Elizabeth closed the door to the conference room then moved to stand at the head of the table. She let her eyes wander over Teyla, Ford and Rodney. The trio were seated around the table and they looked as worn out as she felt. "Are you all right?" she asked the group, in general.
"I am fine," Teyla replied, her eyes sweeping over her teammates.
Ford rubbed at the bruise on his temple. "Doctor Beckett says I'm good. No concussion or anything, just a bit of a headache."
Elizabeth nodded. "Glad to hear that." She turned to the other person in the room. "Rodney? You okay?"
"Just peachy!" Rodney snapped, one hand lifting, fingertips skimming over the red marks on his neck. Finger-shaped marks.
"Rodney." Elizabeth's voice was soft but she let him see, by the look in her eye, that she was concerned about him.
Rodney sighed. "Throat hurts a bit but...I'll be fine." That said he, grumpily, slumped down deeper into his chair.
Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose then asked, "What happened?"
"I wish I knew, ma'am," Ford replied. He looked a bit jittery. "One minute the major seemed just fine...the next he's trying to choke the life out of Dr. McKay. It was...it just happened so fast."
"Rodney, did you do...or say...anything to provoke the major?" Elizabeth queried.
Blue eyes went wide as Rodney glared at her in disbelief. "Are you implying this is my fault? That I made him want to choke me? You are...aren't you?" He didn't give Elizabeth a chance to interject as he rambled on. "I'll have you know I wasn't anywhere near the major at the time, nor was I speaking to him. Satisfied?"
Elizabeth resisted the urge to sigh as she formed a smile and tried to appease him. "Rodney...I'm just trying to figure out what happened. And, for the record, no...I don't think this was your fault."
"I do not believe it was the major's fault either," Teyla piped up. When everyone looked in her direction she added, "He has not been himself of late."
"True enough," Elizabeth allowed. It was a reminder none of them really needed. Sheppard had been like the Rock of Gibraltar for all of Atlantis since their arrival. To see him cracking and crumbling was unnerving and Elizabeth wished there was something she could do, some magic she could perform, to put Sheppard back together again. "I just wish I knew why this was happening. It doesn't make sense," she whispered, louder than she had intended.
Rodney sighed loudly. "Guess we'll just have to wait until the major wakes up. Maybe he can explain it to us." With that he pushed himself out of his chair and strode out the door, muttering beneath his breath.
Elizabeth looked at the others. "You're dismissed," she told them. She watched Ford and Teyla walk out, Teyla closing the door behind her. Then Elizabeth buried her face in her hands. She wasn't ready to deal with the possible reality that Major Sheppard might be suffering a break down. "Be careful what you wish for, Elizabeth," she warned herself. But right now she couldn't help but wish she was back home, on Earth.
John came to awareness slowly. There was a dull ache radiating from the base of his skull and it throbbed up through his temples and it was this pain that had nudged him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes, blinking hard to bring everything into focus, realizing he was in the infirmary only he couldn't remember why. He let his eyes drift closed again then it hit him, like a flash bang. He had tried to choke Rodney to death.
Eyes flying open again, John tried to sit up. The throbbing in his temples became spikes of pain shooting back down to the base of his skull and making him feel nauseous. John made to grip his head but his arms were restricted and when he looked down he realized he was in restraints. Which set off an entirely new freak out. Ignoring the pain in his head, John began yanking on the restraints, trying to rip them off the sides of the bed.
Carson must have heard the commotion because he came running over, hands pressing into Sheppard's shoulders, trying to ease him back against the pillows. "Easy, laddie. Try to calm down."
"Where's McKay?" John demanded, still tugging on the restraints. He could feel the skin on his wrists tearing and he didn't give a damn. He needed to know that Rodney was alright. John locked eyes with Beckett. "Is Rodney okay? I didn't...I didn't-" John broke off, unwilling, and unable, to say what he feared.
"Rodney is fine, alive and well," Carson stated, his hands now moving down to grip Sheppard's forearms in an attempt to get him to stop tugging on the restraints. "Alive, well, and bitching," Carson amended.
