Author's Note:

To answer some questions that have been asked: The Shambhala Gate can accept in-coming wormholes but SG-1 and the Tok'ra don't know how to create an out-going wormhole. Using a Stargate to arrive at a planet is only useful if you can either use it to get back home or have another method of getting off the planet. That is the dilemma currently facing those trapped on Shambhala (think of the film, Torment of Tantalus or Prisoners for examples of what I mean). Hope that clarifies.

Chapter 14

He wasn't sure when it was he first noticed it, that faint whisper of sound. For a moment, he thought it was the rustle of wind through leaves but a moment later discarded that notion - it didn't seem to fit. Then he found himself thinking of an ocean's wave, the gentle lap of water across a sandy beach as he dozed lightly in the sun. It was definitely hot, he could feel the fine hairs on his arm prickling as the heat beat down upon him, drying slowly until his body began to fight back with a trickle of sweat that carved a burning channel through his dehydrated skin.

He shifted, uncomfortable but unwilling to open his eyes to locate a cooler spot. It wasn't an ocean he could hear, he realised slowly. It was deeper, with more of a rasp. It was a noise he hadn't awoken to in years, the sound of the wind rippling across parched earth, the waves formed as different from ebbing water as a desert was from the sea. There was no ocean here, not for many miles. The only fresh water had to be mined like the mineral his friends and neighbours dug for so diligently.

It made him thirsty just thinking about it. Or rather, he corrected himself, it made him notice how dry his throat was, how dehydrated he had become. Why he was in such need of liquid was something he didn't know. He couldn't remember the last time he had anything to drink but his entire body felt shrivelled, as brittle as a long-dead autumn leaf.

As if responding to his need for water, his skin tingled as more sweat flowed. Instead of cooling him, it only seemed to accentuate how hot he felt, as if the beads of sweat on his skin soaked up the heat from the air and transferred it to him. He ran his tongue over his lips, expecting to find them cracked and sore. Sore they certainly were and he flinched in shock at the pain but they slid easily under his touch, laden with the taste of salt and the tang of something that wasn't sweat at all.

Blood.

He couldn't remember being in a fight but he was becoming increasingly aware of the pain now that flared into life as the liquid oozed along skin too sensitive for him to bear. He tried to raise a hand to test his lips with his fingers but he couldn't move a muscle, his body was a lead weight that refused to respond to his commands. Liquid filled his parched mouth suddenly and unprepared for it, he coughed, choking it back up. He was only partially successful in spitting the unwanted invasion out of his mouth, the rest pooled in the back of his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. He could hear the bubbles popping at the nape of his neck as he wheezed and fought for breath. Once more he detected the salty, bloody tang and now the noise that had first disturbed him had risen to a roar. Not the roar of the wind, not the desert storm he had been expecting but a choking miasma that made the air as thick as treacle. He struggled to focus on the world around him but he already knew what it was he would see, knew finally the horror he had been too afraid to confront.

He opened his eyes to watch the fire engulf the world and knew that world was him.

"Report, Doctor."

That voice, so quiet, so firm, tore through the torment in his mind and stilled his panic as if it had been commanded directly to cease and desist. He sucked in a deep breath and felt the flood of relief that surged through his body when he realised the gesture brought no pain, no suffocating liquid air. There was a light shining directly onto him - whether a bedside lamp or an overhead light, he didn't know. His relief had robbed him of strength and his body still felt weighed down by a fear he was slowly beginning to recognise.

The sound of something being wheeled across the room forced him to open his eyes, and he realised at last that he was in the infirmary, watching two people in white approach a large, stocky-looking individual who was standing next to a slimmer figure partially obscured from his view. Detail was denied him and he realised he would need to locate his glasses. Instead of looking, he let his eyes drift shut again. The four weren't paying attention to him and right now he was glad to be ignored.

Doctor Fraiser contemplated the worried expression on General Hammond's face as his gaze swept over the monitors she and MacKenzie had pushed across the room on his arrival and spoke first. "When Doctor Jackson was late for an appointment, I decided to go and find him. With Major Feretti's help, I finally located him in Jonas' lab in a state of acute disassociation. He's currently under sedation and being monitored by Doctor MacKenzie's team," she nodded in the direction of the monitoring booth, something none of them could actually see from where they were standing but which they all knew existed, then returned her gaze to the General.

