The fact that oblivion didn't claim him, well - life had a habit of sucking that way lately for one Colonel John Sheppard, he thought irritably.
He'd tossed and turned. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, and straightened his body till it was a vertical scaffold, but even reduced to counting sheep turned out to be an exercise in futility. When the sheep mutated into livestock caricatures of wraith, he gave up.
"I see you're up," said Beckett.
John opened his eyes. Who knows why he still had them shut. It wasn't working. Pointless. But maybe the guise of sleep offered what small protection he needed against the obvious downfall of his mental status. Insomnia was killing him. Maybe not physically, but Christ, it'd been what – five days? He was beginning to lose track. Five days, with an hour here, and an hour there. He was finding it hard to even form a coherent thought.
"Colonel?" prodded a worried Beckett.
"I'm up," he agreed, but with a distracted uncertain way that made one think he was almost asking if he really was awake.
"And that's the problem, isn't it?"
"What do you want, Doc?" asked John tiredly. Beckett frowned, and that's when John noticed the large mug he held in his hands. "Is that the magic brew?"
Beckett didn't take the bait. "Drink it all, Colonel."
John took the mug, and the heat from the tea alone made him feel sleepy, but feeling sleepy wasn't the problem. It was staying asleep. He gave it a tentative sniff, smelled like candy apples almost, from the carnivals he'd gone to as a kid.
"It's not poison," grouched Beckett, watching Sheppard wrinkle his nose and inspect it as if he were being handed a glass of cyanide.
"Just checking," defended John, before taking a drink. He choked, and liquid went spewing out of his mouth. Not like candy apples then; shaking, he wiped his mouth, and handed it back. "That tastes awful!" Not just awful, really awful, like drinking a glass of Tabasco sauce.
"Aye, it may bloody well be awful, but you will drink it!" Beckett shoved the cup back towards John.
"I won't be able to," he vowed. "I'll throw it up before I get the cup finished." And Teyla had offered this as a solution? He'd have to ask her what he'd done on the last mission to create the hatred he was feeling in that little mug of death.
Beckett, for his part, was looking less than patient. "Colonel, you're grounded, you're about to see the psychologist, you're seriously sleep deprived -"
"I got it," snapped Sheppard, interrupting the doctor's diatribe. Damn, shit, fuck, and all those colorful words that fit the current situation. He grabbed the cup again, before he could back out, and downed it in one large gulp.
He remembered vaguely throwing the cup away from him, coughing, and gagging, and fighting like mad to keep the contents in his stomach. It felt like forever before he managed to get his gag reflex under control. Shaking, he wiped his hand at the saliva dribbled down his chin, and wiped his other hand across his watering eyes.
Beckett handed him a towel, and smiled weakly. "Sorry 'bout that, lad. Teyla told me it had a bit of a kick to it."
"A bit?" coughed John, taking the towel and trying to restore his dignity. It was then that he noticed his lips had gone numb. That alone wouldn't be alarming, but the fact that it was beginning to spread. His cheeks were getting all tingly, and he felt a hot flush beginning to radiate from his head downward. He swallowed, and tried to focus suddenly blurry eyes on Beckett. "Doc?" he called uncertainly.
"Colonel?" Beckett reached for John, just as he slumped forward. "Son?"
"I feel funny," slurred Sheppard. "Is it hot in here?"
"No, it's not hot in here," muttered Beckett, trying to keep Sheppard from folding on to the floor. He pushed the man backwards, trying to get his torso over the mattress, instead of hanging on him. "Nurse!" Carson was having a hard time with John's drugged weight. "Get Teyla here now!" He'd known it might affect John similar to an intoxicant, but he'd asked the lab to dilute the tea to ensure it wasn't too potent for Sheppard's physiology.
Beckett finally managed to get Sheppard in his bed, and pulled the bedrail to keep him from rolling off. "There's a good man," said Beckett, patting Sheppard's shoulder.
"S'right, I'm a g'd man," drooped Sheppard comically. "I din't mean f'r them to die."
"Who to die?" asked Carson, suddenly alert. Was this maybe what was going on inside of the soldier's psyche? Beckett wasn't Heightmeyer, but as a doctor, he knew about post-traumatic syndrome and the effect of survivor's guilt. Sheppard was an internalizer, and those were often the most vulnerable for these disorders.
