kristen999 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kristen999) wrote2009-01-06 09:48 pm
kristen999) wrote2009-01-06 09:48 pm
Entry tags:
"Through the Looking Glass (2/2)
Rodney had sat without light for hours, or maybe days. It was hard to tell. Being alone in the dark had put things in perspective, all his failures, all of his faults. When the power had gone out, it was like a gigantic neon sign highlighting how truly out of his depth he really was. He hadn't bothered searching for the source of the problem. Why? It wasn't like he was capable of fixing it. Not that he cared.
Hiding made it easier, allowed him to disappear into the hole that he wished would swallow him up already. When the lights came back on, Rodney struggled to his feet, body numb from the cold floor, and palmed the sensor. He was engulfed by darkness again and slid his back against the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on top of them. It took too much effort to lift his head, all of his energy zapped by getting up earlier. Whenever that had been.
Rodney closed his eyes despite the lack of light, falling into himself, trying to find the moment it had all gone wrong. His thoughts were muddled, like they were stuck in mud. Thinking hurt his head; a growing pain dug trenches behind his eyes and around his sinuses. It didn't matter. He'd already forgotten what he was trying to remember.
Look at yourself, he thought. See how truly inept and pointless you've become. What you've always been. It was a miracle that he’d blundered his way this far in life before falling flat on his face. He laughed mirthlessly under his breath. Who was he kidding? Meredith Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD, had been screwing up his entire life.
“Mom would be proud,” he muttered. At the very mention of the word, his eyes filled with moisture and tears poured down his face. “Oh, God,” he moaned, squeezing his eyes harder to stop the betrayal.
Never enough. Nothing was ever good enough for her. Rodney snorted and for good reason. All those years of trying to measure up and he'd never come even close. The only person who could feed his ego was himself. It was amazing how lying for over twenty years could actually make you believe the very bullshit everyone else did. His chest hitched and he wrapped his arms tighter around his BDUs, rocking back and forth. People died because of him. They even blew their brains out from the very gun he’d handed them.
“Rodney?”
He recognized Teyla's voice but couldn't bring himself to answer. A part of him said his team cared, that his team needed him, but that made it even worse. He couldn't even get Sheppard's game right for his birthday.
“Rodney?”
The lights came on and Teyla ran over, kneeling down. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”
The worry and concern were overwhelming, her eyes, the way she looked at him. He didn't deserve it. Rodney hiccupped; the tears streamed down cheeks flushed red from embarrassment. You're crying, you idiot! Crying in front of Teyla.
“Don't...” Rodney swallowed a sob. “Don't tell anyone, please,” he begged.
Teyla pulled him close, hands rubbing at the tension in his shoulders, speaking to him in a soft, calming voice. “I won't, but tell me, what is wrong?”
How could he? Rodney struggled for the words and found himself shaking even more.
“It's okay. We don't have to talk right now. But let's get off the floor. Can you do that?” Teyla asked.
Her words were kind, too kind, and they felt like knives. Rodney's face burned redder in shame and he allowed her to haul his ass up, legs rubbery and ready to collapse.
“Where...where are we going?” he asked.
“To see Jennifer,” Teyla answered smoothly and held him tighter when he shook.
Yet, Jennifer wasn't here. That shouldn't be a surprise, and as if on cue, Teyla was supplying the excuse. “Dr. Keller was caught in a very long, difficult surgery. She's still operating and asked that I check up on you.”
Check up on him. Because he was dumb. Weak and dumb and unable to walk without trembling. Sniffling like a baby.
What if people saw him like this? Rodney tried to veer away, but Teyla held on, guiding and steering. “I don't...” Couldn't he even talk? Quit babbling! “I don't want Ronon or...” Oh, God. Sheppard! “Don't let John see me like this,” he pleaded, wiping at his face.
“No one will see you, Rodney. But it would be okay if they did,” Teyla soothed as they entered the transporter.
“But he might. It's bad enough I screwed up, not that it matters,” Rodney muttered. His friendship with Sheppard was based on pity. “I mean...he's never trusted me before.”
“John's always trusted you, Rodney. He does not give his trust easily, but you must certainly know you have it completely,” Teyla told him, her yes seeking his.
“I lost it... a few years ago, don't think I ever gained it back,” Rodney whispered. Who was he kidding? No one trusted him.
“You and John have had your differences, but he trusts you with his life, Rodney.”
“Then why won't he talk to me!” Rodney pushed her away, heart racing. “He never does! Friends talk... not us, and yeah, I know I don't communicate very well myself, and I hate emotional displays which is why I hate this! Hate what I'm doing! But what's the point of saving someone that I know as much about five years later as I did when we first met?”
Teyla pushed him down the hall, getting him around corners. “That's not true. John is a very private man. We are his family and I think he has shared things with us that he would not with anyone else.”
“Then why won't he even tell me what happened on the mainland with the AI?” Rodney glared at her, face puffy, the waterworks ready to begin again. Teyla didn't say anything; what was there to say? If he hadn't been duped by the fake Zelenka maybe none of it would have happened. Whatever it was that messed up John.
They were in the infirmary and the place was more chaotic than his mind. Teyla was speaking, but he found it tough to pay attention.
People were screaming. Crying. Nurses and doctors were running around. He wanted to go back to his hole and never come back. He went from standing to sitting on an exam table. If only he could lie down and shut his eyes.
“What is happening?”
Rodney found himself curled on his side with Teyla talking to Ronon. He didn't know when Ronon had shown up and couldn't bring himself to care.
