A/N: My evil scheme has seen fruition. You have all been thoroughly disturbed. All in all this story's only three chapters, but they're long chapters, chalked full of angsty goodness. Yum.
Part Two
" Carson can fix him. He knows how. Just cut the stitches, open the mouth, the eyes... Sheppard'll be blinking and insulting me in no time. He'll be fine, just fine, totally fine, just as soon as we get him back." Dead twigs, leaves, and dirt crunched under McKay's booted feet, then scraped when he turned on his heels to pace the other way, gesturing dismissively in the air several times. " It's not that bad, can't be. Just stitches. It's not like they melted his skin together or something morbidly sick like that."
Rodney brought his hand to his mouth for a little nibble of his cuticle. Bad habits had their merits, since flailing his arms about was good only for furthering an already aggravated and empty stomach. Puking had left him hungry while at the same time doing the oxymoron switch of making him despise food.
Not even refusing to blink kept John's face out of his head. It was such a dead-looking face...
A moan echoed from the temple. Against better judgment and a terror prodding Rodney to go screaming into the woods, Rodney ran into the temple, skidding to a stop two feet across the threshold.
Sheppard was conscious – or something like conscious – either way not a good thing in Rodney's opinion. He was still being held by Teyla as Ronon dealt with the mess on the Colonel's back; mini-bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, piece of wadded gauze in the other, both from a tac-vest. Each application had John squirming weakly while clinging with a death grip to Teyla's jacket sleeve. The muffled groans of pain rose to whimpers and partial sobs of agony that was making Rodney's stomach one infuriated organ. The Colonel's breath started coming hard, fast, and loud through his nose, with shuddering and muscle spasms on the rise. Whimpers were trying to become screams trapped behind the sealed mouth. The man was shaking hard enough to fly apart.
Rodney lifted a quaking hand to the side of his face, wiping away the moisture that had sprung without warning, sliding down his face. He clenched his jaw, seething, panting, anger rising like a geyser toward the Old Faithful finale.
The screams broke into fitful weeping, with tears squeezing from the unsealed corners of Sheppard's mutilated eyes.
" Stop it," Rodney choked, swallowed, sucked in air, and put the torrential force of his fury behind his words. " Stop it! Stop doing that! You're not doing any good. Just leave him alone until we get him back to Beckett. You're freakin' hurting him!"
Ronon lowered both hands to the floor, clenching and unclenching the fingers around the bloody bit of gauze. He was wearing that look – the barely contained, twitching jaw, burning gaze expression of boiling rage. Rodney waited for it to be turned on him with every intention of meeting it. At that moment, his own anger would have easily matched it, and he longed for the challenge. This was sick, cruel, unnecessary, and Rodney hated it when something made him cry.
Ronon didn't meet Rodney's expectations. No exchange of dagger gazes, the Satedan's head lowered and eyes turned away, closing. Not even a physical blow held that much stunning power, and Rodney balked, lost for words and even lost for thought.
Defeat, Rodney was seeing defeat – in Ronon, the human King Kong, Chewie, Attila the Hun's twin, the man who hid emotions with such ease and skill it was as though they didn't even exist in him.
" I know," Ronon said, barely audible.
Teyla turned her tear-stained face to Rodney. " It is my fault," she said. " I asked Ronon to. I feared infection."
Rodney became immediately all tapped out of anger, leaving a big gaping hole for pity to fill. But not guilt. He felt no qualms about what he had done and said.
" I know," he replied. " Good chance he's already infected. Just..." he went over to her, and knelt beside her. " He's in enough pain."
Teyla nodded stiffly, and when she blinked, another tear fell. " I know," she said. She arched her head back to look down at Sheppard with his head resting immobile on her shoulder but his hands still with their death grip on her jacket. She placed her own chin on his shoulder.
" His shoulder is dislocated," she said in a husky voice unnervingly devoid of emotion. Ronon placed McKay's jacket over the bloody back.
" Fix it when we get home," he whispered.
In the silence, McKay was able to catch the normally imperceptible hum then the rush of ground debris that only came from a landing Jumper. He rose and dashed to the temple entrance just as the Jumper decloaked and the bay doors lowered. Lorne hurried out followed by Gale and two marines carrying a stretcher.
" He in there?" Lorne asked.
Rodney could only nod, and stepped aside as Lorne led the two marines into the temple. Gale, however, remained outside wearing a look of complete shock.
" Does he..." he began, stuttering, " live?"
Again, Rodney could only nod. Gale shook his head.
" Never in the history of the Freedom Regiment's cruelty has anyone ever survived their torture."
Rodney regarded Gale sympathetically. " No other survivors were found?"
Gale forlornly shook his head no. A muffled cry had both men hurrying into the temple to see Sheppard still being held by Teyla with the rest trying to coax Sheppard onto the stretcher. Sheppard's hands were shaking, his grip was so tight. His whole body was shaking, and he flinched when ever someone so much has brushed his arm with their fingertips.
Teyla turned her head to look up at McKay imploringly. " He is frightened," she sated. " I can feel his heart beating. It is going too fast." She was a scream of terror away from breaking down again.