John clenched his hands into fists and forced himself to relax. The relief that washed over him helped unknot the tension in his body and he sagged back against the pillows. But his throat was tight and he felt emotionally raw as he whispered, "Not for lack of trying." And wasn't that a kick in the face kind of reality? He had tried to kill his friend and teammate. John had done a lot of fucked up things in his life, most of them throughout his military career, but he had never tried to do something this fucked up before.
Carson was busy checking the major's wrists and making clucking noises. But he stopped long enough to comment, "You didn't succeed, major...that's all that matters. Now...I'm going to go get some bandages and wrap your wrists. You did a fair job tearing them up."
"Can't you take these off?" John tugged, gently, on the restraints.
"They stay for now," Carson said firmly. "Both Weir and I agree it's best for the moment."
John understood and nodded. "So...what do I have to do to get them off?" He knew the answer but needed to hear Beckett say it.
Carson sighed. "Just rest for a moment while I get what I need then we'll talk." He was gone and back in a flash, grabbing a stool and sitting down before cleaning up the damage Sheppard had done to himself. "How are you feeling, Major?" Carson asked, conversationally.
"Head hurts." That was as honest as John was willing to get at the moment. He felt jittery and confused but he wasn't going to confess to that. Not yet anyway.
"You have a mild concussion," Carson replied. "Teyla whacked you pretty hard, so I want you to try and relax and rest. You're going to be here for a few days."
John had figured as much. He watched as Beckett moved the stool to the other side of the bed to work on his other wrist. "So...you didn't answer my question. What do I have to do to get out of the restraints?"
Carson made a face. "Talk to Dr. Weir. As soon as I'm done here I'll let her know you're awake."
"Okay." John didn't argue. He was too tired to argue, besides which he knew it wouldn't do any good until he talked to Weir. So he let himself drift off on a sudden and unexpected wave of calmness. The anxiety he had been feeling just skittered away like leaves on the wind. He felt at peace and he embraced it as darkness whispered over him.
When John opened his eyes again it was to find Elizabeth sitting on the stool next to his bed. He shifted a bit, only then remembering the restraints that bit into his sore wrists. John grimaced as his head reminded him he was concussed, but he shrugged it off because he knew he needed to be focused now. He had to figure out what the hell was going on. "Been here long?" he asked, wondering how long he'd slept.
"Not long," Elizabeth replied, as she rose from the stool to move closer. "How do you feel?"
"I'll have to get back to you on that," John countered, smoothly, and it was only then that he realized there was someone else in the area. John turned his head to see Kate Heightmeyer smiling at him. That's when it clicked into place. He knew what he had to do to get out of here. "Guess you're here to figure out if I'm crazy or not," John said to the Heightmeyer.
Kate's smile didn't falter. "I'm just here to help you get through this difficult period in your life, major."
John looked back over at Elizabeth. "So...if I talk to the good doc I can get out of here, right?" He tugged on his restraints a bit so that she would be clear as to what he meant.
"That's the plan," Elizabeth replied, and she looked sad as she spoke. "I'll leave you to talk to Kate, major. We'll talk later." With that she threw him a put upon smile then exited the room.
"So..." John turned back to Heightmeyer. "If I'm good will you take the restraints off?" he asked, figuring it was best to be blunt.
Kate moved closer, her eyes locked on his face as if she was trying to see inside him. "That's pretty much how this works," she allowed. "Just so we both know where we stand, Dr. Beckett told me about the panic attacks."
John wasn't surprised to hear that. Thing was, he still wasn't sure that's what was happening here. But he didn't tell Heightmeyer that, he simply looked at her, waiting for her to continue.
"Have you had any more attacks?" Kate prompted, catching on that Sheppard expected her to make the first move, so to speak.
"No!" John snapped, then instantly regretted it. But he didn't apologize.
A thoughtful expression crossed Kate's face. "When you attacked Dr. McKay...do you remember what you felt at the time?" she asked.
