A/N: Beckett's mice are cute. I want one!

I'm suppose I'm naughty for not mentioning all the spoilers. But I pretty much assume I'm the only one the episodes are being spoiled for since I've yet to see most of them. Hmmm, how strangely ironic.

Part Four

A Shepherd for Sheppard

' X-rays, Beckett. Think of the X-rays.'

Strange how the voice sounded like John when John was gradually sinking into a total mental meltdown in front of everyone. But the voice, or whatever it was, was making a good point.

' You know he's harmless doc. He's sick, he's weak... You think he's happy about that? Give the poor man some space. He ain't going anywhere any time soon.'

Bloody freakin' hell. Carson wasn't sure whether or not to be worried. He was hearing a voice, but it was making sense.

Carson had taken X-rays of John while the Lt. Colonel was out cold from blood-loss and sedatives. What Carson found on the ghostly images of the man's bones was – to put it mildly – odd. To put it more accurately – disturbing.

Right now, trying to restrain John would be exceedingly hazardous for his health, and Carson didn't want to see him in any more pain.

" Let him be," he said resignedly. Every eye turned to him, every expression one of disbelief.

" What!" McKay barked.

Carson stared at John's huddled form that had stopped rocking and gone perfectly still say for the constant shivering. He kept clutching his hair like a man trying to cling to anything within reach and hold on. It practically ripped Carson's heart from his chest to see it, and made his stomach flip. A pale, frightened, weak, shattered John Sheppard was a hard reality to swallow. It was like watching the reverse of when John was mutating into that bug-thing, and a part of Beckett was tempted to ignore John as John and refer to him as a 'creature'. John's panic had been like the panic of an animal – a dying animal, failing in the fight before ever being given the chance to fight.

Rage waltzed with pity in Beckett's chest. Bloody blasted virus! It's beatin' him down.

' That's it, doc. Lay on a little salvation.'

" I said let him be!" Beckett snapped. " Everyone just back away. You're not helpin' the lad by crowdin' him, you're only makin' his agitation worse. He's ill, he won't be doin' anyone any harm. So just step back."

Beckett's authority as a doctor had a way of holding the same potency as the authority of a general (say for the Lt. Colonel, of course). Everyone began to back away from John, though the soldiers and Ronon were eying John in the manner of those watching for the moment when they could pounce.

" Do – not – touch – him," Beckett emphasized, staring hard at each soldier and Ronon, completely ignoring the fact that physically he was nothing even remotely intimidating to these men. But he was the doctor, and as the doctor he knew what was best.

" Just move away, out of sight..."

" Are you sure that is wise, Dr. Beckett?" Teyla asked.

Carson nodded. " At the moment, Aye. Besides, I've got something I need you all to see."

He had the nurses and soldiers leave the infirmary so that it wasn't so crowded, and to allow John even more space. Sheppard was still huddled tight, but the grip on his own hair showed signs of loosening its death hold. Carson ushered the rest to the other side of the infirmary, away from John's line of sight. The Scott paused and turned back only to remove a blanket from off one of the beds and gently set it down within reach of the Lt. Colonel, who flinched at Carson's presence.

" Easy John. Just in case you're cold." Carson then backed away slowly to join up with the rest. He took a large manila folder from off one of the work tables and pulled out an X-ray of John's left-side ribcage, slapping it onto the lighted board. He tapped his knuckle on the broken rib that had nearly snapped John out of a heavily drug-induced sleep on realignment.

" You see that? Not the break, but around it. And here too." He wrapped his knuckle on another rib.

Weir shook her head. " I don't know what it is we're looking for."

Feeling the heated onset of frustration, Beckett pulled out another X-ray, this one of John's leg, and slapped it onto the board. He then pointed to a dull patch on the leg, not quite as bright as the surrounding bone.