" Uh," Rodney stammered. He was no good in these situations, and Teyla actually turning to him for a solution was making it worse. " Just... keep talking to him. Hold his hand or something. He's blind..." let's hope not deaf too, " he has no idea what's going on."
Teyla took up the soothing talk, assuring Sheppard that they were only moving him onto a stretcher, to take him into the Puddle Jumper and take him home. It was when she began stroking his head that the shaking subsided, and as long as she kept stroking they were able to maneuver him onto the stretcher. He released Teyla enough to lie prone with back arched, but kept one hand clinging to her sleeve.
Carrying him to the Jumper was no less of an ordeal. He arched until his ribs looked ready to split his skin, rolled onto his side, curled, only to return to his back, arching again, writhing, whimpering, trembling, then attempting to sit up only to be urged back down by Ronon with a gentle hand on his good shoulder.
" What's on his back?" Lorne asked. The man was maintaining good reactionary control, but his pasty features were telling on him.
" It is a warning," Gale growled, sounding very desirous for a FR neck to break. " Nothing more. Propaganda giving a bad name to our way of life, warning all who oppose the Regiment of what will befall them if they resist. They are silenced to never speak out against the Regiment, and blinded to never see the faces of those behind this slaughter, therefore never being witnesses though they never survive in the end. Your Colonel is the first to be found alive. He must have much strength to be able to endure so much. If it is not the pain that is a Regiment victim's undoing, then it is the hunger and thirst."
McKay's stomach was rebelling again, and suddenly the marines weren't moving fast enough. Even with Sheppard on the Jumper, Rodney's heart pounded out the quickly passing seconds that could very well lead to Sheppard succumbing to the number of abuses he should have already succumbed to.
On the ramp, McKay turned to Gale. " Thanks for your help, a lot. In a way that we can never really repay you for it, and though I know this isn't going to sound grateful but we really need to get back home..."
Gale smiled in understanding. " Then why are you stalling? I will be well. One of your men has offered to return us in a ship. You brought more than this one, if you recall."
" Oh yeah. Well, then, thanks again." McKay hurried into the Jumper, shouting for the doors to shut. The Jumper rose into the air as another decloaked and descended. They were skimming above the forest that whipped below them in a blur of green. Rodney perched nervously on the edge of the bench, just staring at Sheppard where moments ago he could hardly look at the man without his stomach wanting to eject itself.
Sheppard's constant attempts to rise had Teyla allowing him to. She leaned him sideways against her with his head back on her shoulder, hand still clinging to her sleeve, the other hanging uselessly at his side. He looked like a child the way Teyla held him. He was as helpless as one, lost as one, silent but still twitching with the periodic tremors. A child in the body of a rag doll of skin and bone, stitched together and stained in blood. Teyla kept up running her fingers through his hair and speaking softly to him. She then began to rock sideways, and hum a song that even without words was beautiful. Eventually, it all came together to have John's hand loosen itself from the iron-tenacious grip enough to indicate his growing calm, but still hanging on.
The moment had slowed time for Rodney, and the next thing he knew, he barely had time to gasp when he felt the particles of himself whizzing through the wormhole to reform on the other side. He looked up, dazed, numb, certain he was wandering in a dream, to see the Atlantis control room through the view port. The Jumper rose upward to the bay and eased itself into its dock. The bay doors opened to the awaiting med team with Beckett leading the charge, eyes only for John's face as he entered and lowered himself to his knees.
Carson ducked his head and craned his neck to look at John's face without touching it, as though reluctant to do so. " My gosh," he breathed out, pale-faced enough to rival John's complexion. Rodney knew the urge to vomit was mutual even for the man who'd seen everything possibly nasty under the sun. But it was more than simple shock over physical appearance - this burrowed down to the cruelty man was capable of, and the suffering John was going through every second ticking by. Carson reached forward to place his hand beneath John's chin to lift his head. John jerked and went rigid with fingers curling tightly into the fabric of the jacket. He lifted his head like a dog catching a scent or some distant sound and trying to catch it again.
" Easy lad," Beckett said. " It's just me Carson. You're safe, you're all right..." As Carson spoke, he placed his hand against the side of John's face to put physical contact with the verbal, and enforce to John the safety of his surroundings. John's fingers relaxed. Carson kept on talking, Teyla kept on stroking, and together they were able to move John onto a gurney, hook up an IV, and administer pain medication as they wheeled him off the Jumper. Sheppard was even laying on his back, arching without the squirming.
Ronon rose and followed, and McKay copied him feeling too numb to even try to think for himself. He knew following was what he was supposed to do, probably more like wanted to do, so did it like a good little mentally void zombie. On arriving to the infirmary, Teyla leaned in toward Sheppard's ear to whisper something while prying his fingers from her jacket to clasp his hand in her's. Then Carson pulled close the privacy curtain.
" Rodney?"
McKay turned, slow, heavy-headed, and dull witted, to face Elizabeth standing just within the door, her face colorless and her arms hugging herself. Rodney hadn't even seen her enter, heard her come – had actually, completely forgotten about her – but knew she'd seen.