“A few Marines brought Lorne in. He broke his right hand punching a wall,” Ronon said.
“What?” Teyla looked around. “Something is very wrong.”
She's talking about you, McStupid, Rodney thought.
“What about John? Have you found him?”
Ronon stiffened at Teyla's question. “He didn't answer his door. I pried it open after shouting at him that I was coming in. He wasn't there. I found blood in the bathroom and all over his stuff. His place was trashed.”
Rodney bolted up. “What? Where is he?”
“Rodney, please stay calm. I'm sure the colonel is fine.”
Teyla was lying to him. She didn't trust him. Who would? Rodney felt the onslaught start all over again. “What if he's not? What if...” Rodney took a shuddering breath. “Can't you see? This is wrong!” He waved his hand around. “What if...what if...”
And that was all he could do. Imagine Sheppard dead in the city somewhere. Dead and alone while Rodney sat around helpless as always. The despair felt like a heart attack.
“Hey!” Ronon had both hands on his shoulder. “We need you. Whatever’s happening, fight it.”
“I don't know how!” Rodney yelled back. A part of him wanted to...was trying. But then something squeezed his heart and he succumbed to its powerful grip, sagging in Ronon's arms and unable to stop himself from crying into the big man’s chest.
-----------
He woke up slowly, rising from a deep fog. Rodney heard voices and the beeping of monitors and he so wanted to sleep, but he recalled needing to fight something.
“Rodney?”
Part of him – no, most of him – wanted to ignore the voice, curl back up and float away.
“Rodney, please wake up.”
“Why?” His tongue felt heavy with a thick film. Why? Why care?
“We're in trouble, McKay. Wake up.” That sounded like Radek.
Rodney forced his lids open to find a party around his bed. Jennifer and Teyla on one side with Zelenka and Woolsey on the other.
“I told you that I didn't want this many people in here,” Jennifer warned.
“I'm afraid we don't have time to be that cautious,” Woolsey responded. “Dr. McKay, can you understand me?”
“Rodney, I gave you some medication. It's going to make you sleepy, but I need to know if it's helping.”
He looked over at Jennifer, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Leave me alone.”
“Dr. McKay, Atlantis has been experiencing extreme malfunctions. Every time we repair a problem, another, more complicated one arises. In addition to the city's troubles, several people are being affected by some behavioral phenomena. We've ruled out viruses, disease, and anything spread by contact, but we need your help to determine the cause.”
Woolsey talked too much. He’d never liked Rodney and now he wanted his help. There was nothing he could do. Couldn't they see that?
“Rodney,” Zelenka said, stepping closer. “Atlantis initiated the stardrive. Then it tried to overload the ZPM, knocking out all the power generators at once.”
Huh. That was the reason for the lights going out. Rodney felt a slight tingle, a sliver deep inside of interest. “Yeah?”
“Now, it’s trying to divert power to the stargate in order to blow it up. I don't know how to explain it, but it is like the city...I mean.” Zelenka sighed. “It is like the city is trying to destroy itself.”
Rodney didn't want that to happen, but it was so hard to find the energy to do anything about it. He took the offered laptop, doubt causing his fingers to be slow, and pecked away at his ideas. “I...I can't find a connection to the malfunctions.”
The mirror images of disappointment were enough to make him withdraw again, to keep from seeing how he felt inside etched into the faces of those around him. “What about...I mean- Something's...something’s wrong with me.” He felt marginally better, at the edge of the abyss instead of falling inside it. “What do you have me on?”
Jennifer stepped forward. “Ativan.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“You were experiencing some type of severe emotional reaction. I thought anti-anxiety medication would help.”
Rodney stared at Jennifer, his mind full of denial. Then he recalled crying all over Teyla and Ronon and the pressing urge to do it again. “You said there were people suffering from behavioral problems. Like what?”
“I've had several patients come in with erratic mood swings. Dr. Abraham thought he could fly from one of the towers. Four other people have signs of severe depression and one,” Jennifer cleared her throat. “There's been one case of attempted suicide.”
“Sheppard?” Rodney sat up.
“No,” Teyla answered. “But he is missing. Ronon is looking for him, but we think there is something wrong with him as well. Yet, he has not been showing the same strange behavior as some of the others.”
“Just trace his transmitter,” Rodney growled.
“We can't,” Woolsey piped in. “The city's life signs detector isn't working and it won't let us use the controls to track him, or anyone for that matter.”
He shook his head, his world collapsing around him. If John died...if... No! It'd be Rodney's fault and everyone would blame him.
“Rodney?”
He couldn't listen to Teyla. How many times did he go to bed with the deaths of others haunting his nightmares? All that brilliance and he'd set the Replicators loose on human worlds. Allowed Elizabeth's brain to be overrun with nanites. Rodney could feel himself sinking into the void.
And while he fell down the pit of despair he kept thinking that Sheppard's golf game needed to be finished. The difficulty level on the tenth hole required tweaking.
“I need more,” he found himself demanding.
“More what?”
He looked at Jennifer. “Give me more Ativan.”
-----------
Rodney hated feeling like this, mind clouded over and slow, every thought double-guessed and doubt sucking all the energy out of him. But he tried to ignore it, his irrational fear about Sheppard a byproduct of whatever was the hell wrong with him, driving Rodney forward. Or he kept telling himself that it was irrational, but the more he looked at patient charts, the more scared he became.