" What you're looking at is a lack of proper bone density. Normally when you have a lack of bone density, it's over the entire bone, not in patches. The area around the break on John's rib was the same. The patches are everywhere - including his back. The cartilage isn't faring too well either. It's almost as though he's showing early signs of arthritis. Add to that aching muscles, and once the medication wears off, Sheppard's going to be in a lot of pain. That's why I think it's better that we just let him be for now. Post guards at the doors to prevent him from wanderin' off, but let him alone until we can figure this thing out."

Every face was pale, save for Ronon's, but his expression was dark.

" I could have killed him," he rumbled. Carson shrugged helplessly.

" There was a chance, but it may not have been as bad as it is now."

" Is it the virus causing this?" Weir asked in wide-eyed disbelief.

" I've no doubt. And I've no doubt it's what's been affectin' his mind. But if we try to restrain him, we'll only be addin' to his injuries. I think it's enough to just keep him in the infirmary where I can keep an eye on him. I really don't think he'll be any harm, even to himself."

McKay stared white faced and slack-jawed at the X-ray. " It's like a bunch of termites are eating at him. So what you're telling us is that he's pretty much like fine china? Hands off?"

Carson sighed heavily. " Aye." The notion of a frail John Sheppard was as unnatural as it was unsettling, and a shared sentiment among the team. McKay may have liked to lay the label of Superman on himself, but John had always been the one who seemed made of steel.

Not anymore.

" Have you discovered anything else about this virus, Dr. Beckett?" Weir asked next.

At this, Carson raised his brow. " Actually, I did discover something that may be of interest, but I've no way to fully test it. I tried giving the virus to some of the mice – two with the gene and two without. The virus died immediately once placed into the mice without the gene, but lingered in the two carrying a small sample of the gene."

" So you think the Ancient gene as something to do with it?" Weir asked next.

" Maybe even a lot to do with it."

At this, McKay blanched. " You're saying everyone with the gene is at risk of catching this thing!"

" Actually, no. I said the virus lingered. The mice began gettin' the symptoms of a cold, then the virus just – burned out. I think it depends on how pure the gene is. I doubt you'd even catch the bloody thing, McKay. I haven't even caught it m'self yet, but considering my possession of the gene isn't quite up to par with Sheppard, the worse I'd get would be congestion. John's gene has a stronger presence in his genetic structure, so the virus – I suppose you could say – has more to feed from, if that's what it's doin'. The only setback is, I don't know how much longer it'll last, and what damage it'll do as it progresses. Plus, considerin' John's mental state, I don't know how I'll be able to help him."

Weir folded her arms across her chest and chewed her lip thoughtfully. She then glanced over her shoulder in John's direction and sighed. " Keep working on this thing." She then looked at McKay. " See if you can find anything in the data base that might mention this virus or something like it."

McKay jerked his head in a nervous nod. " Right. If it affected the Ancients, then it should be somewhere in the archives."

Weir then looked back at Beckett. " You may need to set up shop elsewhere. I still don't trust this virus and would like to have the Lt. Colonel quarantined."

Carson inclined his head. " Aye, I can do that."

" Good. For now... I guess we just give John his space."

" Can we not stay?" Teyla asked. " Try and talk with him? Perhaps he would not be so overwhelmed if we approached him one at a time."

Weir looked at Beckett. It was all his call now.

" We might try that, but not right now. Sheppard needs what rest he can get."

With that said, Beckett herded them out of the infirmary, single file. Every head turned on John's direction. The Lt. Colonel was still in his usual spot but with the blanket around his shoulders and his head lifted to regard his friends with cornered-animal wariness. He continued to clutch the bone-saw, and the way he was wavering he looked about ready to topple at any moment.

Once the rest of the team were gone, John's piercing gaze switched directly to Beckett. The LT. Colonel's face was twitching with pain he sucked at concealing. Carson knew that the floor had to be hell to sit on. He went over to the nearest bed, stripped it off the blankets, then dragged the mattress over to the wall near Sheppard. John, tensing, scooted away from Carson.

