The Puppet Master

Chapter Thirteen - Brick Walls

"Well if this isn't another fine mess you've got yourself into."

Sheppard sat in an uncomfortable, stiff backed chair in the infirmary, the room empty save for its one patient and the two guards positioned in the doorway. Lieutenants Vaughan and Mukherjee stood at strict attention, their gaze directed intently out into the corridor.

And away from me.

The chair creaked as he shifted within it, trying in vain to find a more comfortable position. His clothes were drying in the warmth of the room, the cloth stiff and awkward against his skin. He ran a hand over his head in an attempt to resurrect his hair, and came away with his fingers covered in sticky gel. Wiped the goo on his pant leg and leant forward, sighing.

"I don't think you're nuts," he addressed the figure in the bed. Added, thoughtfully: "Well, no more than normal. But then I guess we've all got to be a little whacked to have left Earth."

He didn't receive an answer, and didn't expect one. McKay had woken a few minutes after his arrival in the infirmary but had refused to respond to any pleas from the on-duty nurse or from Beckett, and at Sheppard's voice he had twisted his neck to stare at the opposite wall. Aside from the occasional tug at the cuffs tying him to the bed, the scientist had barely moved.

"There's another explanation," Sheppard continued, confidently. "I've just got to find it. Hell, there's an entire galaxy full of things ready to blow us up, decapitate us, suck the life out of us, shock us and just generally find new ways to mess with our heads. Of course," he added, meaningfully, "it'd be easier if I had your help in this."

No response. If it were not for the slight hitch in the rise and fall of McKay's chest, Sheppard might have thought him unconscious.

Stubborn, Sheppard thought, and found solace in that thought. A solidly McKay-like emotion he could cling to. Trouble was that, just as he had admitted, he needed the scientist. Needed his thoughts, his leaping from one conclusion to the next, his theories and ideas. At book smarts Sheppard could compete with the best of the geeks – even if he sensibly wouldn't admit it - but that was a long way from true genius, and he struggled amidst the medical evidence to find an alternative explanation.

Like a needle in a haystack, Sheppard thought, sitting back in his chair. There was no reason to doubt Heightmeyer's diagnosis - no sensible, logical reason.

And the rest...

"It looks bad," he admitted aloud.

Medical files, psychological history, warning signs – was it false hope? Heightmeyer seemed to think so. He saw her quick glances, her pity. Beckett was little help. Torn between the science he believed so passionately in, and the friendship he'd built with McKay, the doctor seemed lost, resigned to an outcome he couldn't control.

He's trained to think like that, Sheppard reminded himself. To play the odds, to fight until it became inevitable. For himself, there was no giving up. You fought, because if you didn't you were as good as dead. Even when it made no sense at all.

"I know you'd never deliberately hurt Weir. She knows that too."

Silence. He sat and watched the figure in the bed. Listened to the muffled typing of keys as Carson worked over his computer, to the distant sound of waves, to the quiet chink as McKay tugged on the restraints.

No sense at all, he reminded himself. "Fighting your corner would be a lot easier if you'd talk to me."

The man in the bed didn't respond. He gave another, heavy sigh, dropping his head into his hands. Found his fingers sticky once again and cursed, rubbing them across his trousers. "Dammit, McKay! You're not making this easy!"

He was aware of Beckett looking up from his computer, and he lifted his hand to wave vaguely in the doctor's direction. "Sorry. No shouting at the patients, I know."

Leant forward and addressed the bed in a hard toned whisper: "It's just pretty damn frustrating trying to talk to a brick wall."

The only response was another chink of the restraints against the railing.