Chapter 8
"Get better, Sheppard," Ronon said. He stood at the foot of the bed next to McKay, his arms folded tightly over his chest. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach as he watched Sheppard go limp and slump into the bed.
He squeezed his hands into fists and buried them deeper under his crossed arms. Sheppard's eyes had darted around the infirmary in confusion, resting on each of them for a few seconds at a time, but not really seeing anything. He hadn't said a word, and then he'd started shaking. At first, the trembling had been barely noticeable but by the time Beckett had given him something, Sheppard was visibly shaking the bed.
"He'll be out for awhile," the doctor said. "Go—"
"He's been out since he got here—four days ago," McKay interrupted. "How much longer?"
"Go take a break, all of you," the doctor finished, ignoring McKay. "Get some food and some rest."
McKay stared back in defiance, but finally gave up. They all knew the answer to how much longer anyway. Sheppard would wake up when he was ready to wake up. Teyla rested her forehead on Sheppard's for a moment, then finally released the hand she'd kept a tight grip on.
"He's going to be fine," McKay said as the three of them walked out of the infirmary, but no one answered. Ronon watched the scientist walk a few steps ahead of them, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. He seemed small.
"I have not had dinner yet," Teyla said a moment later, her eyes also on McKay. "Would you care to join me?" She glanced at Ronon, including him in on the invitation.
"Sure, okay, I could eat," McKay answered without looking up.
Ronon flashed on the tall alien with the electric weapon. In his mind, the alien jammed the bar into the Marine's side, and the man had screamed and arched away from the pain, but when he looked up at Ronon, his face morphed into that of Sheppard's.
"Not hungry right now," Ronon answered, his stomach twisting into knots. He could feel the anger beginning to pulse through him.
Teyla nodded. She looked at him closely, but didn't say anything more, and she and McKay disappeared down the hall to the mess. Ronon stood in the hallway for a moment. His hands were beginning to shake at the pent up energy coursing through him. Abruptly, he turned around and headed to the gym.
It was empty, which was probably a good thing. Ronon walked over to one of the punching bags—the one Sheppard had shown him only a few weeks after he had first arrived in Atlantis. He punched it as he walked up to it, screaming in frustration. The bag jerked on its chain as Ronon hammered it. His hands quickly became red and bruised, but he ignored them and punched until he lost track of time. Any pain he felt was minimal compared to what Sheppard must have gone through. He remembered the rooms full of cages—some of them occupied, some empty. Sheppard had been no better than an animal to them.
"Ronon?"
Ronon caught the punching bag and rested his head against it as he tried to catch his breath. Teyla hovered near the door for a moment then quietly approached him. Ronon did not turn around.
"Are you alright?"
Ronon nodded, but he punched the bag again, splitting his knuckle. He saw the lab again, with Sheppard strapped to the table, pale, bruised, bleeding. Again, his memory betrayed him, but this time he saw Sheppard turn his head toward him, eyes vacant even as his chest stilled.
That didn't happen, he thought, and he grit his teeth.
"I'm fine," he grunted. He shook his head. He didn't do this; he didn't freak out like this anymore.
Teyla grabbed his hand, examining the cut. Blood dripped from it and down his fingers. It was already slowing down, but he allowed Teyla to lead him away from the bag to the bench near the window.
"I do not think this will require stitches, but you should have Doctor Beckett look at it," she chided.
"We should have found him sooner," Ronon blurted out. He hissed when Teyla pressed a clean towel over his hand.
"We did all we could, Ronon."
"What if it wasn't enough? You saw what they did to him."
Teyla pulled him up, keeping firm pressure on the cut on his hand. It was starting to sting.
"Yes, I did," Teyla whispered, her voice strained. They walked in silence down the hallways, and Ronon suddenly felt foolish with Teyla holding his hand, but he made no move to pull away. There was something comforting in it, and Teyla's grip was stronger, really, than it needed to be. Maybe she found it comforting as well.
They walked through the hall toward the infirmary, and thoughts came unbidden—memories and images of his last year and a half on Atlantis. He saw himself training with Sheppard, jogging in the early morning, checking the latest Daedalus shipment for new movies, and trying to talk Sheppard into watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy again. Sateda had been his home, always close to his heart, but to lose Atlantis—he thought that would be almost as painful now.