" Easy, lad," Carson quietly said. " That floor won't be doin' your bones any good. If you're gonna keep vigil, you could at least do it on somethin' soft."

Carson dropped the mattress and slowly backed away. John's wild, empty eyes followed his every step. The man was wound tight enough to snap, and Beckett did not want to be within range of that saw when it happened.

" You're all right, John. No one's going to hurt you." Beckett quickly moved to where he was out of John's sight. He heard John cough, gasp, then cough some more, and it made Carson's skin crawl. He had what John needed to clear up the congestion, but knew John would never touch the stuff if Beckett tried to hand it to him. If anything, he'd probably use it as a weapon and throw it at Carson.

It made him wonder with growing unease how he was going to get John to eat.

' Leave that to me, doc.'

Beckett's shoulder's sagged, and he shuddered. The voice sounded way too much like John.

" I think I'll test my blood again."

SGA

Zelenka wasn't in much of a state of mind to eat. News of Sheppard's retrieval, his supposed madness, talk of a mind-altering and bone-gnawing virus, and McKay's extra helping of irritability had melted together into one, massive onslaught of uneasiness. McKay had assured everyone in the lab that the virus wasn't anything to be concerned about (though the conviction behind the words was lacking). Yet McKay had made similar speeches concerning devices that had ended up exploding in their faces or sending whoever activated them (namely Sheppard) into a world of hurt.

So though Zelenka headed toward the mess, he doubted he would stay for very long, or eat all that much. He felt bad for Lt. Colonel Sheppard. The man attracted more trouble than a stray dog attracted fleas. What was worse, the rumor mill had already started its incessant grind. Zelenka had just passed two soldiers talking in low tones about how, apparently, the Colonel had tried to kill himself and everyone in the infirmary. Zelenka knew the rumor wasn't true, since McKay had told the story straight in his snippy attempt at getting the situation – as well as pent up emotions – off his chest. No suicide attempt had been forth coming, but McKay's description of the event had left Zelenka a little shaken himself.

Zelenka liked John well enough. The Colonel had patience to spare, and treated everyone pretty much the same. His laid back manner made him easy to be around, and his verbal battles with McKay were more amusing than Zelenka ever let on. No one could deflate McKay faster than John. There had been many occasions when Zelenka had wanted to pat John on the back for it.

Now John was sick, possibly dying, and definitely mad. Or at least that's how McKay had put it. It was hard to imagine, and depressing to contemplate. Zelenka just hoped the rumor mill didn't mutate into a joke factory at John's expense.

Zelenka was alone in the corridor, and the silence sharpened even the smallest sound. He heard a kind of high-pitched grunt and a strange, light clatter like small claws clacking on metal. He slowed and strained his ears to determine the location of the noise, contemplating rats – giant, Atlantis born sea rats - then halted when the source came scurrying around the corner of the corridor.

The amber otter/seal-thing half slithered and half scampered over the smooth metal floor, making small grunting sounds as it went. It gave the suddenly rigid Zelenka a brief glance without stopping, then moved on. Zelenka watched it until it vanished around the next corner, then spat out a series of curses in his native tongue.

SGA

CJ paced behind Weir, wrapped safely in the cloak of illusion though he was still wearing John's form. It was much easier to pace when in human form.

The woman was feigning at keeping busy by looking over reports, but hadn't switched the first one she'd picked up in over an hour. Elizabeth was scared – for John, for Atlantis – but that emotion was a no-brainer. Of course she was scared. She had a possible contagion making itself comfy in her city, and the man she relied on to keep Atlantis safe was suffering with no way of doing anything about it.

