A/N: There can never be enough thanks for the reviews and the knowledge that you're enjoying this tale. But I will try. Thank you times one thousand... (still not enough!) Back to the present we go...

Part Two

Ch. 21

Hysterics of Fear

After

Elizabeth walked into the lab with the slow, casual pace of one on a stroll and meandering where ever her feet decided to take her. Happenstance wandering wasn't the case, the lab had been her goal all along. Her reasonings behind the destination, however, were not so precise. She had just needed another place to go besides the infirmary, before her feet wore a hole in the floor.

Plus it felt like ages since she had last talked to Rodney. Okay, maybe ages was pushing it. More like three days starting from when John had made his mad dash from the gate to his room to puke and pass out. Since that day, Rodney had been scarce except for briefings, and a man of few words during those briefings.

Again, pushing it. He still had plenty to say, but it was quick and done without the usual follow-up rants concerning this piece of crap technology or that incompetent scientist or soldier. He came, he spoke, then he was gone to get back to work on whatever it was he was working on.

All he had to say on John's mystery device was that he was still 'working on it'. Nobody had to mention it out loud – something was troubling the physicist. Kate summed up that trouble in one word – Sheppard. But since McKay was being purposefully ghost-like, and extra petulant since he wasn't very good at it, not even Kate could pin-point what, exactly, it was concerning the situation with the Lt. Colonel that was eating at Rodney.

The only two safe from Rodney's nuclear explosive temper were Weir and Ronon, and since Ronon's presence made Rodney clam up more than talk, it was all up to Elizabeth to get to the bottom of things.

" Damn it! Zelenka, I needed that running yesterday!"

Elizabeth did a sliding halt before Dr. Zelenka plowed into her.

" It was running yesterday! Oh! Hello Dr. Weir, I'm terribly sorry..." Radek said, catching Weir's arm when she stumbled.

" Quite all right, Dr. Zelenka." Her head was turned slightly to have Rodney – hunched at a table and typing furiously away – in her sights. Radek anticipated this, and scowled.

" He is like being penned up with a... a..." he snapped his fingers, " what is word? Ah! Demon. Devil. Anything straight from the pits of hell!" This he shouted, but Rodney didn't even look up.

Elizabeth gave Radek an understanding smile and a pat on the arm. " Not a good day, then."

" Never a good day. Worse day yet, though, I will admit." The Czech scientist raised both eyebrows. " I don't suppose..."

" I could keep him busy while you slip out for a break? No problem."

Radek sighed, slumped his shoulders, nodded a thanks, and rushed from the lab while Rodney was still preoccupied. Rodney turned just as the lab doors slid shut.

" Zelenka! Hey, where'd the hell he go?" Rodney's gaze landed on Elizabeth, and he immediately turned away back to his lap top.

Rodney's accusations of John acting like a child was the pot calling the kettle black. John's occasional childishness was more good-natured, fun loving bouts of immaturity. Rodney's – pouting, plain and simple.

" Dr. Weir," Rodney said by way of maintaining civility. " To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone, however, was clipped, tight, and tense as his shoulders.

" Oh, nothing," Elizabeth replied. " Just thought I'd stop by, see how you were these days, what you were up to. I don't see you as much as usual."

The silence of the room was held back by the speeding clack of a keyboard under flying fingers. " I've been a little busy."

Elizabeth saw the dark, cylindrical device on the table, almost shoved back and half-concealed by scraps and Ancient artifacts. Weir moved over to the table. " Have you made any headway with John's device?" She lifted it from the clutter and looked it over. The casing was still coated in dry, smeared blood. Elizabeth nearly dropped it in her disgust, and couldn't set it down quickly enough.

John's blood. Too much of it.

That's when it dawned on her, and she turned sharply to stare incredulously at Rodney's back. " You haven't even looked at it... since that day... have you?"

The clacking stopped. " No." Then resumed.

" Why not? Because of the blood?"

" No, not because of the blood," he snapped.

" Then why? Rodney, we really need to know what this thing is, if it's dangerous. It could be a weapon, or something useful to us..."

" Ask John," Rodney impatiently spat.

Elizabeth gaped and looked at Rodney askance. " Rodney, he's been unconscious for three days. We don't know when he'll wake up and we need to know as soon as possible what it is. I mean, obviously it must be something important or John wouldn't have risked his life bringing it back."