" He'll be all right," McKay said automatically, wondering if he believed it himself but unable to decide. His brain was quite insistent on shutting down, and he was more than ready to comply. Thankfully for him, he had plenty of people around to think for him. Elizabeth stepped forward to take him by the arm and lead him to a bed, then gently nudged him in the shoulder to sit on the edge. A nurse materialized beside him, breaking out the blood pressure cuff and pulling up his sleeve to strap it around his arm.
" Rodney?" Elizabeth said again, her hand on his other arm, pulling his brain back from the quicksand it was sinking into. He looked at her, blinked, and finally felt a few synapses firing to form a response.
" I'm good," he squeaked, and twitched Weir a smile that not even he believed.
" Actually," said the nurse, " your hypoglycemia's trying to kick in, you're showing signs. Blood pressure's a little high and you feel a little warm. You may need to stay for the night for observation..."
Rodney's gaze roved without intent to the curtained off section of the infirmary where shadows milled about.
" He'll be all right," Rodney parroted. He finally realized he didn't believe it.
SGA
Carson wanted to weep – full on break down, bawling like a little boy who just lost his dog. Fortunately he was adult enough to control outbursts of any kind.
Carson couldn't sedate John, or give him the really good pain meds yet. A quick blood test had confirmed a foreign chemical lingering in John's blood-stream, and there was no time to test for possible reactions. Giving him the lesser meds had been risky, and Carson cursed himself for it. However, since reactions had yet to manifest, there was a good chance that the heavier pain meds wouldn't be a problem. A nurse was finding out as Carson prepared to remove the sutures from John's mouth and eyes. The mouth first, in case John needed to scream.
Teyla remained present to hold John's hand. She kept her own hand on the crown of his head, stroking his hairline with her thumb since it did wonders at calming him. The Athosian – pale and capable of sleeping for days by the look of the shadows beneath her eyes – watched on wide eyed and so nervous she was actually shaking.
A contagious reaction. Many of the nurses looked as though they needed a quick trip to the bathroom for a quick heave of their lunch. There was no getting used to this sick display of abuse.
Time to get rid of it, with the good chance of it hurting like hell for John.
Carson picked up tweezers and a small pair of scissors, and started with the mouth. With each thread he snipped – going between the lips – he pulled it from Johns flesh; snip, pull, snip, pull, drops of blood welling from the holes to be swiped away by a nurse with a cloth. It wasn't easy with the sutures being layered on, and having to go through each layer. Beneath the sealed eyelids, the eyes squirmed back and forth, faster and faster, leading to soft sounds of moaning from John. A nurse placed her hands on either side of John's head to immobilize him, another placed her hands lightly on the collarbone and wrist of the injured arm should discomfort lead to thrashing.
Thrashing was averted when Teyla leaned back in to start whispering in John's ear as she ran her fingers through his hair. It was quite motherly in Carson's opinion, and his already towering respect for the Athosian increased several more levels.
John's mouth gradually revealed itself through the suture layers, lips dry and cracked. When Carson pulled the last thread from John's skin, a nurse placed a pad of gauze over the mouth to soak up the blood.
Time for the hard part. Carson bent to lean in close to the eyes and looked the stitchings over. The threads were smaller than what was used for the mouth, the stitches fewer and neatly placed. This hadn't been a hasty act. Someone had actually put a lot of time and care into their work, as a doctor would when stitching up a wound.
Carson led out a sharp breath, and a nurse wiped his brow.
" Here's where the real skill comes in," he murmured. " Sorry, Colonel, but you'll be losing a few eye-lashes I'm afraid."
A nurse held a penlight for better illumination as Carson searched through eyelashes for thread. The eyes were far more time consuming and painstaking, forcing Carson to switch off with a nurse to rest his hands and arms. But he trusted his nurses, who put just as much caution and care into their work as Beckett. They freed one eye, and moved on to the next, switching sides, forcing Teyla to release John's hand to stand at his head, but as long as she stroked his scalp and spoke to him, Sheppard remained calm.
John's other eye was unsealed, and Carson breathed out a sigh of relief. He waved the penlight away in order to peel John's eyelids apart and check the interior without blinding the light-deprived man. Sheppard fought the forced eye-opening by squirming weakly. Carson pulled the lids apart enough to see a lack of any pin holes on the inside of the lids, meaning the needle used had never gone near the eye. It proved to Carson once and for all that this torment had been administered by a professional.
The eye itself appeared fine – bloodshot, but the color still green with no signs of infection. Carson released the lids that John promptly squeezed together.
Beckett looked up at Teyla. " Ya need to rest, lass."
Teyla was fixated on John's face, continuing her ministrations, and did not respond. Exhaustion, shell shock – Teyla was running on automatic, unable to stop or else she'd lose the momentum.
He touched her arm, and she started, turning her head in jerks to Carson.
" Did you say something, Dr. Beckett?"
