"That's serious, isn't it?" Ronan asked, his dark eyes somber.

"So serious, there isn't a thing to be done about it here," Carson sighed. "At least it's a slow bleed, so I've got some time before it gets critical."

"Maybe I shouldn't leave."

"I don't see that you have much choice, lad. Someone's got to go for help, and you're it by default." Carson struggled to his feet, dragging the P90 with him. "I'll do 'til you get back, don't worry. But Ronan, we'll not mention this wee wrinkle to Rodney. It'll only worry him, and I want him to stay as calm as possible, given the circumstances. And given that he's Rodney."

The subject of their discussion loudly announced his displeasure at being left out. "Okay, what's all the whispering about? Oh God, I'm hurt worse than you said, aren't I? What are you keeping from me?"

"You're fine. Ronan's going for the gate while you and I mind the fort."

"Is that a good idea? Uh, no offense, Carson, but I've seen you shoot and I don't think you're up to holding off the entire Kalerian army."

"Actually, the jumper's in a pretty defensible position," Ronan remarked. "Stay at the door, keep your eyes open, and you should be able to hold them off for awhile."

"A while?" Rodney snarked. "And what scientific method did you use to arrive at that precise estimate?"

Ronan ignored him, leaning over to strip Sheppard's excess ammunition from his vest. He handed it to Carson, who tucked the magazines into his jacket pockets.

"Let me give you something for pain," the doctor offered, reaching for his case. "Nothing that'll slow you down or dull your responses, but it should take the edge off." Ronan took the pills and washed them down with a bottle of water Carson had found from the wreckage. "Keep it," he insisted. "Stay hydrated so your muscles don't cramp. And for God's sake, be careful."

"And wear a sweater," Rodney added.

"Leave off, Rodney," Carson grumbled fondly. He opened a second bottle of water and placed it in McKay's hand. "You're to stay hydrated, too."

Ronan paused in the doorway, eyeing them with obvious indecision. Carson clapped him on the shoulder. "Go on, lad. Good luck." The Satedan nodded and slipped out of the jumper, and Carson settled himself by the door, the P90 in his lap. "So how are you feeling, then, Rodney?"

"My shoulder is killing me."

"That's the clavicle fracture, they can be right painful. It should heal up nicely, though, no worries."

"Are we talking surgery here?"

"Would I have given you water if you were headin' for surgery?"

"No, I guess not. Hey, you want some?" McKay gave his bottle a shake in Carson's direction.

In truth, Carson was desperately thirsty, but any first-year resident knew not to give anything by mouth to a patient with internal bleeding. Unlike Rodney, Carson was definitely headed for surgery. If he was lucky. "No thank you, Rodney. I'm good for now. Are you warm enough? I can get you an emergency blanket."

Before Rodney could answer, Sheppard groaned and tossed his head. Carson scrambled on hands and knees to his side. "Colonel, can you hear me?"

"Head hurts," Sheppard muttered, bringing a hand to his temple. A greenish tint to his pale face tipped Carson off, and he rolled the colonel to his side just before the man was copiously sick.

"Oh, that's just perfect!" Rodney bitched. "Stuck in here for God knows how many hours, smelling that? Terrific!"

Carson eased the colonel onto his back and wiped his face with his sleeve. Sheppard's eyes still roamed in random, unfocused patterns. "What happened?" he rasped. "Did we crash?"

Carson rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.