John didn't want to remember, but it wasn't like he had to think about it. A flashback of that moment played out in his head, making his shudder. "I was furious," he whispered. "Enraged. I couldn't...I couldn't think straight, couldn't control it." And that was a hard confession to make. John hated not being in control of himself. It scared him. He knew, better than anyone, how dangerous he could be.
"What about now?" Kate countered. "Do you still feel that rage?"
"No." John didn't say anything more and he didn't feel like he needed to. What he felt now was calm and in control and that was all he cared about.
Kate was frowning as she asked, "Do you remember what triggered the rage? Was it something Dr. McKay said...or did?"
John shook his head. "I don't think so. He was complaining about something but I learned how to tune him out a long time ago. That rage just...it was just there all of the sudden. I don't remember attacking him. I just remembered how it felt choking him. How he looked." John realized he was trembling at the memory and that he could still feel Rodney struggling against his suffocating grip.
"Major." Kate touched his shoulder, jerking him out of his memories. She smiled at him, trying to offer comfort. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I firmly believe you're suffering from post- traumatic stress syndrome and, given your past history and everything that's happened to you since you came to Atlantis, it's really a wonder that it didn't hit you before now."
"What does that mean exactly?" John still didn't believe the prognosis, but he would accepted it for now because he knew it was his only means of getting out of the restraints and out of the infirmary sometime in the near future. "I mean...if you're right, what do I have to do to fix it?"
Kate narrowed her gaze at him. "There's not some magic cure, Major. For starters, you'll be grounded indefinitely and you'll be in daily sessions with me, at least at first. We'll take it slow and go from there."
It wasn't what John wanted to hear but he didn't argue with her. There was no point in it, not now at least. But he did tug on his restraints. "Can you take these off?" he asked. They reminded him too much of the time he had been captured on a mission and bound in shackles for six days, before being rescued.
"I think we can do that," Kate allowed, as she reached out to undo the strap closest to her.
"Thank you," John said, as his wrists was freed. He waved her away as she made to move around the bed to free the other side. "I got it." He made short work of freeing himself and resisted the urge to rubs his wrists. But he did unwrap the loose bandages Beckett had applied to his chafed skin. "When do we start the sessions?" John figured he would cooperate for now, in every way. He would prove to Heightmeyer and Weir and even Beckett that he was okay. He would use the time to figure out what really was going on in his head.
Kate was smiling again. "I think tomorrow will be soon enough."
Just then Carson popped in, looking hopeful. He noticed that the restraints were gone and relief washed over his face. "How are you feeling, Major? Are you hungry?"
"A little," John allowed. "I need to use the bathroom." He was hoping he could chase Heightmeyer away. It worked.
"I'll come back tomorrow morning, Major," she told him. "But if you want to talk before then, just have Dr. Beckett call me."
John nodded, curving his mouth into a warm smile. He wouldn't be calling for her, but he could be agreeable. "I'll do that," he drawled, then he watched her nod and walk away.
Carson patted his shoulder. "Do you feel strong enough to get up and use the facilities, or do you need a urinal?"
"I can get up," John shot back, yanking off the covers. Once on his feet he wavered a moment and had to swallow against a sudden head rush and the ensuing nausea, but it passed and he made it to the bathroom on his own power, although Beckett hovered beside him. By the time John was done he was ready to lie down again, but when he got back to his bed it was to discover he had visitors. "Hey guys," John said to his teammates.
Ford looked uncertain but he smiled. "Good to see you, sir."
John let Beckett push him back into bed and fuss with the covers before replying. "I'm sorry about what happened, Ford. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, sir," Ford replied. "Are you?"
"I will be," John said firmly, because he had to believe it.
Teyla moved to his side and touched his arm, drawing his attention. "I am sorry for the injury I caused you, Major," she said softly.
John patted her hand. "It's okay, Teyla. You did what you had to do." He didn't blame her for whacking the shit out of him. If she hadn't Rodney would be dead. He wanted to say something about that but a nurse suddenly appeared with a tray of food and Beckett shooed Ford and Teyla out of the infirmary. John waved goodbye then studied the food set out before him. Just the smell of it made his stomach lurch. "I'm not really hungry right now," he told Beckett.