" Aye, more like ordered. I need to have a nurse check you over, then I need ya to go and rest. You've done well for the Colonel, and I doubt he'd be too happy if he knew you were wearin' yourself to the bone." Teyla looked back at John, still stroking his head and clinging to his hand as though holding on had become more for her sake than for John's.
" He'll be fine, lass," Carson kindly assured. " He's got his sight and his voice back, and that should help ease him should he get agitated. Like I said, you did good."
Teyla nodded in the glassy-eyed manner of one who could easily nod off while walking. Carson made eye contact with the nearest nurse and nodded to her. The nurse nodded in reply to the unspoken order and took Teyla's arm to guide her to a bed.
Carson heaved a deep breath. " All right, people, not done yet. Got wounds to clean, dehydration and malnutrition to deal with, and a possible infection. And I need those X-rays..."
SGA
The curtain opened in a ringing of metal on metal, and Carson stepped out passing one hand over his numb face. He was exhausted, but the good kind of exhausted the product of having worked hard for certain results, and achieving those results.
" How is he?"
Carson jumped at the voice with his heart jumping with him. He jumped again on seeing Rodney staring at him from the bed across from John's. The scientist was in scrubs, covered, and hooked to an IV. Carson exhaled heavily with a hand over his heart.
" Bugger, lad, ya scared me. You need to be restin'..."
Rodney's face morphed into a fractious glare. " Carson, the minute I close my eyes, all I see is Sheppard's face in the aftermath of his horror movie make-over. Now I don't know about you, but I find it a rather good stimulant that could keep me awake for days."
" You sayin' you need a sedative, then?"
" I think me being awake is proof enough of that. And you saw what they did to John."
Carson nodded. He was going to need sedation himself if he didn't want to dream.
" How is he?" Rodney repeated.
Carson sighed. " A mite better physically, I'll tell ya that. Removed the stitches on his face, and hopefully the punctures should heal nicely without much scarrin'. Cleaned the wounds on his back, covered 'em, bound his ribs which if one rib wasn't broken then it was cracked – his whole bloody ribcage, busted, every one! Bloody buggers," he added under his breath.
" Amen to that," Rodney replied.
" We popped his shoulder back in, put the arm in a sling... already started treatment for the dehydration and malnutrition... He'll be walkin' with a limp for a while. His legs weren't broken but they were severely bruised, especially in the hip. Wrists needed to be wrapped due to abrasions. The broken collar bone the sling'll handle... Who the bloody hell did this to him?"
Rodney, seemingly satisfied with Carson's treatment of John, rolled his head to stare up at the ceiling.
" The new Hitler. Seems they didn't like us off worlders talking alliances with the non-Nazis folk. Guess they felt like taking it out on John."
Carson balked in disgust. " Gaw, always bloody something isn't it. I'm assumin' he was takin' layin' cover fire?"
" Give that man a stuffed sheep. I always knew you were psychic."
" No. When it comes to you lot, your lives are like a broken record." Carson then shook his head introspectively. " You know... a man can only take so much hell..."
Rodney looked away, tilting his chin down to his chest to stare at his hands intertwined on his stomach. Carson twisted his mouth in a small grimace for his thinking out loud. Granted Rodney had probably been thinking along the same lines, but for some reason turning a mere thought into the verbal for anyone to hear tended to ground that thought so that there was no choice but to face it in the here and now. And McKay had needed a moment longer in denial before it had come to that, and Carson had just fudged it. He placed a hand on the physicist's shoulder and squeezed.
" We just need to be there for him, lad. He can get through this. He's done it before."
McKay's jaw twitched, then his face morphed, darkening, twisting into an expression that sent ice shooting down Carson's spine.
" If we'd gotten there sooner," he spat, " then he wouldn't have gone through it at all."
SGA
Moaning, that's what woke McKay up. Soft moaning that interchanged with soft whimpering. McKay snapped his eyes open, then his head up off the pillow, glancing around in the fogged-brained bewilderment of the recently awake. He blinked a few times, recalling his surroundings, and the situation that had brought him to these surroundings. Recollection poured in like molasses, until another moan pulled his attention to the bed across from his own. One look at the weakly writhing frame, and recollection went from heavy syrup to water from a fire hose, shoving back the last granules of sleep from McKay's brain.
McKay threw aside the blankets and moved his legs to plant his bare feet on the cold floor. He shuffled quickly to Sheppard's bedside. The man was breathing fast in short, shallow pants, his eyes squeezed shut, and his free hand gripping the blankets hard enough to puncture the layers with his fingernails. He continued to moan and whimper on every exhale, and the heart monitor was keeping time with the breaths.
McKay's own heart tried to match it. He searched the dimly lit infirmary for Carson or a nurse, and was about to go off in search of one or the other, when Sheppard's voice pulled him back.
With his hands on the rail, McKay leaned in closer to Sheppard's head. He could have sworn he just heard the man call out to Ford.
McKay swallowed convulsively. " Uh... Colonel? Sheppard?" He placed his hand on John's forehead, and John flinched, cringing, whimpering now more than moaning. Heat oozed off him in waves that could have made the air ripple had the lights been stronger.