Rodney whipped around on his stool to stare at Elizabeth with eyes blazing. " Ever think he might have had that thing shoved into his arms moments before he was shoved through the gate? Ever think that, maybe, if I tamper with it, some virus or poison gas might be released, killing us all? No offense to your imaginary ideal situation, Elizabeth, but we still don't know what happened to Sheppard, and for all we know so much crap happened to him that he had no idea what he was doing or even what he was holding when he came back. No, strike that – so much crap did happen to him. Crap even the good witch doctor can't figure out. So excuse me for taking the side of caution and waiting until the only person who can give us any real insight wakes from his unnatural nap and starts spilling words rather than blood. Until then, like hell I'm going to touch that thing. Not until I know more."

With that said, he turned again, showing his back to Elizabeth as a visual end to the conversation.

Elizabeth would have been mad – probably should have been – but reading Rodney was like reading a book meant for a five-year old. The only time he was ever this rude – to everyone including Elizabeth – was when he was scared. So Weir wasn't going to fault him. Besides, he had a point. Elizabeth trusted John's stubborn resolve to the fault that the possibility of someone actually breaking that resolve never registered to her no matter the situation. She never considered extreme fatigue or mental tampering.

Anger and logic aside, Rodney was also sad. It was harder to see – the hardest of all, like trying to read through War and Peace – because it was hidden within the rant of fear and anger. Its manifestation was only revealed when one knew how to look, and what to look for. Or, more accurately, listen for. Rodney's harsh tone tended to waver when sadness was involved.

And sadness was a mutual emotion with most of Atlantis. Pity for John, because the man was a magnet for torture, and Beckett still couldn't explain what had been done to John's body that had the cells altered, except that it was similar to what had been done to the blood found all over (and in) John.

" I understand," Elizabeth said.

Rodney straightened, then turned to look at Elizabeth narrow-eyed. " You do?"

" Yes, I do. Worry is universal right now, Rodney, and if you feel it unsafe to study the device, then I won't push you... And... I'm sorry I did."

Rodney's next look was a guarded one. " Oh... okay." He made to turn back to his laptop.

" So how are you, Rodney?"

Rodney stopped, rolled his eyes, and returned to facing Elizabeth. " Is that a general question or something more along the lines of what Heightmeyer would ask?"

Elizabeth shrugged. " Just... a question. Like I said, I haven't seen much of you lately."

" And like I said, I've been a little busy. Look, I know what you're up too. So I've been keeping extra busy. So what? It's a technological wonder of a city, so there's always going to be something for me to do or catch up on or whatever. I'm sorry if that means throwing the cold shoulder to everyone, but I work better when I'm not bothered – especially being bothered about my emotional state. I'm fine Elizabeth. Yes, maybe a little disturbed that the base commander who'd been gone for almost a month shows up with blood spewing from his mouth that isn't his and his genetic makeup mutilated. But other than that – I'm just peachy."

Rodney turned, conversation done.

Not by a long shot. Elizabeth folded her arms. " Beckett says you haven't been by to see John."

The clacking had resumed. " What's there to see? He's asleep."

" But he could wake up at any time. Awake or asleep, Beckett says the show of support would do John good."

Rodney snorted. " How? He's asleep."

Elizabeth drummed her fingers on her arm as irritation prickled. " Rodney..." She then narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. " You're not afraid of him, are you?"

Rodney's head snapped up and around. " What! Afraid? He's a vegetable. What the hell's so scary about that?"

" Not that," Elizabeth snapped. " Because of what was done to him. Because of the blood, the mutation. Because of everything. You're not the only one worried Rodney, or scared, but it's not a reason to avoid him."

Rodney was hesitant about turning away again, but eventually did. " I'm not avoiding him. I'd just rather see him when he's awake is all."

And see if he's still normal in the head. Elizabeth knew Rodney wouldn't say it out loud. She knew he thought it, though, because, in all admittance, she carried a similar uncertainty. She was afraid for John – and, much as she despised it – of him. Of what he would be when he finally woke up.

John's iratus mutation hadn't been that long ago.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She was being unfair, and she was really starting to hate herself for the repetitive trip down memory lane to that day. But fear left scars, and these were still fresh. There were nights when she still felt the fingers at her throat.

Elizabeth turned and hurried from the lab before the tears could group and pool. Ever since Beckett's announcement that what was found in the black blood was also in John's blood, it had left Elizabeth in a constant state of internal cringing. Caldwell had talked of keeping John in the brig out of precaution, Lorne keeping guards posted including Ronon, and Carson contemplating restraints.

The man isn't even awake yet! It wasn't fair, but had to be considered in retrospect of what almost happened, of what could have been.

Iratus mutation take two. Elizabeth shuddered. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to John.

SGASGASGASGASGA

Rodney's fingers hit the individual keys with hard enough strokes to break both the board and his fingers.

Afraid. What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I'm afraid! Who wouldn't be afraid? Who isn't afraid? Time to lock Lt. Colonel cannibal up before he eats us all...

