Fic: In My Waking Eye Part 1 of 2
Story: In My Waking Eye - Part 1 of 2
Word Count: ~ 15k
Genre: Gen/Whump/HC
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay, Team
Warnings: Some mild profanity, whump, HC, a little angst
Summary: Tag for the episode Phantoms. The effects of the Wraith device didn't end once the hallucinations stopped and John's not the only one dealing with the subsequent fallout.
Notes:Written for the help_japan charity auction for a VERY patient recipient who wanted some fallout and resolution between Sheppard and McKay after the events of Phantoms. Many thanks to coolbreeze1 for her awesome beta!
In My Waking Eye
TIMELINE: Between Phantoms and The Return I
John’s eyes reflexively followed the glowing chevron as it circled the gate before locking into position. Almost immediately, the next one started and his eyes went to it as he sighed heavily. He never went into a mission looking for trouble; only a crazy idiot would want to fight and risk his life on a gate mission, but these routine check-ins with trading partners were almost always tedious, to say the least.
He sighed again and forced himself to focus as the wormhole flushed into existence. Just because this was a known and safe world didn’t mean he’d let his guard down. If there was one thing nearly three years of gate missions had taught him, it was never, ever step through that gate with anything less than absolute concentration.
“I still think Teyla and Ronon got the better end of this deal,” Rodney grumbled as he walked up next to John.
John looked sideways at him. “You’d really rather be evaluating Tava bean yields and negotiating a trade agreement with the Kelarians?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.
Rodney shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Now that you put it that way… no. In fact, I’m surprised Ronon went with her.”
“Probably didn’t want to listen to you bitch.”
“Har, har.” What could only be called an evil smile touched Rodney’s lips. “Besides, I’m not the one on this mission who will be the center of attention.”
John’s neutral look turned into a glare. “Don’t start, McKay.”
“What?” Rodney’s feigned innocence popped his voice up an octave. “It’s not my fault that the chieftain’s daughter is sweet on you. Honestly, Colonel, if you’d just learn to reign in that rakish charm of yours, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“I was just being friendly. I can’t help it if she thought otherwise.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure the Chippendales dancers say the same thing,” Rodney shot back. He flashed John an indignant look. “Just make sure you don’t shoot me while you try to fend her off.”
Pain replaced annoyance, and John abruptly looked away, memories of a hot desert and a dying friend flashing through his head.
“Sheppard, whatever happens, thanks for coming after me....”
He stared absently at the intricate design on the floor. In the weeks since they’d returned from trying to rescue Leonard’s team, Rodney had continued to harp on the point that John, victim of a hallucination, had shot him. The act alone spooked John. If it hadn’t been for Teyla, his shot would’ve been lethal.
“I find your silence less than comforting.” Rodney’s impatient voice broke into John’s thoughts.
Blinking hard, John lifted his gun and refocused on the shimmering wormhole. “Let’s get this over with.” He walked towards the gate, Rodney right beside him. Pushing aside the haunting memories, John drew in an instinctive deep breath as he crossed the event horizon.
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John emerged from the wormhole, lowered his gun and squinted as a light rain pelted his face.
“Oh, great,” Rodney groused. “Really? Rain?” He walked purposefully towards the DHD.
John watched him. “What are you doing?”
Rodney rounded the DHD, stopped and looked back at him. “Dialing Atlantis so we can go back and get a jumper.”
John let his gun hang from his TAC vest and rested his hands on it. “Why do we need a jumper?” He had a pretty good idea where the conversation was going, but he asked anyway.
“It’s raining!” Rodney waved his left hand as if it explained everything. He punched the first symbol on the DHD.
“Scratch that. It’s only a little sprinkle, McKay. You’re not going to melt and we’re not going back for a jumper.” Lifting his gun, he started towards a narrow path leading away from the gate and along a steep hillside, his boot soles squishing in the soft mud. It may only be sprinkling right now, but the place had seen a lot of rain recently. After a moment, he heard Rodney’s shuffling steps catching up with him.
“This is ridiculous,” Rodney griped. “Traipsing around in the rain is pointless!”
“McKay, you grew up in Vancouver. You can’t tell me that a light drizzle bothers you.”
“Hello?” Rodney waved his hand emphatically. “I left Vancouver when I went to college. I couldn’t wait to get out of the incessant rain… whoa!”
John reached out, steadying Rodney as his feet slipped in the mud. The path they were following was narrow, nestled right up against a sheer vertical cliff on one side. On their right, was a steep hill. There was very little margin for error and it made John a little nervous. “Talk less and watch your footing more,” he said, letting go of Rodney’s elbow.
“Yet another reason to have a jumper,” Rodney muttered.
John stopped in his tracks and bit his tongue, managing to let the comment go as he watched McKay continue walking away. He was used to Rodney’s pissy moods. It came with the territory of dealing with Doctor Rodney McKay, but sometimes it was harder to deal with than others, especially when his tolerance was low. No matter how much he wanted to push aside memories of Holland, it always took him a long time to succeed at it. And every damned time Rodney brought up the shooting, he had to start the process all over again. Four years had passed since one of his closest friends had died, literally in his arms, and still, it never seemed to get easier. He’d thought he’d put the whole thing behind him, but their recent experience with the Wraith device had proved otherwise.
A half dozen or so yards away, Rodney stopped, turned and stared at him. “Are you going to break into your best imitation of Gene Kelley, or can we please continue on to the village?”
John stared at Rodney for a second before starting towards him. He’d only taken one step before a new sound registered with him. Puzzled, he stopped and looked around, trying to not only identify the deep rumble that grew louder, but pinpoint where it was coming from.
“What now?”
John looked at him again as the rumble grew steadily louder. “Don’t you hear that?”
“Hear wha…” Rodney looked up at the steep hillside above them. “What the hell?”
John’s thoughts matched Rodney’s words. What he first thought was thunder continued to grow louder and lingered far longer than any thunderclap ever would. He looked behind him, trying to find the source.
“Holy crap!”
John spun back towards Rodney, his eyes widening as he watched the hill above his friend start to move. “Mudslide!” He sprinted towards Rodney, as the ground under his feet literally started dissolving, sweeping mud and debris past him and down the steep hill. “Run!” He chanced a glance over his shoulder, his eyes widening as the path behind them disappeared under a massive, brown and gray flow. He focused his attention forward again, fixing his gaze farther down the trail and on McKay’s sprinting form.
He chanced a look up, zeroing in on a huge tree branch teetering on the ledge, and in that moment, it tipped, rushing straight for him and leaving him no time to react. Pain exploded in the side of his head, and instantaneously he felt his feet go out from under him. In the distance, he heard Rodney’s shout.
“John!”
John’s hands instinctively flew up, cradling his head as he slammed down on his right side and tumbled, powerless to stop himself. Cold, wet mud enveloped him, clinging to him like wet cement. The back of his head struck something solid and uncompromising and then he knew nothing but darkness.
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Rodney thought, just for a moment, that he might actually escape. The thought lasted all of one point five seconds, which, he’d learned, was the standard amount of time Pegasus always seemed to give him, before the world came crashing down again. This time, literally.
In a flash, John disappeared, and before Rodney could do anything but shout, the ground under his feet surged and dissolved. He scrambled, his hands clawing in the muddy hill, trying to find purchase but his fingers found nothing except viscous slime and lose debris. In a fleeting moment, he was reminded of the disgusting mud pies his sister had made as a kid, before he was propelled down the hill.
Helpless against the flow around him, he flailed, his arms and legs pulled in all different directions by the forces around him. Debris pummeled his body and his shout of terror only earned him a mouthful of sludge. Panic set in and rational thought fled. Instinctively, he threw his hands behind him, his fingers dragging through the mud, but he knew his efforts were fruitless. Something hard slammed down onto his left hand, ripping another cry from his throat, and this time, he heard it echo around him. Pain raced up his arm and it was all he could do to pull the injured limb close to his body in a vain attempt to protect it.
He had no idea how long or how far he fell, and when his suicidal plunge finally slowed, it took him a minute to realize it. With one last surge, the flow rolled him a few more feet before he came to a stop, nearly face down in the mud.
Rodney lifted his head, spitting grime from his mouth. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his arm returned, and this time, the intensity stole his breath. He crumpled to his right side and rolled on his back, clutching his left hand in agony. His shout of pain turned into a cough and for a minute, all he could do was lay there, hoping he didn’t lose what was left of his breakfast. Slowly the pain subsided and his thoughts started to focus again. He carefully sat up and looked around as his thoughts suddenly coalesced into a single focused point.
John.
Rodney’s eyes widened and he sucked in a deep breath. “John!” His voice was gravely and hoarse, but he wouldn’t be deterred. He twisted, looking all around him, but all he could see was debris and mud. “Oh, god….” If Sheppard’s unconscious and buried… “John!” This time his shout was louder but still, it went unanswered. Letting his injured arm rest in his lap, he reached up, smacking his headset. “Sheppard, this is McKay. Respond!” Static greeted his hail and he winced, cursing the incompatibility of technology and the elements of nature.
He clutched his injured arm tightly, and his breathing turned rapid as he struggled to get his feet under him and stand, all without the use of either arm. He staggered to his feet and looked around again, seeing nothing but mud and debris - a scattered grayish brown mess as far as he could see. “John! Answer me!” he demanded loudly. “Damn it, Colonel.”
Anger fought with panic and added a hard edge to his voice. “If you leave me out here alone, so help me I’ll... I’ll… I’ll think of something!” He reached carefully under his injured wrist, and unzipped his TAC vest almost all the way open. Slowly, he slid his left arm as far inside the vest as he could, allowing it to rest on top of his gun belt. It was inadequate to say the least, but it was all he could do at the moment and it did steady the limb somewhat, freeing his right hand of the duty.
He tripped in the mud but somehow managed to stay on his feet as he searched for his teammate. In the back of his mind, he knew that if Sheppard was buried, the odds of him still being alive were slim, and Rodney, with his own injuries, stood little chance of freeing him anyway. He tripped again, this time over a half buried tree root, and fell sideways into a large, upended stump, the jagged roots poking into his side. “Damn it!” He pushed away, rounded the end of the stump and froze.