But beneath the obvious emotion was another emotion CJ felt like a secondary ripple in already churning water. Weir was feeling guilty. It wasn't anything new. According to the replay of her memories, guilt popped up often like an unwanted jack in the box every time something happened to Sheppard. The emotion was so ingrained in her that she never gave it any real attention except to question herself on whether she had done the right thing on asking Sheppard to come to Atlantis. Yes, the choice had been his, but according to her mind she had dogged him into it, spurned by her blinding desire to have someone with Sheppard's abilities on board the project, while not giving the man behind the gene any real consideration.

CJ knew what he was seeing wasn't the truth. According to Sheppard's memory replay before the paranoia became all-consuming, Weir had given Sheppard the opportunity to think on it – even insisted that he do so. And in that time she had never hounded him or prodded him toward favoring going, not in any form or fashion.

But guilt tended to be a one sided little witch, and when fed enough could distort minute perceptions. If Weir could only have read minds, then she could see that Sheppard was actually happy on Atlantis. He liked the adventure, the chance to prove himself, the opportunities to do right. The only setback was his occasional feelings of being out of place since his knowledge of the Stargate program had been so last minute. Then there was the self-opinion of him being a lab rat, but CJ couldn't blame him. Having a more pure form of the gene had indeed made him too much of a target for all the science geeks around Atlantis.

CJ wasn't hanging with Weir to play hidden shrink with her, however. Being the head honcho of Atlantis, CJ had taken a little peek into her thoughts, and didn't like what he was seeing.

Weir had doubt. Even with Sheppard quarantined in the infirmary and Beckett's assurance that contagion was minimal, she was still uncertain. CJ couldn't fault her for it. She had an entire base to consider, and just because some didn't have as much gene power as Sheppard didn't mean the virus wouldn't have any nasty affects on them.

Her options were minimal. Set up some kind of shield to prevent the spread of the disease, keep him locked up until it passed, or send him off world until it passed. She sure as hell wasn't going to send him back to earth, that was a given. But neither was she comfortable with the virus' presence, which meant that to ensure the safety of the rest of Atlantis, she would have to do things to Sheppard that would become a banquet for the guilt.

It made CJ cringe. Whatever her decision, no matter how she executed it, it would only do to back up John's terror. CJ could hear the fractured memories and the horrors they created ringing in his own consciousness – a distant scream for help.

CJ was finding himself in a bind. Involvement with the affairs of corporeal beings always veered toward the complicated. Even appearing to a sinlge physical entity, even if that entity kept its mouth shut, was one too many. More than one, and the next thing CJ knows, they're either drawing runes, casting spells, or praying to him. In the case of the Atlantis folk, they would probably want a way to contact him for future help, and that was just plain old breaking the law.

CJ wouldn't just leave John to his fate, though. The mental screams of a cracked mind would haunt him for the next twenty-thousand years. CJ knew well enough. The last guy he had started to help then quit when the man wouldn't stop calling him the fairy king still echoed in his memory. Not too bad, though, since he hadn't liked that guy much. But he liked John. The human had a good heart, a good mind, and a wide capacity to except the weirdest of the weird with good-natured aplomb. He didn't deserve to be turned into a basket case.

So, unlike Weir, CJ had only one real option. Since Sheppard couldn't recall why his friends were his friends, then it was up to his friends to remind him. Thus, it was up to CJ to get them to realize what they needed to do – as well as not do, such as locking him up or sending him away to a strange place.

But first he needed to check on John and see if he'd finally taken to using the mattress. It was hard to convince him to do anything with the idea of everything being a trap fogging his brain.

CJ was back in the infirmary faster than a human could blink. Most of the medical equipment had been removed except for the stuff Beckett needed to study the virus. He was leaning over a microscope even now, moving his lips without speaking out loud. He lifted his head momentarily to replace the slide he had been looking at, then ducked his head back to the eye-piece.

CJ turned and walked over to Sheppard. He smiled on seeing the Lt. Colonel on the mattress, curled fetal-position style beneath the blanket. John looked like death's very own doppelganger – pale, sunken eyed, and his face shining with sweat. Fear had taken the fight out of him, and even with his eyes partially open and his hand loosely holding to the bone saw, he was about as much of a threat as a baby turtle. His breath kept rattling in his lungs, both on intake and exhale, which led to fits of half-hearted coughing.