The clicking died, and Rodney closed his eyes with a frustrated groan.

Okay, unfair, very unfair. But come on! He's been altered and puked blood. That's scary, undeniably disturbing, and just... Freakin' wrong!

He wouldn't admit to being afraid because no one else was admitting to it. And yet everyone was feeling it. One big mass act of denial.

Rodney opened his eyes, then leaned to plant his elbows on either side of the laptop and place his forehead in his hands. He also didn't want to admit it because he didn't want to be feeling this way. The all knowing Weir was right – well, not exactly. Rodney still held that his presence didn't make a difference if John was asleep. The desire to be there – to see how the Colonel was doing and to remind himself that the man who's friendship mattered a lot more to Rodney than he would let on, was indeed home, alive, and real – that was reason enough alone to go. More for his sake than for John's sake, but his masked concern for John made it anything but selfish.

Rodney hesitated, and avoided, visiting because he was sick of this crap. John back in body didn't mean back in mind, and if the form lying in that bed ended up not being John after all, Rodney didn't want to have to go through the motions of fury and demand that somebody help John, and hear the spiel of how it was tricky, hard, or impossible.

Better to stay a stoic than get backhanded by the cruelty of life when a bullet had to be put through John's brain...

Rodney closed his eyes again. Sometimes, he hated the pessimistic turns his brain liked to make, and hated himself for turning. It was a practical habit of his, but – crap – he'd sell his laptop to break himself of it.

Then there was the whole fact of this ordeal being his fault. He was the one who last saw John, and the one who didn't do a thing to stop John from taking that twenty minute stroll that turned into a month.

Beckett had been steamed about that one. He'd apologized later for laying the blame on Rodney, but the damage had been done, because in Rodney's mind Beckett had been right. Rodney had figured that out long before Beckett had said anything.

Would the Colonel be mad? Rodney liked to think he had the man pegged, but he didn't – most of the time. So he really couldn't say. Although, he had the sneaking suspicion that John would go out of his way to assure Rodney that it wasn't his fault. Wouldn't be the first time. Not a constant, but enough to have Rodney leaning toward that opinion. A positive – now that was a first.

The negative – John might not even be himself enough to remember even taking a walk. On waking, he'll flip, attack, and just kill...

Rodney gritted his teeth. Shut up with that already!

Not knowing was tearing his brain in two.

Wake up Colonel, Rodney thought with a sigh. Let's just get it over with.

SGASGASGASGASGA

" Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody hell," Carson mumbled. " Bloody, bloody hell. I don't get it."

He adjusted the focus on the microscope. The cells he was looking at – it wasn't as though they had been altered like he kept telling everyone, but more as though something had been added on. The only real altercation was with the black blood, and that hadn't been as saturated with the add-ons as Sheppard's cells were. In fact, a recent peak at the blood had shown fewer add-ons than yesterday.

He couldn't explain it, which was pissing him off, but it was a reason to be hopeful.

Either the add-ons were deteriorating being outside the body, or they eventually went on their own. Either way, if it was something added, and not fully integrated with the cells, it meant they could be taken away.

Beckett couldn't be certain. Genetics for him was like wormhole physics for Rodney – it was his domain, his specialty. But what Beckett was observing now was a little beyond his league. Maybe above and beyond.

It was weird, and making him nervous.

Carson lifted his eyes from the scope and rubbed them one-handed with thumb and fingers. He looked over his shoulder to the still, pale form in the bed, bandaged and wired to monitors and an I.V. line. The beep of the heart monitor was steady, the rise and fall of the chest the same. John's head was tilted to one side, away from Beckett. It looked uncomfortable.

Carson went over to the bed and gently turned John's head to the upward position.

The man's eyes were roving in REM sleep, and his throat moved in a slight swallow. The lesser scratches on his face, throat, and the visible places on his shoulders and chest made it seem as though he'd gotten into a fight with a thorny bush. Underneath the bandages that were near invisible against the white skin were the real marks of suffering. Carson put his hand on the cool skin of the forehead to check for a rise in temperature heralding infection.

None yet.

John inhaled a sharp, short breath, and let it out with a shudder. Carson was tempted to wake him, but needed to let John be the one to wake. The amount of exhaustion in the man had amazed Carson, because it should have killed John. So it was nothing unnatural that John had ended up sleeping through three days straight. If John needed four days, or five, then he would get four or five. Less would be better. Carson was anxious to get John back on solid food and aid the return of meat to the bones. John wasn't as bad off as he had been from his stay with the Cyladrans. But hospital beds, bandages, pale skin, and the extra visibility of bones was making John so blasted fragile looking.