Hammond scowled and looked expectantly at MacKenzie. The psychiatrist exchanged a look with Fraiser before squaring his shoulders. "With the exception of yourself and Doctor Fraiser, the person who has had the most contact with Doctor Jackson since his return, has been Major Feretti." He glanced at the Major who was fidgeting restlessly with something in his hands. Feretti nodded uneasily and glanced once in Jackson's direction but there was no movement from the bed. As far as he could tell, his troubled friend was out cold. "According to Major Feretti's own observations, Doctor Jackson has been displaying behavioural symptoms that include nightmares, sleeplessness, emotional detachment and avoidance. These aren't conclusive, of course, and haven't been medically diagnosed yet, but they are consistent with someone who may be suffering from acute stress disorder and, depending on how long this has been going on, possibly post-traumatic stress disorder," he paused for a moment, watching as Hammond's face settled into grim lines at that prognosis.

"How likely is it to develop into PTSD?" The General looked like a man bracing himself for a debriefing on an imminent Goa'uld invasion.

Fraiser gestured to the monitors. "Hi MRI and PET scans are clean so far but we're going to be monitoring him for signs of depression. I'd like to say we've caught this early enough, sir but..." she paused.

Hammond nodded. "There are no guarantees, I know, Doctor." He glanced in Jackson's direction. "I know you'll do your best."

"I don't get it," Feretti's protest was sudden and unexpected.

"What's that, son?" Hammond turned to him.

"What triggered it? He seemed fine when he returned... well, aside from not knowing who anyone was. " He looked between the two doctors. "We're not talking about a 'Nam vet or someone who's survived a traumatic experience. I thought that's how people got PTSD. There was nothing wrong with Daniel a week ago."

The petite CMO almost visibly seemed to yield the floor to MacKenzie but whatever the psychiatrist was about to say next was interrupted by Hammond, whose gaze had fallen on Feretti's still nervous fingers. "Major, what's that?"

"Sir?" Feretti started and looked down at the object he had been unconsciously worrying at for the duration they had waited in the infirmary. "Oh, it fell out of Daniel's hands when we found him in Jonas' lab." He handed it across to Hammond.

The General found himself studying a small, framed photograph of a large grey cityscape. The picture had clearly been taken from inside a room, looking through a window and from a great height but Hammond didn't recognise the city, in fact, it reminded him of no city on Earth.

"I think that's Kelowna's capital city, sir," Fraiser commented, catching a glimpse of it as Hammond studied it. "I remember Jonas saying it was the only personal item he managed to bring with him. It was taken from the briefing room of the High Minister, apparently the room with the best view in the entire city." She gazed at it for a moment. "He said he brought it with him to remember that a complete stranger had been willing to do more to protect Kelowna than his own government."

"Do you mind?" MacKenzie extended a hand and Hammond obligingly handed it over to him. The psychiatrist studied it, frowning thoughtfully.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"Just a sudden thought, sir," he continued to contemplate the picture. "When SG-1 met with the Kelownan government, I take it this is the room they talked in?"

"I believe so." Hammond looked slightly bemused by the question, as if he was trying to analyse why the question might be relevant.

"So it's possible... even likely... that SG-1 would have seen this view for themselves?"

"I don't know, Doctor. I would assume so. What's this all about?"

MacKenzie turned to Fraiser. "This could be the missing link," he told her.

"I agree," she replied immediately.

"Doctors?"

At the hint of impatience creeping into the General's voice, both doctors turned back to him.

"If you two would care to follow me, I think there's something you should both see," Fraiser headed into her office and switched on the monitors. As the three found themselves places to stand that weren't in her way, she pulled a tape off the video player and slipped it into the machine. Turning it on, she picked up the remote and quickly sped through the footage until she hit the stop button. Then she turned back to them, her gaze resting on Feretti. "Do you remember what Daniel said when we were trying to restrain him in Jonas' lab?"