"You need to eat," Carson countered. "Just try a bite of toast and a sip of soup," he urged.
It was easier to do as he was told than argue. So John took a bite of toast and nearly choked trying to get it down. Luckily, Beckett got the hint and removed the tray. "When can I get out of here?" John asked, as he settled in against the pillows. He was tired but he knew he would rest better in his own room, in his own bed.
Carson put off answering for a moment by taking the major's vitals, only then did he reply, "I'll probably release you tomorrow, unless Dr. Heightymeyer says otherwise."
"Good." John was going to make sure Heightmeyer was agreeable. He let his eyes drift closed but had to ask one last question. "Are you sure Rodney's all right?"
"He's fine," Carson said firmly. "Sleep, Major. You need it." With that he was gone.
John sighed and shifted again, feeling a bit jittery. But then a warm calm settled over him like a soft blanket and he drifted off into darkness.
The next day John made it a point to eat as much of his breakfast as he could. Soon after he was done, Heightmeyer showed up and he did his best to answer her questions as honestly as he could. But sometimes she got too personal and pushed too hard and John was hard put to remain civil with her. Apparently, however, he passed his first session with flying colors because two hours later John was released to his room. Beckett gave him strict orders to stay in bed for another day, but John stripped the moment the doors closed behind him and stepped into the shower. Once he was dressed again he headed straight for Rodney's lab.
McKay was sitting at the table in the back, working on his laptop. John approached him cautiously. "Rodney?"
"Major!" Rodney jumped and nearly slid off his stool. "Aren't you supposed to be in your room?" As he asked, Rodney took a few steps back, putting distance between them.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay," John replied, not missing what Rodney was doing. It made his stomach coil into knots to see the flicker of fear in McKay's eyes. The other man was scared of him. John couldn't blame him, but it was hurt to see it. Hurt in a way that burned deep in John's soul. "I'm sorry about what happened," he said, offering a lame apology.
Rodney shrugged then took another step back. "You weren't yourself, forget about it."
John wished it was that easy. "Can you?" he countered, and he wanted Rodney to tell him yes.
"It's already forgotten," Rodney stated with false bravado.
"Sure." John felt as if a knife was twisting in his gut but it wasn't a physical pain. It was something deeper and more desperate. He felt himself backing away now. "I...I'll let you get back to work," John whispered, already turning away. He couldn't face the fear that shadowed Rodney's eyes. So John fled the room, almost racing down the corridor until he reached the nearest transporter. He hit the panel, not caring where it let him off, then he walked. He walked until his legs felt like rubber and he found himself just about crawling back to his room.
But it wasn't exhaustion that weighed John down. It was despair. Deep, dark and desperate, it wrapped around him like a shroud, suffocating him until it was hard to breathe. He trembled from the intensity of it. It seeped into his very soul and he recoiled from it, from the bitter sadness, which throbbed relentlessly inside him. John felt like he was drowning and tears burned in his eyes.
He didn't realize he was crying until he scrubbed at his eyes and his palm came away wet. He fell to his knees and crawled over to the bed. He reached under it, pulling out a flat box. Inside was a small, ornamental, dagger. A gift from his favorite uncle for his sixteenth birthday. John carried it with him wherever he went. His Uncle had died twenty years ago and the dagger had sentimental value. His uncle had always believed that John would someday fly, even though he hadn't lived long enough to see it.
Clutching the dagger in one hand, John stumbled into the bathroom. The tears were still flowing down his face and he was shaking so hard his legs wouldn't hold him. But he managed to crawl into the shower, cramming himself into the farthest corner. Then John thought the water on. The despair he felt, the sadness, welled up and washed over him, pressing him back into the tiles, smothering everything that was light and warm and good inside him, leaving only the cold and bitter darkness.
John closed his eyes. Without hesitation, without flinching, he drew the sharp edge of the blade over his wrist, slicing deep into the abraded flesh.
The pressure eased, bleeding into the darkness.