"What's happened?" Beckett's voice startled Ronon out of his thoughts. They had arrived in the infirmary, and Teyla was leading him over to a bed. Ronon grunted responses when called upon, but left most of the explaining to Teyla. Beckett tutted when he got a look at Ronon's hand, but his eyes were full of understanding.
The doctor pulled up a chair and began cleaning the cut, and Teyla wandered over toward Sheppard's bed. Ronon sat in silence as the doctor worked, hissing slightly when he hit a tender spot.
"There you go, lad," Beckett said a few minutes later. He wrapped Ronon's hand in gauze and secured the end with a piece of tape. "In the future, I would suggest using gloves."
"Yeah," Ronon answered. Beckett looked like he was about to say something else, but instead he patted the larger man on the shoulder and returned to his office.
Ronon looked around, spying Teyla in a chair next to Sheppard. He walked over there, gingerly flexing his hand. With all the blood all over the jumper, Ronon had been sure that Sheppard would not survive, but his friend had pulled through. The wait to hear one way or another had felt longer than the two weeks before that that they'd spend searching for him.
"Hey," Ronon said as he sat down next to Teyla. Teyla smiled at him softly, sadly. She had Sheppard's hand in a tight grip again. They sat there in silence, the only sound that of the heart monitor beeping steadily. Wires and tubes snaked in and out from under Sheppard's bandages and blankets. Ronon eyed the one taped to his friend's face in disgust—the feeding tube—but he knew it was delivering nutrients to Sheppard's desperate body.
"We got him back, Ronon." Teyla's voice broke through his thoughts. He realized his fists were clenched again and he forced the muscles in his hands to loosen.
"Do you think he'll be okay? I mean, do you think he'll be…like he was before?"
"John is strong. He will need our help, but he will be fine. You have to believe that." Teyla sounded more confident than she acted, and Ronon watched her eyes flicker over Sheppard's still body. His face was pale and drawn, and the dark circles under his eyes and sunken cheeks made him look like a corpse.
Ronon nodded. Sheppard was home and—despite his present appearance—alive. That was all they could worry about now. He thought of the tall alien with the bloody knife and wondered for the hundredth time if he should have killed it. It had looked scared and defenseless, but it had been ready to dissect Sheppard when he'd burst into the room.
"Hey, guys," McKay said as he entered the infirmary and walked over to them. He pulled up a chair next to Ronon and handed the larger man a muffin without a word. Ronon nodded his head, grateful without really knowing what to say.
John jerked awake with a gasp. His eyes flew open, taking in greens and blues that blurred together even as his eyes slid shut again. His heart was pounding, and he wondered if he'd had a nightmare. He couldn't remember. He took a deep breath, noticing a rapid beeping sound nearby.
A hand touched his arm and he jumped again. He rolled slightly away from the touch, moaning, but stopped short at the burning pain that ripped through his chest, stomach, and shoulder.
"Sorry," the voice was quiet, filled with worry.
More hands on his shoulders and back helped roll him back slowly onto the bed. The touch was gentle and painless, so when Ronon's face appeared above him, John blinked in surprise.
Ronon? He wanted to say, tried to say it, but his throat was dry and sore and he ended up coughing instead. Ronon raised John's bed slightly, and John groaned at the pain the movement caused. His head spun a little at the change in position as well.
"Here," the runner said, holding a glass of water. He prodded John's lips with the straw and John relaxed as the cool water ran down his aching throat. Ronon pulled the glass away after just a few seconds, then sat down in the chair next to the bed. Ronon stared at John, and John blinked languidly back at him.
"So, um…" Ronon started, squirming uncomfortably even as he looked John directly in the eye. John's body felt heavy and lethargic, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep.
"Ah, you're awake," Carson Beckett's voice boomed, startling John. He checked John's temperature, lungs, and heartbeat, explaining everything he did as he spoke. He acted cheerful, but there was something in his voice that belied that.
