Beckett's team are careful, their movements precise and coordinated as they unstrap Sheppard from the gurney and carefully lift him across to an infirmary bed, allowing Carson to begin to properly assess his patient. John is still out cold, his skin flushed, his limbs relaxed and toneless. His head lolls to the side on the starched white pillow, sweat dampening the tousled hair at his temples. Carson snaps a sterile tip onto the digital thermometer and waits impatiently for the results. There's a beep and he brings the instrument to his face, a frown on his face as he studies the readout. 103. He mutters to himself as pulls out his pen flashlight and carefully lifts Sheppard's lids, flashing the light back and forth to check for pupil reactions. Where on earth did the Colonel pick up this fever? He hasn't been off-world in the past few days and no-one else in his team is sick.
Even as he examines his patient, Carson's mind throws out possible diagnoses, considering or discarding them one by one. Injury. Bacterial infection. Virus. Poison. Parasite. Drug reaction. Inflammatory reaction. Metabolic failure. This fever had come from nowhere but it had to be caused by something; it was a symptom of an underlying condition. Without identifying and treating the underlying cause, all Carson can do is manage the fever, try to reduce Sheppard's body temperature and wait for his body to fight off whatever was causing the fever. That is simply not an acceptable option in Dr Beckett's view.
A nurse quickly draws several vials of blood and rushes them to the labs for testing and, with the help of his team, Carson begins a thorough visual check of his patient, looking for bites, scratches, an infection site, a rash; anything that could explain why the Colonel has suddenly developed a debilitating fever. A nurse unfastens the thigh straps and carefully removes Sheppard's ever-present holster as two of Carson's team help him lift the Colonel's torso from the bed long enough to strip him of his shirt. Sheppard is dead weight, his body utterly limp and relaxed in their grip, and he's heavier than his slim form would suggest. His skin is slick with sweat and Carson struggles to keep a grip on him as they lay him carefully back down on the bed. There's no sign of any injury or mark on the Colonel's torso or, when they carefully roll him, anywhere on his back. Carson decides against cutting through Sheppard's pants to remove them; the man goes through enough uniforms as it is and Beckett knows he'd be less than thrilled to find another pair ruined. So they do it the hard way, unlacing the standard-issue boots and lifting together to raise the Colonel's hips enough that a nurse can slide the waistband down, pulling the pants down his legs and over his feet.
It's Carson who spots it. It's small enough that he almost missed it. On the back of Sheppard's right calf, just above the level of his boots, there is a tiny, thin scratch. It looks like nothing and Sheppard had probably dismissed it as such, if he'd even noticed it. But when Carson looks closer he finds the skin around the cut is slightly discoloured and erythematous. He runs his fingers over the tiny injury and finds the flesh tight and hot. Sheppard's muscular calf has masked the swelling but the feeling of pressure under the skin is unmistakable. It's definitely infected. Carson allows himself a small smile; he's found his culprit. He begins issuing orders to his team.
"Christophe, can you get a swab from this please and get it to the labs? Jenny, lets start the Colonel on IV fluids for dehydration, broad spectrum antibiotics to fight the infection and we'll want an NSAID to reduce his temperature." He scribbles his prescription on Sheppard's chart in a messy doctor's scrawl and hands it to the nurse. "Quick as you can please.."
They've gotten the Colonel into a gown and pulled the blankets up over his bare legs when a sudden shiver, a tremor that ripples through his entire body, marks the beginning of Sheppard's return to consciousness. He begins to shift restlessly on the bed, not awake but no longer unconscious, and the nurse struggles to start an IV as Sheppard's arm twitches and moves. Carson leans over, holding the Colonel's wrist in a firm grip, keeping his arm still as the nurse smoothly and efficiently slips the needle under the skin, checking that the port is patent before connecting the IV and carefully taping everything securely in place. Carson watches as Sheppard's eyelids flutter but he doesn't wake. His shivering has intensified now, sweat beading on the flushed skin of his forehead. Carson gently touches the back of his hand to the Colonel's brow, testing temperature the old-fashioned way. Heat radiates from Sheppard's skin, his forehead damp and hot to Carson's touch. The doctor frowns. At the very least, it looks like Colonel Sheppard is in for a couple of rather uncomfortable days.
They've done all they can for the Colonel right now, starting him on treatment to help combat his symptoms whilst his body fights off the infection. They'll know more about the nature of that infection once they get back his blood work and the results of the wound swab. Carson steps back from the bed, happy that his staff have carried out his orders well and that the Colonel is in good hands.
In the meantime, Carson knows he is needed elsewhere. He strips off his sterile gloves and drops them in a nearby disposal unit, heading for the doors that lead from the infirmary into what has become an informal waiting room. True to his expectations, the doors slide open to reveal Elizabeth, Ronon, Teyla and Rodney all hovering anxiously.
He gives them a reassuring smile as they gather around him.
"The Colonel has a wee bit of a fever," he begins.