Atlantis, 4:00 p.m.

Dr. Beckett completed his rounds, saving Sheppard for last. The doctor was still pleased with the Colonel's vitals, and even his temperature had dropped a degree or two…down to only "burning up" he mused. But aside from the charts and measurements of physical health, if he allowed himself to think about John as friend rather than patient, he was getting a wee bit worried about the man's refusal to wake up, even if only for a minute or two. He recited to himself all the excuses he'd been feeding Elizabeth and Teyla and John's teammates, but as he stood alone by his friend's bedside, he wasn't buying them any more than they were.

It was quiet in the late afternoon; his other charges were all napping and even Elizabeth had returned to her office to check messages and catch up on the day's reports. Feeling a bit silly, Carson pulled the chair over and sat down to watch stiffly over John as he slept. The doctor was known for his bedside manner when his patients were awake, but he'd never really found the need to sit with them when they were unconscious; he preferred to be up and actively working on their care. But as he continued to keep vigil, he began to understand.

Human beings, even those as stubbornly strong as Colonel John Sheppard, were fragile when they were asleep; vulnerable in a way that was perhaps even more disturbing when the person WAS as strong as John. And it was instinctive for humans, (well, most humans) to protect the vulnerable.

"You'll be just fine, lad." Carson allowed himself the privilege of encouraging the younger man out loud. "You rest as long as you need. We'll be here for you until you can take things over on your own."

G3C-187, Day 2

"Nalia?"

Her father's voice pulled the girl out of the restless sleep she had fallen into, still dressed in the clothes she had worn on her midnight visit.

"Silly girl! Get up, it's late and you have chores."

Nalia sat up and automatically called back, "Yes, father," before she was even fully awake; before the rush of memory assaulted her and she buried her face in her pillows, the tears threatening to flow again.

"Nalia!" Her father's voice was sharp and impatient. "I have to question the plaguer and I want you to be at your chores before I go."

As the statement sunk in, Nalia jumped out of her bed, hastily wiped her eyes and ran her fingers through her tangled shoulder-length hair. She flung open her door and fairly flew down the stairs to find her father shrugging into a worn jacket and preparing to leave the house.

"I want to go with you!" Nalia blurted out before thinking.

"Why?" Naden was taken aback by the request and the question was thick with suspicion.

"I…I…" Nalia had never before taken any interest in the stricken of the town, protecting herself in the only way she knew from the horrors of the plague. "I want to look on the face of the plaguer and see his weakness…so I may stay strong."

Naden's face flashed a look of surprise, then flickered understanding, settling finally on an expression of deep sadness. "Very well. Follow me, girl. But do not speak."

The shopkeeper who had captured Sheppard joined them at the main door to the Mill. With angry resolve, the two townsmen walked purposefully through the halls of the large building to the corner that housed the prison. The shopkeeper, whose name was Davka, flipped the simple latch on the outside of the heavy door and snatched at the key that hung on a hook near the frame. They had only to worry about plaguers leaving the cells, they never thought to worry about anyone wanting to get in.

Davka and Naden squared their shoulders and entered, Nalia quietly skulking behind her father, half wishing the man to see and recognize her again, half fearing what would happen if he did. She needn't have worried: Sheppard was quietly passed out on his cot, curled under the blanket and oblivious to their arrival.

"You! Plaguer!" Davka called brusquely. The form on the cot didn't move.

"Colonel, we must speak to you." Naden resorted to using at least part of the man's name, although he sounded as if the word had an unpleasant taste. Finally, in disgust, Davka unlocked the cell and, stepping inside, grabbed Sheppard's shoulders to shake him awake and slam his shoulders upright against the wall. Naden followed unhurriedly to stand over the slumped prisoner.

John sat blinking and gasping at the intrusion for a moment, then Nalia saw a look of steely resolve settle in the warm, light brown eyes as he saw the door open, the path to the hallway tantalizingly clear. "What do you want?" he asked, the fury at being left for dead bubbling beneath the surface of the calmly spoken words.

