Sorry for the delay in updating this fic – you can blame a combination of real life (it gets in the way so much!) and NTL (yeah, when you pay for a constant 2MB broadband connection ya kinda expect to have a constant internet connection – you know, one that doesn't cut out every 3 minutes!).

Anyway, lots more angst in this chapter, quite a bit of Carson introspection and… the return of the evil cliffhanger bunny! Sorry:)

As ever, please review and let me know your thoughts – all constructive criticism gladly received!

Pain. Pain and confusion. That was John's only reality. He held onto the pain as something real, something tangible in a world that didn't make sense. Everything was dark. There was noise – beeping and hissing and chattering. And pain. It burned. It growled and it screamed and it ached. Sensation was jumbled, confused, but the pain was constant. The pain was real. He tried to move, to curl around the pain but his body wouldn't obey him. He tried to turn his head but something held it in place, something hard and uncomfortable filling his mouth, his throat. He panicked, feeling himself beginning to choke.

Carson stood patiently by Sheppard's bedside, carefully noting the readouts from various monitors on his patient's chart. The infirmary was dark, deserted. Aside from himself and the nurse currently on the night-shift rotation assigned to monitor Sheppard, this particular corner of Atlantis slept. Carson had a strong suspicion that, in other parts of the city, some members of the expedition would be getting little in the way of sleep tonight - but they were not in the infirmary, they were outside of his purview, and he had enough to worry about right here. He tore off a slip of paper as it finished printing out from the heart monitor and studied the readout carefully. Sheppard's blood chemistry was chaotic after such massive blood loss and transfusion and close monitoring was vital. There was so much that could still go wrong..

The recovery room was gloomy, the main lights turned down in deference to the late hour, and the only real illumination came from the bright lights around Sheppard's bed that allowed Beckett and his staff to keep a close eye on their patient. The Colonel's bed was an island of light and noise – the steady beep of the monitors, the rhythmic hissing of the ventilator – in the hushed darkness of the room. Carson sometimes thought it odd that, even here on Atlantis, in a different galaxy, orbiting a different sun on a planet with a different circadian rhythm from anything they had known before, these early, small hours of the morning still engendered in humans an instinctive, respectful hush. The knowledge of the seriousness of Sheppard's condition somehow seemed to add to the pervasive silence in the recovery room… everyone who had entered this room since the Colonel had been brought out of surgery had, without prompting, kept their voices respectfully low, as if afraid to awaken or disturb him. Some morbid part of Carson's subconscious wondered if some ancient human instinct could sense how fragile the man's hold on life was right now, and drove people to fearful caution lest any sudden sound might startle him into losing that tenuous grip.

The room was still and quiet enough that Beckett himself was startled by the noise of the doors from the infirmary sliding open. Marie, the nurse on duty, gave him an apologetic smile as she slipped quietly into the room. Pretty, petite and French, she was a sweet, gentle soul who was very popular with the patients. Luckily for Carson, she was also an excellent nurse and incredibly dedicated to her work. He was glad of her unquestioning support tonight.

"How's Rodney?" he whispered. Odd how the atmosphere affected even he, who was ostensibly in control of everything in this room.

"Still sleeping," she answered softly, a hint of an accent giving her words a musical lilt. Carson nodded. Despite his physical and mental exhaustion, McKay had fought stubbornly against sleep, never achieving more than a restless half-doze and constantly waking to demand progress reports on Sheppard. Eventually he'd become so restless and agitated that, for his own good, Beckett had chosen to sedate him, allowing the scientist to finally achieve some much-needed rest.

Rest was a luxury that, right now, Carson himself could not afford. Sheppard was hanging on to life but he was still dangerously weak and his condition could change rapidly. All they could do for now was monitor closely and make sure that they were ready to deal with any crisis as it arose – and, as Chief Medical Officer, the responsibility was his. The fact that John Sheppard was a friend made him all the more determined to be here for his friend for as long as he was needed. They were not going to lose Sheppard if it were in any way in his power to prevent it and it would not be for lack of effort or preparedness on his part – or any of his medical team.

Marie was gently carefully checking the IV port in Sheppard's left hand when Carson suddenly looked up from his notes, some kind of sixth sense picking up on a change in his patient seconds before the heart-rate monitor registered a sudden increase in heartbeat, the steady, rhythmic beeps abruptly picking up speed.