At first, his mind couldn’t quite register what he was seeing, but when it did, it sent a cold fear through him. Ten feet away, it was hard to tell the difference between John’s supine body and the mud around him, but more concerning to Rodney was the colonel’s deathly still form. Shocked, Rodney’s paralysis lasted only a moment. “John!” He stumbled around the stump, staggered and fell unceremoniously to his knees right next to John’s head which, like most of the rest of his body, was miraculously unburied. How he’d managed to not be crushed by an enormous tree trunk only ten feet away from him was a mystery, but Rodney didn’t question it.
He pressed his fingers into the cold flesh of John’s neck, searching for signs of life as he stared at the colonel’s closed eyes. “Come on, damn it,” he muttered. As if in response, a slow, steady beat tapped back against his fingers and a quiet moan answered his demands. “Oh, thank god,” Rodney sighed. “Sheppard? Come on, answer me.”
John groaned again, this time a little louder, and his mud-caked eyelids fluttered.
“Sheppard!”
John’s brows furrowed and his eyes opened. “M’Kay…?”
“Yes,” Rodney answered relief within him warring with fear. “What’s left of me anyway.”
John’s gaze cleared slightly and he lifted his head, starting to sit up. He got as far as his shoulders clearing the ground, before his eyes squeezed shut and he cried out, falling back to the ground. He writhed weakly, coughing, his arms clenched to his chest. Even through the mud, Rodney could see a bluish tinge to his lips and abruptly, John’s cough trailed off in a pitiful wheeze.
“Oh, god.” Rodney held firmly to John’s shoulder. “Colonel? John? You should… breathe… Breathe!”
John’s shoulders hunched, and he abruptly drew in a shuddering breath, and then another, before flopping back in the mud, his face twisting into a pained expression and tension rippling through his body.
Rodney checked his panic at the possibility of Sheppard expiring right before his eyes, and smothered it with the only reaction he was capable of. He not so gently planted his right hand on John’s chest. “Well, that was remarkably stupid,” he snapped, any of his small amounts of patience long gone. “How about we figure out your injuries before you move?”
“Charming,” John managed, his voice slightly slurred. “Great bedside… manner....” He coughed hard and labored before grunting in pain, his body tensing again.
“What is it?” Rodney demanded, his gaze darting over John’s body. “What? Tell me! What?”
“McKay. Calm… down.”
Rodney stiffened and chastised himself silently. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Where are you hurt?”
“Head… ribs… leg. Think I swallowed some of this… shit….” His eyes slid shut.
Rodney stiffened in alarm and poked John in the shoulder. “Hey! No checking out on me, Sheppard!” He poked again, and John groaned in weak protest. “Unless you’ve grown another head, I think I can pinpoint that injury, but which ribs and which leg?”
John’s eyes slowly opened again. “Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Left ribs… right leg.”
“Huh,” Rodney grunted in pain, his hand and wrist protesting any movement as he turned towards John’s legs. “At least you’re symmetrical.” He thought he heard what passed as a weak chuckle from the colonel, but Rodney didn’t look away as his gaze slowly traveled down John’s right leg. An unnatural bulge halfway between John’s knee and foot made him wince. “Oh that’s just… yeah, broken.”
“Thanks for… confirming.” John’s weak voice still held a note of sarcasm. “You?”
Rodney grit his teeth against the pain and resisted the urge to shrug. “Your right leg, my left wrist… we’re a matched set.”
“Damn it,” John gasped, his words turning into a grunt. “How… bad?”
“How bad?” Rodney stared incredulously at John. “It’s broken! That’s how bad!”
In spite of the pain clouding his eyes, John still managed to convey a small amount of annoyance. “I mean… complications… compound?”
Rodney swallowed, wincing at the putrid taste in his mouth and fighting a stomach that rebelled over the same thing. “Oh.” Rodney shook his head. “No. Luckily. Neither is yours.”
“Not so… bad then.” John’s eyes squeezed shut and he drew in a stuttering breath.
“You have an alarmingly high threshold for what is considered ‘bad’,” Rodney muttered. He stared intently at Sheppard, noticing the tremor that rippled through his body before turning into constant shivers. He looked up, squinting as the rain picked up in intensity and suddenly pieces of field first aid, forced on him by Carson, fell into place. “You’re cold,” he whispered.
John cracked open one eye and looked at him. “No… shit.”
Rodney sagged in disgust, his abrupt movement sparking complaints from his broken hand, which only soured him even more. “I mean hypothermia!” He snapped, trying to ignore the chill that passed through his own body. He looked around, panic threatening to surface in him again. “This is not good.”
“No sh….”
Abruptly, he looked down at John, interrupting him. “Don’t say it.”
In spite of his obvious misery, one side of John’s mouth still twitched.
“You can’t possibly find any of this humorous,” Rodney snapped.
Any ghost of humor disappeared from John’s mud caked face. His eyelids drooped but he still managed to shake his head just slightly. “No.”
Rodney looked up the hill, his frown deepening. Debris was everywhere, the ground an uneven slope of mud that still shifted in places. His gaze grew distant as his mind raced. What would he do? What could he do? Sheppard was the one who always saved their butts, unless it was science and technology, but this situation was far from that. He grit his teeth. John was in no condition to climb back out of this mess even with Rodney’s one-armed help, but in his condition, could Rodney just leave John there? For that matter, with his broken wrist and the unstable hill, could he even make it out on his own?
“McKay,” John’s voice was quiet, but in spite of everything, the colonel managed to inject a note of command into it.
Rodney looked back at him. “What?”
John took a rattling but deep breath. “First… aid. Get a sp-plint on that… arm.” He weakly jerked his head towards Rodney’s injured wrist.
Rodney looked down at his arm still tucked inside his TAC vest. “Right,” he answered, “and your leg.”
“Get your… arm first,” John insisted, “b-before you m-mess with my… leg. I’ll help… ya.”
Rodney pushed himself to his feet and started scrounging, looking for the right sticks to splint his arm and Sheppard’s leg. In the end, he found two sticks of roughly the same length for his arm, and one, long branch that could be broken in half for Sheppard’s leg. He walked back to Sheppard and fell to his knees next to the colonel. “Tape?”
John shifted weakly. “Vest. Left s-side pocket.”
Rodney opened the indicated pocket and pulled out a roll of stout, duct tape. “You’ll have to tear me off strips for this.” He slowly slid the first stick of his arm splint into his TAC vest and along the underside of his arm, grunting as the movement jarred his broken bones. He bit his lip and kept working the stick towards his fingers.
“Breathe… Rodney,” John weakly reminded.
Rodney sucked in a hissing breath through clenched teeth and relaxed slightly as the end of the stick reached the center of his palm, providing ample support for the break. He sat back on his heels, closed his eyes and took some deep breaths as he tried not to pass out.
“Rodney?”
“Give me… a second here,” he snapped. He knew he probably shouldn’t be annoyed. John’s voice, though weak, was decidedly concerned, but he couldn’t help it.
“Take… your time.”
Slowly, Rodney opened his eyes and met Sheppard’s glazed but still understanding look. “Sorry,” he muttered, and Sheppard just silently nodded before he held out a piece of tape, the rough torn edge quivering in response to his shaking hand.
“Secure the end at… y-your elbow first,” John advised. “Easier.”
Unable to come up with any sort of remark, Rodney just nodded and carefully secured the stick, just below his elbow, before he slowly pulled his arm out of his vest and repeated the process, taping the other end of the stick across his knuckles. Sheppard continued supplying him tape as he bound the other stick along the top of his lower arm, effectively immobilizing his wrist. Finished, Rodney sat back on his heels again and swallowed against nausea for a few minutes before the pain faded back down to a constant throb.
He managed to stand and tried to ignore the shake in his knees. “’Let’s go back for a jumper,’ I say,” he groused quietly. “‘No,’ you insist, ‘we don’t need a jumper. We can just walk.’ In the rain. And the mud. And mudslides that happen to occur when we’re walking on a trail. In the mud. And the rain. Did I mention the rain?” He paused and shot a dirty look skyward at the clouds. “Our track record for bad luck should’ve been reason enough to go back.” He turned his glare to John. “Your karma really sucks sometimes.”
John weakly arched a brow. “How do you… know its n-not your karma?”
Indignant, Rodney stiffened. “I’m not… that’s not the point!”
“Uh-huh,” John’s response was raspy. “We’re not… dead. C-can’t be th-that bad.”
“You’re optimism is nauseating.”
“K-keeps us… alive.”
Rodney just glared at him for a moment before he picked up one end of the long branch and put his foot in the center of it. He stepped down hard as he pulled the end towards his chest, breaking the branch roughly in half with a loud snap. Somehow, the aggression made him feel a little better. Grabbing both pieces. he knelt next to John’s broken leg. With his good hand, he carefully scooted small pieces of debris and mud away from broken limb, clearing the area for the splints, which he slid up until the tops were halfway between John’s knee and his hip. He sat back for a moment. “Tape’s not gonna work in this mud.” He looked around, mind racing to find an alternative.
“B-belts,” John supplied.
Rodney looked back at him. “Right.” He reached under his TAC vest and undid his belt, working it free. He set it on the ground before reaching for John’s belt. He pushed up John’s TAC vest and unclipped his gun belt to reach his pants.
“F-first time. B-be gentle… with m-me,” John quipped weakly.
Rodney paused and fixed him with a withering glare. “Stop. Just…” he exhaled loudly. “I have no comment.” He resumed his awkward one-handed fumbling with the buckle.
“Only y-you could have… no comment and st-still be t-talking.”
Rodney sagged, the open buckle still in his hand, and bit back his irritation. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”
“S-see?”
Rodney ground his teeth together as he worked his hand under John’s waist and freed the belt from two more loops. “Lift your hips and before you say whatever it is you’re going to say,” he warned, “just… don’t.”
Through the mud and haze of pain, John still managed a small smile that faded under pain as he lifted himself enough that Rodney could pull his belt free. John collapsed back to the ground and panted hard, falling into another coughing spell, clearly taxed by the effort.
Rodney’s irritation faded under concern. “John?”
John coughed once more and swallowed hard. “’m… okay.”
“The hell you are.” Rodney grabbed both belts and scooted back down to John’s feet. He set his belt down and held onto the buckle end of John’s. Rodney looked down at John’s leg. “I have to get this under your leg so I can secure it.”
“I… know,” John answered.