The infirmary was getting crowded; the city shrink was on hand and being completely unhelpful.
“Hand me the newest charts,” Rodney snapped at the doc.
Dr. Hartford stared at his PDA. “I'll tell you about the patient's symptoms, but I can't break patient confidentiality--”
“Screw that. People might die and the city could blow up. That trumps confidentiality.” Rodney bristled. He felt that tingle again as if yelling and snapping felt right.
“Captain Espinoza tried to set his kitchen on fire.”
Rodney couldn't place the name to a face. “He runs the mess hall, right?”
“Yes, he's in charge of the staff.”
Think! Stop being so dense. He could fell the tug towards the edge, the nice quiet cliff. “What...I mean, why did he start the fire?”
“His oven and kitchen appliances told him to,” Hartford replied. “I sedated him after he became violent again.”
“And Lorne tried to punch out a wall,” Rodney muttered. “Did you talk to the major?” When the shrink seemed hesitant to divulge that info, Rodney felt himself come undone. “I have you know when I'm myself I can run laps around your IQ! Right now, I'm mainlining Ativan and I know deep down inside you think you're wasting your time, but I'm the only one who can figure this out!”
“An inflated sense of accomplishment is a common--”
“Shut up! You don't know me very well, or you'd be kicking yourself,” Rodney seethed. “Now what did Lorne say?”
“He said he couldn't control himself,” Teyla said, walking in. “He told Dr. Bishop that the buzzing had become too much. We don't know what buzzing he was referring to. I tried to talk to him, but he was convinced that I was one of Michael's hybrids.”
“What about Sheppard?” Rodney asked, rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes. He's dead. John needed you and you let him down.
“We have not been able to locate him, but Dr. Zelenka wanted you to know he used the program you installed the last time the gate was a target of an attack and he prevented an overload.”
Until the next disaster. Rodney could read it in her eyes and he ducked Teyla's gaze. He stared at his laptop, at the various reports that didn't fit neatly into any pattern. He glared accusingly at his hands, the ones that should be doing something and not being fat and numb. Hands that wanted to dig a new hole under his bed to avoid the whole big wide world, but he knew John was out there. Running or being chased.
Who's chasing you, Sheppard?
Then it hit him, like the whole ton of bricks and all. He snapped those useless fingers. “Get Jennifer; get Woolsey...just...just call a meeting.”
Teyla was there, gripping the metal rail to the bed. “What is it?”
“It's the gene,” Rodney rattled. “I don't know what exactly, but all of us. We have the gene and we're being affected differently. Gene therapy carriers and natural carriers. And John,” Rodney clawed the sheets. “He has that freakishly strong expression and...and... and it's bad. It's very, very bad!”
------
John's body pulsed, his veins pounded and his ears rang. He tossed his computer to the floor, flipped over his desk, and snapped the legs to his chairs. The sound of his refrigerator dying as it cracked open on the floor was strangely fulfilling. He bled profusely all over his stuff and the sight was surreal. He kept wiping the blood on his BDUs; soon there wasn't a patch of skin on his arms and hands that wasn't stained red.
Then there were no more things to break and any short-lived reprieve was shattered by the voices. They chased him into the hall. Running couldn't combat the wall of sound pressing in on all sides. The voices mocked him, chiding him for trying to escape.
Through the bowels of the city he ran, going deeper into sections that were unexplored and away from those searching for him. The whole being pursued thing was nothing new - sandy dunes, clear blue skies, forests, swamps, snow, and underground tunnels. Someone or something was always trying to kill him.
Maybe that was the universe's way of giving him a hint.
Is that how you see yourself? As a martyr?
“No,” he growled out loud.
He wasn't a hero, far from it.
No, you're the sacrificial lamb.
“It's not like that!” John spat.
He did what he had to. It was his job. But he'd been a failure and he could practically feel all the blood on his hands. He stared down at his palms, where he'd dug his nails into them, the gashes slick and hot. John gazed into the hall and it was like staring into a giant black void. He was alone and it was a familiar feeling. That's how he'd always be.
Atlantis had been an escape, just somewhere to run. An arctic wasteland hadn't been enough. Did he really think a new galaxy would change his destiny? How much further could he go?
You distance yourself far away from others, even from your supposed friends so it won't matter when you leave them, or get them killed. That's what you do.
John shook his head in denial.
The walls screamed all around him with full fledged shrieks of despair. Wailing and screeching. Millions of voices cried out, their pleas physical fists that slammed him in the jaw, across the cheek, over his skull.
Help us! Stop them! Stop them, John!
He couldn't think straight; the voices filled his ears, his head. They blocked out all sight and sound. Plugging his ears with his fingers didn't help; all it did was make them scream louder.
“Enough,” he whispered.
They wouldn't let up, and it was the sobbing and crying that got to him. “Sssssshhhh,” he told whomever would listen.
At one point he was on his hands and knees, crawling away with nowhere to go. Lost, he was lost and confused, rolling into a ball. He tried to block it all out, digging his fingers into his temples so hard he swore they'd break through his skull.
“Stop!” John yelled back. “Stop!” He pounded his hand on the floor, his balled fist smashing the hard surface. He must have been doing that for a while because his fingers throbbed and it was a distraction from the madness trying to drown him.
John staggered to his feet, blood and adrenaline rushing through his limbs down to his toes. He could feel the build up of energy, the rush of voices carrying him along. Their collective weight was impossible to resist. It broke down all his walls, his defenses.
