John's POV
oOo
John felt like crap. It had felt good to spar with Teyla, although he suspected that she hadn't put her full strength into it. He wouldn't have stood a chance if she had. Still, it had felt good….for a few minutes. Then the pain had set in. All in all, it had been a rotten move. His neck hurt almost as bad as it had when he had first woken up in the infirmary. He would never admit it to Teyla, but he had been very glad when Teyla had laid down her staff and declared their training match concluded. The walk back to the infirmary had been hard. As if the Iratus bug was still attached to his neck, he had been struggling to keep pace with Teyla. The look Beckett had given him when they had come in told him that the expedition physician saw at a glance what John had been up to. After Teyla had gracefully departed, Dr. Beckett disposed of the smile entirely.
"What the hell were you thinking? I would never have let you leave the infirmary if I had had any idea what you were going to do." Beckett kept his voice low, but he was livid.
"I was going crazy, I needed to do something," John responded lamely.
"Sit down over there." Beckett was too angry to listen to John. "Don't move."
John knew he was in for a speech for ignoring medical advice, but when Carson came back, he said nothing.
Carson silently took a blood sample and started peeling off the dressing on John's neck wound.
It's a miracle, but all your running around didn't aggravate your wound. But it's still not properly healing. The good news is that it looks like the infection you developed two days ago has cleared up. As I thought earlier, the venom must slow down the healing process." Dr. Beckett chattered along as a changed the dressing.
John didn't like what he was hearing, but he thought it prudent not to say anything. Lying down for a few minutes was starting to sound like a really good idea.
"The Ancient scanners will be a few minutes until I get some results from your blood work back. You can change and settle in until I get back." Beckett pulled out a pair of scrub pants and a shirt from the cupboard behind them and placed them next to John.
John peeled off his shirt. The movement jarred his neck and he could feel a stiffness settling into his muscles, but he could move his arm just well enough to pull over the scrub shirt. John didn't bother with the pants, but he started to untie his shoes. His head was swimming and his neck was throbbing as he fought to untangle the laces of his boots. John blinked as his boots blurred in front of his eyes. He was definitely not feeling well. He gave up on the laces and moved back upright. He immediately regretted the overly fast move. A white hot needle of pain shot up from his neck. Everything jumbled up after that.
John heard a scream and suddenly he was falling but someone caught him. There were hands on him and someone was speaking, but he couldn't make out the words over the ringing in his ears.
oOo
"Major Sheppard? Major Sheppard?" The familiar voice of Dr. Beckett came through the fog.
"Yeah, I'm here." John blinked lazily. He felt heavy and tired, but the pain that had brought him down had been tuned down into the background. It was a hazy, pleasant feeling. John had no doubt that pharmaceuticals were involved. He pushed himself up on his elbows and the infirmary swam into view.
"Did I miss much?" The question seemed stupid to John, but he didn't know what to ask and the circumstances of his passing out were somewhat fuzzy to him.
"I got your blood scan back and I think I owe you an apology. While you really need to listen to what I tell you, you didn't do any damage with your little adventure. At least I think so. The values for the venom metabolite are lower than the last time I tested you, which is a good sign. Your body is in the process of breaking down the venom. However, the process seems to be rather taxing on the body itself. You're running a temperature, you're blood pressure is on the low side and, what I also can't explain, your white blood cell count is down. It's no wonder you aren't feeling too well at the moment. But the good news is all that I have been able to find in the Ancient texts so far is that once the Iratus bug is removed, the victims are weakened, but the Ancients didn't record any fatalities." Carson seemed to be guardedly optimistic and John could tell that this was pioneer territory for the physician.
"Right now, I'm not feeling totoo bad," John said instead, deciding not to voice his concerns.
"Yes, I gave you something for the pain and possible nausea that the texts mentioned. This time you are staying here. At least until tomorrow morning, then we can talk again." Carson was sympathetic but firm.
"I suppose there is no talking you out of that," John said as he shot Carson a weak grin.
"No major, there isn't. I did you a favour by chasing Rodney out of here ten minutes ago. He wouldn't stop complaining," Carson said lightly. "Dr. Weir was here earlier, while you were out. She is worried. It's only been three weeks since..." Carson broke up.
They both knew what he was going to say. John had shot Colonel Summer three weeks ago. He had been the first human to die in the Pegasus Galaxy and he had died at John's hand.
The memorial service had been short. Colonel Sumner hadn't worked for the Stargate project before, and aside from his first and last mission in the Pegasus Galaxy, none of the expedition members had worked with him before. John had stayed in the background. It had been on open secret that Sumner had disliked him because of his service record.
Sumner had paid for their collective ignorance.
"I'm sorry I brought this up," Carson finally apologized.
"It's all right. I just hope we can let his family know some day." John leaned back on the pillow, feeling very tired again.
Carson seemed to pick up on it. "Get some sleep, Major. You had a busy week." Carson walked off to his small office at the side of the infirmary and left John to his thoughts.
oOo
When John woke up the next time, a dinner tray was standing on the table next to his bed. His watch showed 0821 hours and he felt slightly better, although the painkillers were starting to wear off. John sat up groggily and ranand ran a hand through his hair. He felt like he had slept for days, but it had been only six hours.