The Major frowned, casting his mind back, trying to recall what it was the distressed archaeologist had been shouting. He remembered being on the phone and that Daniel's words had made no sense at the time. "Something about off-world allies.." he paused. "Yeah, he said something about we don't go to offworld allies every time we get into trouble. It didn't make much sense."

"It didn't make much sense to me either," Fraiser agreed. "Not until Doctor MacKenzie and I went through the monitoring tapes we took while Daniel was dying. Watch this." she turned back to the monitors and hit the play button then stepped back to let them see what was on the screen.

Dressed only in white surgical scrubs, Daniel Jackson sits uncomfortably on a bed, his heavily bandaged hands resting gently in his lap. Confronting him, sits Jack O'Neill, lounging casually against a monitor next to the bed. At first glance, it seems like just another conversation, one more team leader checking up on his man's condition in the infirmary as if they have all the time in the world. But with cruel, impersonal honesty, the camera caresses the lines of strain in Jackson's face and the tension knotting the muscles in the Colonel's shoulders.

Discomfort crosses Jackson's features as he visibly forces himself to face O'Neill. A moment later his head bows again. Unable to maintain eye contact, his gaze shifts around the room - his lap, O'Neill's hands, the floor, the walls, the ceiling - everywhere, in fact, except back at the Colonel's face. "The nausea will be followed by tremors, convulsions and something called ataxia." Swallowing thickly, his gaze again slides away from O'Neill, gazing off into space, glazing over as he speaks, as if quoting from a textbook. "Surface tissue, brain tissue and internal organs will inflame and degrade. I believe that's called..." he flinches as if the word itself causes him pain to speak it. "...necrosis."

He stops talking and the silence in the room is as oppressive as the ancient air of a long-buried Egyptian tomb. Then the moment is broken as he begins to speak, bravely struggling to finish explaining his condition. "Based on the dose of radiation I got, that will happen in the next 10-15 hours." He sucks in a deep breath, visibly bracing himself for what he has to say next then rushes on as if afraid his courage will fail before he can finish saying what needs to be said. "And if I don't drown in my own blood and fluids first, I will bleed to death..." suddenly his eyes lock onto O'Neill's, refusing to look away. "...and there is no medical treatment to prevent that." He tries to chuckle, to smile, but it comes out as a faint huff and a forced grimace. Almost shyly, he looks down at his lap again, as if somehow embarrassed by the long speech he has just made.

Obviously stunned, O'Neill stares at him. He makes no attempt to smile back, it's clear he finds nothing amusing about this situation at all. His lips move soundlessly as he struggles to find words that can have any meaning after the news he's just received. After a silent struggle, he speaks, the casual tone so forced it's almost painful to listen to. "Maybe not that we know of..."

Jackson's gaze drops back to his bound hands. Absently, his fingers, the only parts of his skin visible through the bandages, toy with each other, a visible sign of nervousness. When he speaks, however, his voice his steady, even calm. "Jack, we don't go running to our offworld allies every time an individual's life's at stake." O'Neill raises his hand, trying to interrupt but Jackson's gaze is suddenly fixed on him, the conviction seared into his features forcing the Colonel to hold his peace. "It's no good telling me this is any different because my life is no more valuable than anybody else's."

The screen froze, monitor locked on the two men as they stared each other in the eye, stubborn denial in O'Neill's face and implacable determination on Jackson's. No-one in the room spoke, the spell that had bound the entire SGC the day Jackson died as powerful now as it had been then, a year ago. Slowly Feretti drew in a shuddering breath, the first to break the long silence but nevertheless unable to tear his gaze from the screen and the distress in the expressions of both men that had been captured forever in time. "That's what he said in Jonas' lab. He quoted that exactly."

Hammond drew himself up to his full height, visibly pulling himself together and turned to look at the CMO. "What's the significance, Doctor?"

"He's suffering from flashbacks, sir," MacKenzie's quiet voice responded instead. "It's something we look for when diagnosing PTSD."

"Flashbacks?" the horror that flooded Hammond's gaze was too powerful to hide and he didn't even try. "You mean...?"

"Yes, General," Fraiser said softly. "He's reliving the radiation sickness. As vividly as the day he died."