Make it stop! You can stop it all. Set us free!
Free us, John. Free yourself.
He patted down his BDUs, his belt, appalled at coming up empty. His feet moved, knowing exactly where to go. Unable to fight the pull or the push. The moment he resisted, his mind imploded with an entire city full of voices.
There was need for dramatics.
New footsteps clacked in the hall, tons of them.
Don't get caught, John. Go! Go now!
---------------
Ronon kept track of every level searched in his head, mentally crossing out sections of the city and moving onward. They only had two small search teams. Ronon went on his own so the Marines could cover east and west. With the numerous problems with the city, Woolsey couldn't spare more men when there could be a saboteur on the loose. Or worse, an alien threat. Things deteriorated as more people started acting crazy.
It'd been easy to follow the trail of blood left behind, drops here, a streak there. Sheppard wasn't stupid; it was too easy to follow him, which worried Ronon. It meant that John wasn't thinking straight, too wrapped up with whatever was wrong with him to notice such things. Then there was no more blood and he'd been forced to radio the squad following him to begin another search pattern.
“Ronon, come in,” Teyla radioed.
“Here.” He hated giving away his location.
“Rodney thinks that John might be suffering from some type of psychotic episode.”
“What?” Ronon could hear McKay ranting in the background about 'going nuts'.
Teyla calmed him down before speaking to him again. “We don't know the cause but Jennifer, Dr Hartford, and Rodney theorize that people with the gene therapy are experiencing symptoms similar to depression and other emotional disorders. However those with the natural gene seem to be more delusional, even violent.”
Ronon didn't understand half of what she was saying. “I can handle Sheppard.”
“He might not recognize you or where he is. He could be frightened or even a danger to himself,” Teyla warned.
“I'll find him,” Ronon said, clicking the radio off.
He'd done this before. A few times. Ronon knew Sheppard, understood how his mind worked, though if it was all messed up, it could prove a problem. Two hours had gone by since he’d found Sheppard's quarters destroyed and this wasn't like previous cat and mouse games.
Or was it? If Sheppard wasn't right in the head then he'd rely on instinct more. Search out a place that represented safety or familiarity. Ronon dismissed various areas that were close to people or out in the open.
Then it clicked and he ran toward the jumper bay.
--------
The closest squad of Marines was near one of the more isolated piers. Ronon informed Woolsey where he was going and his gut was rewarded when the guard patrolling the bay didn't answer his radio.
“I just found out that Sergeant Nimns is one of the gene carriers. It might explain why he's not responding,” Woolsey explained. “Your backup is ten minutes away using the transporters. I advise you wait until...”
“I'm here,” Ronon spoke. “Switching to radio silence,” he said, cutting off any response.
He saw John walking toward the rear of his favorite jumper. Ronon reached for his blaster, knowing it was set on stun, and aimed. He had his sights on John's moving back when the man stumbled, grabbing his head. Ronon’s shot went wide. John whirled to see who was behind him, hands flailing at the control panel to release the hatch.
Ronon fired, cursing when John anticipated the bursts and dived behind the side of the jumper for cover. Ronon growled, sprinting after him, glad that he’d at least kept Sheppard from stealing the ship. Now it was a race to keep him from trying it again with a different jumper. Calling after Sheppard was pointless and would give away his position.
John scrambled around the next ship, heavy footsteps and rapid breathing giving him away. Ronon caught a blur of black uniform duck around the port side and, as he rounded it, was caught off guard when John tackled him.
A set of shoulders plowed into Ronon's midsection and it was so unexpected that the two of them toppled to the ground. John was frenetic and desperate, wildly clawing for Ronon's blaster and by sheer luck, planted a knee painfully into Ronon's diaphragm. Ronon grappled Sheppard with one hand and in the mad struggle of grunts and thrashing limbs, lost his grip on his weapon with the other.
It was all about the gun. Sheppard made a run for it and Ronon kicked his left leg out from under him. John pitched forward onto his hands and knees, but that didn't stop the mad clamber towards the blaster. Ronon was faster, grabbing John by the shoulders and securing a chokehold around his combative friend.
John screamed, bucking uncontrollably. Adrenaline made him uncoordinated but scarily stronger. He threw all his weight back, slamming Ronon into the bulkhead of the nearest jumper. Ronon's spine collided into a sharp edge and in that split-second of mind-numbing pain, John grabbed at Ronon's belt and pulled out one of his knives.
“Sheppard,” Ronon warned. “What are you doing?”
John looked like he’d crawled out of a warzone. Dried blood was crusted over several cuts across his forehead, black smudges under his eyes contrasted his chalk-white complexion, and his uniform was filthy. His shirt wasn't tucked in, and he wasn't wearing a belt which meant he wasn't armed except for the knife.
Sheppard gripped the blade in his left hand, his right knuckles and fingers swollen and scraped raw. Ronon could beat John in a knife fight, even in his current unpredictable state, no problem. He just didn't want to hurt him if he could avoid it.
John still hadn't said a word, eyes twitchy, darting around the bay. Ronon could do this; he had before. Talk calm and slow. Before the Marines arrived. “Sheppard. John,” Ronon amended. “What's wrong, buddy?”
“Shut up!” John growled, breathing heavily through his mouth. He was strung tighter than a bow, fine muscle tremors going through his arms and hands.
“If you need to go somewhere, I'll go with you. Name the place,” Ronon offered.