“I’ll try not to… I mean I’ll be as gentle as…”
“I k-know,” John repeated, interrupting him. “Just do it.” He lifted his head and locked his gaze on Rodney.
Rodney stared back. Through the pain in John’s eyes, he could still see a blunt determination that drove him. He drew in a deep breath. “Right.” He looked down and slowly worked the buckle under John’s thigh, trying not to jostle his leg any more than necessary.
John’s hisses of pain were punctuated by grunts but he said nothing.
Rodney’s mind raced. “I hated taking first aid,” he stated unapologetically. “I’m really not cut out for this. You, Teyla, Ronon, you guys handle this stuff, not me.” Pushing the buckle up through the mud, Rodney pulled it over the top of John’s thigh and buckled it snugly. “Is that too tight?”
“No,” John gasped. “Fine.”
Rodney grabbed his belt and looked down at John’s ankle. Without another word, he slowly worked the buckle through the mud.
John’s breathing turned rapid and his grunts of pain into strangled cries. Rodney could see the twitches coursing through his body as he fought to stay still. This secure point was much closer to the break than the other one, and the effect of him jostling John’s leg, no matter how slight, was much more profound. Finally, Rodney pushed the buckle up through the mud and he paused. “I’m through.”
“Tie it… off,” John managed.
Rodney fed the belt end through the D-rings, and slowly pulled it tight. He’d always preferred the D-ring belts to regular buckles, and in this case, he was glad because he could slowly pull the end and tighten it in one smooth motion. He kept pulling until the belt and the splints were snug against John’s leg, then sat back and looked up at the colonel’s face. John’s eyes were closed and his rapid breathing was gradually slowing. “You okay?” he ventured quietly.
John took a few more breaths before responding. “Yeah.” He opened his eyes. “Good… job.”
Rodney straightened. “Thanks.” He looked around. “But, in case you didn’t notice, we’re still in a lot of trouble here.”
“Help me… s-sit up.”
Rodney looked back at him. “You’re crazy. The last time you tried that, you turned a rather interesting shade of blue that I’d rather not see again!”
“Have to…” John insisted. “Gotta… see. Assess the… situation.”
Rodney looked down at his injured arm and sighed. “Fine, but remember I’m one handed here. It’s not going to be easy.”
“One handed?” John answered, sarcasm still coloring his weak voice. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Smart ass,” Rodney muttered. He stood up and walked behind John before he squatted and felt under the colonel’s neck, finding the top loop in his TAC vest. “Ready?”
John wrapped his left arm around his ribs and shifted, leaning on his right elbow. He nodded. “Ready.”
“On three.”
“Is that… on three or three… and go?”
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Can you stow the Lethal Weapon references please?”
“Surprised you… know it,” John chuckled weakly.
“You made me sit through all four of them,” Rodney snapped. Now, can we do this?” Without warning, he lifted hard on the loop.
After a moment, John’s body sluggishly responded and he cried out in pain. He kept struggling upwards, even when Rodney wavered.
“Maybe you shouldn’t…” Rodney started, but John’s strength only redoubled.
“No. ‘m okay…”
Rodney hissed in pain a couple times himself as he barked his broken wrist, but he still managed to get John at least partially off the ground. Still on his knees, he scooted forward and sat back on his heels, letting John rest against him. He could feel the colonel’s heaving breaths punctuated by audible grunts of pain. A fit of coughing wracked him and Rodney couldn’t do anything but hold onto John’s shoulder. After a few minutes, John seemed to relax slightly and he turned his head towards the hillside.
“It’s a mess.” Rodney winced at stating the obvious, but John only nodded.
“Not… good.”
“Is it my turn to say ‘no shit’?” Rodney asked. He shifted restlessly. “Look, I can climb up and go for help.” Immediately, he felt John tense, his head moving side to side against Rodney’s legs.
“No. Too unstable. Trigger a slide… g-get hurt.”
Rodney felt nothing but hesitation, but the practical facts of the situation couldn’t be denied. He was a scientist and facts always had to take precedence over anything else. “One of us has to get help and I don’t think it’s going to be you.”
“Too dangerous.” John insisted. “Atlantis will… c-come for us when we don’t… make contact.”
“In what? Four hours at least?” Rodney countered. “As far as they’re concerned, we’re safe and happy… well, me anyway. You’re supposed to be politely beating off the advances of the chieftain’s daughter.”
“No,” John answered simply.
Rodney sighed loudly. “We’re cold, it’s raining and we have no shelter. We’re both injured, you worse than me. Even just four hours is a hell of a long time.” He shifted backwards giving John some warning that he was going to stand up. John took the hint and propped himself on his right elbow as Rodney stood, but it didn’t last long. John’s strength gave out and he ended up on his back again in the mud.
“McKay… no,” John gasped. His voice trailed off into another coughing fit.
Rodney’s gaze narrowed. “That settles it,” he straightened. “I’m going.”
“No.” John’s answer was immediate. “Th-that’s an… order.”
Rodney fought against the pain from his left arm, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as a chill raced through his body, hailing the coming hypothermia. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now. “Yeah, well, if you want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me. Again!”
“Damn… it,” John tensed, his voice a mix of frustration and pain.
Rodney froze, staring at him. John’s words could’ve easily fit the circumstances in various different ways, but while he couldn’t explain it, Rodney suddenly knew, with no uncertainty, that his words had nothing to do with their current situation. “What?”
John’s eyes slid shut and his sigh turned into a wet cough. “Can you… stop with… the damned shooting… references?” He took two short, huffing breaths. “Please?”
His last word held a tone of pleading to it, though Rodney knew John would never admit it. A half dozen snarky remarks came to mind but suddenly Rodney had no urge to utter any of them. He’d heard a tone in John’s strained voice that he’d never heard before - a note underscored in pain, yet often hidden by stoicism. Rodney swallowed. “Umm… okay.” He straightened. “But I’m still going.”
“McKay….”
Determined, Rodney almost ignored John. Almost. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you,” he insisted. “Do you think I want to do this? No! But one of us has to, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be you!” Not waiting for a response, Rodney slid his splinted arm into his TAC vest again and started up the slope, jamming one foot into the mud, in front of the other as he slowly made his way through debris. Trees, pieces of trees, debris and rocks ranging from stones to large boulders were everywhere. He quickly realized the debris he could see wasn’t the problem when his right foot hit the edge of a buried boulder and slipped, sending him tumbling into the mud. Rodney dug his foot into the dirt and balanced himself with his right hand as he stood, but the ground under him shifted and gave way. In a flash, he was tumbling down hill again, pummeled by dirt and debris.
The slide was much more localized this time but still had enough power to defeat him. Pain shot up his arm and Rodney felt his foot catch on something. It twisted, sending a spike of pain up his leg. He grabbed with his good hand for anything, but by the time he had enough traction to stop, he was nearly back to John’s position.
“You… okay?” John asked.
Lying on his left side, Rodney looked at John, who’d propped himself up on one shaking elbow and was staring intensely back at him. Rodney panted and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the pain screaming at him from his right ankle and his left wrist. “Ow,” he managed.
“Rodney?” Though gravely, John’s voice was stronger and Rodney heard a shuffle as the colonel tried to move. It was followed quickly by grunts and cries of pain as John, undeterred, continued to move, and it snapped Rodney from his daze.
He rolled on his back. “I’m okay! Stop, you just…. Stop.” He looked over at John, who stopped struggling. Panting, he looked back at Rodney.
“How bad you... hurt?” John was again propped on his right elbow, but it was shaking more than ever.
“Well, I’m not going to be walking anytime soon. I think I broke my ankle… or at least sprained it.” He closed his eyes against the rain that pummeled his face and cursed whatever deity had decided he needed this particular level of misery.
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Rodney snapped then he sighed. “No. Nothing else.” He looked over in time to see John, with a resigned sigh, collapse back to the ground. Another round of coughing wracked his body.
Rodney shivered, unable to control the trembling in his own body, and realized just how serious of trouble they were in. He turned his head, looking again at John, and even from several feet away, he could see the intense shivering that shook his body as his coughing fit ceased.
Slowly, Rodney sat up and maneuvered himself onto his hands and knees. Strike that, he amended, hand, singular, and knees…. He felt like a three legged dog as he slowly worked his way over to John and around behind his head, all the while trying to ignore his ankle and his wrist, though unsuccessfully. “Colonel?”
Shivers shook John’s body, but he rewarded Rodney with a quiet groan, though his eyes stayed shut. Rodney sat down hard, pausing for a moment before he moved his legs to sit, spread eagle with one leg on each side of John. “John?” Silence greeted his inquiry. Alarmed, Rodney shook John’s shoulder slightly. “Oh no, you don’t!” he insisted. “Not now. You’re not leaving me alone in this miserable hellhole!” Rodney grabbed onto the back of John’s TAC vest and heaved, trying to pull the colonel close to him. He’d hated Carson’s survival first aid classes, but he recognized hypothermia for what it was, in both of them. One handed, he managed to move John an inch at best. “Geez, you’re heavy! Lay off the morning waffles already!” He heaved again, and this time he was rewarded with John’s feeble attempt to help. “That’s it. Stop being lazy and help me out here.”
“What’re… you doing?” John’s slurred question was still music to Rodney’s ears. John grunted sharply as his broken leg moved. “Damn it!”
“Saving your ass for a change,” Rodney answered as he pulled again. He didn’t want to move John or hurt him, but he had no choice. Between his efforts and John’s feeble help, he managed to get the colonel pulled up close to him and in a seated position, if a shaky one.
He carefully moved his splinted arm to the side, stifling his grunts of pain as he jostled his wrist. The pain from his recent tumble still screamed through him, and this round of jostling only added its voice to the chorus. He wavered, black spots filling his vision as he settled his arm on his thigh.
“Rodney?” John whispered, apparently hearing Rodney’s heaving breaths.
“Scoot back,” Rodney gasped, “right up against me.” He pulled on John’s TAC vest again and didn’t stop until the colonel’s torso was against his chest. John’s head flopped back on Rodney’s left shoulder and his eyes closed again, but still his body shook as his shivering intensified.
Rodney squeezed his eyes shut in pain, his stomach doing somersaults. “Colonel,” he gasped. Maybe it was just his words, or the pleading note of pain in his voice, but something apparently got John’s immediate attention. Rodney opened his eyes and looked down, meeting John’s glassy but concerned gaze.
