Missing scene from "The Hive".
Rodney's POV after waking up from detox

UNSHACKLED

His whole body throbbed. Every single muscle and joint ached--even his toenails and hair seemed to hurt. But there was more, wasn't there? It escaped him for a moment. Why, again? Oh, right, the enzyme. His body positively thrummed against its absence. He felt wrung out and worse than he ever had in his life. Worse that when he toked that joint. Worse, even, than after seventy-two hours hopped up on Beckett's stimulants when the Wraith attacked.

His nose itched. Okay, every single part of him itched--itched with absence, but not necessarily with desire. Yes, his body missed the drug but that was a physical manifestation, not a mental one, right? Physical needs he could overcome, had overcome, plenty of times. Sleep? A mere suggestion in times of crisis, easily ignored; besides, there was always coffee. Food? Okay, that one maybe not so much. Sex? Well Sheppard did once accuse him of practically being a hermit.

Sheppard! His eyes shot open. How could he have forgotten about Sheppard and Teyla and Ronon? How long had he been lying here? Where was here? He was safe on Atlantis, right? Or had that been just a dream, too? Looking around, he gave a relieved sigh. Yes, Atlantis, and not some drug-induced hallucination. He had actually made it back. The infirmary was dark and quiet around him, peaceful even. He blinked in surprise when he realized Carson was fast asleep in a chair beside his bed. There were vague memories there, unpleasant ones at that. He pushed them aside for a greater need and reached out to shake the doctor awake but his arm wouldn't move.

What the hell? He was paralyzed? Nobody said anything about the Wraith enzyme causing paralysis! Maybe he would have thought twice about taking such a large dose if they had. No, wait; he felt his arms, his hands, his fingers. Could you be paralyzed and still feel? He tried moving again, this time he definitely felt a pulling against his wrists. It took several seconds for his sluggish brain to register that he was in restraints. He cycled through an entire kaleidoscope of emotions: disbelief, outrage, fear, shame, impatience. The last one won, as usual.

"Carson." It was barely more than a whisper, certainly not enough to wake the obviously exhausted doctor from his slumber. He licked dry lips. God, had something crawled into his mouth and died? It sure tasted like it.

"Carson!" he tried again louder. This time the physician jerked awake, worried eyes automatically moving towards the monitors before snapping back to his patient with the realization that he was awake.

He sat up straighter in his chair. "Rodney?"

"Who were you expecting?"

The doctor blinked, obviously dazed from too little sleep. He rubbed his eyes and checked the readouts on the monitor again, this time apparently processing them. "How are you feeling?"

"Restrained."

Another blink and then the eyes widened slightly as this particular meaning of the word registered.

"Sorry," said the physician as he peeled back the sheet and started to unbuckle the padded cuffs. "They were for your protection--and ours."

Had it been that bad? Had they been that afraid for him? Of him?

As soon as his left wrist was freed he reached over and began worrying at the strap on his right.

"Let me," said Beckett, moving to the other side of the bed and making quick work of the buckle. As if anticipating his patient's next move now that freedom beckoned, he placed a hand on Rodney's chest, keeping him in place as pulled a penlight from his pocket.

"I'm better now," insisted the scientist, but submitted to the test. He couldn't accomplish what he needed to do from an infirmary bed, and a little cooperation now might go a long way in getting him where he needed to go as soon as possible.

"You cannae be much worse than you were," agreed the Scot, tucking the light back into a pocket with a small sad smile. "But you do seem to be much improved."

"Good." Rodney reached out and grasped the doctor's arm, pulling himself upright. The room spun dizzily around him and the edges of his vision blackened. He held his breath, determined not to pass out, and after a few moments things settled down.

"I suppose it would do no good for me to tell you that you should remain in bed and rest?"

"How long have I been back?"

"Almost two days."

Two days? "No, it wouldn't."

"I thought not," replied the doctor as he removed the I.V. and started on the sensor pads.

"No arguments?"