Naden replied, "It is our custom to ask those stricken their burial requests. Since you come from so far, we do not know your death customs and cannot promise to fulfill any but the most basic of ceremonies. Yet, we will do what we can. Cremation or burial in our town cemetery is most common. Which do you wish?"

"I do not wish to die at all." John spoke with matter of fact conviction. Nalia thought his voice sounded rather hoarse, and with a guilty conscience, remembered him yelling in the dark.

"That is not up to me."

"Isn't it?"

Naden flinched at the unswervingly steady gaze John fixed upon him, and a flicker of triumph flashed over the prisoner's face. "Of course not. You suffer the plague because your faith in the Ancestors is weak. You are weak," but Naden didn't sound as convincing as usual under the continued scrutiny.

"Let me go."

"No."

"Are you afraid I'll spread the plague among your people? Because I promise, I'll just leave. I'll just go home."

"No. Everyone who remains here is immune."

From his confused look, Nalia saw that John was surprised by Naden's statement. "Then why? Why hold me? Why do you care if I take the plague elsewhere?"

Naden was struggling for composure. His reasons were his own, and those of the circumstances he'd created when he came here. "The plague is a test of your faithfulness to the Ancestors." Naden's voice was breathless with fury and thinly-held control and he was painfully conscious of Davka's curious looks in his direction at the stranger's pointed questions, "It doesn't matter where you go, you will die for your faithlessness, and you will die here."

"You're wrong." John pushed himself off the cot to stand, his confident stance radiating righteous indignation causing Naden to take a single step backwards before he shored up his own resolve and lifted his chin in equal defiance. "You're wrong," John repeated. "I have no intention of dying here or anywhere else today. You're a pathetic little man who's hiding a cure from these people because it makes you feel self-important when the others die and you survive. There is no test, only your own cowardice…"

"Silence!" Naden was shaking with fury, clenching his fists and John didn't press. Nalia looked back and forth between the two men and backed away a bit from the bars. So much was going on beneath the words: John was studying Naden intently, watching every flicker of expression or change of posture. Naden was flushed and looked about to strike out.

At last, Naden relaxed, breaking the tension and merely sighed with a superior glance at Davka, "It's always sad when a plaguer won't accept their fate," he told John with what sounded like knowing regret. "Some are even saved by their faith, like Davka here. That is the only cure I can offer. And I withhold it from no one."

He took a step towards the cell door, preparing to leave. With a snarl of frustration, John leaped at the door himself, trying to get through first, shoving Naden aside as he lunged past. But the desperate prisoner made it only as far as the doorframe when Davka caught up and wrapped his arms around John's waist from behind, pulling them both down to their knees as John clung to the frame near the latch, so close to freedom and yet so far.

Davka held the struggling John long enough for Naden to scoot by, then with a ferocious yank, pulled John off the bars to slam him, shoulder first, into the floor. Standing quickly, Davka shoved John even further into the cage with his foot and quickly stepped out himself to swing the door closed. John rolled quickly up and launched himself at the bars, rattling the door and causing the two men to take a step back. "You people are fucking insane!" John shouted.

In response, Naden simply took two steps to the outer door, turned back to reply calmly, "You have not given your answer. We will be back later when you are closer to your death and feel like making your arrangements. Nalia, come now!"

Nalia stood petrified, staring at John who suddenly sagged against the bars as if he'd used up his last reserves to challenge Naden and make his one desperate attempt at escape, leaving him empty and hopeless. And yet, he returned Nalia's look for just a moment. John said nothing, but his eyes held hers and they were pleading, encouraging, and sympathetic all at the same time. Frustrated, her father walked over to grab her arm and physically pull her out of the room, and she felt John watching her until the door closed between them with a finality that Nalia could hardly bear.

John stayed there for a long time after Naden pulled Nalia away. He leaned his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes, forcing himself to go through the confrontation again, reviewing all he had heard and thought he had learned. He was certain Naden had a cure. He'd been casting in the dark by revealing to Naden what he guessed, but from the man's reaction, John was sure he'd hit the mark. He didn't know exactly what sick little game Naden was playing with these people, but Naden had a cure, and no one else knew. Perhaps not even the girl, although he thought she suspected.