Beckett pulled the sheet down to John's waist, then undid his gown to check the bandages. He kept up a continuous conversation, occasionally asking John a question, pausing as he waited for a response, then continuing on with his examination when John remained silent. John hissed or whimpered as Beckett checked his injuries, but otherwise said nothing. He kept his eyes on Ronon, and Ronon kept his eyes on John.
A scraping sound signaled that Beckett had pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed, and when the doctor tapped his cheek, John finally turned his head to look at him.
"Why so quiet John?" he asked.
John swallowed. In the back of his mind, he heard the guttural sounds of the tall aliens as they spoke to each other. Jane spoke fast and always seemed either excited or anxious or jittery. The old pen tapper spoke slowly, the grunts and throaty sounds of their language coming out in a calm, measured rhythm. Pavlov's voice had been deep, faster than the old pen tapper but slower than Jane. John had yelled obscenities at them when he could but they'd ignored him, or written it off as unintelligible mumblings of whatever animal species John belonged to. They couldn't make him talk. They didn't understand him anyway.
"John?"
John blinked, and Carson Beckett's face came back into focus. He was home. Home! He was safe. Ronon looked at him with open concern and anger, and John wondered what he had done to make the big man mad. Maybe it was the not-talking thing. John took a deep breath and reached a weak hand toward him, which Ronon caught and kept in a firm grip. John wanted to say something, to tell them he was fine, but his throat constricted and snuffed out any sound.
His eyelids grew heavy and his battle against sleep was short lived. He heard Beckett stand up, fiddle with some of the equipment near the bed, then leave. Ronon squeezed his hand and nodded. John felt childish that Ronon holding his hand was so comforting, and he shuddered at the memory of Jane carrying him through the hallways, his head resting on her shoulder like a small child's.
Ronon would so kick her ass. He smiled slightly at that thought as it followed him into slumber.
Ronon left the infirmary sometime in the early morning hours, exhausted. When he met up with Teyla and McKay at lunch, they had both stopped in on Sheppard at various times throughout the morning. He'd been asleep the whole time, but Beckett had said the fever was gone, the bruises were fading, and the incision was healing slowly but nicely.
Ronon stopped by in the afternoon before the hand-to-hand fighting class he taught to some of the Marines, and still Sheppard slept. Beckett assured him it wasn't that unusual and that the rest would help his friend recover and heal. Ronon had nodded, not quite forgetting the haunted look in Sheppard's eyes the night before.
Ronon took out some of his frustration on the Marines, who limped and stumbled out of his class a couple of hours later. He checked in on Sheppard again and was told the Colonel had woken up briefly but had slipped back to sleep without a word a few minutes later. At dinner, Teyla and McKay argued over the quality of some movie that Ronon kept missing the title of. He sat with them in silence, letting their voices swirl around him in the crowded, chatter-and-laughter filled mess hall. He could almost convince himself that things were getting back to normal.
In the middle of the night, he found himself again sitting in the chair next to Sheppard's bed in the dark infirmary. The night duty nurses nodded in greeting but otherwise did not try to kick him out of the infirmary or shoe him back to his room for some much needed sleep. He sat with his arms folded and his legs sprawled—appearing relaxed to anyone who did not know him.
But he wasn't relaxed. He was tired yet wired, feeling a buzzing energy in his body. He fought the urge to tear through Atlantis screaming. He'd asked Teyla if Sheppard was going to be okay, if he'd go back to the way he was, if they'd done enough. Now he wondered if he—Ronon, the runner, the survivor—would be okay when everything was said and done.
Ronon leaned forward in his chair rubbing his hands in his face. He breathed deeply through his nose, trying to quiet the rage coursing through him. He'd been angry before. He'd even freaked out before, but this felt different. This hadn't happened to him; it had happened to Sheppard. Why was it affecting him so deeply?
He looked up at his friend. The bed was slightly inclined, and Sheppard looked like he had slid over toward one side. The nurses had shaved his face again, making him look young and fragile. The little bit of light overhead cast deep shadows across the angular bones in his face.
He was slumped over, and his head had rolled almost off the pillow. Ronon looked around for a nurse, but in the middle of the night, there were few around and none within immediate sight. The position looked uncomfortable, and Ronon could just imagine the crick in Sheppard's neck if he spent all night like that.
