John's thoughts wandered as he, Teyla, and two others whose names he hadn't yet memorized followed the corridor they had been assigned to search toward the center of the north pier, opening doors along the way and pensively peering inside each one. It was bad enough that he had to split up between the north and east piers the few teams of marines from the Daedalus that he'd been given permission to utilize, but it was worse when he felt like he couldn't keep his own mind on the mission at hand. He couldn't seem to shake the image of having shot Carson in the chest with his P90 out of his head.

He busied himself with pulling the life-signs detector from his pocket, checking it for signs of Carson and Rodney, and then when nothing was found, placed the device back into his vest pocket with a disappointed sigh. The search had not gone well so far; wherever Carson had taken Rodney, he had found a really good hiding place. It had been hours since they disappeared, and John could not shake the feeling that something horrible was happening to his friends right under his nose. The futile nature of searching a city the size of Atlantis for someone who didn't want to be found was frustrating the hell out of him.

Teyla seemed to sense some of his anxiety, and he was somewhat comforted by the thought that she shared many of his concerns. She gave him a questioning look, but said nothing. She didn't need to say anything. John turned his head toward her concerned gaze and tried to console her with a small forced smile, but wasn't really sure how well he had succeeded.

John furtively wiped his sleeve once again across his face and forehead to remove another layer of sweat that had formed over top of the last one. He had no idea why it was getting so warm in the city, but figured it was safe enough to attribute to his growing unease. Teyla continued to peer at him with a concerned look.

"Are you well?" she asked finally, not feeling overly assuaged by his well-practiced, charming smile.

"I'm fine," he said with a voice that sounded deceptively calm, more so than he really felt.

She obviously wasn't convinced. "You look warm."

He was willing to capitulate to that much, at least. "It does feel a bit warm in here."

"It is not that warm in here, John," Teyla stated, her concerned look deepening. "In fact, it is quite cool in this hallway. I believe the temperature has dropped by several degrees in the last several hours now that it is sunset."

John scowled with confusion and rolled his eyes. She didn't really think something was wrong with him, did she? "I told you, I'm fine. I'm just a little warm. Let's just get back to the problem at hand and start concentrating on finding Rodney and Carson, okay?"

Teyla halted in her tracks. "If something is wrong, you may put our search teams in jeopardy."

John turned back, flabbergasted. "You can't be serious!"

"I am quite serious." She raised her P90 without hesitation, but tried to soften her voice enough to quell some of his fear. "I am simply concerned for your safety, John. Please give Lieutenant Collins your weapon."

He reluctantly complied, unclasping the butt of his P90 from its strap and handing it off to the man that stepped up to confiscate it, followed by his Beretta. John felt ashamed and horrified at the same time as he watched Teyla activate her radio to tell the infirmary to expect them. He honestly didn't feel like he was about to go nuts on anyone, and a small part of him even felt disheartened to think that Teyla didn't trust that he would know the difference.

Still, he had to admit, however reluctantly, that if there was a possibility he was infected, it was better to be safe than sorry. He certainly didn't envy Carson's position. John trudged begrudgingly between Teyla in front and of Lt. Collins behind as they began to make their way to the infirmary.

Carson's mind felt slow and sluggish as he struggled to stay awake, lest he lose himself again. The euphoric sensation had left him some time ago, and for now he simply watched the slow rise and fall of Rodney's chest as he breathed, lying unconscious on the platform across from him. He could see red, black, and blue splotches of bruising underneath viscous globules of mucus that his hands had left on his friend's neck. He felt terrible.

He had almost killed Rodney, his friend.

In fact, after the initial burst of pleasure at releasing his rage had passed and he had finally managed to yank his mucus-covered hands away in horror, Rodney had been so close to death that Carson had needed to perform CPR on him in order to get him to start breathing again. He thought it was ironic that not even all that rage and hate could keep him from saving the life of someone who was dying in front of him, despite the fact that it was he himself who had been the cause of it and had even taken pleasure from doing it. And now, Rodney lay in front of him on his side, barely alive with his wrists still securely bound to the rail behind him.

If he hadn't felt so numb and completely drained of energy, Carson might have cried. He had never before felt so desperately out of control in his entire life, and he hated it. But he knew with an impending sense of dread that the guilt wracking his mind over what he did to Rodney was nothing. His greatest and most terrible fear came with the realization that he knew it would probably happen again and again, and he took very little comfort in knowing that he wouldn't be the only one suffering the humiliation now. Rodney's face was already glinting with a film of sweat in the fading light. For him, the nightmare was just beginning.

John was trying to wait patiently for news, but sitting and waiting around in a bleak isolation room wasn't something that was easy for him to do. The only bit of news they had offered him so far was that Ronon was awake and up and moving around already, and that when he had insisted on joining Teyla, Dr. Biro and the orderlies had been too tired to try to stop him from leaving. A small smile cracked his lips at the thought of Beckett's orderlies trying to keep the tall Satedan from simply walking right through them.

He was tempted to get up and knock on the door for a fifth time that hour to ask again for some news when he heard the chime of the door panel. John momentarily held his breath as he saw not just the orderly enter the tiny room, but he was accompanied by two guards that stood watch inside the door. One of them had a nasty bruise near his ear and he idly wondered if it was the same guard that Carson had tackled when he escaped, and with some trepidation he realized that with most of the security personnel out looking for Carson and Rodney, he likely was indeed the same guard.

The orderly cleared his throat and looked down at his hands nervously before looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry, Colonel Sheppard, but the news isn't good. Your blood tests show you are positive for the virus."

John let out his breath in a slow, drawn out sigh as he sat back down onto the cot. "I don't see how this could have happened," he insisted. "How long have I been infected? Carson didn't touch me."

He pondered the question thoughtfully and crossed his arms over his chest. "If you weren't infected by Carson, it must have been earlier when you were off-world. Do you recall if you might have had a questionable encounter with any of the natives?"

John scratched at his chin as he tried to think. "Not really."

"Well, it's difficult to say for sure then," the orderly admitted with grim honesty. "But our research seems to indicate that there is a direct correlation between the degree of exposure to the virus and its incubation period."

"What does that mean?" he asked, confused.

"The virus doesn't spread the same way that most other viruses do," the orderly tried to explain, and seemed somewhat McKay-like in his use of hand gestures. "It causes a lot of changes in the neural chemistry of the brain in its victims and causes profuse sweating and secretion of virus-impregnated mucus at certain areas of the body, namely the hands."

"Right," John said, beginning to grasp the concept.

"The most likely reason that this mucus is secreted on the hands is so that when the victim begins experiencing paranoid delusions, the virus can be spread to as many people as possible. And more exposure to that mucus the victim has, the shorter the amount of time it takes for that person to decline to a point where they begin to experience symptoms."

What seemed like a distant memory slowly came to the forefront of John's mind. He began to remember the swamp-planet and how the young woman that that had been lying on the ground began to thrash about. She had splattered mucus from her hands onto his shoulder and chin, and he had quickly wiped it off onto his sleeve. If it had taken him this long to develop symptoms, Rodney's symptoms would certainly be sudden and acute. They were all in serious trouble.

He jumped to his feet, startling the guards. "I need to speak with Dr. Weir right now!"

"Dr. Weir is busy directing the search effort," the orderly reminded him. "It might take a little while for her to get around to seeing you."

"Well, tell her it's important," John said with some annoyance.

The orderly's only reply was a short nod before he promptly left him to wallow in freakish misery. John wasn't sure how much time he had left, but he was sure as hell going to make the most of it. A nervous itch formed on his neck, and he spontaneously rubbed at it as he sat back down heavily onto the cot. It was going to be a long night.