“Rod-ney?” his stuttering voice was still slurred but clearer, at least for the moment. “What is… it?”
Rodney fought another wave of nausea and squeezed his eyes shut. All the fight was gone from him, smothered in his own misery. “Wrist,” he gasped. “God….”
“E-easy, buddy,” John encouraged. “D-deep… breaths.”
Rodney nodded. There wasn’t much else John could do at that moment, but the words still helped. Rodney took one long breath, and then another as the pain slowly dimmed from excruciating to barely tolerable.
“Bet…ter?”
“Yeah,” Rodney whispered. Shivering, he wrapped his good arm around John and held him close. Through the intense trembling from John, he could feel a small amount of warmth from the colonel’s back and hoped John felt the same from him. They both were cold, wet, injured and definitely in stage one hypothermia. They had no way to escape the elements, so if either of them stood a chance at survival, they’d need to share body warmth as much as they could. Rodney looked down as John’s eyes slid shut. “Colonel? Colonel!” Rodney’s teeth chattered but his grip with his good arm never wavered.
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Fog clouded John’s head as the cold seeped into his bones, quietly numbing his body little by little. Distantly, he could hear Rodney’s voice, repeating his rank, trying to elicit a response, but as much as he wanted to, John couldn’t manage one. Warm… his addled mind latched onto the thought. Think warm. But with the thought came memories he didn’t want to face.
In the last moment before consciousness fled, John wished he’d just stuck with the cold because right now, warmth was stifling. Warmth reminded him of sand and deserts, and in his mind’s eye, he saw a face he didn’t want to remember….
John squinted at the wound on Holland's head as he tried to ignore the stifling heat from the sun radiating down on the wrecked Pave Hawk fuselage.
"You're not going to do the Florence Nightingale thing, are you?" Holland stared back at him.
John chuckled. "Needs to be cleaned and bandaged, you know that." He unzipped the medical bag and fished around before pulling out a field bandage. He shook the bandage open before he wiped some drying blood and dirt off the gash.
Holland inhaled sharply. "Ouch!"
"Don't be such a pantywaist."
“Helluva situation to be in.” Holland’s expression sobered.
John stared back at him for a long moment. The words were unspoken, yet he knew Holland shared his thoughts. Crashed in enemy territory, it was a flat out race between coalition forces and the Taliban as to who would get them first. John put his money on the guys he worked with, but they had a long way to go - farther than the Taliban in the area. He smothered his uncertainty with confidence. “We’ll get out of this.”
Slowly, Holland smiled a knowing smile. “Definitely.”
--------------------------------
“We’ll make… it,” John’s voice was quiet. “We’ll get… out…”
Rodney looked down at him. “What?” He stared at John’s closed eyes and weakly thrashing head. “Of course we will.”
John’s head slowly stopped moving, coming to rest on his right cheek. “Taliban… won’t get us…” His words were barely more than a whisper before he was still again.
“Tali-” Rodney paused, John’s words suddenly making sense. With his good hand, he reached up and touched John’s forehead. They both should be damned cold as hypothermia took grip, but John’s skin was warm to the touch. “Oh, damn it,” he whispered. “You can’t do anything easy, can you?”
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John steeled his resolve as he watched the truck full of insurgents roll to a stop not far from the crashed Pave. "First time in a situation like this, Captain?" he asked, using rank on purpose.
"Yes, sir," Holland reflexively responded.
John nodded to himself and quietly flipped the safety off his M-16. "Wait until they're on the ground. Then pick ‘em off and disable the trucks."
"Got it," Holland answered.
John turned his head, meeting his friend’s gaze. “Mark, we’ll get through this.” One side of his mouth lifted slightly. “First round of near beer in Kandahar is on you.”
A glint of strength flashed through Holland’s eyes. “You’re on.”
---------------------------------------------------
Rodney couldn’t feel his ass anymore, the cold and numbness having long since taken over. He figured it was a good and bad thing, but he wasn’t able to decide which for certain. As time crawled on, and the cold slowly but surely sapped his strength and muddled his head, he wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, or if John’s skin really was getting hotter to the touch. John’s breathing became labored, and through John’s back, Rodney could feel each breath rattle through the colonel’s body, punctuated occasionally by a weak, raspy and unproductive cough. Hypothermia was a given, but in his gut, Rodney knew it wasn’t the only thing sapping John’s strength. Rodney thought hard, digging into his memories, but he’d never taken Carson’s first aid classes seriously, mostly turning other problems over in his mind as Carson droned on about one condition or another. He would never say it out loud, but at this moment, he really wished he’d paid more attention.
“Where the hell is Carson when you need him?” he muttered. His mind raced and he let it, clinging to the familiar as a way to stay conscious. He had no way of knowing when Atlantis would check in and figure out something was wrong, and no way of helping either of them. “You would’ve thought of something. You always do.” He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on John. In the nearly three years of being on John’s team, Rodney had seen the colonel get them out of more messes than he could count. He had a singular talent for thinking on his feet - a talent Rodney appreciated, not only because it’d saved his butt countless times, but because if there was one thing Rodney could respect, it was brains, and John had ‘em. So many of the technical solutions Rodney had come up with in the eleventh hour had been purely driven by urgency and concocted on the fly. He’d watched John do the same thing in different situations, and though he’d never admit it aloud, he respected the man for it.
His thoughts abruptly settled on their last mission to M1B-129 to find Leonard’s team. His mind seemed to go back to that a lot these days, but it still rattled him. The image of John, staring at him over the top of a P-90, his gaze cold, lethal and detached as he pulled the trigger, haunted Rodney. He could still feel the burn of the bullet as it grazed him, its trajectory off only because of Teyla’s intervention. John, the man that saw to it every one of his team was safe, had shot him without hesitation. Suddenly, the domain of off-world travel felt that much more dangerous. It’d never been safe, but Rodney had taken a measure of comfort knowing John was there to back his team up, if necessary. Now? He wasn’t so sure.
All the logic in the world told Rodney that there was no reason for concern. John hadn’t been himself. He’d been the victim of the Wraith pulse generator and his actions were a direct result of that influence. But inside, Rodney’s confidence still wavered.
He was pulled from his musings with a start as a coughing fit shook John’s body. “Easy,” he said, trying to sound comforting but feeling like he was falling far short. “John?”
-----------------------------------------
Sorrow made its way through the pain in Holland’s eyes. “You and I both… know that I’m not… gonna make… it.”
“Bullshit!” John’s reply was almost venomous. “You got a gorgeous wife and beautiful daughter to go home to, and I’m gonna make damned sure you get back to them. You hear me?” John stiffened at the sounds of vehicles from the other side of the dunes. He looked down again at Holland. “We’ll save this argument for later. You sit there, stay awake and don’t give up. That’s an order, Captain, and I damn well expect you to follow it.”
“Not… giving up….” John slurred. “Can’t… won’t… Gonna get you… home….”
Trotting across the sand, John returned to Holland and froze, staring down at his friend’s closed eyes. “Holland?” He dropped to his knees and shook Holland’s shoulder. “Holland? Mark!” He probed Holland’s neck searching for a carotid pulse. “God damn it! Don’t you do this to me!”
---------------------------------------------------
“Mark… no, don’t… not dying… on me….”
Rodney cocked his head, and looked down at John’s closed eyes and pale face. “Mark? What?” He tried to piece together what John’s delirious words were telling him, the puzzle helping to keep his mind active, but he was at a loss. “Who the hell….”
“Holland…,” John’s brows furrowed and he thrashed weakly. “Mark… don’t die…” John’s weak voice broke. “Please….”
“Holland,” Rodney muttered. “Where have I seen…” his voice trailed off as realization dawned on him. He’d seen that name, more than once, in John’s mission report on M1B-129. Rodney had never heard Sheppard mention Holland before, and after reading the report, natural curiosity had won him over. It’d been a hard search at first, but the harder the search, the more he tended to pursued it. Most of the military records he’d been able to find were sealed with clearances he, surprisingly, didn’t have, but he’d found enough to know who Captain Mark Holland was, and that he’d been killed in action in Afghanistan in 2003.
And just like that, the pieces of this puzzle fell into place. John’s mission report had been so clinical. So factual. The things he’d hallucinated about were included, necessary for the back story as to why he shot not only Ronon but Rodney as well. But John’s ramblings told a story that the mission report didn’t even touch and cast the entire incident in a different light. Rodney sighed, his breath stuttering from more than just the cold. Holland had been John’s friend and John had watched him die.
He shook his head at the pain evident on John’s face in spite of the mud, injuries and delusions. Hearing John’s words and the pain even his delirium couldn’t hide, Rodney saw the entire incident in a different light.
“Oh god,” Rodney whispered. “Wake up. Don’t do this to yourself.”
Rodney’s good arm tightened around John and he tried to suppress his shivering. He had to do something… anything. Rodney mentally reviewed his TAC vest inventory, running through the checklist in his mind and ticking off each useless item. “Don’t think an epipen is going to help,” he muttered as he continued reviewing his inventory. Abruptly, he sat up straighter as his thoughts froze on one item. “Emergency blanket,” he whispered. “Damn it, why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Leaving his left arm resting on his thigh, Rodney lifted his right arm and gently pushed John’s upper body forward, just a little. He worked his arm between their bodies, and twisted his torso just a little, hissing as he was forced to move his injured wrist. Rodney braced his upper arm against John’s back. It was awkward, and he had to struggle to hold all of John’s weight on it, but he managed to torque his elbow, and get his hand into his right, center, TAC vest pocket. The compressed emergency blanket was the size of a credit card and wrapped firmly in a plastic bag.
Rodney carefully eased John back against his chest and tore open the plastic with his teeth. It was an exercise in patience and coordination - both things Rodney knew he was lacking at this particular moment - to not only shake open the blanket, but to fight the rain and light wind to try and cover both of them. In the end, he had to settle for leaving his feet and John’s lower legs exposed as he tented the blanket over their heads and most of their bodies. Rodney tucked in the blanket around them as best he could with one hand and a limited reach, leaving a hole for fresh air on his right side and away from the wind. The blanket stuck, unpleasantly, to his head but it made a decent canopy from the rain. The thermal properties would help hold at least a little heat in to warm both of them, and while they were already wet, it would shelter at least most of their bodies from more cold rain.
Rodney sighed. It was far from a perfect solution, but the only one he had.