John was worn to the last; hungry, thirsty, and hurting everywhere. CJ didn't have to poke into his mind to know it. Exhaustion was pouring off of John in waves.

CJ plopped down on the corner of the mattress by John's feet hidden under the blanket.

" Is he still there?" John asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

" The doc? Yeah. He's working on finding you a cure."

John lifted his head to look at CJ, his white face a practical tragedy mask.

" I can't do it. I can't..."

" See past the fear?"

" Yeah..."

" And the guilt?"

John nodded weakly.

" That's because you're doing it by yourself, John. I don't think this is something you can do on your own."

" You're helping me."

CJ shook his head. " That's not what I mean, John. I'm still kind of a stranger here so it's not like your mind's going to just take my word for anything. The help you need is a little reinforcement to bolster that shrinking but nagging feeling that these people are your friends. You need to let them help you, John."

John, unable to hold his head up any longer, dropped it back onto the mattress. " Okay. So how do I do that without freaking and shifting into blood-lust mode?"

" Well, I think you're going to have to leave that to me. All you have to do is keep yourself from throwing that saw at someone's skull. You think you could do that?"

Sheppard actually managed to produce a small, wan smile, which seemed hopeful enough. " CJ, I couldn't throw a snot rag two inches across the floor right now."

CJ smirked. " All right then. Guess this would be as good a time as any to get this party started."

Fear rippled like a wave of ice off of John. " No, wait... You're going again?"

CJ couldn't help feeling a twinge of pride tangled with a twinge of humility at John's trust. Granted it was the child-like trust of a man terrified who didn't want to be alone with the thing that scared him, but CJ's kind had never had an easy time at winning any form of trust – at least with adults. Kids took to entities like they were candy, since imaginary friends were all the rage on just about every world in every galaxy.

" Actually I'm just going to have a little heart to heart with our buddy Beckett. So I guess you could say that I'll just be right around the corner."

The fear pulled back like a waning tide, and CJ could sense small ripples of relief seeping in.

" Now," CJ began, folding his arms. " How should I go about doing this?"

SGA

John was mumbling, or talking to himself. Whatever the case, Beckett hoped it was occurring in John's sleep, and had nothing to do with John talking himself into making a final assault in an act of gaining freedom. That bone-saw was sharp. Carson knew well enough since he'd been the one to recently sharpen it.

Carson slipped another slide into the microscope and placed his eye against the eyepiece. He was subjecting various samples of the virus to various chemicals and drugs such as penicillin. True it wasn't bacteria he was dealing with, but even viruses had their weakness, and if the results were nothing more than the virus being weakened rather than destroyed, it was good enough for Beckett. John's body could handle the rest.

What Beckett really needed to be doing was to find a way to get John to eat and swallow a few vitamin D tablets without the food ending up all over the infirmary floor. The man was going to need every iota of calcium he could get, or the next time he stood up his legs would snap like twigs out from under him.

" Bloody virus."

John's ancient gene was getting to be a curse.

Beckett lifted his eye away from the scope. He rubbed both eyes using his fingers and thumb, then rolled his shoulders. With a slight jolt, he realized that the infirmary was dead silent. For the past hour he'd been fighting off the urge to take a little peek at Sheppard and see how he was doing. The dread of having a bone-saw thrown at him had aided his endeavor, but the sudden silence was demanding. Carson said a silent, begging prayer that John was asleep. Stiffly, he turned, and crept like a parent going to see if their child had finally fallen asleep.

A child capable of slicing my head off with one swing. Carson gulped fearfully, and slowed when Sheppard's corner came into view.

