Breathing Lessons by dogeared (Sickness Challenge)
Title: Breathing Lessons
Author: dogeared
Rating: PG
Summary: John doesn't remember what it's like not to breathe, but his body does. ~550 words.
John doesn't pay attention to the first strange tickle in his chest. He doesn't remember what it's like not to breathe, but his body does, and when the memory slams back into him (being eight years old, running as far and as fast as he could because it was the closest thing to flying, until the first time panting became wheezing; sitting at the edge of the field in practices, book in his hand and inhaler in his pocket, hard plastic edges digging into his thigh, coach grumbling at him, lazy, Sheppard-but by the time he was fifteen, he'd grown out of it, and his family doctor had said it was common enough for that to happen, and John hadn't thought about it for probably twenty years), it takes his breath away, but no, no, it's already gone.
And he can't believe it's hitting him so hard, like someone came up and whacked the back of his knees with a baseball bat, his legs are that rubbery, and he pushes the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, as if that might ease the pressure-and suddenly everything's slowing, closing in, and it's the worst kind of claustrophobia, breath trapped in the too-small spaces of his lungs, and he's down on his knees in the great billowing field of something that reminds John of August ragweed and his mother's hay fever (they'd walked through it that morning, too, Rodney sneezing crazily, John ribbing him, Jeez, McKay, rolling his eyes at Teyla and Ronon). Rodney's the first one to realize he's down, turns to say something and finds empty air, and then he's at John's side all in a rush, asking him questions loudly, hands lighting on the crown of his head, his neck, arguing with Ronon about dragging him to the 'gate, but it's far, too far, so they radio for Beckett, wait.
John's perspective narrows to the rabbity beating of his heart, to each forced breath, his chest tight tight tight, and he hears himself wheezing helplessly, hears Beckett radio back and say there's nothing about asthma in Colonel Sheppard's medical file, is Sheppard sure, hears Rodney, hushed and angry, say that he has no idea, but that that's what Sheppard said and could Beckett just get here, hears Beckett say he's on his way, hears Rodney whisper to him, to John, hold tight, and John does, knuckles white where he's fisting Rodney's sleeve.
Rodney's pressed right up next to him, solid and reassuring, and John fights the waves of panic, tries to ground himself in the rhythm of Rodney's chest expanding and contracting, in and out, in and out, tries to force his own body to follow suit. And in the span of one interminable moment to the next, everything quiet and still like the world's holding its breath, and John wondering whether his stuttering lungs are going to explode or collapse, he feels the prick of a needle, rouses to a buzz of activity, of being manhandled away from the alien ragweed, Beckett fussing and Rodney hovering. And John takes a breath, and it blooms sweet and then sharp, and he's coughing, coughing, and it hurts, and it feels like relief, and Rodney's saying it's going to be okay, over and over, regular as breathing.
Author: dogeared
Rating: PG
Summary: John doesn't remember what it's like not to breathe, but his body does. ~550 words.
John doesn't pay attention to the first strange tickle in his chest. He doesn't remember what it's like not to breathe, but his body does, and when the memory slams back into him (being eight years old, running as far and as fast as he could because it was the closest thing to flying, until the first time panting became wheezing; sitting at the edge of the field in practices, book in his hand and inhaler in his pocket, hard plastic edges digging into his thigh, coach grumbling at him, lazy, Sheppard-but by the time he was fifteen, he'd grown out of it, and his family doctor had said it was common enough for that to happen, and John hadn't thought about it for probably twenty years), it takes his breath away, but no, no, it's already gone.
And he can't believe it's hitting him so hard, like someone came up and whacked the back of his knees with a baseball bat, his legs are that rubbery, and he pushes the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, as if that might ease the pressure-and suddenly everything's slowing, closing in, and it's the worst kind of claustrophobia, breath trapped in the too-small spaces of his lungs, and he's down on his knees in the great billowing field of something that reminds John of August ragweed and his mother's hay fever (they'd walked through it that morning, too, Rodney sneezing crazily, John ribbing him, Jeez, McKay, rolling his eyes at Teyla and Ronon). Rodney's the first one to realize he's down, turns to say something and finds empty air, and then he's at John's side all in a rush, asking him questions loudly, hands lighting on the crown of his head, his neck, arguing with Ronon about dragging him to the 'gate, but it's far, too far, so they radio for Beckett, wait.
John's perspective narrows to the rabbity beating of his heart, to each forced breath, his chest tight tight tight, and he hears himself wheezing helplessly, hears Beckett radio back and say there's nothing about asthma in Colonel Sheppard's medical file, is Sheppard sure, hears Rodney, hushed and angry, say that he has no idea, but that that's what Sheppard said and could Beckett just get here, hears Beckett say he's on his way, hears Rodney whisper to him, to John, hold tight, and John does, knuckles white where he's fisting Rodney's sleeve.
Rodney's pressed right up next to him, solid and reassuring, and John fights the waves of panic, tries to ground himself in the rhythm of Rodney's chest expanding and contracting, in and out, in and out, tries to force his own body to follow suit. And in the span of one interminable moment to the next, everything quiet and still like the world's holding its breath, and John wondering whether his stuttering lungs are going to explode or collapse, he feels the prick of a needle, rouses to a buzz of activity, of being manhandled away from the alien ragweed, Beckett fussing and Rodney hovering. And John takes a breath, and it blooms sweet and then sharp, and he's coughing, coughing, and it hurts, and it feels like relief, and Rodney's saying it's going to be okay, over and over, regular as breathing.