze continued to find something else to focus on.

"McKay," he said finally, as he dropped into the chair. "How's it goin'?"

Looking annoyed, but still not turning toward him, McKay answered, "How's it look?"

"Well, me, I've had a hell of a time. First of all, we went on the nature hike from hell, then spent the night dancing like morons. You would have hated it. It was like a really really bad version of Dance Fever without the judging at the end. Probably a good thing about the judging. I think I saw someone doing the Funky Chicken at one point – Bates maybe. Travis – I don't know what the hell he was doing – might have been the Electric Slide. The next day, well, you might have liked it – lots of nit picking and fussing about little tidbits of information. For me, it was like being dumped in a pit full of geeblers."

"Geeblers?"

"That's what I said. Gawddamn awful day. Worked poor Travis nearly to death with all that scribbling. I think Teyla just about choked one girl. Funny, because I thought Teyla liked the kid. The girl really seemed to be fascinated with Teyla's hair. Wanted to braid it, touch it, but Teyla almost slapped her. Anyway, at least we got to relax a bit on the last day, but that was small reward for the rest of it. The breakfast feast was pretty good eating."

"Hmmm," was all McKay would say.

"Speakin' a'which, what's with the runny Jell-O?" Sheppard inclined his head toward the tray.

McKay made a face. "It's yellow."

"What's wrong with yellow?"

"Lemon?"

"Oh, come on. There isn't any real lemon in it."

"You never know. And it tastes like death."

"Okay… no citrus flavor. That knocks out green and orange, too, doesn't it?"

Instead of answering, McKay sighed.

"You got any problems with red?"

"As long as it's cherry."

"Cherry then." Sheppard poked at the cold broth with a spoon. "I hate chicken broth," he muttered. "Carson has it made up from a powder, doesn't he? Crappy stuff. Maybe he still has some of the beef? It's better."

"That wouldn't be bad," McKay said, sighing again.

"Anyway… where was I?" Sheppard sat back, looking thoughtful. "Oh yeah, my last three days – I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy."

"That'd be Koyla?" McKay tried, still not meeting his gaze.

"Naw, he was small potatoes. Bruce Lougheed was worse. Second grade bully. Used to hog all the crayons."

McKay chuckled softly, little more than a 'heh', but it was enough to pull him up short with a surprised gasp. The reaction made Sheppard think that McKay hadn't had any reason to try laughing during this time. McKay laid his good arm against his aching chest as he stated, "Somehow, I don't see you as the 'crayon' type."

"Oh, in second grade, I was an artist… a Master. I drew all the greats – the house, the dog, rainbows, the family – everything. Oh! Cars. Man, I loved drawing cars. My works were always stuck on the fridge. Mom was damn proud. But she always thought my cars looked like cows for some reason."

"But Bruce would steal all the crayons."

"Steal them and snap them to nubs. Didn't want anyone to have any fun. Ruined every one of them except black and white. Little bastard thought he had me, but I started drawing penguins, zebras, snowmen. Black cars with white stripes and big black wheels that didn't look anything like Holsteins. Cop cars in stealth mode -- no lights. Crap like that."

"He was your worst enemy because he stole your crayons."

"That and he beat on my best friend. I met him out behind the school one day and his bullying, crayon-snapping days ended."

McKay furrowed his brow, "And this is supposed to mean something to me?" he asked, irritated.

"I had to change schools after that. It was a big mess."

"Look, if you're telling me that you're going to have to fight my battles for me… I don't need it," McKay grumbled.

"You need somethin'," Sheppard responded. "You definitely need someone to straighten you out. You're not even telling Beckett about the goddamn Jell-O! That's not like you, McKay. If you're not pissing and moaning, something must be wrong. You won't even talk to Ford and he's been here for days."

McKay paused, and looked up at the major, ashamed. "You'll tell him I'm sorry about that, won't you? You'll tell him I appreciated it.'

"Tell him yourself."

"I'm… I'm just not up to it," McKay admitted quietly.

Leaning back, Sheppard looked at his friend again, taking in his unhealthy pallor. "You really look bad, did you know that?"

"Yes," McKay snapped back. "I am well aware of my appearance!"

"No, I don't mean physically, because, well, that's obvious. The rest of this crap – all this shit about what happened – you come off pretty badly."

"How? How do you know…?"

"Weir told me."

"Oh." McKay stopped talking, and his pale face took on a bleak expression. "I guess everyone else knows. It was only a matter of time before you heard." He paused a moment, before continuing, "I come off badly, huh? There's no helping that. I can't change what happened."

"Well, except that it's all ass backwards."

McKay shook his head against his pillow. "How would you know?" he said softly, closing his eyes. "You weren't there."

"I know crap when I hear it," Sheppard stated, "And the fact that you've agreed with all of it, well, I'm not sure if you were really there either." He glanced at Rodney, seeing him turning his head away with eyes closed. "Hey! None of that! No more of that sleep shit from you." And he jabbed a finger against his arm.

"Ow! Knock it off! I'm tired," McKay whined. "I'm just so tired."

There was no denying that the Canadian looked weary as hell, but Sheppard wasn't going to put up with it. He'd entered the game late and had too much ground to make up. "You can sleep later," he decided. "Right now, we're going to figure out what the hell went wrong."

"Everything," McKay said softly.

"You're not talking like yourself," Sheppard said. "You sound like some little baby that just gives up at the smallest problem. You're usually the guy who solves problems, who looks for problems just for the joy of fixing them."

Grimacing, McKay stated, "Sorry if I'm not myself, but I just sentenced three men to death. I really don't feel like having any fun."

"Three?" Sheppard asked, turning toward Zelenka. "Don't mean to disappoint you, Rodney, but he ain't dead."

"Might as well be," McKay murmured. "My fault…."

"So, let me get this straight. You caused the earthquake. And your magnificent mind brought down the ceiling and …"

"You can stop making fun of me," McKay snapped. "I really don't need that right now."

"I think you do. Because, you've been laying here for three days, listening to all the ass-hats blaming you, and believing them, for Christ's sake! You're not doing anything to correct them, and I KNOW that this is all crap. Why don't you? And no one's been around to set you straight. Seems to me you need someone to smack you around a bit."

McKay's expression softened as he looked up at Sheppard, "But it IS my fault. It is. I kept them down there too long. They wanted to leave, but I forced them to stay to remove that device. Merritt is dead because of me. I shoved him directly under that arch as it was coming down. I remember that!" he stated, as if to emphasis the one bit he truly could recall. "And Moody – he was coming to help us. And Radek – he wouldn't be like this if I hadn't called him back… if I hadn't taken the first safe place and made him go on to the second, carrying that damn thing. It's my fault that he was on the mission to begin with. It's all my fault, John…"

"You're wrong," John responded. "You got it all wrong."

The softly voiced, "no…" from behind John almost escaped both of their attention.

McKay frowned, confused by the word that seemed to come from nowhere. Sharply, Sheppard turned to the other bed, to find Zelenka turned toward them, blinking lethargically. "No," Radek repeated softly and closed his eyes again.

-------------------
TBC - ta-da!