John was curled corpse-still on the mattress and beneath the blanket pulled up to below his shoulders. His arms were limpidly draped over the edge of the mattress with one hand still clinging to the saw, and his eyes were unfocused as they stared at some invisible speck hovering in the air.

Carson shivered. Cadaverous; the word was starting to fit John a little too comfortably. Even lying down, John's scrub shirt hung loose like shedding skin that couldn't be discarded. The deep rise and fall of John's flank and chest, plus an occasional blink, were the only movements the man made, but enough to dispel the momentary dread that John – in fact – had become an actual cadaver.

Carson shook his head. John looked tired, the kind of tired between wanting to run into the open arms of total exhaustion, but just standing there because it wasn't safe to sleep. Carson knew it would piss John off, but the doctor was overwhelmed by pity. Subdued and small was how John was appearing. Weak and helpless - like a sedated mental patient.

That alone must be torturing John. The lad would skin me alive if he knew I was thinkin' that way.

Carson backed away before John took notice of him, and turned to head back to the table.

Carson's heart scrambled into his throat and he faltered to go stumbling onto his butt when he found himself facing... himself.

" Best not think that way about our boy then, Carson."

Beckett stared up at himself, and his self smiled back down at him. Carson cringed.

" Ah Bloody hell, no. Oh no, I've caught it. I've caught the virus."

Carson number two looked up over Carson one's head toward John. Suddenly, so fast that Carson nearly missed it, Carson-two's form seemed to shimmer, fizz, then coalesce to become John dressed in battle gear.

" Hey John, Carson thinks he has the virus."

" Tell him not to think," came sick John's weak, raspy, non-committal reply.

Beckett's head snapped back and forth between the two John's so rapidly that darkness hovered on the edge of his vision when the blood started rushing to his skull. John's healthy form shimmered and fuzzed again to reform into Carson two, then raised both hands.

" Easy, lad. No need to fret. As you can see, we have a mutual friend in John. And seein' as how your not pickin' up scalpels, backing into corners, or hackin' up a lung, I think it would be safe for you to assume that you're not sick."

Carson began blinking rapidly. " wh-wha- wha..."

Carson two put his hand on his chest. " Call me Ishmael. No, don't, not really. Call me CJ, actually. John came up with it. Well, he came up with Cheshire John, but CJ's a lot shorter."

" Wh-who-what-who...?"

" A friend, Carson. A friend of John's and a friend of yours. Just a friend. I'd explain myself to ya... but I don't want to. Better things to do and all." CJ then crouched to be eye-level with Carson. " Listen, doc. I can help you get John to eat. You get the food, I'll do the convincin'. He needs the strength if he's goin' to fight this bug you seem to have termed the Bloody Virus. You can gape, stutter, gawk and question your sanity later, but right now you need to focus on helpin' John. If we work together maybe we can see abut givin' him somethin' for the pain. It's really gettin' bad. Don't be surprised if he starts moanin' and groanin' soon. And I'm not some bloody Ascended, so stop thinkin' that. And don't you dare call me a pook!"

Carson pushed himself numbly to his feet despite how uncooperative his brain was being. " Uh – I uh..."

CJ also rose. " Food, Carson, then we'll talk about what's goin' on and how you're not goin' mad."

Carson managed to get his head to jerk up and down in a nod. He turned like the obedient robot he seemed to have become, and found himself to be moving toward the doors to the infirmary.

" Relax, Carson. Think. If John saw me – mental deterioration aside – and you don't have the virus symptoms, then how could this possibly be a mass hallucination?"

Sounded logical enough, but shock wouldn't even give logic the time of day at the moment.

SGA

Carson was amazed he hadn't dropped the food on his way back. He felt jumpy as a wound toy and every voice, touch, or noise made his heart slam into his sternum. But not all his nerves, nor wits, were shot to hell. On reaching the mess hall he had mind enough to pick foods either rich in calcium or easy on the digestion. It was a ladened tray that caused Beckett nothing but grief as he tried to carry it and when every eye in the mess turned his way – until he turned to face everyone and explain that it was for John.