Part 2
Word Count: ~ 15k
Genre: Gen/Whump/HC
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay, Team
Warnings: Some mild profanity, whump, HC, a little angst
Summary: Tag for the episode Phantoms. The effects of the Wraith device didn't end once the hallucinations stopped and John's not the only one dealing with the subsequent fallout.
Notes:Written for the help_japan charity auction for a VERY patient recipient who wanted some fallout and resolution between Sheppard and McKay after the events of Phantoms. Many thanks to coolbreeze1 for her awesome beta!
In My Waking Eye
TIMELINE: Between Phantoms and The Return I
John’s eyes reflexively followed the glowing chevron as it circled the gate before locking into position. Almost immediately, the next one started and his eyes went to it as he sighed heavily. He never went into a mission looking for trouble; only a crazy idiot would want to fight and risk his life on a gate mission, but these routine check-ins with trading partners were almost always tedious, to say the least.
He sighed again and forced himself to focus as the wormhole flushed into existence. Just because this was a known and safe world didn’t mean he’d let his guard down. If there was one thing nearly three years of gate missions had taught him, it was never, ever step through that gate with anything less than absolute concentration.
“I still think Teyla and Ronon got the better end of this deal,” Rodney grumbled as he walked up next to John.
John looked sideways at him. “You’d really rather be evaluating Tava bean yields and negotiating a trade agreement with the Kelarians?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.
Rodney shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Now that you put it that way… no. In fact, I’m surprised Ronon went with her.”
“Probably didn’t want to listen to you bitch.”
“Har, har.” What could only be called an evil smile touched Rodney’s lips. “Besides, I’m not the one on this mission who will be the center of attention.”
John’s neutral look turned into a glare. “Don’t start, McKay.”
“What?” Rodney’s feigned innocence popped his voice up an octave. “It’s not my fault that the chieftain’s daughter is sweet on you. Honestly, Colonel, if you’d just learn to reign in that rakish charm of yours, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“I was just being friendly. I can’t help it if she thought otherwise.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure the Chippendales dancers say the same thing,” Rodney shot back. He flashed John an indignant look. “Just make sure you don’t shoot me while you try to fend her off.”
Pain replaced annoyance, and John abruptly looked away, memories of a hot desert and a dying friend flashing through his head.
“Sheppard, whatever happens, thanks for coming after me....”
He stared absently at the intricate design on the floor. In the weeks since they’d returned from trying to rescue Leonard’s team, Rodney had continued to harp on the point that John, victim of a hallucination, had shot him. The act alone spooked John. If it hadn’t been for Teyla, his shot would’ve been lethal.
“I find your silence less than comforting.” Rodney’s impatient voice broke into John’s thoughts.
Blinking hard, John lifted his gun and refocused on the shimmering wormhole. “Let’s get this over with.” He walked towards the gate, Rodney right beside him. Pushing aside the haunting memories, John drew in an instinctive deep breath as he crossed the event horizon.
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John emerged from the wormhole, lowered his gun and squinted as a light rain pelted his face.
“Oh, great,” Rodney groused. “Really? Rain?” He walked purposefully towards the DHD.
John watched him. “What are you doing?”
Rodney rounded the DHD, stopped and looked back at him. “Dialing Atlantis so we can go back and get a jumper.”
John let his gun hang from his TAC vest and rested his hands on it. “Why do we need a jumper?” He had a pretty good idea where the conversation was going, but he asked anyway.
“It’s raining!” Rodney waved his left hand as if it explained everything. He punched the first symbol on the DHD.
“Scratch that. It’s only a little sprinkle, McKay. You’re not going to melt and we’re not going back for a jumper.” Lifting his gun, he started towards a narrow path leading away from the gate and along a steep hillside, his boot soles squishing in the soft mud. It may only be sprinkling right now, but the place had seen a lot of rain recently. After a moment, he heard Rodney’s shuffling steps catching up with him.
“This is ridiculous,” Rodney griped. “Traipsing around in the rain is pointless!”
“McKay, you grew up in Vancouver. You can’t tell me that a light drizzle bothers you.”
“Hello?” Rodney waved his hand emphatically. “I left Vancouver when I went to college. I couldn’t wait to get out of the incessant rain… whoa!”
John reached out, steadying Rodney as his feet slipped in the mud. The path they were following was narrow, nestled right up against a sheer vertical cliff on one side. On their right, was a steep hill. There was very little margin for error and it made John a little nervous. “Talk less and watch your footing more,” he said, letting go of Rodney’s elbow.
“Yet another reason to have a jumper,” Rodney muttered.
John stopped in his tracks and bit his tongue, managing to let the comment go as he watched McKay continue walking away. He was used to Rodney’s pissy moods. It came with the territory of dealing with Doctor Rodney McKay, but sometimes it was harder to deal with than others, especially when his tolerance was low. No matter how much he wanted to push aside memories of Holland, it always took him a long time to succeed at it. And every damned time Rodney brought up the shooting, he had to start the process all over again. Four years had passed since one of his closest friends had died, literally in his arms, and still, it never seemed to get easier. He’d thought he’d put the whole thing behind him, but their recent experience with the Wraith device had proved otherwise.
A half dozen or so yards away, Rodney stopped, turned and stared at him. “Are you going to break into your best imitation of Gene Kelley, or can we please continue on to the village?”
John stared at Rodney for a second before starting towards him. He’d only taken one step before a new sound registered with him. Puzzled, he stopped and looked around, trying to not only identify the deep rumble that grew louder, but pinpoint where it was coming from.
“What now?”
John looked at him again as the rumble grew steadily louder. “Don’t you hear that?”
“Hear wha…” Rodney looked up at the steep hillside above them. “What the hell?”
John’s thoughts matched Rodney’s words. What he first thought was thunder continued to grow louder and lingered far longer than any thunderclap ever would. He looked behind him, trying to find the source.
“Holy crap!”
John spun back towards Rodney, his eyes widening as he watched the hill above his friend start to move. “Mudslide!” He sprinted towards Rodney, as the ground under his feet literally started dissolving, sweeping mud and debris past him and down the steep hill. “Run!” He chanced a glance over his shoulder, his eyes widening as the path behind them disappeared under a massive, brown and gray flow. He focused his attention forward again, fixing his gaze farther down the trail and on McKay’s sprinting form.
He chanced a look up, zeroing in on a huge tree branch teetering on the ledge, and in that moment, it tipped, rushing straight for him and leaving him no time to react. Pain exploded in the side of his head, and instantaneously he felt his feet go out from under him. In the distance, he heard Rodney’s shout.
“John!”
John’s hands instinctively flew up, cradling his head as he slammed down on his right side and tumbled, powerless to stop himself. Cold, wet mud enveloped him, clinging to him like wet cement. The back of his head struck something solid and uncompromising and then he knew nothing but darkness.
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Rodney thought, just for a moment, that he might actually escape. The thought lasted all of one point five seconds, which, he’d learned, was the standard amount of time Pegasus always seemed to give him, before the world came crashing down again. This time, literally.
In a flash, John disappeared, and before Rodney could do anything but shout, the ground under his feet surged and dissolved. He scrambled, his hands clawing in the muddy hill, trying to find purchase but his fingers found nothing except viscous slime and lose debris. In a fleeting moment, he was reminded of the disgusting mud pies his sister had made as a kid, before he was propelled down the hill.
Helpless against the flow around him, he flailed, his arms and legs pulled in all different directions by the forces around him. Debris pummeled his body and his shout of terror only earned him a mouthful of sludge. Panic set in and rational thought fled. Instinctively, he threw his hands behind him, his fingers dragging through the mud, but he knew his efforts were fruitless. Something hard slammed down onto his left hand, ripping another cry from his throat, and this time, he heard it echo around him. Pain raced up his arm and it was all he could do to pull the injured limb close to his body in a vain attempt to protect it.
He had no idea how long or how far he fell, and when his suicidal plunge finally slowed, it took him a minute to realize it. With one last surge, the flow rolled him a few more feet before he came to a stop, nearly face down in the mud.
Rodney lifted his head, spitting grime from his mouth. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his arm returned, and this time, the intensity stole his breath. He crumpled to his right side and rolled on his back, clutching his left hand in agony. His shout of pain turned into a cough and for a minute, all he could do was lay there, hoping he didn’t lose what was left of his breakfast. Slowly the pain subsided and his thoughts started to focus again. He carefully sat up and looked around as his thoughts suddenly coalesced into a single focused point.
John.
Rodney’s eyes widened and he sucked in a deep breath. “John!” His voice was gravely and hoarse, but he wouldn’t be deterred. He twisted, looking all around him, but all he could see was debris and mud. “Oh, god….” If Sheppard’s unconscious and buried… “John!” This time his shout was louder but still, it went unanswered. Letting his injured arm rest in his lap, he reached up, smacking his headset. “Sheppard, this is McKay. Respond!” Static greeted his hail and he winced, cursing the incompatibility of technology and the elements of nature.
He clutched his injured arm tightly, and his breathing turned rapid as he struggled to get his feet under him and stand, all without the use of either arm. He staggered to his feet and looked around again, seeing nothing but mud and debris - a scattered grayish brown mess as far as he could see. “John! Answer me!” he demanded loudly. “Damn it, Colonel.”
Anger fought with panic and added a hard edge to his voice. “If you leave me out here alone, so help me I’ll... I’ll… I’ll think of something!” He reached carefully under his injured wrist, and unzipped his TAC vest almost all the way open. Slowly, he slid his left arm as far inside the vest as he could, allowing it to rest on top of his gun belt. It was inadequate to say the least, but it was all he could do at the moment and it did steady the limb somewhat, freeing his right hand of the duty.
He tripped in the mud but somehow managed to stay on his feet as he searched for his teammate. In the back of his mind, he knew that if Sheppard was buried, the odds of him still being alive were slim, and Rodney, with his own injuries, stood little chance of freeing him anyway. He tripped again, this time over a half buried tree root, and fell sideways into a large, upended stump, the jagged roots poking into his side. “Damn it!” He pushed away, rounded the end of the stump and froze.