At last, taking an expectant breath, he listened for a moment longer to be sure no one was approaching and pushed against the bars that formed the door into his cell.

With a rusty creak, it swung wide open.

Atlantis, 7:00 p.m.

That evening in the infirmary felt like a celebration. Elizabeth brought her dinner down to eat with Teyla, Rodney, and Ronon, and even Carson stopped working long enough to eat his sandwich sitting perched on the edge of Rodney's bed. They chatted with comfortable familiarity, but despite the joking and teasing, and even the more serious conversations about their illnesses and fears, there was a hushed quality about them, as if everyone were waiting for something.

Or someone. Elizabeth finally put her finger on the feeling: It was as if they were having a party where the guest of honor hadn't been invited; in this case he hadn't shown up yet. John Sheppard was still unconscious and even Carson was starting to look anxious. The feeling of waiting grew heavy, and the celebration broke up at last with nearly everyone taking a moment to check in on John before returning to his or her bed or work.

Elizabeth was the last to visit and, deciding that there was no point to trying to sleep at home, she pulled up her chair to sit close again. She saw Dr. Beckett bustling around in his office and knew that he wouldn't be leaving tonight either. She talked to John for a while, thinking maybe he needed to be disturbed, or perhaps he needed an anchor to find his way to consciousness. But he lay so quietly still, that eventually she even gave up holding his hand. He would find his way, she was sure. And she would be ready to help if he needed it.

G3C-187, Day 2

John paced in his cell, forcing himself to keep moving, to stay awake. He left the cell door open just to remind him of the hope he now held at escaping, but the small piece of 90 mph tape was still firmly stuck over the door's latch such that he could pull it closed quickly without the lock engaging. He had planted the tape as he wrestled with Davka, hoping his struggling would cover the act of positioning the small silver square concealed in the palm of his hand.

But the outer door was still locked; his luck wasn't that good today, so he paced. Naden said he would return, but the fear John wrestled down like a mad demon was that he would come too late; that John would be too far gone, too sick to do what he had to do.

Some small part of him took stock of his reserves and sent plaintive reminders to John's consciousness that his restlessly pacing body hadn't eaten in over 24 hours, that he'd had only a few small cups of water in that time, that he had a fever probably topping off at 105, and that he'd slept perhaps two or three hours in said 24 hours. The pain had been with him so long, he was almost numb with it even as the constant dizziness worried him. But he was afraid to sit down or rest because he had exactly one last chance to leave. If he failed, Naden would lock him back in the cell and no one would open the door again until long after he was dead.

The light shifted as time passed, and the shadows moved around the room. John had walked for so long, his shoulders and back and chest ached with exertion and fever, but he didn't yet realized that the tickle in his chest was more than just thirst and a dry throat. When afternoon began to melt into evening, he finally had to sit for a while, but he kept to the edge of the cot, allowing himself no comfort, only a chance to relax stiff muscles.

He cleared his throat again, and the tickle erupted into a full blown chest-wracking cough. Shaking from the toll the spasm took on his already weakened body, John began to recognize that the ache in his chest wasn't lessening as he rested. Over the next hour as he sat, it only grew worse, into a kind of suffocating pressure, as if someone were sitting on him and squeezing the breath out of him slowly, like a leaky balloon.

Gasping, he remembered Naden calmly stating that pneumonia developed in 48 hours, and two days ago, this time, he had stepped on this cursed planet looking for and extending friendship. A kind of panic overwhelmed him and he staggered out of the cell and pressed himself against the outer door, desperately listening for someone, anyone to come near.

When it seemed that he actually did hear footsteps approaching, he froze for just a second, trying to remember what he should do, resisting the urge to simply call out and rage against the door. Forcing control, he quickly pushed the empty cell's door closed, and pressed himself against the wall just behind the outer door. It opened inwards, and there was John's chance: it would hide him for the moment or two he needed to create an advantage of surprise.

