John woke slowly, plagued by nausea and a killer headache. When lying still and trying to go back to sleep ceased to hold the discomfort at bay, he rolled onto his back, then pushed himself up to rest his head on his hands, his elbows on his crossed knees. It took several minutes of groggy sitting for him to realize that he actually was sitting up -- his wrists and ankles were no longer bound -- and he finally, cautiously, opened his eyes to look around.
He was back in his off-white cell, or one just like it, and had apparently been lying on the mattress for some time. The rumpled sheets and deep creases in his T-shirt were evidence of several hours' sleep. Groaning and closing his eyes again, he stood up and shuffled to the wash basin by feel alone, sighing with pleasure as he splashed cool water on his face and sipped several handfuls to soothe a parched and sore throat.
At last, he was able to straighten and look around without the room spinning out from under him. The cell hadn't changed any since his last occupation, so he flopped back down on the mattress and propped himself up against the wall. His side protested the scrunched position and he quickly shifted to accommodate the cracked rib, pressing his hand against the sore place. He felt something firm under his shirt, so he yanked it up quickly to see neat strips of tape plastered over the tender spot, and a band of tight gauze wrapped around his slim torso.
He let the shirt drop back with a sigh and, because he had nothing better to do, he ran a mental inventory of his current physical condition. It was more than just an excuse to grouse, he told himself. He needed to know how his body would respond when he asked it to. Sore ribs meant no close-fighting, he needed to keep enemies at a distance, away from the tender spot that could immobilize him quickly should a blow get through.
His hip still throbbed, and the muscle itself was sore. Probably not too much of a problem unless he needed to run for a long distance. Might hamper his speed at a short sprint too. Idly, he rubbed his right arm, noticing the bruises and pin holes where the IV had been, the red-sore ring around his wrist where he'd twisted against the restraints. There were more welts on his arms, too, and he just shook his head at the thought of how many hands had held, grabbed, or otherwise pawed on him in the last…how many hours had he been here?
And when was the last time he'd eaten anything? As if his stomach were listening in on his thoughts, it growled plaintively. John rubbed his eyes in frustration at the lingering nausea that competed with rediscovered hunger. Painkillers and sedatives always made him feel like crap. Not that he would turn down a nice handful of Tylenol though!
For a long time he just sat there, shifting restlessly with his shifting thoughts, trying to shake off the lingering effects of the sedatives and figure out what the hell was going on.
Aside from the brief session with Niklas, the deep-voiced man, he hadn't truly been interrogated yet, John realized. With a shiver of unease, he remembered that both Niklas and the woman doctor seemed pretty confident that he'd be willing to talk once the drugs they were pumping into him began to take effect. He rubbed his hip absently.
So, what was he supposed to feel like? He rather assumed that interrogation drugs would make you feel woozy, or sleepy, to dull your resistance. Instead, he realized, he was slowly beginning to feel almost excited -- too keyed up, really. He found himself tapping his foot against the tile floor, then he was bouncing his whole leg in fretful agitation. Was he just nervous, reasonably worried about what was to come? Or was he beginning to react to the drugs? Were they starting to mess with him?
What if the drugs induced anxiety on purpose to attempt to scare him more than one normally could. He rubbed his palms on his pants, then ran a hand through his hair. No, no. That made no sense. They'd expected him to be cooperative, calmer. Or had they? He suddenly felt angry as he began to second-guess his perceptions and his memory of the overheard conversations. He jumped to his feet to circle the room, testing the walls, rattling the door.
A sudden frightening thought threw him further into a panic. What if he wasn't in the room at all? What if he was hallucinating! Would General O'Neill walk through the door and ask him questions that he would of course answer, because he'd been ordered to? Would Elizabeth show up and ask him to cooperate, to give them the 'gate GDO codes?
How did he know what was real?
John paced the cell like a caged tiger. The longer he paced the darker his thoughts grew, and the more his heart hammered. He began to clench his fists, and grit his teeth against an anxiety that was so intense it was nearly painful. When he suddenly felt a sticky slipperiness on one of his palms, he stopped to stare at his hand in surprise. He'd dug his fingernails into the fragile skin, creating a set of semi-circular scratches that were oozing tiny drops of blood. He wiped the blood away, watched more tiny drops squeeze to the surface.
Beckett would have something for that, he found himself musing. The innocent thought slammed into him with nearly physical force, and he sagged against the nearest wall, covering his face with his hands.
Beckett wasn't here, and he wasn't coming. His team wasn't coming. No one knew where he was. Hell, HE didn't even know where he was.
He couldn't trust anyone, because no one was real. He wasn't really here, he was still strapped to a table with drugs sliding into his arm. Drugs that made him wild with anxiety, drugs that would make him talk, give up Atlantis's secrets. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let that happen. He'd jump into the Stargate's deadly initializing wave before he'd let that happen.
He stood braced against the wall when a murmur of voices reached him, filtering from the hallway just outside the door. He froze for a moment, then suddenly under fierce control, he moved to stand solidly in the center of the room again. He didn't exactly know what he was going to do. He just knew he'd be ready to do it.
The door opened to expel two guards. This time he didn't recognize them, and John felt a moment of disappointment. He'd been looking forward to annoying Julan again. The two pressed themselves into the space, creating a wall of sorts between John and the door, behind which a squirrelly young man carrying a tray scuttled in. The boy set the tray just off to the side, then scurried out. Without a single word, the guards backed out themselves, and the door snicked shut.
John shook his head with a sigh, then actually chuckled. Those two guards had outweighed and outmassed him three times over, yet they acted as if he were a serial killer with an axe in each hand. Finally glancing at the tray, his stomach growled again at the sight of a plateful of food. Eagerly picking it up to inspect, he grabbed a roll of bread and shoved it into his mouth while poking at the other items, and carrying everything over to the mattress.
The plate contained several slices of cold, deli-style meats, several chunks of hard cheeses, and another roll. Not fancy, but good. Then again, as hungry as John was, a couple of chunks off of one of his jumpers might have tasted pretty good! He devoured the food with wolfish enthusiasm, then washed it down with another handful of water from the sink. Not entirely sure why he was doing it, he then placed the plate and tray neatly beside the door. He stood staring at it for a moment.
So, they knew he was awake. They'd fed him. They were sure to return for the rest of it soon. The manic restlessness returned in a rush again, and he resumed an angry pace, back and forth in front of the door. Maybe the drugs had worked, maybe they hadn't. He certainly felt odd, euphoric and strangely terrified all at the same time, but he didn't feel like talking. He wouldn't compromise Atlantis. He wouldn't be traded like a rug in the marketplace. He decided that, even if this was a hallucination, he had to play it like it was real. And being real, he had to escape.
He spun again, wondering how he might manage to break away when they were so obviously wary of him. As he twisted, his sore hip muscle cramped and he stumbled a step, cursing the woman doctor and her damned needles. He even blushed a bit in furious embarrassment as he remembered her tugging on his belt as he lay ridiculously tied down.
He stopped suddenly, thinking hard.
Could they really have been that careless?
His hand drifted to his buckle. As he caressed its cold smoothness, a sly, malicious grin spread across his face.