Carson is practically waiting for them at the infirmary door when the team returns from PM4-77G. He all but snatches the sample containers from McKay and, with a distracted thank you, is gone, bearing his precious cargo away to the labs to run his tests. Ronon stands at the foot of Sheppard's bed, hanging back as Teyla and McKay hover over the Colonel, questioning the duty nurse about his condition. Ronon doesn't ask any questions. He can see for himself that Sheppard looks worse. His cheeks are flushed, bright with colour, and the shivering is constant now, the sheets twisted around Sheppard's body from his restless movements.
Ronon tunes back in to the conversation as he hears McKay berating the nurse over the fact that Sheppard is in restraints. The soft straps of black fabric are wrapped around Sheppard's wrists, pinning his arms to the rails at the side of the infirmary bed. Even as Ronon watches, Sheppard twists uncomfortably in his half-sleep, muscles straining in his forearms as he pulls against the restraints. The nurse's voice is apologetic but firm as she assures McKay that the restraints are necessary. Ronon is inclined to agree. Even semi-conscious Sheppard looks agitated and Ronon can see the extra dressings on his hands and arms where IVs used to be. From the look of things Sheppard has pulled out at least two IVs while his team was off-world.
The infirmary makes Ronon restless. He knows Beckett is a good doctor. Seven years on the run taught Ronon not to trust people, a hard-won lesson that he is only slowly overcoming, but he freely acknowledges that owes the Lantean's mild-mannered healer a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid – without Beckett's surgical skills, Ronon would still be a runner, still fleeing and fighting the Wraith across the galaxy in a never-ending battle for his life. Either that, or he'd be dead already. Nevertheless, seven years of instincts are hard to overcome and illness makes Ronon uneasy. Illness for a runner means death. It's as simple as that. If you're not well enough to run and to fight then it's all over.
Sheppard's illness is a runner's worst nightmare. An unnoticed injury, the barest scratch, leading to an incapacitating infection. Ronon knows all about the dangers of infection. His military training on Sateda was thorough and included the basics of field medicine. Seven years on the run has only heightened his survival skills. The clothing he has picked up in the course of his travels through the galaxy is a mismatched hodge-podge of items, stripped from Wraith he had killed, stolen from villages he had passed by, but the leather pants he habitually wears are eminently practical.
Ronon had checked Sheppard's quarters before the team had returned to PM4-77G. In the laundry pile he'd found the BDUs Sheppard had worn on their last mission and, sure enough, there was a tiny, hardly noticeable tear in the fabric, corresponding exactly to the location of the scratch on Sheppard's leg. Sheppard had probably not even felt the injury. According to Teyla, Sheppard remembered only catching his pant leg on something in the ruins. He'd obviously torn the fabric in pulling free, unaware that he'd caught anything more than his pants. The BDUs were made from sturdy material, designed to be hard-wearing and practical. But the sturdiest fabric can still catch and rip. Leather doesn't rip. Any damage that can cut through leather is something you're gonna notice straight away.
They'd spent a good couple of hours on the planet, retracing their route through the ruins they'd explored only three days previously. It has been a slow and painstaking process, all three of them searching the ruins for any protrusions, anything sharp that Sheppard could possibly have cut himself on, with McKay taking samples from every possibility. Ronon's skills at tracking had served them well and it had been he who had spotted the couple of tiny grey threads caught on a rusted piece of metal at about calf height. Confident that they'd found their culprit, they'd returned to Atlantis with their collection of samples.
Ronon watches Sheppard shiver and moan with a clinical eye. It's obvious that the Colonel's condition is deteriorating. His fever still rages, unchecked by Beckett's medications, the infection burning him up from the inside. He sees the fear and worry on his team mates' faces as they linger around the bed and wonders how long Beckett's tests will take. He hates waiting like this. There is nothing he can do here, nothing that can help Sheppard. Going through the gate he had felt a sense of purpose; he had a goal, a task he could perform that would help heal Sheppard. He has performed that task to the best of his ability and now there is once again nothing to do but wait. He hates waiting.
McKay gives a shout of alarm, jumping back in surprise as Sheppard suddenly sits bolt upright in his bed. His eyes are open, glassy and unfocused, staring at nothing, his fists clenched as he strains at the restraints. His breathing is a rapid panting, too quick, too shallow. He seems unaware of his surroundings, pulling almost unconsciously at the restraints, his lips moving as he mumbles something nonsensical.