"What the..?" Carson dropped the charts carelessly onto a nearby chair and leant urgently over his patient. There was a tension to muscles that had previously been limp and relaxed. A hint of a frown creased John's forehead and, even as Beckett looked on in amazement, Sheppard's eyelids began to flutter.

"Oh my god!" Carson was stunned. "He's awake!"

At that moment alarms blared as John began to struggle weakly, his throat convulsing helplessly as he gagged on the invasive tube.

Beckett was efficiency in motion. "He's fighting the ventilator. Marie, Ativan please, as quickly as you can!"

"Colonel Sheppard? You're in the infirmary, Colonel. You're on a ventilator to help you breathe – I know it's uncomfortable but it's necessary for the moment. John? I need you to stay calm for me, son…"

Marie was injecting the relaxant into Sheppard's IV even as Carson spoke. The Colonel was barely conscious and Beckett had no idea if the man could even hear him, let alone make sense of what he was being told. He kept talking nonetheless, keeping the tone of his voice low and soothing, his words reassuring. "It's okay, son.. you're gonnae be just fine. That's it, just calm down now…"

John's weak movements calmed as Carson kept a reassuring hand on the Colonel's shoulder, the Ativan quickly draining the fight from him, relaxing his muscles, counteracting the panic-fuelled spike of adrenalin that had pushed his heart rate up. The alarms stilled as John stopped resisting the steady push of the ventilator and his heart rate slowly dropped before once again stabilising. Carson breathed a sigh of relief as he carefully checked the various monitors. Sheppard's heart rate had dipped low and was still lower than Beckett would like but it would do.. for now. John's eyes were closed now, his face relaxed, almost serene, as Marie gently pressed a clean cloth to his forehead, blotting away the sheen of sweat from his skin. The concern was clear in her eyes as she regarded Carson across the width of the hospital bed.

"Dr Beckett? Should 'e be waking up like this..?"

Carson sighed. "No, lass." He shook his head in wonder. "Between blood loss, shock and the anaesthesia from surgery he should be out for hours yet."

Beckett couldn't help a small, rueful smile. "But the Colonel is nothing if not stubborn, Marie." Experience had taught him that. For the first time since he'd begun this desperate fight to save Colonel Sheppard's life, a battle in which they seemed to be dangerously outgunned, fighting a desperate rearguard action right from the start, Carson felt a cautious flame of hope burn in his heart. The Colonel was stubborn alright; he was a fighter. Maybe, just maybe, he'd pull through this.

McKay awoke slowly, in increments; sound and smell filtering in with consciousness following slowly behind. A hushed silence and a hint of antiseptic in the air. Infirmary. His head felt like it was packed with cotton wool and there was a nasty, metallic taste in his mouth. He groaned. Becket. Beckett and his damn drugs. He cursed the Scot for slipping him a mickey. Gaaah. He felt woozy as hell. How long had he been out?..

Rodney's eyes snapped open. Sheppard. My god, how could he have slept while Sheppard was hanging on to life by his fingernails? What the hell was the time? He struggled to sit up, his aching muscles protesting the movement. Whoah. His head spun for a moment, exhaustion and his sudden exertion combining in a nasty moment of hypotension that left him dizzy and shaking. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes, blinking myopically until the dancing spots cleared from his vision.

There was no time for this. He'd been asleep for god knows how long and who knew what might have happened to Sheppard during that time? He'd never forgive himself if… He pushed that thought down ruthlessly and set his jaw, untangling his legs from the bed sheets and swinging them over the side of the mattress. His legs very nearly buckled when he put his weight on them but a firm grip on the bed kept him upright – well, mostly – and after a minute or two he was able to walk. He might have been a bit wobbly, sure, and he ached all over… but he was walking. He was thankful that at least that interfering busybody of a nurse had seen fit to put him in scrubs rather than a gown.

The doors to the recovery room opened onto a scene of chaos. Sheppard's bed was the center of a maelstrom of activity, medical staff moving urgently around the bed and it's surrounding equipment, voices shouting out information in a confusing babble of medical jargon. McKay's heart sank, the same sick, cold fear he'd felt in the rubble-strewn corridor welling up inside of him as he stood frozen in the doorway. Sheppard was dying. Déjà vu.

"QRS widening!"

"Push 5ml calcium gluconate stat!"

"Sinus arrest!"

Rodney couldn't move, could barely breathe. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. He felt removed, distant, like he was watching the scene before him from the bottom of a deep, black well… and the only sound that could reach him in that cold, dark place was the awful, shrill scream of the flatline.

TBC...