The footsteps continued closer, paused, and he heard a scratching at the frame: someone was lifting the inner cell key off its hook. John heard a simple bolt being thrown, and, heart hammering in his chest, all pains and weakness melted away as adrenaline surged and he held his breath in utter concentration.

The door opened abruptly, shielding him from the sight of the man who stepped through. Davka froze as he took in the empty cell, one hand still on the handle of the doorknob John was just behind. With a savage thrust, John slammed the door into the stunned man, catching the side of his head with the edge of the polished wood door. Davka dropped, howling and clutching at his head and John knelt to throw a punishing fist into the man's jaw.

With furious vindication, John kicked and shoved the semi-conscious shopkeeper into the cell as he had been shoved, swiped the key, ripped off the tape and slammed the inner door shut. He approached the outer door more cautiously, worried that the noise might have attracted other curious onlookers, but the hallway directly beyond was empty and growing dim as the light outside also faded. A single window to his right looked out on the riverbank, and John decided that was as good a way as any to leave the building.

A quick shove and the window was open, a short drop and he was kneeling on cool damp earth with the cheerful noise of the river gurgling in front of him and the waterwheel creaking as it spun just around the jutting wall to his left. For a moment, he was so grateful to be outside, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool, humid evening air. The agonizing coughing fit that followed brought his frightening reality sharply to bear. He was still in deep, deep trouble.

Fighting for control over his shaking and weakened limbs, he stumbled along the edge of the river, behind the waterwheel to the opposite edge of the Mill, peeking out furtively to view the path and bridge that lead to Nalia's house. She was his only chance. He was nearly out of time, and only Naden's secret, unconfirmed, please-God-let-there-be-a cure could save him now.

There were a few townspeople on the main street and he waited until they had entered their homes or shops and the road was empty as far as he could see. Shaking from fear as much as fever, he dashed across the bridge and into the thicker foliage beyond, making his way the short distance further to the impressive two-story farm-style wooden house that sat against the deeper forest's borders.

He would have to get Nalia alone somehow; maybe he could wait for her in the lean-to and confront her when she came out to feed the animals. Or…

He dove behind a thick tree-trunk and threw himself on the ground as the door of the house flew open and bright lamplight flooded the yard and path for a second before the shadow of Naden, stepping out and pulling on a coat, blocked it off. John caught just a glimpse of Nalia standing in the door, pleading with her father who simply turned his back on her and stomped away. The girl watched after furiously for a short time, then slammed the door shut.

Or… he could wait until Naden left the house, thought John, grateful for any bit of luck. Naden walked past John's hiding spot with a distant, distracted expression as John fought to quell the cough that was tickling in his chest with agonizing insistence. Gulping and gasping he managed to stay quiet long enough for Naden to pass on, then giving in to the demands of his tortured lungs, he coughed until he lay in a limp heap on the damp earth.

Forcing himself, finally, to stand back up, John crept to the house and around to the back door where he hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Should he barge in and confront her aggressively? Or would it be better to go the polite "dying stranger on the doorstep" route? Another cough was tickling deep in his chest, and in the end, he just leaned against the door frame and knocked, pounded actually, trying to clear his throat and control the spasm long enough to talk to Nalia.

After what seemed like an eternity to John, the door opened tentatively and Nalia peeked around the edge to gasp at him, staring frozen with wide eyes. John was short on time, so he pushed his way in without an invitation and she scuttled back several steps to watch warily as he stepped in far enough to close the door behind him, only to turn and lean heavily against it.

"Nalia," he croaked, and was surprised at how raspy and faint his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Nalia, I need your help… I… Your father…" It was then, as the spasm he'd fought to suppress overwhelmed him and he slid down the door, coughing and gasping for breath, that he realized he'd miscalculated; he hadn't saved enough strength, or Naden had simply stalled long enough for the disease to do its work for him.

Spots danced before John; he felt like he couldn't breathe. He was vaguely aware of Nalia kneeling by him on the floor with a look of terror and sympathy. He'd run out of time before getting the chance to really talk to her. He'd failed. "I need your help," he whispered, then the spots merged into a single blackness and for a while he knew only tortured coughing and regret.