The pulse point in John's throat fluttered visibly, like his heart was going to explode any minute. He shook his head, curling his broken right hand into a ball by his side. “You can't.”
Ronon inched closer and thought better of it when John's eyes went dark and flat. John’s smile was crooked and weirdly unsettlingly, his voice calm. “You're not the real one. They told me.”
Ronon saw the instant John's body coiled tightly, and he waited for the attack, ready to counter it.
“This is the one thing I can do right,” John muttered.
Ronon wasn't ready or prepared when the knife went downward, not out, tearing across John's skin and not his. By the time Ronon's fingers curled around the wound in John's arm, they were slick with so much blood that it was hard to see the damage.
The blade clattered to the floor. Ronon kicked it away, catching John as he sunk to his knees in a daze. “Tell everyone… I'm sorry,” he whispered.
Ronon supported him, resting John's body against his chest, pulling out a field dressing and pressing it into the gash that ran under his friend's bicep to his elbow. Crimson gushed like a fountain, every heart beat pumping it out faster.
“Damn it!” Ronon held John close, neatly ripping out another dressing and wrapping it tightly the best he could one-handed around the other soaked-through gauze.
They had minutes. Three, five. He wasn't sure. John's skin was cold and growing colder, his long limbs floppy dead weights. Ronon scooped him up, tapping his comm by the grace of the Ancestors and ran full-tilt toward the transporter.
“I've got Sheppard! He's got a bad arm wound and is bleeding out!” He took a heavy breath. “Heading towards the infirmary!”
Ronon's entire body shook. From fear to rage, furious that he hadn't guessed what John was up to. It never occurred to him that John would hurt himself although the clues were all there. He kept pressure on the gash in Sheppard's arm, hoping to stem the blood loss by sheer will.
John mumbled incoherently, jerking in his arms once or twice before sagging like a dead weight. “Sheppard! Don't you give up!”
The transporter doors swooshed open to a waiting medical team, but Ronon wouldn't give John up to them. He was faster than a wheeling gurney, depositing his burden onto a bed and stepping back as doctors and nurses swarmed.
“Ronon?” Teyla was in front of him, steering him away from the chaos. “Sit down,” she ordered.
Jennifer was in front of him now. Asking stupid questions.
“I'm not hurt,” he snapped. Ronon glared at Jennifer. “Why aren't you helping Sheppard?”
“Because I spent over twelve hours in surgery and I can't afford to make a mistake. Dr. Pertalli is a trauma surgeon. John's in good hands, I promise.”
Ronon barely heard her words and simply stared at his hands, the blood still warm and tacky over his fingers.
“We will help you get cleaned up,” Teyla said;she made clear it was not a request.
----------
Ronon sat in the chair by Rodney's bed. His teammate drifted in and out, heavy meds flowing through his veins. This hour Rodney was awake and agitated, ranting and raving one moment and getting all teary-eyed the other. The random mood swings bothered McKay as much as they did Ronon, but he didn't let it show. Much.
“This is ridiculous! Bipolar disorder doesn't exhibit symptoms like this! It should take days or weeks for me to go through phases,” Rodney spat. “I'm sick of feeling like a damn yo-yo!”
“I said what you're experiencing is similar to bipolar disorder, but obviously that is not what you're suffering from,” Jennifer explained. “The dopamine and reelin levels in your brain keep shifting; give the treatment time to adjust them back to normal amounts.”
Rodney fiddled with the IV leading to his vein. “You're talking about my brain chemistry! I don't like the idea of pumping me full of drugs to screw with the balance even more.”
“If I didn't 'screw' with them, it could take weeks for them to return to normal.” Jennifer pulled up a chart and made notations in them in the opposite chair.
“So, this whole thing was because of some piece of Wraith tech?” Ronon grunted. He hated waiting.
Rodney's face burned bright red, his heart monitor increasing. “Yes! I'm booting Dr. Kimball back to Earth! I can't believe he allowed some kid to transfer alien tech without protocols! We were cataloging Janus' lab! The last time one of his fun gadgets was activated we got robbed and Jackson and I got kidnapped by the evil Asgard!”
Ronon was waiting for the crying to start, but McKay settled down, crossing his arms. He must have missed the part when they talked about what caused this whole thing. There was an hour here and there when Ronon tuned out the whole world, too busy thinking about the glint of a blade and rivers of blood. He didn't second-guess his choices very often, but there were always exceptions.
Teyla had been oddly silent, keeping vigil by McKay and waiting for word on Sheppard. She'd been sullen and still. Rodney must have noticed it, too. “This isn't your fault. I didn't recognize the remote as any kind of Wraith tech. I, for one, should have noticed it. Plus, who knew it'd be so sensitive to your DNA?”
“I activated a device that caused much damage. It is not an easy thing to accept,” Teyla stated flatly.
“It was a damn remote control! The device was elsewhere in the city. It was a miracle that we even put two and two together after Radek did a random sweep for erratic energy patterns.” Rodney balled up his hands. “I'm to blame. I was too...too--”
“You were affected by a very old experiment, one that the Ancients shouldn't have even been messing with,” Jennifer added. “Janus' lab was secret for a reason. I'm sure having Wraith tech on Atlantis wasn't authorized,” she snorted.
“But why?” Teyla asked. “What was it supposed to do?”
“Make us nuts,” Rodney grunted, fiddling with his sheets. “The device obviously sends out some type of energy field meant to affect the Ancients mentally. Causing widespread emotional instability would make for an easy target. Especially if said targets were crippled by the type of self destructive behavior the device was intended for. Hell, even the city was affected, though I'm not sure if Atlantis was the main target or a strange byproduct.”