" What..." came a more audible word within the whimpers. " What are they doing?" McKay's heart stuttered in his chest. John sounded terrified, lost, like a child losing sight of a parent. His breathing increased, as did his heart rate, and he was trembling.
" Ford. What are they doing? Ford? Mom?"
Rodney snatched his hand back. " Oh, gosh, he's delirious." Once again he started to turn to go seek out Carson, and once again he was brought back by Sheppard's desperate, pleading voice.
" Where are you? Don't leave... Please don't leave me... Please... Come – come back... Mom? Ford? Don't leave... Please..."
Rodney's heart split into fragments. He reached down and gripped John's fingers, squeezing gently.
" Hey, Sheppard, it's all right. No one's leaving you. You're not alone. Come on, open your eyes, just open your eyes, you'll see."
Sheppard's head turned jerkily from side to side. " No... No, no, no, no... I can't, I can't... What are they doing, what's happening, why won't they stop...? Please, let it stop, let it, please... Teer. What's happening...?" And Sheppard broke down into a quiet sob, body jerking and tears squeezing out through the corners of his eyes to slide down his temple where they were soaked into his hair.
" It won't stop..."
McKay's throat closed off, and he swallowed repeatedly with nothing able to go down. " Oh crap, Sheppard, it is over, they've stopped, nothing's happening to you. Just please open your eyes and see. Just look at me. It's me, McKay."
Sheppard sucked in a shuddering breath, arching slightly off the bed. " McKay?"
Rodney smiled a wavering, sad smile. " Yeah. McKay. Resident genius. You're home, you're safe, nothing's happening to you. Just open your eyes, it's okay to now. Come on, just a quick look, you'll see."
John gulped in more breaths, and whispered something.
" What? What did you say?" McKay asked, leaning in closer. He could hear John swallow.
" 'M... scared," he rasped, barely. " Scared."
McKay maintained his grip on John's fingers, and placed his other hand on John's sharp shoulder. The constriction leaked from Rodney's throat into his chest until even his heart hurt to beat. For a moment, he couldn't speak, and the more he fought back the tears, the stronger the pain became. Finally, the tears poured without him, and the muscles of his throat loosened enough for words to emit.
" Ah, crap, Sheppard... Don't do this to me. I'm no good at this." McKay lifted his shoulder and turned his head to wipe the wet from his face. " Just... trust me. Don't you trust me?"
" I trust you, McKay."
McKay started, head twitching back. He honestly thought he'd never hear those words again, and definitely not in that questioning tone as though McKay should have already realized this. Conviction, not resignation, and Rodney wondered if it was the fever talking, or if John had never really stopped trusting him.
" Then prove it," he shot. " Open your eyes."
And John did, prying swollen eyelids apart, just a slit fluttering back toward sliding shut, struggling against the remaining disinfectant goop Carson had smeared over the punctures. He blinked several times, eyes rolling about in the sockets, unfocused, bloodshot, and glassy with fever, until they finally settled on McKay.
John's breathing rate and heart rate descended, and he let out a long sigh. Moisture pooled within the shallow opening of the eyelids until the tears finally spilled over.
McKay smiled. " See? Told you. You're all right now. You're home, safe."
John's eyes blinked close, and his head dropped to the side, hiding his face. It would have been easy to assume him asleep, except for the jerks McKay felt in John's shoulder, and the sound of his uneven breathing.
John was weeping.
SGA
Teyla had slept because she had to, because her body wanted to, though her mind didn't. So she'd suffered the nightmares of hearing John's screams muffled by sutures, of finding him as she had yet without the pulse, or feeling him die in her arms as his heart slowed beat by beat with no one coming to help him. Each dream changed every time she jolted awake with a gasp and drenched in sweat until she couldn't take it anymore.
It wasn't quite morning, but close enough. She bathed, dressed and hurried to the infirmary for confirmation that her dreams had been only dreams. She forewent breakfast, her stomach too twisted and clenched to handle any food.
The twisting extended into her throat when she walked into the infirmary, the privacy curtain was pulled away, letting John be the first thing she saw. And what she saw she didn't like. Sweat covered him in a solid sheen, an oxygen mask obscured his white face, his sunken and bruised eyes were unfocused and half lidded, and his breathing was loud, rasping, and labored. In combination with how horribly thin he was ( looking even thinner, if that were possible), Teyla nearly looked away. It was like seeing the beginnings of a corpse. But she didn't look away. She swallowed her discomfort and moved toward John, forcing a smile on her face to hide her trepidation.
She doubted its sincerity, but John didn't seem to notice. She could discern him smiling through the transparent mask, and he lifted his trembling hand to wave at her weakly.
" Hhhi Teyla," he hoarsely said, then started coughing hard until his body convulsed. He dropped his hand, and pulled in a short, shuddering breath to release as a sigh. " How are you?"
Teyla's lips twitched. Holding the smile was starting to hurt. She wanted to cry. Isn't this what she feared would happen? Infection? Although McKay had probably been right, and it had set in longer before they had even found John. She took John's heated hand in hers and gently squeezed his fingers.
" I am well," she said. " And far more concerned for you."