At first, his mind couldn’t quite register what he was seeing, but when it did, it sent a cold fear through him. Ten feet away, it was hard to tell the difference between John’s supine body and the mud around him, but more concerning to Rodney was the colonel’s deathly still form. Shocked, Rodney’s paralysis lasted only a moment. “John!” He stumbled around the stump, staggered and fell unceremoniously to his knees right next to John’s head which, like most of the rest of his body, was miraculously unburied. How he’d managed to not be crushed by an enormous tree trunk only ten feet away from him was a mystery, but Rodney didn’t question it.
He pressed his fingers into the cold flesh of John’s neck, searching for signs of life as he stared at the colonel’s closed eyes. “Come on, damn it,” he muttered. As if in response, a slow, steady beat tapped back against his fingers and a quiet moan answered his demands. “Oh, thank god,” Rodney sighed. “Sheppard? Come on, answer me.”
John groaned again, this time a little louder, and his mud-caked eyelids fluttered.
“Sheppard!”
John’s brows furrowed and his eyes opened. “M’Kay…?”
“Yes,” Rodney answered relief within him warring with fear. “What’s left of me anyway.”
John’s gaze cleared slightly and he lifted his head, starting to sit up. He got as far as his shoulders clearing the ground, before his eyes squeezed shut and he cried out, falling back to the ground. He writhed weakly, coughing, his arms clenched to his chest. Even through the mud, Rodney could see a bluish tinge to his lips and abruptly, John’s cough trailed off in a pitiful wheeze.
“Oh, god.” Rodney held firmly to John’s shoulder. “Colonel? John? You should… breathe… Breathe!”
John’s shoulders hunched, and he abruptly drew in a shuddering breath, and then another, before flopping back in the mud, his face twisting into a pained expression and tension rippling through his body.
Rodney checked his panic at the possibility of Sheppard expiring right before his eyes, and smothered it with the only reaction he was capable of. He not so gently planted his right hand on John’s chest. “Well, that was remarkably stupid,” he snapped, any of his small amounts of patience long gone. “How about we figure out your injuries before you move?”
“Charming,” John managed, his voice slightly slurred. “Great bedside… manner....” He coughed hard and labored before grunting in pain, his body tensing again.
“What is it?” Rodney demanded, his gaze darting over John’s body. “What? Tell me! What?”
“McKay. Calm… down.”
Rodney stiffened and chastised himself silently. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Right. Where are you hurt?”
“Head… ribs… leg. Think I swallowed some of this… shit….” His eyes slid shut.
Rodney stiffened in alarm and poked John in the shoulder. “Hey! No checking out on me, Sheppard!” He poked again, and John groaned in weak protest. “Unless you’ve grown another head, I think I can pinpoint that injury, but which ribs and which leg?”
John’s eyes slowly opened again. “Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Left ribs… right leg.”
“Huh,” Rodney grunted in pain, his hand and wrist protesting any movement as he turned towards John’s legs. “At least you’re symmetrical.” He thought he heard what passed as a weak chuckle from the colonel, but Rodney didn’t look away as his gaze slowly traveled down John’s right leg. An unnatural bulge halfway between John’s knee and foot made him wince. “Oh that’s just… yeah, broken.”
“Thanks for… confirming.” John’s weak voice still held a note of sarcasm. “You?”
Rodney grit his teeth against the pain and resisted the urge to shrug. “Your right leg, my left wrist… we’re a matched set.”
“Damn it,” John gasped, his words turning into a grunt. “How… bad?”
“How bad?” Rodney stared incredulously at John. “It’s broken! That’s how bad!”
In spite of the pain clouding his eyes, John still managed to convey a small amount of annoyance. “I mean… complications… compound?”
Rodney swallowed, wincing at the putrid taste in his mouth and fighting a stomach that rebelled over the same thing. “Oh.” Rodney shook his head. “No. Luckily. Neither is yours.”
“Not so… bad then.” John’s eyes squeezed shut and he drew in a stuttering breath.
“You have an alarmingly high threshold for what is considered ‘bad’,” Rodney muttered. He stared intently at Sheppard, noticing the tremor that rippled through his body before turning into constant shivers. He looked up, squinting as the rain picked up in intensity and suddenly pieces of field first aid, forced on him by Carson, fell into place. “You’re cold,” he whispered.
John cracked open one eye and looked at him. “No… shit.”
Rodney sagged in disgust, his abrupt movement sparking complaints from his broken hand, which only soured him even more. “I mean hypothermia!” He snapped, trying to ignore the chill that passed through his own body. He looked around, panic threatening to surface in him again. “This is not good.”
“No sh….”
Abruptly, he looked down at John, interrupting him. “Don’t say it.”
In spite of his obvious misery, one side of John’s mouth still twitched.
“You can’t possibly find any of this humorous,” Rodney snapped.
Any ghost of humor disappeared from John’s mud caked face. His eyelids drooped but he still managed to shake his head just slightly. “No.”
Rodney looked up the hill, his frown deepening. Debris was everywhere, the ground an uneven slope of mud that still shifted in places. His gaze grew distant as his mind raced. What would he do? What could he do? Sheppard was the one who always saved their butts, unless it was science and technology, but this situation was far from that. He grit his teeth. John was in no condition to climb back out of this mess even with Rodney’s one-armed help, but in his condition, could Rodney just leave John there? For that matter, with his broken wrist and the unstable hill, could he even make it out on his own?
“McKay,” John’s voice was quiet, but in spite of everything, the colonel managed to inject a note of command into it.
Rodney looked back at him. “What?”
John took a rattling but deep breath. “First… aid. Get a sp-plint on that… arm.” He weakly jerked his head towards Rodney’s injured wrist.
Rodney looked down at his arm still tucked inside his TAC vest. “Right,” he answered, “and your leg.”
“Get your… arm first,” John insisted, “b-before you m-mess with my… leg. I’ll help… ya.”
Rodney pushed himself to his feet and started scrounging, looking for the right sticks to splint his arm and Sheppard’s leg. In the end, he found two sticks of roughly the same length for his arm, and one, long branch that could be broken in half for Sheppard’s leg. He walked back to Sheppard and fell to his knees next to the colonel. “Tape?”
John shifted weakly. “Vest. Left s-side pocket.”
Rodney opened the indicated pocket and pulled out a roll of stout, duct tape. “You’ll have to tear me off strips for this.” He slowly slid the first stick of his arm splint into his TAC vest and along the underside of his arm, grunting as the movement jarred his broken bones. He bit his lip and kept working the stick towards his fingers.
“Breathe… Rodney,” John weakly reminded.
Rodney sucked in a hissing breath through clenched teeth and relaxed slightly as the end of the stick reached the center of his palm, providing ample support for the break. He sat back on his heels, closed his eyes and took some deep breaths as he tried not to pass out.
“Rodney?”
“Give me… a second here,” he snapped. He knew he probably shouldn’t be annoyed. John’s voice, though weak, was decidedly concerned, but he couldn’t help it.
“Take… your time.”
Slowly, Rodney opened his eyes and met Sheppard’s glazed but still understanding look. “Sorry,” he muttered, and Sheppard just silently nodded before he held out a piece of tape, the rough torn edge quivering in response to his shaking hand.
“Secure the end at… y-your elbow first,” John advised. “Easier.”
Unable to come up with any sort of remark, Rodney just nodded and carefully secured the stick, just below his elbow, before he slowly pulled his arm out of his vest and repeated the process, taping the other end of the stick across his knuckles. Sheppard continued supplying him tape as he bound the other stick along the top of his lower arm, effectively immobilizing his wrist. Finished, Rodney sat back on his heels again and swallowed against nausea for a few minutes before the pain faded back down to a constant throb.
He managed to stand and tried to ignore the shake in his knees. “’Let’s go back for a jumper,’ I say,” he groused quietly. “‘No,’ you insist, ‘we don’t need a jumper. We can just walk.’ In the rain. And the mud. And mudslides that happen to occur when we’re walking on a trail. In the mud. And the rain. Did I mention the rain?” He paused and shot a dirty look skyward at the clouds. “Our track record for bad luck should’ve been reason enough to go back.” He turned his glare to John. “Your karma really sucks sometimes.”
John weakly arched a brow. “How do you… know its n-not your karma?”
Indignant, Rodney stiffened. “I’m not… that’s not the point!”
“Uh-huh,” John’s response was raspy. “We’re not… dead. C-can’t be th-that bad.”
“You’re optimism is nauseating.”
“K-keeps us… alive.”
Rodney just glared at him for a moment before he picked up one end of the long branch and put his foot in the center of it. He stepped down hard as he pulled the end towards his chest, breaking the branch roughly in half with a loud snap. Somehow, the aggression made him feel a little better. Grabbing both pieces. he knelt next to John’s broken leg. With his good hand, he carefully scooted small pieces of debris and mud away from broken limb, clearing the area for the splints, which he slid up until the tops were halfway between John’s knee and his hip. He sat back for a moment. “Tape’s not gonna work in this mud.” He looked around, mind racing to find an alternative.
“B-belts,” John supplied.
Rodney looked back at him. “Right.” He reached under his TAC vest and undid his belt, working it free. He set it on the ground before reaching for John’s belt. He pushed up John’s TAC vest and unclipped his gun belt to reach his pants.
“F-first time. B-be gentle… with m-me,” John quipped weakly.
Rodney paused and fixed him with a withering glare. “Stop. Just…” he exhaled loudly. “I have no comment.” He resumed his awkward one-handed fumbling with the buckle.
“Only y-you could have… no comment and st-still be t-talking.”
Rodney sagged, the open buckle still in his hand, and bit back his irritation. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”
“S-see?”
Rodney ground his teeth together as he worked his hand under John’s waist and freed the belt from two more loops. “Lift your hips and before you say whatever it is you’re going to say,” he warned, “just… don’t.”
Through the mud and haze of pain, John still managed a small smile that faded under pain as he lifted himself enough that Rodney could pull his belt free. John collapsed back to the ground and panted hard, falling into another coughing spell, clearly taxed by the effort.
Rodney’s irritation faded under concern. “John?”
John coughed once more and swallowed hard. “’m… okay.”
“The hell you are.” Rodney grabbed both belts and scooted back down to John’s feet. He set his belt down and held onto the buckle end of John’s. Rodney looked down at John’s leg. “I have to get this under your leg so I can secure it.”
“I… know,” John answered.
“I’ll try not to… I mean I’ll be as gentle as…”
“I k-know,” John repeated, interrupting him. “Just do it.” He lifted his head and locked his gaze on Rodney.