“And Sheppard?” Ronon growled. “What was wrong with him?”
“Many of the natural gene carriers suffered from various degrees of delusions. The stronger carriers manifested symptoms close to a disease we call schizophrenia. Hallucinations, hearing voices, or voices that command you to do things. But we're not talking about clear-cut signs,” Jennifer tried to explain. “The best we can come up with was that the Wraith device was an experiment in self destructive behavior. Causing its victims to experience everything from suicidal thoughts to paranoid delusions.”
“Except none of us are real Ancients so the effects varied by the strength of our gene,” Rodney gruffed. “I'm just glad we found the device. Who knew that Janus had another room full of goodies. A freaking storage area, well storage closet perhaps. If it wasn't tracing the frequency, we'd might not have ever found it.”
“And we are sure it is off?” Teyla asked.
“Yes. The Marines fried it when they shot it into tiny pieces,” Rodney huffed. “Good riddance.”
The whole thing gave Ronon a headache. Whatever did this, whatever the reason, John would never forget slicing open his own arm, no matter the alien influence. You couldn't forget such a thing.
--------------
Ronon stood at the edge of John's bed just watching him. He knew it was a Wraith experiment that had caused all their problems, like the time when it had affected them all on that planet. He knew damn well how real things could seem, how tangled your mind could get inside. There was no telling what the device had done to Sheppard, what evil it had released deep inside. But it had been Ronon's knife that almost killed him. A knife forged in steel and honor, blessed in ceremonies to take the life of his enemies. Not his friends!
He'd been warned to be careful, but he hadn’t been. It had never occurred to him what Sheppard would try to do. Not once. Ronon would have hated himself forever despite what others insisted to the contrary. It was his job to anticipate the unpredictable and to protect his teammates.
Sheppard stirred in his sleep, fighting his nightmares. Ronon grabbed a chair and stayed by him, ready to drag Sheppard out of whatever personal Hell he was trapped in. He pulled up the blankets every time they were tossed aside from Sheppard’s battles.
Lieutenant Harrison hovered nearby, stepping up to the bed with another IV bag. She plucked a thermometer from her pocket and pressed it into the pilot's ear, laying the back of her hand against his cheek. “I'm giving you some warm saline, Colonel, to help bring your temp back up. So, let's stop messin' with your blankets and keep them on, sir.”
The nurse checked the heavy bandage that encased Sheppard's arm in armor, setting it back on the pillow it was resting on before turning her sights on Ronon. “Dr. Pertalli spent six hours repairing the colonel's arm. Any sudden movements could undo all that hard work. Vascular surgery is very delicate.”
Ronon puffed out his chest and glared. “No.”
“Dr. Hartford, also insisted. Gene therapy patients are being carefully monitored on medication, ,but he's worried about the natural carriers with strong ATA expressions. They could still experience heavy emotional episodes or confusion for several days. It's only for the colonel's protection.”
“If they want to put restraints on, Sheppard. they'll have to come through me,” Ronon growled.
“And us,” Rodney said, entering the cubicle with Teyla.
Harrison simply shook her head. “Figured as much. Most have slipped my mind about bringin’ them,” she said, winking as she left.
Ronon got up and offered his chair to Rodney.
“What? I'm not crippled,” McKay said, pretending to be miffed, but taking it to sit down. He looked at Sheppard and swallowed. “God, he looks so....”
“He's going to be fine,” Ronon said. Then he strategically stood between Sheppard's bed and where Rodney sat and affectionately patted McKay on the shoulder. “We're all here to make sure of it.”
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He was supposed to fly, to take to the sky and flee. John saw himself at the controls, accelerating to ten Gs, aiming the jumper at one of the empty towers on the edge of the city. It would all end in a fireball, his body disintegrating upon impact, a second of blinding pain then nothing. What he didn't expect was flashbacks to “Carrie”, plastered from head to-toe in buckets of blood. He stared at his arm, could see the white of bone and all his veins ripped open, and in his hand, a butcher's knife for slaughtering animals.
John started to gag, the sight of all his life's fluid splattered all over his skin and clothes too shocking. The choking became coughing; his eyes sprang open and pain dug its teeth into his arm.
You failed again.
“Sheppard?”
His breath hitched, the room spun dizzyingly, and it took all his energy to keep from losing the contents of his stomach.
“John?”
The voice was familiar, but his eyes were already closed, and John knew he had to fight against the sounds of others. It was freezing, his skin icy under the sheets and covers. He'd been cold, cold and numb. He wanted to sleep and not drift back to the surface for while, if ever. The darkness was inviting, the silence heaven compared to the millions of voices that had ripped open his mind, leaving him bare and exposed to the pain of hatred and despair.
“He's shivering. Get another blanket. Make it two!”
Something warm was draped over his body, wrapping him in a cocoon of safety, away from the ugliness in his head. John held onto the warmth and allowed himself to sink under it.
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There were bouts of awareness between his dreams, though it was hard to distinguish between the two. Sometimes he was dead; other times he was alive but the dead were crushing him beneath the weight of their bodies. The screaming and shrieking had stopped, interrupted by the occasional sob in the distant background.
John woke up to white curtains and three empty chairs. His mind felt bruised and fragile, his body numb. His right arm was wrapped up from his shoulder to halfway up his wrist in thick layers of gauze. When he wiggled his purple fingers, they didn't feel like they belonged to his hand. He had zero energy or motivation to move, and fell back asleep after only a few minutes of lucidness.