Even through the mask, John's smile seemed a little drunken, and his eyes were like glass. Teyla had seen it before, time and again, always after an injury that led to illness, his blood and body soaked with the chemicals of medication and fever.
John huffed out a laugh. " I'm good."
Of course he would say that. It wasn't as though he currently had the capacity to know any better. But Teyla decided to just play along, seeing as how it was the truth as far as John was concerned.
" That is... good." For now it was good. But when the drugs wore off and coherence returned, then what? How 'good' would John really be?
" Teyla, lass, glad you're here," said Carson, coming up from behind but going around to the other side of the bed. A nurse followed pushing a tray of gauze strips, pads, and tape, plus a syringe and the items Teyla had seen Beckett use when cleaning wounds. " I was thinkin' about callin' ya in," he said, uncapping the syringe and handing it to the nurse. The nurse went back around the bed to inject the contents into Sheppard's I.V.
Carson poured disinfectant solution into a metal bowl. " Ya did well in keepin' the Colonel calm I thought I might utilize your skills today. The lad's quite fogged up in the head thanks to the medication, but the fever's made him a bit delirious. Nothin' toward violence, mind ya, but he became a tad anxious while we were cleanin' his wrists two hours ago and I didn't want to risk somethin' worse when we cleaned his back so I held off."
Teyla nodded, almost enthusiastically. She hadn't realized until now, but she wanted to help, needed to. " I understand, doctor. I would be most glad to help."
Carson smiled and nodded. " Good. Let's start off with ya helping me lift him. You take him by the shoulder and I'll get the rest of him."
Teyla did so, while Carson placed one hand just below John's neck and the other lower applying pressure directly on the spine. John stiffened, his eyes remaining glazed but going on confused. They gently lifted him into the upright position, and Carson kept his hand below John's neck as he untied the gown with his other hand. The nurse opened the back and pulled the front down below John's chest.
Carson reached forward to take Teyla's hand and place it where Carson's hand had been a moment ago. Her other hand she positioned on the top of John's bony shoulder. " Keep him steady, lass. If he starts to get agitated, talk to him like ya did before. If ya have to move your hands, Jenny'll take over for ya."
Teyla nodded uncomfortably. John's backbone was digging into her palm, but it gave her the impression that she was pushing against his backbone – his fragile looking backbone. And the heat of his fever was soaking into her hand, causing her palm to sweat and making John's skin more slippery. Carson and the nurse were methodical on removing the bandaging around John's upper body, then the blood-flecked gauze pads beneath that covering the marks. Beneath it all was revealed protruding ribs discolored by a patchwork of bruises, and the glaring red stitched markings, several of which looked to be inflamed.
Teyla felt the start of minor tremors in John's shoulder and back. Tilting her head to the side, Teyla could safely assume the tremors were from cold air against wet, heated skin. John looked confused, a little troubled, but not exactly any kind of agitated to warrant shudders.
Until Carson started cleaning the marks using a disinfectant soaked swab. John's muscles went rigid, and he probably would have stiffened if he had more strength. Instead, he went from tremors to all out trembling, his eyes darting back and forth until he finally turned his questioning gaze on Teyla. She squeezed his shoulder in comfort and leaned in enough to talk softly to him.
" Colonel Sheppard, it is all right. You are being healed. No one is hurting you."
He nodded imperceptibly and looked away, down and the blankets hiding his legs, twisting the edges of the top-most cover through his thin fingers. Teyla was premature in thinking that John was handling this well. As the cleaning went on, one wound at a time starting at the top row and going down, John's breathing increased, fogging up the mask and interrupted by coughing, and the heart monitor picked up speed. He was shaking, bad. Teyla leaned her forehead against the side of his head to speak directly into his ear, repeating over and over that he was okay, that he was just being healed, and that he would be all right. Each time, John nodded. But when Teyla lifted her head away to look at his face, she saw only terror.
Until he looked at her. Then she saw terror and trust.
And it hurt like a bullet to the gut.
Trust was good, supposed to be good. It wasn't as though Teyla were lying to him just to get him to cooperate. He was being healed, things would be all right. But it still felt misplaced. Consolation wasn't enough. She wanted to stop John's reminisce of his torture, not talk him through it. She wanted to save him, earn the trust he was showing her, make it feel real instead of like something she was using against him. It was a ridiculous notion, she knew, but she couldn't shake it off.
I am helping him, I am. It would have been easier to believe if he hadn't look so frightened.
At least it wasn't crippling fright. He clenched the blanket until his knuckles went white, shook, looked to Teyla for assurances, and that was it. Teyla moved her hand up some to massage the back of John's neck and kept up the reassuring talk. Then he started coughing to have him doubling over and tears racing with sweat down his face. Teyla slid her arm across his chest below the collarbones to have him leaning against her with his chin on her shoulder. She felt his throat move in a convulsive swallow against her own collarbone, and his breath sounded hallow, fast, and sharp within the mask.
" Almost done, here," Carson said.