Dinner was leftovers from lunch. John ate without hunger, but the food refuelled his energies. Dr. Beckett was nowhere in sight and neither was his assistant, Dr. Millhouse.
After finishing his meal, John gingerly tested his legs.
The last time he had sat up too fast, he had passed out, so he was more careful this time. He got to his feet without a problem. He needed to get out of the infirmary. John couldn't stand being cooped up in the infirmary. He had gotten a thorough taste of hospitals after his near fatal chopper crash several years back and he didn't relish any reminders of the experience.
Beckett had done away with his uniform, but John's boots were still beside the bed. Threading the laces cost him precious minutes, as he was fumbling away with heavy fingers. By the time he was done with both boots, his face was covered in sweat. John bit his lip and balled his hands, shaking softly from the effort. He needed to get some fresh air.
The nearest balcony wasn't far and it wasn't unoccupied at this time of the evening. Someone had left a couple of chairs from the infirmary out, probably one of the workers from the nearby medical research labs. In the balmy evening weather of high summer sitting outside until late was a welcome relaxation among many of the staff, as John had observed walking along the corridors.
John had just leaned back in his chair when he heard the door mechanism activate. Expecting a tired scientist, he didn't turn around. When he heard a familiar voice, he just sighed.
"I'm sorry to disturb you out here, but I'm afraid we have a problem, sir."
"Ford, I think it's clear that I'm not on duty right now."
"I realize that, sir. But it's a serious problem. Markham and Stackhouse, they are unpacking the last few crates from Earth and they keep coming up one crate too many."
John was on his feet immediately. There would be no supplies disappearing or appearing on his watch. Atlantis was a prime spot for serious black market activities. There was at least one go-to guy on every base. With Atlantis cut off from Earth for potentially years to come, people would start to miss amenities like alcohol and cigarettes pretty soon down the line.
"I'll check it out." John followed Aiden inside and they headed towards the storage where the crates from Earth had been placed.
"Are Markham and Stackhouse sure that the crate isn't on the manifest?" John asked as they approached the storage hall.
"Yes, sir. I verified the manifest myself," Aiden replied. "General O'Neil approved the list before we left Earth."
"Yeah and he also checked every single crate," John commented darkly, more to himself than to Aiden. He was still convinced that the appearing crate was a case of the barter trade, someone smuggling a case of contraband goods.
Markham and Stackhouse were sitting on a crate with definite looks of dread on their faces. Being the one who came up short on the supply count wasn't the best position to be in. Coming up in excess of supply was new.
"I have no idea how this could have happened, sir." Stackhouse was the first to hop to his feet when he spotted John and Aiden coming through the door. Markham followed suit. The two men had been on the recent mission and John was prepared to cut them some slack. They had done a good job piloting the Jumper with only a few days of piloting training behind them.
"At ease, sergeants. What exactly is going on and when did you notice?" John had a bad feeling he was not going to like it. Stackhouse and Markham hadn't been assigned to inventory in the first place.
"We, Sergeant Stackhouse, and I were in the commissary when Dr. McKay come up to us and complained that he was still missing a crate of his 'scientific equipment'. He insisted that we check it out. He is the chief scientist, so we went down to storage and checked the manifest. We found Dr. McKay's equipment and delivered it." Markham finally stopped and took a breath. "It was then when we noticed that we had an extra crate."
"Is this it?" John indicated the crate Stackhouse and Markham had been sitting on. Right now, he wouldn't mind sitting down himself. "I suppose it isn't labelled."
The two men shook their heads.
"Well, open it up," John ordered and leaned against the wall. Getting some weight off his feet felt very good, but he hoped it didn't show.
Stackhouse and Markham pried open the nailed-shut crate. Aiden had his P90 ready. John didn't think that much caution was warranted. A few cartons of cigarettes weren't going to attack them.
"Wow! You got to see this!" Stackhouse exclaimed and paper ruffled.
John crossed the distance and leaned over. Under a Wormhole X-Treme poster where twelve-on- twelve stacks of 144 cans of beer, one for each expedition participant. The sides of the crate were packed with bags of junk food. John turned around the Wormhole X-Treme poster.
Enjoy your house-warming party, SG-1
(and no, there isn't any lemon in there)
John smiled. McKay's allergy was well on the way to becoming the stuff of legend in two galaxies.
"What should we do with this?" It was Aiden who finally voiced the question.
"Re-crate it. Leave it off the manifest, I will take care of it," John said. The others knew it too; it wasn't a time to celebrate for the expedition. The reality of a permanent separation with Earth was setting in and their encountering the Wraith on nearly every world drove home the ever present danger. A victory over the overpowering enemy didn't seem possible. Colonel Sumner had been the first to die, but John knew better than to think he would be the last.
"Yes, sir," Stackhouse and Markham replied and unison.
For a moment, John had thought about sneaking a beer or two, but someday, there would be something to celebrate and if not, they could always use it to teach the Athosians about the pleasures of alcohol. You had to look on the bright side in the Pegasus Galaxy.