Sheppard clumsily reached for Beckett's hand, patting him back. "S'ner, Gall, Abr's – Ford," he said happily. "All of 'em." John was flying higher than a kite, and though the sorrow was deep, he was in another state of mind, and everything seemed easier to talk about, and then it'd all be better. He just knew it. "D'y kn'w I see him kill every'ne?" asked John sloppily.
"Who, Colonel?" asked Beckett quietly. He pulled up a stool, and raised it to bed height, so he could hold Sheppard's hand.
But Sheppard wasn't watching Beckett anymore. His eyes were staring up at the ceiling, unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere. "F'rd." The hazel eyes turned away from the tile, and pierced Carson's soul. "Secur'ty risk, lose can'on," Sheppard's dreaminess slipped into pained petulance, and he raised himself on an elbow, facing Carson. "D'you know that bast'rd Cald'ell had the n'rve to say 'you kn'w wha to do'?"
Carson closed his eyes. Damn, just bloody goddamn unfair, all of this business. "Did he, now?" he said, opening his eyes, and forcing an enigmatic tone.
Sheppard pointed a loose finger, "Y'u bet he d'd" before collapsing back on the bed. "F'rd 'as jus' a kid!"
"Doctor Beckett, you called for me?"
Carson swung the stool around, releasing Sheppard's hand. "Teyla!" he exclaimed. He'd gotten so drawn in to Sheppard's rambling he'd forgotten. He tried to blink away any glassiness in his eyes. "It's – uh – Sheppard, the tea, it -" he stood up and adjusted his coat, " – he's having a pretty big reaction to it."
Teyla peered around Beckett, and found Sheppard staring dazedly at her. He grinned and waved uncoordinatedly, and grinned. "Hi, Te'la."
She nodded her head, smiling tightly, "Colonel." Turning away, she tugged on Beckett. They walked a few feet away, and she confessed, "Doctor, the tea can react differently for some. It may cause giddiness, a kind of -" she struggled to find the right word.
"Intoxication," supplied Beckett.
"Yes," agreed Teyla thankfully. "That is a good description for it."
"But will he sleep?"
She shook her head. "I do not know. Unfortunately, in individuals who react strongly, it can sometimes have an opposite effect until it wears off."
"Bloody hell," swore Carson, running a hand through his hair, and scrubbing at the irritable itch that was growing over his scalp. Who would've thought a case of insomnia could be so troublesome? "Why didn't you tell me?"
Her demeanor stiffened. "I believe I did, Doctor," she said frostily. "And you said the lab would dilute the mix to ensure that negative effects could be mediated by wearing off sooner."
Beckett's brow wrinkled in concentration. Had she told him? He recalled his instructions to the lab, but –
"Hang on," he snapped. "Teyla, his behavior, diluted it shouldn't be that dramatic, should it?"
"No, it should not," she said.
A hand on her backside caused Teyla to yelp, and forget what else she was going to say. She reached for the arm snaking around her neck, and flipped the attacker forward, out of instinct, and groaning inwardly as she watched Sheppard's body go sailing over her shoulder.
John lay on his back, not moving, and blinking furiously at the stars only he could see. Two faces materialized over him.
"Colonel?" asked Beckett worriedly.
"I am sorry, Colonel," said Teyla, kneeling by his side. "Are you hurt?"
"On'y my 'eart," slurred Sheppard, placing his hand over his heart. His eyes widened, and he reached up, grasping Teyla's head, and pulling her towards him.
Teyla pulled back, so suddenly, that she fell on her ass.
"Nurse!" shouted Beckett, reaching for Sheppard, as he got on his hands and knees and tried to move towards Teyla. "Colonel, what's wrong with you?"
"N'thing," growled John, still focusing blearily on Teyla, even as she got to her feet and took a few steps away. "I jus' wan' a tal' with my g'rl."
The nurse had arrived, and together they were able to manhandle the drugged Sheppard back to bed. Beckett gestured at the nurse to attach the restraints. "Now, laddie, this is just for a wee bit, till we get you in your right mind," cautioned Carson.
"I'm in my ri't min'," growled Sheppard, and he kept staring at Teyla as if she were a culinary delight on a menu for two.
Carson rolled his eyes. Despite the worry over Sheppard, the situation was proving to be as comical as it was frustrating. "An' I'm the Queen of Scotland," muttered Beckett.