Rodney stared back. Through the pain in John’s eyes, he could still see a blunt determination that drove him. He drew in a deep breath. “Right.” He looked down and slowly worked the buckle under John’s thigh, trying not to jostle his leg any more than necessary.
John’s hisses of pain were punctuated by grunts but he said nothing.
Rodney’s mind raced. “I hated taking first aid,” he stated unapologetically. “I’m really not cut out for this. You, Teyla, Ronon, you guys handle this stuff, not me.” Pushing the buckle up through the mud, Rodney pulled it over the top of John’s thigh and buckled it snugly. “Is that too tight?”
“No,” John gasped. “Fine.”
Rodney grabbed his belt and looked down at John’s ankle. Without another word, he slowly worked the buckle through the mud.
John’s breathing turned rapid and his grunts of pain into strangled cries. Rodney could see the twitches coursing through his body as he fought to stay still. This secure point was much closer to the break than the other one, and the effect of him jostling John’s leg, no matter how slight, was much more profound. Finally, Rodney pushed the buckle up through the mud and he paused. “I’m through.”
“Tie it… off,” John managed.
Rodney fed the belt end through the D-rings, and slowly pulled it tight. He’d always preferred the D-ring belts to regular buckles, and in this case, he was glad because he could slowly pull the end and tighten it in one smooth motion. He kept pulling until the belt and the splints were snug against John’s leg, then sat back and looked up at the colonel’s face. John’s eyes were closed and his rapid breathing was gradually slowing. “You okay?” he ventured quietly.
John took a few more breaths before responding. “Yeah.” He opened his eyes. “Good… job.”
Rodney straightened. “Thanks.” He looked around. “But, in case you didn’t notice, we’re still in a lot of trouble here.”
“Help me… s-sit up.”
Rodney looked back at him. “You’re crazy. The last time you tried that, you turned a rather interesting shade of blue that I’d rather not see again!”
“Have to…” John insisted. “Gotta… see. Assess the… situation.”
Rodney looked down at his injured arm and sighed. “Fine, but remember I’m one handed here. It’s not going to be easy.”
“One handed?” John answered, sarcasm still coloring his weak voice. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Smart ass,” Rodney muttered. He stood up and walked behind John before he squatted and felt under the colonel’s neck, finding the top loop in his TAC vest. “Ready?”
John wrapped his left arm around his ribs and shifted, leaning on his right elbow. He nodded. “Ready.”
“On three.”
“Is that… on three or three… and go?”
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Can you stow the Lethal Weapon references please?”
“Surprised you… know it,” John chuckled weakly.
“You made me sit through all four of them,” Rodney snapped. Now, can we do this?” Without warning, he lifted hard on the loop.
After a moment, John’s body sluggishly responded and he cried out in pain. He kept struggling upwards, even when Rodney wavered.
“Maybe you shouldn’t…” Rodney started, but John’s strength only redoubled.
“No. ‘m okay…”
Rodney hissed in pain a couple times himself as he barked his broken wrist, but he still managed to get John at least partially off the ground. Still on his knees, he scooted forward and sat back on his heels, letting John rest against him. He could feel the colonel’s heaving breaths punctuated by audible grunts of pain. A fit of coughing wracked him and Rodney couldn’t do anything but hold onto John’s shoulder. After a few minutes, John seemed to relax slightly and he turned his head towards the hillside.
“It’s a mess.” Rodney winced at stating the obvious, but John only nodded.
“Not… good.”
“Is it my turn to say ‘no shit’?” Rodney asked. He shifted restlessly. “Look, I can climb up and go for help.” Immediately, he felt John tense, his head moving side to side against Rodney’s legs.
“No. Too unstable. Trigger a slide… g-get hurt.”
Rodney felt nothing but hesitation, but the practical facts of the situation couldn’t be denied. He was a scientist and facts always had to take precedence over anything else. “One of us has to get help and I don’t think it’s going to be you.”
“Too dangerous.” John insisted. “Atlantis will… c-come for us when we don’t… make contact.”
“In what? Four hours at least?” Rodney countered. “As far as they’re concerned, we’re safe and happy… well, me anyway. You’re supposed to be politely beating off the advances of the chieftain’s daughter.”
“No,” John answered simply.
Rodney sighed loudly. “We’re cold, it’s raining and we have no shelter. We’re both injured, you worse than me. Even just four hours is a hell of a long time.” He shifted backwards giving John some warning that he was going to stand up. John took the hint and propped himself on his right elbow as Rodney stood, but it didn’t last long. John’s strength gave out and he ended up on his back again in the mud.
“McKay… no,” John gasped. His voice trailed off into another coughing fit.
Rodney’s gaze narrowed. “That settles it,” he straightened. “I’m going.”
“No.” John’s answer was immediate. “Th-that’s an… order.”
Rodney fought against the pain from his left arm, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as a chill raced through his body, hailing the coming hypothermia. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now. “Yeah, well, if you want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me. Again!”
“Damn… it,” John tensed, his voice a mix of frustration and pain.
Rodney froze, staring at him. John’s words could’ve easily fit the circumstances in various different ways, but while he couldn’t explain it, Rodney suddenly knew, with no uncertainty, that his words had nothing to do with their current situation. “What?”
John’s eyes slid shut and his sigh turned into a wet cough. “Can you… stop with… the damned shooting… references?” He took two short, huffing breaths. “Please?”
His last word held a tone of pleading to it, though Rodney knew John would never admit it. A half dozen snarky remarks came to mind but suddenly Rodney had no urge to utter any of them. He’d heard a tone in John’s strained voice that he’d never heard before - a note underscored in pain, yet often hidden by stoicism. Rodney swallowed. “Umm… okay.” He straightened. “But I’m still going.”
“McKay….”
Determined, Rodney almost ignored John. Almost. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you,” he insisted. “Do you think I want to do this? No! But one of us has to, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be you!” Not waiting for a response, Rodney slid his splinted arm into his TAC vest again and started up the slope, jamming one foot into the mud, in front of the other as he slowly made his way through debris. Trees, pieces of trees, debris and rocks ranging from stones to large boulders were everywhere. He quickly realized the debris he could see wasn’t the problem when his right foot hit the edge of a buried boulder and slipped, sending him tumbling into the mud. Rodney dug his foot into the dirt and balanced himself with his right hand as he stood, but the ground under him shifted and gave way. In a flash, he was tumbling down hill again, pummeled by dirt and debris.
The slide was much more localized this time but still had enough power to defeat him. Pain shot up his arm and Rodney felt his foot catch on something. It twisted, sending a spike of pain up his leg. He grabbed with his good hand for anything, but by the time he had enough traction to stop, he was nearly back to John’s position.
“You… okay?” John asked.
Lying on his left side, Rodney looked at John, who’d propped himself up on one shaking elbow and was staring intensely back at him. Rodney panted and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the pain screaming at him from his right ankle and his left wrist. “Ow,” he managed.
“Rodney?” Though gravely, John’s voice was stronger and Rodney heard a shuffle as the colonel tried to move. It was followed quickly by grunts and cries of pain as John, undeterred, continued to move, and it snapped Rodney from his daze.
He rolled on his back. “I’m okay! Stop, you just…. Stop.” He looked over at John, who stopped struggling. Panting, he looked back at Rodney.
“How bad you... hurt?” John was again propped on his right elbow, but it was shaking more than ever.
“Well, I’m not going to be walking anytime soon. I think I broke my ankle… or at least sprained it.” He closed his eyes against the rain that pummeled his face and cursed whatever deity had decided he needed this particular level of misery.
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Rodney snapped then he sighed. “No. Nothing else.” He looked over in time to see John, with a resigned sigh, collapse back to the ground. Another round of coughing wracked his body.
Rodney shivered, unable to control the trembling in his own body, and realized just how serious of trouble they were in. He turned his head, looking again at John, and even from several feet away, he could see the intense shivering that shook his body as his coughing fit ceased.
Slowly, Rodney sat up and maneuvered himself onto his hands and knees. Strike that, he amended, hand, singular, and knees…. He felt like a three legged dog as he slowly worked his way over to John and around behind his head, all the while trying to ignore his ankle and his wrist, though unsuccessfully. “Colonel?”
Shivers shook John’s body, but he rewarded Rodney with a quiet groan, though his eyes stayed shut. Rodney sat down hard, pausing for a moment before he moved his legs to sit, spread eagle with one leg on each side of John. “John?” Silence greeted his inquiry. Alarmed, Rodney shook John’s shoulder slightly. “Oh no, you don’t!” he insisted. “Not now. You’re not leaving me alone in this miserable hellhole!” Rodney grabbed onto the back of John’s TAC vest and heaved, trying to pull the colonel close to him. He’d hated Carson’s survival first aid classes, but he recognized hypothermia for what it was, in both of them. One handed, he managed to move John an inch at best. “Geez, you’re heavy! Lay off the morning waffles already!” He heaved again, and this time he was rewarded with John’s feeble attempt to help. “That’s it. Stop being lazy and help me out here.”
“What’re… you doing?” John’s slurred question was still music to Rodney’s ears. John grunted sharply as his broken leg moved. “Damn it!”
“Saving your ass for a change,” Rodney answered as he pulled again. He didn’t want to move John or hurt him, but he had no choice. Between his efforts and John’s feeble help, he managed to get the colonel pulled up close to him and in a seated position, if a shaky one.
He carefully moved his splinted arm to the side, stifling his grunts of pain as he jostled his wrist. The pain from his recent tumble still screamed through him, and this round of jostling only added its voice to the chorus. He wavered, black spots filling his vision as he settled his arm on his thigh.
“Rodney?” John whispered, apparently hearing Rodney’s heaving breaths.
“Scoot back,” Rodney gasped, “right up against me.” He pulled on John’s TAC vest again and didn’t stop until the colonel’s torso was against his chest. John’s head flopped back on Rodney’s left shoulder and his eyes closed again, but still his body shook as his shivering intensified.
Rodney squeezed his eyes shut in pain, his stomach doing somersaults. “Colonel,” he gasped. Maybe it was just his words, or the pleading note of pain in his voice, but something apparently got John’s immediate attention. Rodney opened his eyes and looked down, meeting John’s glassy but concerned gaze.
“Rod-ney?” his stuttering voice was still slurred but clearer, at least for the moment. “What is… it?”
