The Fire Still Burns – Part 9
"You certainly go to extreme lengths to get out of paperwork, son." General Hammond shook his head as he looked down at the man in the bed. "God, Jack, what am I going to do with you?" Taking the slack hand in his own, he held it tight for a moment, then tucked it back under the covers. He shivered. The colonel's skin felt icy as he let the hand go – almost as if he had been touching a corpse.
The horror at the thought had him jumping to his feet to take a few steps back. His eyes flew to the machines steadily pumping out readings that, after just a few years at the SGC, he could unhappily interpret far too accurately. The lines on the ECG were steadily pulsing.
"General, is there something wrong?"
Hammond gave the nurse sitting near the door a nod of reassurance as he returned to Jack's side, his gaze once more on the sick man. "He feels cold. It was a bit unexpected."
"His blood pressure is still low. We've administered dopamine to raise it, but it's taking longer than it should."
He nodded again. Doctor Fraiser had briefed him when he returned to the SGC but it was a shock none the less to see the reality – to see the IVs with their bags of fluid, and the tube keeping Jack breathing. Even though Colonel Makepeace had kept him up to date with O'Neill's condition, the call from Doctor Fraiser a few hours ago had come as a complete surprise. He couldn't believe Jack had been so close to dying while he was having a strip torn off him by the Joint Chiefs.
Nothing would have been different, but he couldn't help feeling that he shouldn't have been so far away from his base. And it was still his base. His superiors at the Pentagon may have been annoyed with him, but after a slap on the wrist he'd ended up with a reprimand in his file – a file that should have been marked 'retired' at least three years ago. It had been a small price to pay – a price that had bought the lives of all the SGC personnel on Hathor's planet. One he would gladly offer again.
The low murmur of voices came from behind him and he turned to find Doctor Fraiser conferring with the duty nurse. Waiting until she had finished, the general took yet another look at the colonel, noting the redness that spread from beneath the flimsy hospital gown to cover his arms and neck. Only the too pale face was spared the itchy looking rash.
Grunting something around the breathing tube, O'Neill shifted, his left arm coming up level with his chest before falling back down to rest at his side again. A frown crinkled the man's forehead and Hammond could almost hear the frustration.
Nurse Frampton came to stand next to the bed. She squeezed some lotion from the tube she carried into the palm of her hand and started rubbing it over the colonel's right arm.
"This should help a little. The rash doesn't seem to be responding properly to medication."
Hammond raised an eyebrow at the nurse's comment. "Like his blood pressure?"
"I'm not sure, sir. You'd have to speak to Doctor Fraiser about that." She glanced up briefly before she busied herself rubbing the cream into the colonel's hand, carefully smoothing it between each finger as she avoided the site of the IV needle. O'Neill gave another mutter, his left hand again coming up and making a batting motion. His eyelids fluttered and opened slightly, allowing Hammond to catch just a glimpse of brown before they closed once more.
"I think he's waking up." The general moved a little closer. "Jack?"
The lids stayed closed.
"It's best that he sleeps, sir," the nurse said as she paused to squeeze some more lotion into her palm.
General Hammond knew a dismissal when he heard one, even if it was couched in diplomatic words. He nodded and stood, reluctant to leave but unable to avoid the backlog of work waiting for him any longer.
"Please ask Doctor Fraiser to see me when she returns to duty."
"Yes, sir."
After giving the ill man a last lingering look, the general made his way to his office.
Colonel Makepeace had done a surprisingly good job of keeping the base running, given the trying circumstances, and in reality Hammond found he had little to do once he read the reports from the various section heads. After an hour his gaze began to wander to the clock above the door. Coffee and some sandwiches delivered by Sergeant Harriman after another twenty minutes or so passed were another welcome distraction. He sighed, knowing what the problem was. His mind kept drifting to Jack O'Neill.
A sense of relief washed over him when Walter announced the arrival of Doctor Fraiser, but it was soon dispelled by the expression on her face. She began her report in a matter of fact manner, but it was clear within a few short words that the colonel's condition deeply concerned her.
"He isn't responding to treatment any longer, General. The antibiotics appeared to be working at first, but the infection is taking hold again. Several of his major organs are in trouble – heart, kidneys, lungs – and there's every sign of the worst case scenario for toxic shock." She ran her hand over her face in an uncharacteristic gesture of tiredness. The long hours she had put in over the last few days showed plainly in her eyes. She took a long breath and shook her head slowly as she looked up at Hammond. "I've sent specimens of the bacteria for analysis, but so far...and the colonel's running out of time. If only I'd..."
"There's no point blaming yourself, Doctor," the general interrupted. "In hindsight you may have done things differently, but at the time you acted the best you could for your patients. Without your skills Major Mansfield would probably be dead. Your priorities were correct. There was no way you could have known Colonel O'Neill had more than a cold."