He stood up, wondering if he could lift Sheppard just enough to straighten him out a little bit without actually waking him up. Nursing really wasn't his thing, but he reached under his friend's arms, acutely aware of the IVs and tubes connected to him. Sheppard was frighteningly light, and Ronon's stomach clenched in anger again.
He had just pulled his arms away when Sheppard groaned and shifted in the bed. Ronon froze, but he almost wanted the colonel to wake up.
Sheppard's eyes fluttered open and darted around the dark infirmary before settling on Ronon's towering figure. Ronon rested a hand on his shoulder and grinned.
"Hey, Sheppard."
He sat down, pulling the chair across the floor. He cringed at the sound it made. Sheppard jerked, lifting his head slightly.
"How are you?" Ronon asked, suddenly at a loss of what to say. Sheppard turned toward him, taking a shuddering breath. Ronon could see he was starting to tremble a little, and he gripped his arm while pressing the call button.
"Hang on, buddy," he said.
Sheppard swallowed. "C-c-cc'ld," he rasped.
"What?" Ronon started in surprise, leaning forward just as a nurse arrived.
"C-cold."
Ronon glanced up at the nurse, who smiled and promised to return quickly with blankets. Sheppard was shaking slightly in the bed. The nurse returned with two warm blankets, which she and Ronon spread out over the sick man.
"Better?" she asked, and Sheppard nodded in response. Ronon grinned, feeling a little bit of weight lift from his chest. The nurse flipped through the chart attached to the end of the bed, jotting down a few notes, and then left Ronon and Sheppard alone.
"You warm?" Ronon asked after a minute or two. Sheppard had snuggled into the blankets but kept his eyes on the Satedan. He nodded again. Ronon noticed that he wasn't trembling as badly as he had been a moment earlier. A few seconds later, Sheppard relaxed completely, asleep again but looking a little less haunted and a little less terrified.
"Good morning, lad," Beckett said, then looked at his watch. "Actually, it's afternoon now, so good afternoon, John."
John smiled a little, rolling his head to look at the doctor and blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. Warm afternoon sunlight poured into the infirmary, and nurses and doctors bustled around doing their day-to-day tasks. Beckett peeled back the blankets wrapped tightly around his patient, then pulled down the gown. John shivered a little at the cool air that touched his skin.
"I just need to check the incision," the doctor said. John lay quietly as Beckett prodded the wound, then listened to his heart and lungs. It didn't hurt nearly as much as it had before, and he wondered how many drugs the doctor had him on.
"That's healing nicely," Beckett smiled. "Are you in any pain? Cold?"
John could feel himself shivering harder, turning into all out trembling. "Cold," he whispered, then coughed. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed to try and get some moisture into his throat. Beckett pulled the blankets up around John's shoulders and tucked them in, adding an extra blanket on top for good measure. He raised the head of the bed as well, and held out a cup of water. John sucked on the straw in relief, almost whimpering when Beckett pulled the cup away too soon.
"Not too much now. Your stomach's been through enough abuse; we can't have you throwing up and undoing all the progress you've made so far."
John nodded. Throwing up would definitely be bad. He shuddered at the memory of the bowl of green leaves and the litter box and the brown gunk being pumped into his stomach. Beckett squeezed his shoulder and sat down in the ever-present chair next to the bed.
"You up for a little chat?" he asked.
John nodded, snuggling deeper into the mound of blankets around him. Heat pooled around his body and he relaxed, enjoying more than ever before the feeling of fabric against his skin. The little strip of leather Jane and the other aliens had given him as a blanket had never been enough, especially when he'd been stripped down to his boxers.
"You've been through quite a lot in the last few weeks," Beckett began, "but I'm happy to say you're healing and you'll probably be out of the infirmary before you know it."
Beckett paused, as if contemplating where to start. John turned his head a little and felt the slight tug of the feeding tube on his face. He realized that the beard that had grown out during his captivity had been shaved off.
"The bruises are fading. Your left ankle was badly sprained, but the swelling has gone down considerably. That should heal completely in another few weeks." Beckett pointed to John's chest. "The incision is healing as well. The cut was deep, but we got to it pretty quickly so the scarring should be minimal."