When John finished coughing, he remained slumped against Teyla in absolute exhaustion. She was overwhelmed, again, by the feeling that if she let John go, then he would be gone, taken away, again. Carson finished with the last of the wounds, then covered them with two large pads of gauze, wiping John's back to dry it and apply the tape. With the nurse's help they lifted John enough to wrap the strips around his chest, then replaced the sweat-soaked gown with a fresh one. They lowered him back down on the bed, but kept the covers at his waist to allow him to cool. He was asleep, and even in sleep he still looked exhausted. When Teyla placed her hand back on his shoulder lightly, she found him to still be shaking, maybe because he was cold, or maybe not.
" Ya did good lass," Carson said.
Teyla's eyes blurred with moisture, and she irritably wiped them one handed. " It reminded me," she said, " of when we found him... I found him. He was shaking... like he was now." She rubbed his shoulder, still reluctant to let go.
" Teyla?"
She looked up at Carson, who was looking at her in concern.
" Ya, all right love?"
Teyla swallowed back the lump in her throat and nodded. " I am just... worried."
Carson breathed out through his nose and leaned with his arms folded on the rail. " I can see that. We're doin' all we can. The rest is up to John. And knowin' him, were I a bettin' man, I would bet in favor of the Colonel. In fact, I always do. He's too stubborn not to fight."
Teyla smiled sadly. " It is why he is still alive, I think."
SGA
Rodney had mentioned something about Ronon growing roots if he remained where he was for any longer. Ronon didn't care. The spot where he leaned against the wall was a good one. He had Sheppard in his sights without being in the way of the nurses or Carson, and watched as a scrub-clad nurse aided Sheppard in drinking from a mug full of broth.
The breathing apparatus below Sheppard's nose was a nice change from the all encompassing oxygen mask, but Ronon didn't think the Colonel looked any better. Probably because of all the drugs, and the lingering traces of illness that made him white as the sheets of the bed. He also wouldn't stop shaking. Mostly in the hands, but Ronon had sharp enough eyes to discern the minute tremors in the bony shoulders.
When Sheppard had taken all he could stand of the broth, the nurse set the mug aside on a tray, and next helped Sheppard ease back against the pillows. She pulled the pile of blankets up to his neck, lowered the head of the bed, dimmed the lights over his area, and walked away.
Ronon moved in, taking long strides across the infirmary until he reached the bed beside Sheppard's and eased himself down sitting on the edge. He watched Sheppard sleep, and waited. It would come. No matter the amount of drugs, no matter the exhaustion, Ronon knew it would come, and he was going to be there when it did.
It was something he could do. All he could do, really. He had wanted to return to Galathaan and hunt down every last member of the Freedom Regiment. Because Weir wouldn't let him, he had to settle for this, which wasn't enough but better than nothing.
We could have gotten to him sooner. Not should have, because that was a given. Could have – could have tracked them, could have staked out the ruins and brought more men to do so; something different that would have spared Sheppard the marks he would forever carry on his back. Beckett had assured that he had done all he could to keep the scarring from being sever, but there would still be scars.
Sheppard's head moved, lolling to one side. It was beginning.
Ronon knew he would occasionally – more like forever – believe that they could have reached Sheppard sooner. Sheppard will attempt to assure him otherwise, of course, but it will not appease the need for retribution.
Ronon heard the whispers around the city (mostly from the women) of the Satedan being the mysterious, cryptic one. As Sheppard might say, it was a load of bull. Ronon was just Ronon. He did what needed to be done to survive, and didn't waste time on trivialities. Just because he wasn't big on drawn out conversations didn't make him something to be puzzled over.
Sheppard was the odd one. Admittedly lazy yet with a persistence that never ceased to impress the former Runner. Strange, confusing, and a seeming weakling one moment, then brutal and relentless the next. And he was loyal, not because he had to be, not because his superiors ordered him to be, but because it was just the way he was. Ronon was starting to lose count over the times Sheppard had come back for him, made sure that he was all right, or going to be all right. Even after tying Sheppard up and holding him prisoner, Sheppard had still taken him in. Where as had roles been reversed, Ronon would have shot Sheppard dead the moment he got lose.
Today, just thinking about putting a bullet in Sheppard made him bristle with disgust. Okay, so he'd threaten to kill John on Sateda if he interfered. It had been an empty threat. Perhaps he might have decked Sheppard – which he could live with – but never killed him. When John was changing into the insect creature, Ronon had come to terms with the possibility of having to shoot Sheppard dead, then made sure that his weapon was always set to stun.
Ronon had no problem with honesty, but in a rare moment, Ronon wasn't being honest with himself. Should there ever come a time where Ronon would be forced to have to shoot Sheppard, there would be hesitation, even an attempt to find some alternative.
Ronon could never kill Sheppard, or do anything that would hurt him.
Sheppard's legs shifted beneath the covers, and his head whipped in the other direction. He tried to roll onto his side, made it part way, then squirmed back onto his back. His breathing increased, the machine monitoring his heart beeped faster, and when he next whipped his head to the side, sweat flew from his face. Sheppard moaned, then whimpered out a small, desperate, frightened sound.
" No..."