" Lad's hungry," he said with an abashed smile and slight shrug. But the explanation was accepted and everyone went back to their meal.

In all likely-hood, John would barely touch a thing, but Carson saw no harm in playing it safe should the opposite prove fact.

On entering the infirmary, Carson managed one final feat of keeping the food on the tray while jolting in alarm.

John was sitting on the corner of the mattress, talking to John curled beneath the blanket.

Carson cleared his throat. " Um, CJ, is it? I've got the food here."

John – the real John – attempted to push himself up on trembling arms, but only got as far as his elbows. Still, it amazed Carson that he was able to hold himself up for so long. Then again, fear was a natural – if temporary – muscle enhancer.

" Easy John," CJ said, then looked at Carson. " Come in close, set it on the floor, then carefully slide it toward John."

Carson, feeling a bit shakey, nodded and approached John's little nook in a slight crouch. It reminded him too much of approaching a bristling dog, and it sickened Beckett how wrong it was. John was his friend.

" It's not his fault, doc," CJ said. " It's the virus. It's screwing up his mind, making him paranoid. But you already know that."

Beckett set the tray down five feet from John, and nodded.

" Aye, that I do." He pushed it forward, little by little. Milk from the tall, fogged glass sloshed over the rim and pooled along the upturned edges of the tray. When the tray was within John's reach, Carson lifted both his hands and slowly backed away.

John kept his wild, unfocused gaze on Carson with a penetration that made Beckett's skin prickle. The man was a trained soldier – trained to kill – and was regarding Beckett as one of the enemy. Another gut-churning bout of fear-induced sickness made Carson want to turn and leave.

" None of that, doc. You need to stay. You need to talk to John, help me convince him to eat. He thinks you might have spiked the food with sedatives. And don't worry about the saw. He can hardly lift his own arm right now. Got a straw?"

" On the tray."

CJ grinned. " Good. Now sit, get comfortable. This may take a while."

Beckett knew by eying John that if the Lt. Colonel had the strength, he would have bolted – or attacked. Carson wasn't sure which. It almost seemed like both, switching rapidly back and forth, with a little confusion squeezing in between. John was shaking with the effort of holding himself up, so finally lowered himself back onto the mattress, twisting his face in pain and gasping for breath.

Carson wrinkled his brow in worry. He lowered himself to the floor and folded his legs Indian-style. " You need to eat, John."

John narrowed his eyes. " What did he do to it?"

" What?" Carson asked.

" Nothing," CJ replied. " He didn't do anything to the food, John. Hey Carson, tell him about that time you brought him back to life when his heart had to be stopped to get rid of that bug. Or how about when he broke his leg off world, and you refused to set the bone until you could find some way of dulling the pain. Better yet, talk about the good times. Got any good times to share?"

Carson swallowed and twitched a weak smile. " Well, I wouldn't call all the times I've had to hunt the Colonel down because he didn't know when to listen to me good. He's not particular with doctors, I got that the first time I treated him, and that was for an actual cold. I couldn't even bribe him to get bed rest."

John showed no signs that what Beckett had just said got through.

CJ nodded. " Good. What else? And tell it to John."

Carson shifted to get more comfortable. " Well, back when you were the major and not a Lt. Colonel, Colonel, you had me analyze some green stuff that turned out to be silly-putty. You said it'd been found slidin' about Atlantis, then just stopped movin'. The whole time I was lookin' at the stuff, you were tellin' me about the movie The Blob, then scared the hell out of me when you said you saw the putty twitch. You couldn't stop laughin' your ass off about it. Of course, thinkin' back on it now, it was pretty funny. But what was funnier was when you did it to Rodney. That had me hurtin' I was laughin' so hard. You've a twisted sense of humor, John, but if it wasn't for that humor I think we'd all gone stir crazy about now. You have a way with keepin' everyone grounded, on the level. You might say you remind us to laugh now and then, which is pretty much the same as remindin' everyone to breathe in my book."