John jerked at the sudden memory of being strapped down to the table, naked and helpless, and Jane standing over him with a scalpel. He heard his heart rate increase on a monitor somewhere nearby. Beckett leaned forward, forcing John to turn toward him and look him in the eye.
"We got you out of there, lad. Hold onto that."
John took a deep breath and forced himself to relax back into the bed. He nodded again and Beckett leaned back in the chair.
"Did they feed you at all while you were there?"
John wrapped his arms around his body under the covers, careful of the incision on his chest and feeling a chill come over him despite the blankets. "Nothing edible," he mumbled.
Beckett was already nodding. "As I suspected. You're making good progress, but you've been through a lot and I don't want to rush things. I'm going to leave the feeding tube in a little bit longer."
John could feel his eyes growing heavy. He'd been awake for probably fifteen minutes, but already his body was begging him to give in to the exhaustion.
"There's one more thing I need to check, but I wanted to talk to you about it first." Beckett suddenly looked nervous. John stared back in apprehension.
"We detected a substance similar to the 'radioactive' compound you got a dose of when that sting ray creature bit you a few months ago. It seems to be heavily concentrated in your right leg, and I believe it's related to an interaction between the remaining sting ray venom and something you were injected with…" Beckett's voice trailed off.
John closed his eyes at the memories that assaulted him. Pavlov throwing him into the wall. Pavlov hitting him across the back until it was numb. Pavlov jamming the electric prod into him. Pavlov shooting him in the right leg with the tranquilizer gun. Paralysis seeping into his muscles and crawling up his limbs over and over and over again.
"John?" Beckett's voice broke through. The doctor was leaning over him with both hands on his shoulders, shaking him. He'd obviously said John's name a few times.
John sucked in a ragged breath. Alarms were wailing above his head and a nurse suddenly appeared on the other side. She was speaking to him as well and pressing a clear mask over his face, but John could not focus on the words enough to understand what she was saying. His chest felt tight and the room spun around him nauseatingly.
"Breathe, John. Nice, deep breaths. You're alright, lad." Beckett's voice hovered close to his ear.
John could feel the flow of oxygen on his face and he gulped in the air. The tightness around his chest eased just as the alarms on the monitors quieted down. He concentrated on nothing more than just breathing, but he could feel the pulling achiness of old bruises and the sharp burning of the incision on his chest and stomach.
He shifted in the bed a little and looked down at his right leg. He remembered clearly Pavlov bursting into his cage and shooting him in the leg. He had thought for sure he was dead, but had been shocked when it had just been a dart that hit him and not a bullet. He could almost see the menace in Pavlov's dark eyes as the alien crawled toward him, even as John lost all sensation in his leg.
Lost all sensation in his leg. He squirmed in the bed, hearing the heart monitor beeping frantically again. He couldn't feel his leg. It was there, he could see it, but he couldn't move it. With all his other aches and pains, he hadn't noticed the total lack of feeling in his leg. He pushed at the blankets, desperate to unbury his arms.
"Can't feel it," he choked out.
"Aye, son. I know. I need you to relax," Beckett soothed, pulling the blankets down so John could free his arms.
"Carson?" John's voice sounded small and tentative, even to his own ears.
"The substance is messing with the nerves and muscles in your leg. The blood tests show that it is diminishing, but it will take some time. John—" Beckett held John's head in place, forcing him to meet the doctor's eyes. "John, look at me. I am fully confident that your leg will recover. Do you understand?"
John nodded. He could feel himself shaking again as he collapsed back against the pillows. Beckett pulled the blankets up around his shoulders and ran a few tests on his leg, which John could see but not feel. He forced down the panic building in the pit of his stomach throughout the test. If the doctor said he was fine, he had to believe him. He had to hold onto that.
"Tranq," John said suddenly.
"What's that?" Beckett asked, his attention mostly on John's leg.
"Hit with a tranq dart in that leg."
Beckett looked up, contemplating. "That may be it," he mumbled as he jotted some notes down in his patient's chart.
John nodded. The exhaustion was back with a vengeance. Beckett was saying something else to him, urging him to stay awake a little bit longer, but it was impossible to fight off sleep cocooned in the warm blankets, and John drifted off to the sound of Beckett's lilting accent.
TBC…