Rodney fought another wave of nausea and squeezed his eyes shut. All the fight was gone from him, smothered in his own misery. “Wrist,” he gasped. “God….”
“E-easy, buddy,” John encouraged. “D-deep… breaths.”
Rodney nodded. There wasn’t much else John could do at that moment, but the words still helped. Rodney took one long breath, and then another as the pain slowly dimmed from excruciating to barely tolerable.
“Bet…ter?”
“Yeah,” Rodney whispered. Shivering, he wrapped his good arm around John and held him close. Through the intense trembling from John, he could feel a small amount of warmth from the colonel’s back and hoped John felt the same from him. They both were cold, wet, injured and definitely in stage one hypothermia. They had no way to escape the elements, so if either of them stood a chance at survival, they’d need to share body warmth as much as they could. Rodney looked down as John’s eyes slid shut. “Colonel? Colonel!” Rodney’s teeth chattered but his grip with his good arm never wavered.
--------------------------------------
Fog clouded John’s head as the cold seeped into his bones, quietly numbing his body little by little. Distantly, he could hear Rodney’s voice, repeating his rank, trying to elicit a response, but as much as he wanted to, John couldn’t manage one. Warm… his addled mind latched onto the thought. Think warm. But with the thought came memories he didn’t want to face.
In the last moment before consciousness fled, John wished he’d just stuck with the cold because right now, warmth was stifling. Warmth reminded him of sand and deserts, and in his mind’s eye, he saw a face he didn’t want to remember….
John squinted at the wound on Holland's head as he tried to ignore the stifling heat from the sun radiating down on the wrecked Pave Hawk fuselage.
"You're not going to do the Florence Nightingale thing, are you?" Holland stared back at him.
John chuckled. "Needs to be cleaned and bandaged, you know that." He unzipped the medical bag and fished around before pulling out a field bandage. He shook the bandage open before he wiped some drying blood and dirt off the gash.
Holland inhaled sharply. "Ouch!"
"Don't be such a pantywaist."
“Helluva situation to be in.” Holland’s expression sobered.
John stared back at him for a long moment. The words were unspoken, yet he knew Holland shared his thoughts. Crashed in enemy territory, it was a flat out race between coalition forces and the Taliban as to who would get them first. John put his money on the guys he worked with, but they had a long way to go - farther than the Taliban in the area. He smothered his uncertainty with confidence. “We’ll get out of this.”
Slowly, Holland smiled a knowing smile. “Definitely.”
--------------------------------
“We’ll make… it,” John’s voice was quiet. “We’ll get… out…”
Rodney looked down at him. “What?” He stared at John’s closed eyes and weakly thrashing head. “Of course we will.”
John’s head slowly stopped moving, coming to rest on his right cheek. “Taliban… won’t get us…” His words were barely more than a whisper before he was still again.
“Tali-” Rodney paused, John’s words suddenly making sense. With his good hand, he reached up and touched John’s forehead. They both should be damned cold as hypothermia took grip, but John’s skin was warm to the touch. “Oh, damn it,” he whispered. “You can’t do anything easy, can you?”
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John steeled his resolve as he watched the truck full of insurgents roll to a stop not far from the crashed Pave. "First time in a situation like this, Captain?" he asked, using rank on purpose.
"Yes, sir," Holland reflexively responded.
John nodded to himself and quietly flipped the safety off his M-16. "Wait until they're on the ground. Then pick ‘em off and disable the trucks."
"Got it," Holland answered.
John turned his head, meeting his friend’s gaze. “Mark, we’ll get through this.” One side of his mouth lifted slightly. “First round of near beer in Kandahar is on you.”
A glint of strength flashed through Holland’s eyes. “You’re on.”
---------------------------------------------------
Rodney couldn’t feel his ass anymore, the cold and numbness having long since taken over. He figured it was a good and bad thing, but he wasn’t able to decide which for certain. As time crawled on, and the cold slowly but surely sapped his strength and muddled his head, he wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, or if John’s skin really was getting hotter to the touch. John’s breathing became labored, and through John’s back, Rodney could feel each breath rattle through the colonel’s body, punctuated occasionally by a weak, raspy and unproductive cough. Hypothermia was a given, but in his gut, Rodney knew it wasn’t the only thing sapping John’s strength. Rodney thought hard, digging into his memories, but he’d never taken Carson’s first aid classes seriously, mostly turning other problems over in his mind as Carson droned on about one condition or another. He would never say it out loud, but at this moment, he really wished he’d paid more attention.
“Where the hell is Carson when you need him?” he muttered. His mind raced and he let it, clinging to the familiar as a way to stay conscious. He had no way of knowing when Atlantis would check in and figure out something was wrong, and no way of helping either of them. “You would’ve thought of something. You always do.” He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on John. In the nearly three years of being on John’s team, Rodney had seen the colonel get them out of more messes than he could count. He had a singular talent for thinking on his feet - a talent Rodney appreciated, not only because it’d saved his butt countless times, but because if there was one thing Rodney could respect, it was brains, and John had ‘em. So many of the technical solutions Rodney had come up with in the eleventh hour had been purely driven by urgency and concocted on the fly. He’d watched John do the same thing in different situations, and though he’d never admit it aloud, he respected the man for it.
His thoughts abruptly settled on their last mission to M1B-129 to find Leonard’s team. His mind seemed to go back to that a lot these days, but it still rattled him. The image of John, staring at him over the top of a P-90, his gaze cold, lethal and detached as he pulled the trigger, haunted Rodney. He could still feel the burn of the bullet as it grazed him, its trajectory off only because of Teyla’s intervention. John, the man that saw to it every one of his team was safe, had shot him without hesitation. Suddenly, the domain of off-world travel felt that much more dangerous. It’d never been safe, but Rodney had taken a measure of comfort knowing John was there to back his team up, if necessary. Now? He wasn’t so sure.
All the logic in the world told Rodney that there was no reason for concern. John hadn’t been himself. He’d been the victim of the Wraith pulse generator and his actions were a direct result of that influence. But inside, Rodney’s confidence still wavered.
He was pulled from his musings with a start as a coughing fit shook John’s body. “Easy,” he said, trying to sound comforting but feeling like he was falling far short. “John?”
-----------------------------------------
Sorrow made its way through the pain in Holland’s eyes. “You and I both… know that I’m not… gonna make… it.”
“Bullshit!” John’s reply was almost venomous. “You got a gorgeous wife and beautiful daughter to go home to, and I’m gonna make damned sure you get back to them. You hear me?” John stiffened at the sounds of vehicles from the other side of the dunes. He looked down again at Holland. “We’ll save this argument for later. You sit there, stay awake and don’t give up. That’s an order, Captain, and I damn well expect you to follow it.”
“Not… giving up….” John slurred. “Can’t… won’t… Gonna get you… home….”
Trotting across the sand, John returned to Holland and froze, staring down at his friend’s closed eyes. “Holland?” He dropped to his knees and shook Holland’s shoulder. “Holland? Mark!” He probed Holland’s neck searching for a carotid pulse. “God damn it! Don’t you do this to me!”
---------------------------------------------------
“Mark… no, don’t… not dying… on me….”
Rodney cocked his head, and looked down at John’s closed eyes and pale face. “Mark? What?” He tried to piece together what John’s delirious words were telling him, the puzzle helping to keep his mind active, but he was at a loss. “Who the hell….”
“Holland…,” John’s brows furrowed and he thrashed weakly. “Mark… don’t die…” John’s weak voice broke. “Please….”
“Holland,” Rodney muttered. “Where have I seen…” his voice trailed off as realization dawned on him. He’d seen that name, more than once, in John’s mission report on M1B-129. Rodney had never heard Sheppard mention Holland before, and after reading the report, natural curiosity had won him over. It’d been a hard search at first, but the harder the search, the more he tended to pursued it. Most of the military records he’d been able to find were sealed with clearances he, surprisingly, didn’t have, but he’d found enough to know who Captain Mark Holland was, and that he’d been killed in action in Afghanistan in 2003.
And just like that, the pieces of this puzzle fell into place. John’s mission report had been so clinical. So factual. The things he’d hallucinated about were included, necessary for the back story as to why he shot not only Ronon but Rodney as well. But John’s ramblings told a story that the mission report didn’t even touch and cast the entire incident in a different light. Rodney sighed, his breath stuttering from more than just the cold. Holland had been John’s friend and John had watched him die.
He shook his head at the pain evident on John’s face in spite of the mud, injuries and delusions. Hearing John’s words and the pain even his delirium couldn’t hide, Rodney saw the entire incident in a different light.
“Oh god,” Rodney whispered. “Wake up. Don’t do this to yourself.”
Rodney’s good arm tightened around John and he tried to suppress his shivering. He had to do something… anything. Rodney mentally reviewed his TAC vest inventory, running through the checklist in his mind and ticking off each useless item. “Don’t think an epipen is going to help,” he muttered as he continued reviewing his inventory. Abruptly, he sat up straighter as his thoughts froze on one item. “Emergency blanket,” he whispered. “Damn it, why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Leaving his left arm resting on his thigh, Rodney lifted his right arm and gently pushed John’s upper body forward, just a little. He worked his arm between their bodies, and twisted his torso just a little, hissing as he was forced to move his injured wrist. Rodney braced his upper arm against John’s back. It was awkward, and he had to struggle to hold all of John’s weight on it, but he managed to torque his elbow, and get his hand into his right, center, TAC vest pocket. The compressed emergency blanket was the size of a credit card and wrapped firmly in a plastic bag.
Rodney carefully eased John back against his chest and tore open the plastic with his teeth. It was an exercise in patience and coordination - both things Rodney knew he was lacking at this particular moment - to not only shake open the blanket, but to fight the rain and light wind to try and cover both of them. In the end, he had to settle for leaving his feet and John’s lower legs exposed as he tented the blanket over their heads and most of their bodies. Rodney tucked in the blanket around them as best he could with one hand and a limited reach, leaving a hole for fresh air on his right side and away from the wind. The blanket stuck, unpleasantly, to his head but it made a decent canopy from the rain. The thermal properties would help hold at least a little heat in to warm both of them, and while they were already wet, it would shelter at least most of their bodies from more cold rain.
Rodney sighed. It was far from a perfect solution, but the only one he had.
Part 2