Sheppard's eyes widened. "I did't 'now you were roy'lty?"
Beckett groaned. He needed to talk to the lab personnel – now. Something was not right. He tested Sheppard's vitals, not surprised to find his blood pressure up, breathing increased, and temperature elevated. Nothing in dangerous levels, but this was having too much of an effect.
"Teyla, stay with the Colonel, I need to go talk to the lab," he ordered. "I need someone who can handle him in case he gets – unruly," said Carson with tired acceptance.
Carson noticed she nodded yes, but remained out of reaching distance, despite Sheppard's restraints. He gave his head a small shake to himself, and left the infirmary.
OoO
"Dilute?" asked the lab technician, confused. She pulled the paper from the binder with Beckett's request. "It says here 'double'," she said, pointing out the instructions in bold script.
"Double!" exploded Beckett. "You damn fool! That's 'dilute'!"
The tech straightened, glaring. "Excuse me, Doctor, but that is not dilute, that is d-o-u-b-l-e, double,"
Carson opened his mouth to berate the technician for learning to read by mail order, but snapped his mouth shut. He snatched the sheet, and studied the script. He turned it, held it close to his eyes, then away – bloody hell – it did look suspiciously like double, though he knew he'd written dilute. His damn handwriting. Tightening his jaw, he thrust the paper back, and stalked out. They should've called. They knew he'd said 'dilute' when he'd given the paper. If his verbal didn't match the written, they should've checked.
Bloody, bloody, and another damn bloody hell. Double!
OoO
John couldn't remember ever having a headache this bad – if you didn't count concussions, that is. It was massive, pounding, crippling – "Beckett," he tried to call, but it came out more like a whimper.
"Aye?" the soft voice spoke from John's right.
He cracked a wary eye open, and rolled his head slightly to the side. Bad fucking idea. His stomach rolled with him, and he bolted upright, reaching for the basin that Beckett was already a step ahead with.
He heaved, and brought up some god-awful spicy liquid that burned, along with bile. He was shaking, and shivering, when Beckett finally eased him down, taking the nasty smelling mess away and handing it off to a nurse.
"Just shoot me now," he groaned. "All I asked for was something to help me sleep." His voice was edging into desperate pitifulness.
"It'll pass," soothed Beckett, reaching for a wet rag, and wiping John's forehead. "I'm afraid ye got a bit too much of that Athosian tea."
Athosian tea – the disgusting stuff. If he'd had any more energy, John would've engaged Beckett in an 'I told you so' match, but as it was, he preferred rolling over and dying. Still.
"Oh, God, what is that smell?" blasted McKay, as he entered the infirmary. His eyes quickly locked on to Sheppard's shivering form. "Are you still sick?"
Beckett fixed a dark look on McKay. "Rodney, what could you possibly need now? Did I not send you away only an hour ago?"
"I wanted to see if Sheppard had recovered from you little attempt at being a witch doctor," bitched McKay. "He tried to kill you, Major – shit- Colonel."
"I didna' try to kill him!" retorted Beckett.
Sheppard interrupted both men, by lurching to the side of the bed, and gagging. Beckett hurried back to his side, and rubbed a reassuring hand on the Colonel's back. "Just hang in there, Colonel, it'll pass," he reassured.
"Where's Teyla, this is her fault, too," accused McKay, searching the room with darting eyes, trying to avoid the sick man in the bed. At least until he stopped being sick.
"She went to get some dinner," said Beckett, and at Sheppard's sharp groan, winced. "Sorry," he said.
Sheppard finally rolled on to his back when it had passed. He pointed at Beckett, though the shaking of his finger ruined some of the effect, and ordered, "You, get me something to stop the puking, and you -" he pointed to McKay, "Quit shouting, my head hurts."
"I already gave it to you," said Beckett. He held up the empty syringe. "It should start to work shortly."
Sheppard narrowed his eyes in confusion. God, he must really be out of it. "Doc, just – find an answer to this, please." He was so damn tired, and now sick. He'd thrown up more in the past twenty-four hours than he had his entire adult life. "Preferably something that doesn't end in my throwing up again," he added wistfully.
McKay raised a hand, "Actually, that's why I'm here."
Two pairs of eyes turned to McKay, one red-rimmed and tired, the other worried and slightly annoyed.
"I think I might have an idea," said Rodney, smiling smugly.