"He still does." When Hammond threw her a puzzled look, Fraiser continued. "Colonel O'Neill still has the cold – that was what masked most of the symptoms of toxic shock at first. If only it had been that simple." She looked down at her clasped hands. "He came to see me. That should have given me a clue that it wasn't just a cold. He never comes to the infirmary when he feels sick – just goes and hides." A brief smile flittered across her lips. "Oh, if he's really hurt he has no problem with seeing me, but something like a bad headache or the pain he gets in his knees and he's worse than a kid at avoidance."
"Colonel O'Neill is like me in that respect, Doctor. We were brought up to only see a doctor if it was serious enough. And we didn't expect to be given antibiotics every time we visited. We were lucky if we got a lollipop." The general nodded as he remembered his youth. "Doctors were important people, you only bothered them if you thought you were actually..." He stopped, realizing what he had been about to say.
"If you thought you were actually dying?"
"Doctor..."
"No, sir, you're right. Colonel O'Neill was hurting and he came to get help." Her eyes stared straight into his and he saw determination blazing within them. "And now he's going to get it. If you'll excuse me, sir, I have to get back to my patient."
General Hammond sat back in his chair as his office door closed behind the doctor, finally feeling he could relax a little. His officer and friend's life was in good hands and no matter the outcome he knew all that could be done would be. Turning back to the papers in front of him he began to work again with renewed vigor.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
There was something so very wrong about what was about to happen that Jack could almost believe he was in a perverse version of Hell. But there were none of the usual trappings of the Hell of his childhood visits to church with his grandparents, no fire or brimstone, no screams of tormented souls – just the awful realization that he was going to sneeze and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
His eyes snapped open, desperately hoping he could see some way out of this, but the view of a grey concrete ceiling did nothing to help.
The sneeze that had woken him built, travelling along his nasal passages until it escaped in a mighty burst causing his head to shoot forward, pain flaring into life in his neck and stitches pulling and snapping. The tube in his throat moved – he felt it scrape against something deep inside him, something that wasn't meant to be touched by hard plastic.
Alarms, frantic beeps, running footsteps – none of them were important as coughs fought for space in his windpipe and he started choking.
Something firm held his arms. Fraiser's face came into focus above him, her lips moving, but he couldn't hear what she was saying over his own gasps. Then hands forced his head back and with a tug, the tube was pulled from his throat leaving him wheezing and coughing.
When he sneezed again Jack felt as close to crying like a baby that a big, nasty, ex-Special Ops officer could.
And – oh, crap – he was itchy!
Given the choice between this toxic waste stuff and a gunshot wound, he'd take the bullet any day. A bullet hole could be plugged.
The doctor had her stethoscope planted firmly on his chest, its cold metal a very brief relief for his discomfort, but she soon removed it and turned to bark orders at her staff – something about films and fluid – and the heat returned even worse than it had been.
Itchy, itchy.
His twitching fingers finally managed to reach his chest, only to have them slapped away. Oh, sure it was gentle, but it was definitely a slap and he took time out from trying to breathe to shoot a glare at that damn Fraiser woman. Sure enough, she was staring straight at him. Then her hand blurred across his vision and brushed against his hair, pushing it back.
"I know you're itchy, sir, but that'll have to wait until I've checked your neck." She paused, still looking at him. "Colonel, do you understand. Are you with me?"
Nodding would hurt way too much, so he rasped a 'yes' and let them turn him onto his side. The bandages around his neck were removed and he gave a small sigh of pleasure at the feeling of cool air on his burning skin. Janet made that tutting noise she gave when something wasn't the way she wanted it.
A flush of warmth ran up his arm and he fell asleep again.
When he woke the doctor was sitting next to the bed, her hand on his wrist. Jack waited, seeing her look of concentration – but even he could tell his pulse was too fast. He felt – just – off.
His attention wandered and when refocused, Jack found Janet had dropped his wrist and was quietly watching him.
"You're very sick, Colonel –"
It was as if she was half way through telling him something so he gave a slight nod, whilst idly noting the pain had gone. He'd reserve judgment on whether or not that was a good thing until his mind was clearer.
"I've stopped the antibiotics. The lab results are in and we're going to have to try something different."
She stopped talking and Jack had a definite feeling that it wasn't because she didn't want to confuse him. It seemed more like she really didn't have anything else to say. Which meant...crap...she didn't know what to do next.
His heart did a funny little flip.
Then it flipped again. Shockwaves of fear ran through him. He watched as Janet grabbed at stuff on the tray near her, but another flip had him closing his eyes as he swallowed down a groan. Pounding echoed in his head – his blood pulsing as if it were in a race, one it had to win at all costs, then another rush of warmth soothed the ache and slowed the frantic beating.
Feeling as rung out as an old dish cloth Jack lifted lids that seemed like they had ten ton weights attached to them. He opened his mouth to ask what had just happened – and coughed.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
TBC