A change in John's demeanor was finally forthcoming. His wariness was flickering, weakening into confusion as Carson's words sunk in to be processed within the chaos of John's muddled brain.

" Keep talking," CJ urged.

" I don't know what's goin' on in your head to make you afraid of us. We'd never hurt you John. If we ever had, it was unintentional, especially on my part. You know me, John. I hate causin' anyone pain. You know how it tears me up inside. It's why you frustrate me sometimes. You never listen, then you get hurt, and sometimes there's nothin' I can do to eliminate the pain – like now. I don't like that you're hurtin' John, and I'd like to help if you'd let me."

" Because he's saved your life too many times to count, right doc?" CJ said.

Beckett leaned forward. " Aye, exactly! John, where would you ever get the idea that we would harm you?"

CJ grimaced. " If you could see what I see, doc, you'd understand. He can't help it, he really can't. But he's trying to fight it. That's why you need to keep talking to him."

Carson nodded. " You know, this kind of reminds me of when you were changin', becomin' like a wraith. You were pretty scared then too. I mean, not quite like now. I didn't understand what was goin' on then either. Still, I did everythin' I could to help you then. Don't you remember John?"

" His brain won't let him," CJ explained. " But it's there, he knows it is, he just can't bring it up."

Carson jerked his head back in shock. " This bug some kind of bloody organic computer virus? Why's it screwin' with his mind?"

CJ shrugged. " You're the doc, you tell me. I can't read germ-minds. Too tiny."

Carson shook his head. " Never mind. Anyway, I know you know I'm tellin' the truth, John. I've only ever helped ya. And that's all I'll ever do. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd be strapped to a bed, sedated up to your scalp. But I swear I won't do that to you, John. You're safe in here. I won't even force you to eat if you're not up to it. It goes against every fiber of my bein' to do it, but I'll relent to it if you don't trust me."

John raised himself back onto his elbows. His confusion became a visible struggle, one that Carson could swear was hurting him. In John's eyes was a fathomless ocean of sorrow, pouring out a silent plea for help, for understanding, for forgiveness. The depth of it struck Carson with a stunning blow, sending Carson' heart plummeting and his mind teetering over the precipice into his own confusion.

" I..." John began. His arms were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He was shrinking back but trying not to, and from the way his eyes squinted and widened, Beckett knew John was battling things out on the inside.

" Come on, John," CJ said. " Spite the little SOB organic computer virus."

" Do you want me to leave, John?"

John swallowed hard, then reluctantly shook his head. He reached out with a tentative, shaking hand until his fingertips made contact with the tray, and pulled it to him. The effort nearly knocked him out, and he dropped back down onto the mattress. But he kept moving, picking up the straw on the side of the tray and plunking it into the milk. After that, he was done.

" I'll get to it," he panted. " I promise." He then looked at Beckett, and did another nervous, pain-filled swallow. " I'll trust you - whether I like it or not... doc," he rasped, and Beckett had the impression that the words had been the hardest thing for John to have ever said. If Beckett hadn't known any better, he would have been crushed. But he knew better, so instead smiled.

CJ grinned and winked. " Stellar bed-side manner doc."

SGA

A/N: Now on to Rodney! Boy, that's gonna be a challenge. Will Rodney make things worse, or establish his own breakthrough with John? Will CJ's appearance as a Doppelganger McKay scare the crap out of Rodney? (well, duh.) Will John manage to gather his sanity enough for at least one little sarcastic remark? And what of Little Jim? Who will he freak out next? All these questions and more will be answered in... the next chapter.

FYI for those who don't know – a pook is a spirit from Celtic legend that either takes on the form of an animal, or can take on various forms of animals. At any rate, it's pretty much a shape-shifting spirit and pesky as all crap. I've done a lot of stories involving pooks.