Ronon stood and moved closer to the bed. Sheppard writhed until the blankets twisted and tangled around his legs, and his hands clawed at the mattress.
" It... It hurts... What... Are they... they doing...?
Sheppard rolled onto his side facing away from Ronon. The hand of his formerly dislocated arm groped his face, and the other reached back scrabbling over then through the gaps in the gown to feel his back. His perpetually moving legs folded up toward his chest, straightened, folded again, and remained twitching in that position.
" What are they... Oh, gosh, it hurts... What's happening? What's happening? What's happening...?" Over and over and over. Sheppard rolled into a tighter, shivering ball as though trying to make himself as small as possible and hide away from the world.
Ronon was waiting for Sheppard to wake up, except Sheppard seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into his nightmare. His thin gown was already soaked with sweat and clinging to him like a second skin. The nightmare continued to reduce him into something small, trembling, helpless, and lost like a sick and abandoned child.
Ronon couldn't let the nightmare do that. He reached out and clasped Sheppard's sweaty arm. Sheppard's whole body seemed to explode into action. He jolted, and jerked upward with a strangled cry of terror. That terror and remnants of the dream were fogging Sheppard's reality as he tried to bolt from the bed, clawing and scrambling to get over the rail.
" Sheppard!" Ronon bellowed. He grabbed Sheppard by the arm and sleeve of the gown, and pulled him into a tight but gentle embrace. Ronon held onto Sheppard, the weaker man struggling against the stronger, gasping, whimpering, and crying out trying to escape. The monitor was shrieking over Sheppard's cries, so Ronon slapped the switch that shut it off one handed.
" Sheppard! Wake up! You're home, you're safe! Calm down!"
Ronon's words may have pushed through, or Sheppard had merely exhausted himself. His struggling ceased almost abruptly and John's body went limp in Ronon's arms. John remained that way, shivering and gasping for breath. His heart was pounding, Ronon could feel it pulsing against the arm wrapped around Sheppard's chest. Carefully, almost nervously handling such a frail and busted body, Ronon eased John back into the bed, and only then realized that Sheppard was clinging to his shirt with one hand. At the same time, Beckett and a nurse came rushing over.
" What the bloody hell happened!" Carson demanded, bringing his stethoscope to his ears in preparation to take vitals. Ronon would have stepped back, but Sheppard wouldn't relent his grip. It would have been easy to pry the weakened limb from the cloth, yet for reasons Ronon didn't have an explanation for, he couldn't, so just stepped to the side instead.
" Nightmare," Ronon said. " Bad one."
The nurse switched the monitor on that was rapid without the shrieks. Sheppard's glassy but wild eyes were darting all over the place, and when Carson slid the other end of the scope down the Colonel's collar, he flinched with a gasp and attempted to pull away.
Carson's hand shot out to Sheppard's shoulder and squeezed. " Easy son! Easy. It's all right lad, you're all right..."
The realization of this finally started to worm its way deeper into Sheppard's mind. The tension was made palpable through his trembling, but he stopped trying to get away. He stared at the ceiling wide-eyed and agitated as Carson listened to the rapid heartbeat. It took a moment, but that beat eventually, gradually, began to calm along with his breathing. Sheppard squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, and the next they opened, all the fight and terror had gone out of them.
Sheppard released a shuddering breath as his eyelids sunk to slits. " S-sorry," he whispered.
" Not your fault, son," Carson said, removing the scope. " We don't choose our dreams. Do ya need anything? Something for the pain, or a sedative perhaps to help ya sleep?"
Sheppard actually nodded to both. Not that the man needed a sedative – he looked ready to drop back into to dreams any second. Yet there in lay the problem – dreams. Carson had said that sedation helped against the dreams.
Beckett checked for any misplaced bones especially in the ribs before having the nurse administer the needed medicines. During the entire process, Sheppard had yet to let go of Ronon's shirt.
" Rest easy, John," Beckett said, giving the Colonel a light pat on the shoulder. Beckett looked at Ronon, giving him the 'all's okay now' nod, then left with the nurse following after.
Sheppard still had a hold of Ronon's shirt. The drugs were starting to take effect. Sheppard, however, fought them long enough to roll his eyes up at Ronon. Sheppard's expression was abashed, but also uncertain, almost verging on timid. On that pale, thin face, it made him appear even more sickly.
" Um..." he said, and twitched a sheepish smile. " H-hey big guy. Um... Could you do me a favor?"
Ronon didn't hesitate with his reply. " Yeah?"
" Could you... um... s-stick around for a little while. I mean, you don't have to... It's just... Well... um... You see..."
" I'll stay," Ronon said. Sheppard relaxed, almost as though he were melting into the mattress. He flashed another sheepish smile before succumbing to sleep.
" Thanks..."
Sheppard's hand lost the fight to keep hold of Ronon's shirt and fell bone-lessly to dangle over the rail. Ronon took John's arm and gingerly placed it beneath the blankets.
Ronon would stay until Sheppard woke up. It was the least he could do. It was all he could do.
SGA
A/N: Still one more to go. We've had the whump, the angst, so now on to the comfort.