Chapter 6: I can see where this is going now.
"What?" Sheppard gaped at Beckett is shock. "You can't be serious Carson!"
"Oh I am," Beckett said sternly, 'and you better get serious too because this isn't something to joke about. You're not there yet but if we don't do something to alleviate the stress you're under I'll have no choice but to treat you as a PTSD patient."
"I don't have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder!" Sheppard denied heatedly. When Beckett had told him he needed to have a chat this was so not what he'd expected.
"Not yet," Carson reiterated. "But Doctor Heightmeyer and I both agree that unless we can address some of your symptoms now you will, and in the very near future."
"If a couple of nightmares and the urge to slam your fist through the wall are symptoms then you better start treating half the people on this base," Sheppard said snidely.
"It's more than that John and you know it," Carson countered. "When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"
"I've never been a great sleeper Carson," Sheppard avoided giving an actual answer. "That hasn't changed."
"Almost two weeks Colonel," Carson provided the answer himself. "And the nightmares?" he persisted. "They've been getting worse haven't they?"
"I can see where this is going now," Sheppard got up abruptly, glaring down at Beckett. "It's not about whether I've got PTSD – it's about whether you think I've got it. Nothing I say is gonna change your opinion is it?"
"There are standard sets of questions used to diagnose this sort of thing," Carson didn't deny Sheppard's accusation. "If you took that questionnaire – honestly – you'd be classed as borderline. Why risk making that worse when with a bit of effort you can turn it around?"
"Because I don't have PTSD!" Sheppard raised his voice angrily. "This is all a bunch of horseshit." Not waiting for Doctor Beckett to say anything further, Sheppard turned and stormed out of the office.
x
"They think I've got PTSD Rodney," Sheppard paced in agitation around Rodney's lab. His head felt full ... disturbing thoughts and worries buzzing around and adding to the strange mix of disconnection and panic he was feeling.
"Would that be a bad thing if the treatment means you stop having nightmares?" Rodney asked hesitantly.
"You think they let PTSD patients run military bases?" Sheppard's tone was sarcastic but it annoyed him that he couldn't keep all of the worry he was feeling out of his voice.
"You haven't had a break in more than two years," Rodney pointed out. "Take some time, get fixed up, come back – it's a no brainer."
"I don't want a break," Sheppard said heatedly. "What would I do with myself all day? I'd have too much time to think and that can only end in disaster. Besides, you haven't had a break either!"
"But I'm not waking up in a cold sweat screaming the place down two or three times a night either," Rodney said grimly. "In a way this even makes sense."
"How could this possibly make sense?" Sheppard demanded.
"Well the timing is a little coincidental," Rodney pointed out. "You lose your connection to Atlantis just when the symptoms start presenting themselves. I was thinking that system did something to you but maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe Atlantis can't communicate with you because of your mental state. You get fixed up and you'll hear her again."
"For the last time McKay, there's nothing wrong with me," Sheppard growled, glaring at Rodney in frustration.
"You need help John," Rodney said quietly. "Please don't be stubborn about this."
"I need help?!" Sheppard's volume rose sharply. "That's just great coming from you McKay." Sheppard clenched his hands at his sides as he started pacing, breath going in and out much too rapidly.
"Calm down before you blow a fuse," Rodney advised, appearing remarkably calm in the face of an angry and agitated Sheppard.
"I am sick of this crap," John turned away in frustration. "Sick of risking my life for a bunch of ungrateful rats who turn against me at the first sign of trouble. Sick of giving my all and getting nothing in return. You're right – maybe I should have a break. No, no – better than that – maybe I should just leave," Sheppard didn't know what was driving him, didn't know where all this was coming from but he was powerless to stop it. "I never wanted this job in the first place and it's not like the powers that be wanted me either. You'd all be happy then wouldn't you – no more moody face to ruin your little happy place."
"Sheppard," Rodney broke in, concern written all over his face. "Listen to yourself ... what you're saying right now should be your biggest clue that you've got issues to deal with. Instead of complaining about it why don't you just give in and fix it. Then we can go back to business as usual."
"If I give in to this Rodney," Sheppard punched out the words between rapid breaths, "there will never be business as usual again." He hardly heard Rodney's reply, the pounding in his head combined with the lack of oxygen in his lungs (despite the number of breaths he was gulping in) was making him very light headed. On top of that was the sudden inexplicable wave of tiredness that swept over him, his energy drained by some external force. He almost heard the pop inside his skull when the pressure became too much – clutching his head convulsively he toppled over sideways, surrendering to the calming darkness.
x
"Come to me," a single voice called. "I need you ... hear my words."
Sheppard awoke in the darkness of the infirmary, the faint echo of words fading before he could capture them to consciousness. He tried to reach up and run a hand through his hair ... frowning when he realised he couldn't move his arms, and not just because he was immobilised by the cast and sling.
"Carson!" he yelled, waiting impatiently for the Doc to appear. "Carson!" A minute or so later Beckett appeared at Sheppard's bedside. "Restraints? You've got me in restraints?!"
"You were very agitated Colonel," Doctor Beckett excused. "We were concerned you might injure yourself flailing around as you were ... if you promise to keep a lid on your hostility I'll remove the restraints."
"I can do that," Sheppard agreed easily, watching silently as Carson unbuckled each restraint in turn. "What happened?"
"You don't remember?" Beckett looked up in surprise.
"Ah ... not sure what I'm supposed to be remembering," Sheppard waited for Beckett to fill him in.
"What's the last thing you can recall?" Carson asked in concern.
"Storming out of here after you told me about the possible PTSD," Sheppard replied immediately.
"Apparently you went from here straight to Rodney's lab," Beckett offered. "Rodney said you were very agitated and that eventually something seemed to snap in your head and you dropped to the floor unconscious. I've performed a number of scans and other tests and luckily couldn't find any permanent damage."
"I don't remember any of that," Sheppard said with a worried frown. "Is that another PTSD thing?"
"Maybe," Beckett admitted. "You didn't let me finish our discussion this afternoon – I was going to offer you a range of possible treatment options. Cognitive therapy, exposure therapy, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. There are also medications - selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors – that are very effective. Given the severity of your latest symptoms I believe we should start you on the medications first – relieve the immediate stresses so we can deal with your longer term recovery."
"This feels all wrong Carson," Sheppard put a hand to his forehead, cringing internally when he realised he couldn't control a faint tremor. "Are you sure about this?"
"As sure as we can be," Doctor Beckett said sadly. "It'll be all right lad ... treatments for PTSD are usually very successful. We'll have you back to your old self in no time."
Nodding wordlessly, Sheppard slumped back on the bed, closing his eyes to block out the sight of Beckett administering his medications through the IV drip attached to his left hand. He'd prided himself on his strong mental capacity ... proved it more than once against Wraith Hive Queens. It was galling to admit that he'd been broken – that something as simple as a Wraith feeding had brought him down. The treatments might help with his mental processes - switch off the nightmares, the worries and the fears - but he was scared they'd never repair his image of himself. If he didn't have that, did he have anything at all?