Part Two – It Was All a Dream – NOT!

"Am I bleeding? I must be bleeding! Does it need stitches?" And he stared at disbelief at the clean hand he'd been carefully feeling his lip with.

"There's not a mark on you," said Sheppard slowly. He looked down at himself a little self-consciously, brushing his hand casually through his hair and then checking for blood. Nothing. He leaned against the wall and slid down, feeling a little dizzy. McKay was studying his hands with incredulity.

"Not even a cleat mark," he said, amazement warring with annoyance. Sheppard's forehead was against his knees, and he was taking deep breaths and trying to convince himself the room was not tilting and spinning and he really didn't feel an overwhelming need to vomit. Looking back up at McKay, he rested his head against the slick metal wall. Even his scalp hurt.

"I don't know about you, but I feel like crap," Sheppard said, his voice flat. McKay had also sat down, slumping against the wall, his hand held protectively over his side, wincing. They sat in silence for a moment, considering the implications.

"This is just all in our heads then." It seemed so strange to hear the carefully shaped but still slurred words coming from McKay's undamaged lips, noticed Sheppard absently, feeling slightly like he was floating.

"How in the hell are we going to explain this to Beckett," he groaned. He could already see the incredulous expression on Beckett's face.

"Just be grateful it was your ridiculous football game; what if we'd had one of Simonson's grotesque porno flicks. It could have given us a virtual STD!"

Sheppard heard the first faint note of panic edging McKay's words and he raised his head from his knees. "You're fine, Rodney," he said, weighting his words with all the scorn he could, trying not to think about it himself. It didn't work.

"What if it's not just all in our heads?" McKay began wringing his hands, grimacing as he scrubbed invisible scrapes and grazes.

"The, the, the latest research on the impact of mental conditioning shows it can be every bit as dangerous as physical reality, and we've just experienced the most comprehensive brainwashing ever; this makes the Branch Davidians look like a self-esteem seminar!"

"Rodney!" the major growled. "Get a grip!"

McKay stared at him for a moment, hands still wrenching each other furiously, and then his mouth snapped shut and he looked away. The echo of Sheppard's bark died away and the major felt like his head was vibrating in time to the thudding of his heartbeat. The last time Sheppard's head had felt like this was at that Metallica concert he could only remember half of. He glanced down at his watch.

"Ok. Everybody should be at mess. Let's get back to our quarters and take some Tylenol. I could use a shower too." He glanced challengingly at McKay until the other man nodded reluctantly. Slowly, suppressing several moans and complaints from his protesting body, Sheppard stood and waited for the room to settle. Deciding it was as good as it was going to get, he limped over to offer a hand up to McKay. The scientist winced at the grasp, but stood beside Sheppard hunched over, clutching his ribs protectively. They made their cautious way back to the nearest transporter, their slow shuffling steps echoing dully down the long corridor. They were almost there when Sheppard remembered something.

"What about your laptop?"

McKay flapped a hand dismissively and concentrated on moving forward. "Later," was the terse response. Sheppard looked at McKay with concern. Beads of sweat dotted the Canadian's forehead and upper lip.

"You all right?"

"Just dandy," McKay ground out, his hand now a white knuckled fist in the fabric over his right side.

"Cause you know, you don't look so good," Sheppard continued. "You're even getting a little blue."

"While I appreciate you doing a General O'Neill impression to keep my mind off the piercing white hot pain in my side, Major, right now I just want to get back to my quarters," McKay responded through clenched teeth, gasping a little for breath. They got back with almost no witnesses. There was one close call when a tech waved from the end of the hall, but thankfully it looked like McKay's usual antisocial reputation came through to explain why they ignored him. The last few steps to McKay's quarters Sheppard was ready with a hand at McKay's elbow just in case the scientist faltered. He made it without Sheppard's help, though he collapsed, white and shaking on the rumpled unmade bed once through the door.

"You ok, Rodney?"

McKay glared up wordlessly at Sheppard, mouth thin with pain.

"Talk to me, ok?" said Sheppard, starting to get worried. "Just grunt or something so I know you're all right."

"First O'Neill and now Daniel Jackson! Will you just shut the hell up!" McKay snarled weakly, falling over onto his side on the bed and curling up in the fetal position.

"Isn't he the one that kept dying once a year?"

"Something like that."

Sheppard was feeling less than steller himself. That last play had ended with what felt like both teams piled on top of him. His head was swimming and he finally gave in to the need to rid himself of this mornings breakfast. The cool metal of the toilet felt marvelous against his forehead, and he leaned there for a moment, hoping desperately the effects of the Ancients device would wear off before he had to try and get up again.

"Are you still alive in there, or did you get sidetracked by your hair's reflection as you walked by the mirror?" The snide tone was a pale echo of McKay's usual sarcastic bite. Sighing, Sheppard levered himself to his feet, swallowing hard against the bile pushing up into the back of his throat. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth before lurching out of the tiny bathroom. McKay laid very still, hand holding his ribs, eyes tightly closed, carefully drawing in rapid shallow breaths. He spoke again without opening his eyes.

"Glad I didn't waste a Power Bar on you earlier."

"I figure we've got 45 minutes before we've got to pull it together." His throat was raspy and it hurt. One bleary blue eye fastened itself on him in disbelief.

"I think we're a little beyond just sucking it up, don't you, Major?"

Sheppard considered the chair beside McKay's bed, but cleaning the papers and dirty clothes off was too much effort, so he just shoved McKay's feet out of the way and laid down on the bed parking his boots beside McKay's face. When there was no snarky remark, he KNEW McKay must feel like shit.

"Maybe the effects will wear off if we just give it some time," he said.

When McKay didn't answer, Sheppard realized he'd gone to sleep. Maybe that's the answer, he thought, feeling a little drowsy. This will all be gone when we wake up.