It was the reason why Carson kept dismissing the consideration of putting John in restraints in case this cell alteration was a repeat of the iratus fiasco. Yes, safety was an issue, but it was a precaution, not a must, and truthfully Carson felt better in avoiding it. Picturing John waking up strapped to the bed and panicking made the whole concept piss Carson off. He would not restrain John so long as there wasn't a viable reason to. He would face the consequences, whatever they might be.

John could injure himself further if strapped down.

Carson put a hand on the sharp shoulder that wasn't injured. Far from being emaciated, but still thinner than the norm. Carson hated the struggle of getting John to amend that. The Colonel was always so focused on everything else except himself.

" You don't eat," Carson muttered. " I'm shoving the food down yer throat, lad. Sorry."

Carson turned to head back to the table and take another peek at those cells. The gate alarms sounded – an activation from off world.

" Just don't be callin' me," Carson said to himself. " Please for the love of everythin', let it just be more rain and not an ambush."

Carson suddenly wondered if he should have changed John's bandages. He glanced over his shoulder in consideration for it, and sent a petri dish sliding across the table in his hasty turn.

John was sitting upright, rigid, stiff, with hands gripping the rails so tight they shook. The expression on the pale face was pure, blind terror. His breath was coming fast, unsteady through a slack-jawed mouth, and he was trembling hard.

Carson hurried over to him. " John?" He put one hand on the Colonel's shoulder, the other on his bicep, both dripping sweat. " Colonel? Come on, lad, what is it? What's wrong?"

The monitor, heart rate, was fast, incomprehensibly fast. It was starting to increase Carson's own panic.

There was a voice announcing something that couldn't be heard over distance and being muffled by the door. John flinched with eyes darting around and head turning in all directions.

" What'd they say?" he rasped barely above a whisper.

" Say? John, you need to lay back down..."

" What'd they say!" John screamed, pushing away from Carson to scramble out of the bed. He hit the floor, hard, gasping in a pain-filled breath. He rolled onto his chest, and began crawling toward the infirmary doors. Carson ran over to him, taking him beneath both arms and hauling him to his feet. The moment John was up, he began sinking back toward the floor. He gripped the lapels of Beckett's lab coat in an attempt to stay standing.

" Colonel!" Becket grunted, trying to haul the weak body back toward the bed. John hindered it, still attempting to make it to the door.

" What did they say, what did they say, what did they say..." he said, over and over, his voice a freaked whimper, his blood-shot eyes wide enough for the eye lids to rip.

" What did who say?" Beckett grunted next. John kept repeating. Then, in a sudden surge of strength, John had his feet beneath him, and used his grip on the collar to pull himself up and be face to face with the doctor.

" Was it scheduled or unscheduled!"

Carson, his heart jackhammering out of control, shrank back from the wild, uncomprehending look of horror in John's eyes. Tears welled up along the edges of the eyelids, and one slid down the colorless face.

" What was it, Carson, please? Please tell me what it was?" His voice was lower in an attempt at calm, but cracked and hoarse.

Carson gulped, then slowly, carefully, raised a trembling hand to his ear to tap the radio there.

" B-Beckett to control room. Um, quick question. Was activation scheduled?"

The radio crackled and Beckett heard Weir's voice.

" Scheduled. It was Lorne's team returned on time. Why Dr. Beckett?"

" N-No reason."

" Are you all right, Dr. Beckett?"

" Fine! Fine, Dr. Weir. Beckett out."

Beckett did another swallow. " Scheduled, son. It was scheduled."

The terror, and the tension, left John like water being siphoned through a huge hose. The fleeting strength went with it, and John would have dropped to the floor if Carson hadn't kept his hold on him. John's head tipped onto Carson's shoulders, the frantic breathing becoming weary, deep-lung pants. But he was still shaking.

A nurse, having heard the commotion and standing off to the side in shock, rushed over to help Carson get John back into the bed.

" S... Sorry... doc," came John's weak voice into Carson's shoulder. " I'm... really... sorry."

Carson could have sworn the Colonel was verging on a sob. He and the nurse got John back sitting on the bed. Carson took the front, gently lowering John onto the pillow, while the nurse handled the legs. Carson pulled the blankets up to John's chest.

" It's all right son," Carson assured. Thoughts of restraints invaded Carson's thoughts, but he shoved them furiously aside. John's reaction had been anything but dangerous – except to John. He would have a nurse keep watch, that would work to protect John from himself just fine.

Carson reattached the wires of the monitor, then the needle of the I.V. after cleaning the the bleeding cut resulting from having the needle ripped out.

" Why did you need to know about the gate, John?" Beckett asked.

No response. John was back in dreamland.

TBC...