"Colonel Sheppard?" McKay's voice wavers as he peers into Sheppard's face, uncertainty evident in his hesitant manner. Waste of time, Ronon thinks. Sheppard may be awake but he's not aware. Not of them anyway. His eyes stare past Ronon, focused on something only he can see. A frown creases his face and he begins to pull at the restraints in earnest. Somewhere in his fevered brain he realises he's tied up and he's not happy about it. He's getting agitated and the nurse decides to intervene, laying a hand on his shoulder to encourage him to lay back down.
Her touch has the opposite effect; Sheppard flinches away from her hand and begins to struggle furiously, his face twisted in anger.
"No!"
Heads turn across the room as Sheppard shouts angrily.
"Don't! Leave him alone!" The is pain and anguish laced in with the anger in Sheppard's voice. Whatever he is seeing, it's not pleasant. The nurse tries to calm him down but he is oblivious to her voice, lost in his own world of fever dreams, and he's too strong for her to hold him still. McKay is frozen in shock, stunned at this display of emotion from the usually reserved Sheppard, and Teyla is trying to help the nurse soothe the agitated man. Sheppard is rigid, his muscles tensed as he fights the hands trying to push him back onto the bed. He pulls and jerks at the restraints and even the soft fabric straps will soon begin to abrade the skin of his wrists if he continues like this.
"What's going on here?" Beckett's voice is stern, his face betraying his shock at the chaos taking place in his infirmary.
"He's hallucinating, Dr Beckett," the nurse gasps out, trying to hang on to her struggling patient. "He's awake but non-responsive. He became agitated and we can't calm him down."
Sheppard screams, the sound raw and ugly, and only Ronon hears the sudden ripping noise almost lost in the din. He steps forward quickly, moving with the lithe grace of well-oiled reflexes, and grabs hold of Sheppard's wrist before he can pull his arm away. Ronon is dimly aware of the shocked exclamations from the others as he uses his strength to push Sheppard forcibly down onto the bed, pinning his shoulders down with one arm, his hand still tight around Sheppard's wrist. The Colonel bucks and struggles and Ronon hears Beckett issuing terse orders to his staff, his usually mild voice sharp and commanding, "3mg Ativan, stat!"
His face is close to Sheppard's as he leans heavily over him, using his weight to keep him pinned to the bed. The Colonel's face is flushed, his eyes glittering with the brightness of fever. He looks through Ronon, seeing only shades and ghosts from his own mind, shouting and fighting with a strength born of desperation. The threat may be imagined but the pain and fear in Sheppard's eyes is all too real.
Ronon holds the struggling man down as Beckett carefully pushes a syringe into an IV port and injects the sedative. He keeps hold of Sheppard as his struggles wane, not letting go until he can feel the muscles relax, Sheppard's body going limp in his grip. His breathing is still rapid and shallow and his head tosses weakly on the pillow, eyelids beginning to droop over the glazed eyes.
His shouts have faded to an anguished mumble, Ronon close enough to make out the words – one word, over and over.
"Nononononononononono..."
Ronon leans back cautiously, relaxing his grip on Sheppard warily. The fight has gone out of him now, though shivering still wracks his body, twitching his limbs restlessly. Beckett's face is solemn as he carefully unwraps the torn remains of the soft strap from Sheppard's right wrist. The skin beneath is red and angry, a testament to the ferocity of Sheppard's struggles.
The Colonel is drowsy, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. He seems to be fighting the sedative, his eyes fluttering open momentarily before closing again. His lips move soundlessly and Ronon leans forward to hear, Sheppard's voice a mere whisper.
"Please don't..."
Ronon turns to see shock and dismay on the faces of his team-mates. Though he doesn't show it, he can't help but share their fears. He's seen comrades taken by fever during his soldiering days, men thrashing and screaming just like Sheppard.. right up until they died. The same question is on all of their minds as they look to Dr Beckett.
The doctor's face is grave but his voice is firm, reassuring. "We'll have the test results within the hour. Once we can start him on a targeted antibiotic he'll do much better."
Ronon can't help but wonder if Beckett is trying to convince them.. or himself.