The next time he joined the land of the living, Ronon was there and scooted his chair closer.
“Ronon,” he rasped. “What I did...I mean what I tried to do.” In front of him, damn it! “I'm...” Then another shudder wracked his body, sending tiny vibrations through his flayed open arm. Damn, that hurt.
Ronon rested a hand on his shoulder. “You've chased your demons away, but I'll always be here to fight them with you.” The big hand lingered for several seconds then pulled the mound of blankets up to John's chin and tucked the rest in. Ronon also grabbed a large hand-knitted afghan and gently laid it over the others. John hadn't realized how freezing he was until a sense of tranquility replaced the harshness of a bone-deep chill.
“You don't have to stay,” he said drowsily. They could still be lurking around.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
John felt relief at the words, still not trusting himself. He trusted Ronon though, and knew the voices wouldn't dare return with him around.
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“Your brachial artery was injured. The cut was four centimeters deep and the wound six inches long. The muscle and tendons were damaged and you'll need weeks of physical therapy.” Jennifer waited for the information to sink in. When John nodded, she quietly went on. “You have loss of nerve function, but I think you'll retain about ninety to ninety-three percent of it in your hand. It won't be enough to impede your flight status.”
Her words floated in and out of his head, his attention hard to focus. She grabbed his wrist, rubbing the pad of her thumb over his fluttering pulse, waiting to see if he heard her. “Your thoughts are going to continue to feel a little disjointed. It's from the pain medication and the effect of the Wraith device. But we're treating you with Zeldox until your scans come back normal.”
He blinked, snippets about what was wrong with him a jumble with images he'd rather forget.
“It's okay if you still feel jumpy. When your dopamine levels right themselves, and the hippocampus in your brain goes back to normal size, the paranoia should diminish. And let one of us know if you... well, if you hear anything unusual,” Jennifer said, giving his arm a light pat.
“I'm,” John licked dry lips, “so tired.”
“You lost a lot of blood volume. Give it time, Colonel. And your body temperature should return to normal soon. Just let a nurse know if you're not warm enough.”
Then Jennifer was gone. Teyla replaced her seconds later, taking his good hand in hers. “It is good to see you feeling better, John.”
There was hesitancy in her voice, like it was difficult to formulate words. Part of him wondered if some other terrible thing had happened while he'd been haunted by ghosts and demons. He started accepting the blame before knowing what it was for.
Teyla ran her fingers over the fine wool of the Athosian blanket, her nails catching on the frayed ends. “I am so sorry for what happened. I didn't mean to activate the device.”
Her guilt was like salt on an open wound. He kept waiting for white noise to burrow inside his skull, for voices like daggers to strike him down. “It wasn't your fault.” John's throat was rough as sandpaper. He moistened his lips, struggling to find coherency that wasn't there. “Look how many times I've touched the wrong thing.”
Again he waited for the walls to whisper Heightmeyer's name, but there were just the soft beeps of equipment.
“Deep down inside I know it to be true. My gift has helped us in the past, but to bear witness to its destructive side…” Teyla shook her head.
“Wasn't you,” John rasped. “You didn't create the device. You didn't even know it was there.”
Teyla's expression became less pinched, softening like the touch of her fingers over his arm. “And you need to offer yourself forgiveness as easily as you bestow it.” She gazed solemnly at his arm, the violence inflicted upon himself hidden away. “We're always here for you, John. Many of us would not be if not for your actions and leadership.”
“I--”
Teyla shushed him, squeezing his other arm. “You need your rest, so I will tell you a story of a revered tribal elder who carried the same type of burden on his shoulders as you do. Until the enormity of it all broke his back and he was forced to accept the help of those around him. Only then did he become strong enough to defeat his enemies. His name was Taliman and he...”
Teyla's soothing voice was another layer of comfort, her soft cadence lulling his mind out of the darkness. He'd fought his demons to a standstill, alone, several weeks ago, but maybe it was time to accept some help every once in a while. For the first time in days, John felt like he could fall asleep in peace.
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“So, how are you feeling?” John hated such questions. Did anyone ever want to tell the truth or even hear it? He was actually sincere and, for the first time in days, was levelheaded enough not to allow the response to influence his own mood.
“I don't plan on dancing a jig whenever I hear Zelenka's insane music,” Rodney snorted. “Now eat my dust!”
“You felt like dancing? Really?” John frowned at the tiny view-screen in his hands. “Of course, I don't have all the dexterity in my right hand, you know,” he said, pouting.
“I say it's fair,” Rodney whooped. “Yeah, there were moments when I felt like I could do anything. Well, even more than the everyday miracles I perform.”
John's bad arm rested against a stack of pillows, his wrist movement pulling on healing muscle. His physical therapist had approved playing the DS as long as they limited the game to half an hour a day.
“You were a bit chipper,” John said, hiding a grin.
“Yeah, you missed my impersonation of Eeyore on Valium.” Rodney laughed under his breath, but it was forced and awkward.
John recalled slamming his head into a mirror and relishing in the pain. “At least you weren't having conversations with the walls,” he admitted. And really listening to them.
“With you, I wouldn't have noticed.”
Both their eyes were glued to the racing game; it was the perfect way to avoid eye contact. John rolled his animated car over a power-up and zoomed around the next lap, slamming Rodney's vehicle into a corner.