"Your vitals have been stable for several hours. After a shower and a hot meal, you'll probably be in better shape than I am," yawned the doctor. "We can discuss how incredibly stupid you were when this crisis is over."

"Fine." Normally he'd have a snappier response, but he suspected Beckett was probably right in his assessment. It had been an incredibly idiotic and desperate thing to do, even if there hadn't been any other choice. "Elizabeth?"

"In her office. No you don't!" insisted the doctor, grabbing his arm as he flipped the sheet aside and launched himself off the bed. He would have resisted but suddenly found himself in dire need of support as his rubbery legs refused to obey and abused muscles screamed in protest. Beckett managed to steer him into the previously vacated bedside chair. "Not so fast. I told you, a shower and a hot meal."

"Sheppard…"

"Do you know where he is right now, right at this moment?"

"Well, no, but…"

"But nothing. You'll be able to think more clearly after you have something tae eat." The doctor considered him for a moment. "Just how long has it been since you ate?"

"I don't know. We tried not to eat too much on account of Chef Psycho-Ford and his 'soup de drugs'."

The doctor grunted. "If you think you can stand without falling on your arse, I'll have some food brought down while you shower and change."

"Yes, alright, fine."

Beckett steadied him as he rose, and after a few moments, Rodney was happy to find his legs, though wobbly, supported him this time. He shrugged off the doctor's help and headed for the shower, his muscles loosening up more and more as he moved. If Beckett wanted to play mother hen, fine. He'd jump through whatever hoops were necessary to gain his freedom, and hopefully that of his team as well. Besides, he could hardly go running around the city dressed in scrubs and reeking of...well, of things he didn't even want to think about.

Flashes of memory washed over him along with the hot water. He dearly hoped things hadn't been as bad as he recalled, but he doubted it. Desperately wishing he had a toothbrush, he scrubbed at his fuzzy teeth with a squeaky finger. Stepping out of the stall, he found an electric razor and a pile of clean clothes stacked neatly in a chair. He smiled. Carson might be keeping an eye on him, but these were real clothes, not scrubs. This wasn't going to be as hard as he thought.

The constant thrumming was more noticeable now that the water was no longer pounding against his flesh but he steadfastly ignored it as he dressed and shaved. Mind over matter he insisted stubbornly. He had ignored much more important things in the past and flatly refused to consider this need as legitimate--and if there was one thing he knew he excelled at, it was victory via stubbornness. Body could go to war with mind all it wanted. Body didn't stand a chance in hell against this mind. Without the drug influencing his thinking, he knew what he wanted--and it wasn't to be a craven junkie addicted to something harvested out of a Wraith armpit that made him act like an idiot savant.

He picked up the scrubs from the floor, grimacing at the smell, and deposited them in a laundry bin on the way out of the bathroom.

The fragrance of baked chicken set his mouth watering. Beckett was sitting at a small table, two plates of what was probably tonight's supper lay steaming on it. The doctor had a fork in hand, but so far hadn't managed to connect it to anything on his plate. The eyes that acknowledged his return were half-lidded, red-rimmed, bluish pits.

This was definitely going to be much easier than he first thought.

He shoveled down the food ravenously, slowing only when Carson insisted, tiredly, that he was going to make himself sick. He wouldn't have bothered even then, but he was feeling a little queasy, so he slowed his pace while the doctor held up a heavy head with one hand, elbow resting precariously near the mashed potatoes.

By the time he was done, Beckett's eyes were closed, so he rose hastily and headed for the door.

"Rodney…"

He paused, tensing. The guard who had been on duty when he went into the shower was gone now and there was no one but an exhausted Scot to stop him from leaving. No drugs would be required to escape this time. "Yes?"

"Good luck."

Smiling slightly, he relaxed a bit. "Thanks, Carson." Pausing at the doorway, he turned and considered the man before him--undoubtedly the only reason he was still among the living. "For everything."

But the doctor's eyes had already slid shut again, elbow awash in a sea of reconstituted potato flakes.

Slipping quietly out the door, Rodney headed out to find Elizabeth and get his team back.

END