“You're always cheating!” Rodney yelled, earning a glare from a passing nurse. He settled down in the chair next to John's bed, gripping the game system so tightly his fingers were white. “So....”
“I'm not going to tell you what happened,” John cut him off. “I don't recall much anyways.” He felt the heat emanate from the laceration, the blood pump under the mending skin. He swallowed, clenching his jaw. “It's just...with what happened with the AI on the mainland a few weeks ago. It's just too close together. Too many things screwing with my head.”
“I can see that.”
John tried not to look over, but he saw the downward slant of shoulders, and the less than enthusiastic way Rodney pursued his car in the game. “You know, I get out of here in a few days. Was thinking of having a few beers--” At Rodney's grunt he amended his words, “well, a beer on the west pier. Thought maybe... well... I never did tell you what happened. Unofficially.” He stared at his left hand, knowing he'd leave certain things out. A lot out, but sharing a little was a start.
“Oh. I mean. Sure.” Rodney almost rocketed out of his seat. “Where did you find that shortcut?” He was cursing at John, but there was something less guarded about him, almost relaxed.
“I see you two are enjoying yourselves,” Teyla said, pushing aside the curtain.
Ronon stepped beside her, some colorful pieces of paper clasped between his fingers. Teyla nodded at him and came over to John's bed and dropped three large envelopes onto the tiny table. “Happy Birthday.”
John was at a loss for words. He brushed his left hand over the envelopes, all three of them with drawings or bright stickers on the fronts. “I forgot, actually.”
Ronon shrugged. “You've been stuck in here the past week.”
“There was not enough room for the thoughts and well wishes on a single card so we had to find three,” Teyla explained.
“And they had a lot to say. That's why I just signed it,” Ronon said, clearing his throat. “But I'm going to take you on a traditional Satedan camping trip when you're ready. It'll be fun.”
“Oh,” Rodney snapped his fingers. “Woolsey wanted you to know he found some missing mission report. Something about it being filed in the wrong place and a wacky e-mail folder snafu. Apparently he found some missing supply report attachments the other day.”
“Really?” John couldn't believe his ears.
“Also, there's no need for you to go to Earth. The review board used the recommendations of several of your men, along with Woolsey, Carter, O'Neill, and a few other pointless military jarheads that I forgot, to sign off on you staying on for another tour or whatever you call it,” Rodney said smugly. “I was going to give you something else really cool, but…ya know,” he sneaked a look at Teyla. “Thought this news was better.”
“Maybe I should got nutty a little more often,” John laughed, but he was blissfully relieved on the inside.
“And I want you to keep this blanket,” Teyla said, fluffing the knitted cover over his lap. “It belonged to my grandmother and to her grandmother. Each time it is handed down, we add our own design to it.”
John couldn't look at them, too overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings that constricted his chest. Unlike the cold and heartless emotions from many days ago, these made his cheeks and tips of his ears flush pink. He rubbed the edge of the envelopes as if they were too fragile to open. “I...thank you.”
His team stepped closer. Ronon rustled the top of his head. Teyla pressed a kiss to his cheek and Rodney...well Rodney grinned a genuine smile. “So, are you up for cake?”
“Sure. Why not?” John watched the three of them arrange the area near his bed, praying that there would be no singing. And he gathered the cards to his chest one-handed, feeling his heart beat through his fingertips.
fini
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Your prompt is as follows: Gen, a Shep/Atlantis story - either something
happens in the city affecting all the ATA carriers or Shep brings something
back that affects the city/ATA carriers. Shep of course gets the brunt of it.
Bonus points if it affects the natural carriers differently from the gene
therapy recipients. Dark fic ok, death fic not ok.
**took a big risk with this one.** gulp...hope it worked.
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I hope you had fun writing this.
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Oh this worked
(Anonymous) 2009-01-07 05:17 pm (UTC)(link)Ronon -- perfect... just perfect.
I think John would love Rodney's golf game just not what it did to Rodney.
The quilt *sniff* lovely.
Tracy-TheEverPresentNaggingOne
Re: Oh this worked
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through the looking glass
Re: through the looking glass
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Very well written!
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Thank you.
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I also adored the end with the birthday cards for John and all the teamy goodness. Thanks!
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Thank you.
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I like a little mistery.
Great story!!
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This is just what I needed to read. I'm feeling sort of sad about it being the final SGA eppie, even though I've seen it already, and the thought that I'll be able to still be made happy about Shep and the show in excellent and moving fan fiction such as this is a comforting and pleasant thought. Thanks for sharing :)
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(Anonymous) 2009-01-10 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)This is all came together perfectly at the end - the kid at the beginning bringing the lab equipment in, Lorne being "overly concerned" with what to write in his card to Sheppard, Sheppard's paranoia and the panic bought on by a misplaced email, the annual review and everything that is said and bought into the infirmary at the end being John's unintended birthday presents.
And the scene with Ronon and Sheppard was pitch perfect. The fight wasn't too long, the injuries realistic and the end result was chilling.
I really honestly enjoyed this and it was definately worth the wait. Hope my review shows that hun.
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Just a couple things I found, if you care:
"Most have slipped my mind about bringin’ them,” I think you meant "must" not "most"
"Maybe I should got nutty a little more often,” I think you meant "go" not "got"
We all make typos :)
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you are such a genius in building such climax!
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Glad you enjoyed how the city was being effected. I had a lot of fun writing this, but oi, the number of re-writes it needed :D
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