Fic: Aleatoric Life 2/25: Bocca Chiusa
Title: Aleatoric Life 2: Bocca Chiusa
Author: SGAtlantisLight
Characters: McKay, Sheppard, Beckett, Biro, Heightmeyer, Weir
Relationships: Beckett/McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R, though the series as a whole is NC-17
Warnings: Mention of non-con, major character whumpage, language.
Spoilers: None this part
Summary: They had rescued him, but they had yet to truly bring him safely home. Part of the Aleatoric Life series.
Disclaimer: Undoubtedly I own them, and a whole lot of other things, in some universe, but not this one.
"Rodney?" John called, walking into the apartment that the three men shared several nights a week.
Technically, it was Carson's, which made it a bit odd to be here when Carson was spending the night under observation in the infirmary.
He followed the sound of running water. "Rodney?"
Steam billowed out of the bathroom. For a moment, it appeared the shower was empty, then John caught sight through the fogged glass of the figure huddled in the far corner. Still fully clothed, John threw the shower door open and hesitated only a moment. Rodney sat staring at his hands and rocking back and forth, gasping.
"Rodney?"
His lover continued to rock, staring, a strange animal sound in the back of his throat.
John shut off the water and dropped to his knees. "Hey! Rodney... Babe?" When Rodney didn't look up, John reached out and cupped his jaw, tilting his face to stare into bloodshot eyes. "Hey," he said as Rodney's eyes focused.
Rodney looked confused and lost. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"I... I don't know. I came in to wash... to wash off Carson's... blood."
"How long ago?" John asked, noting the deep pruning on Rodney's hands and feet.
"Um. I don't know. Right after I left the infirmary."
"How long after me did you leave?"
"Not long. Carson... He wanted to be alone."
"Okay," John said softly, hiding his worry. "Come on, let's get you dried off and dressed and fed."
"I'm not hungry."
"You either eat or I drag you down to the infirmary. Heightmeyer's taking Carson's shifts."
Rodney shuddered. "She asked about the scratches."
"Yeah?" John asked, rubbing a towel through Rodney's hair and then down to his arms and chest. "What did you tell her?"
Rodney closed his eyes, standing silently as John quickly dried him before answering. "I told her I didn't remember. I really don't, you know. It wasn't until afterward that I noticed them."
"Yeah," John nodded, leading Rodney into the bedroom and sitting him on the bed, Rodney frighteningly pliant. John dug into the drawer where Rodney kept a couple of spare outfits and pyjamas.
"All I remember is the blood... and the way they were laughing... and the smell. Oh, God! I could have... Well, yeah."
John dropped a pair of sweats and a soft tee shirt on the bed, then slipped his fingers into Rodney's damp hair, spiking it up. His lovers had teased him about his hair fetish, but hadn't seemed to mind his playing. He leaned down and kissed Rodney's hair. "Get dressed and I'll throw something together for you to eat."
A few minutes later when he returned, Rodney was still sitting on the bed naked, the shirt wadded in his lap, staring at his hands.
"Hey, are you sure you're okay?"
Rodney shook his head. "I want to go back and find the two that got away. I want to find them and make them pay." His hands curled into fists in his lap. "I want to watch them die... slowly. And that scares me."
John nodded, remembering the conflicting urges to follow the two and to get Carson back to Atlantis as quickly as possible. Carson had won out, but John had had to bite his lip to keep from ordering Ronon and Teyla to go after the two. "They'll get theirs one of these days."
"Karma?" Rodney smirked, still not moving to dress.
John shrugged. "Live by the sword, die by the sword; What goes around comes around; You reap what you sow. It's not an uncommon idea."
"Maybe there's some truth to it, then."
"Here. Let me help you get dressed."
"I'm not helpless, Colonel."
"Funny. I distinctly remember telling you to get dressed while I fixed food and you're still naked. Come on."
"I thought you liked me naked."
"I like you healthy. Now let me help you."
"Tyrant," Rodney griped, even as he stood and let John help him.
***
He was cold, shivering with it even while sweat coated his skin. He hurt. Deep aches mixed with sharp tearing pain.
The soft swish of cloth caused him to open his eyes, taking in the sight of Biro frowning at the monitor beside his bed. His eyes followed her gaze and took in the temperature. Too high. Probably an infection. Heart rate and breathing were a bit elevated, probably due to the shivering.
"Probably should prescribe an anti-pyretic," he murmured.
"Is that your diagnosis, doctor?" she asked, a sad smile playing on her lips.
"Aye, it would be."
"I see. And what else would you prescribe?"
"Anti-depressant, perhaps a sleep aid, therapy."
She sank into the chair beside his bed, studying him. "You're allowed to let go of being a doctor for a while and just feel, you know?"
"Can't," Carson answered.
She nodded. "Okay. I can see where that would be hard in front of your staff. Now let's see what we're dealing with here. I need a blood sample, so I'm going to have to touch you."
He nodded and closed his eyes. "It's okay."
***
"Hey, doc," John said, peeking around the corner of Carson's door. The smile, more forced than not, disappeared from his face as he took in Carson's condition. He turned, finding Castillon walking his direction. "What the hell happened?" he demanded.
"A very aggressive infection," Castillon answered. "We're trying to get it under control."
John's grip tightened on the doorframe. "Trying? What if you don't?"
Castillon looked grim. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
***
"It was a very stratified society," Rodney said, staring at his hands. "Warriors at the top of the ladder. Since I was treated like an equal on our first visit, they assumed I was a warrior. But Carson, by his very profession, was assumed to be a slave... property." His hands clenched in his lap. "We thought it was funny."
As John stepped back to kick in the door, they'd heard a voice. "That's a good slave. Ah, yes! Take it!"
"We thought it was funny..." He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. "Goddammit!"
***
There was a cool cloth on his face. Carson moaned and turned into it, opening his eyes.
John sat beside his bed. He pulled his hand with the cloth back. "Hey. You looked really shitty, so I decided to try to cool you off a bit. Is that okay?"
Carson nodded and closed his eyes. The cool cloth returned. The silence stretched out between them as it often did in public, filling in for the words they couldn't say. The cloth slid down onto his throat. He felt hot and gritty and the coolness was good. Then suddenly it stilled a hair's breadth away from the twin arcs of teeth marks on the side of his neck.
The whimper bubbled out unexpectedly and he pushed John's hand away. "Sorry."
John drew away without complaint. "God, I'm so sorry, Carson. I would... I would so trade you places rather than see you go through this."
Carson cracked his eyes open. "It's not your fault."
"It is," John said. "I should have seen the danger. I should have protected you."
"Ye can't save the whole world."
"You aren't the whole world," John said, then his voice dropped. "Only half of it."
Carson looked askance at his lover. Those weren't words John ever said in private, let alone where he could be overheard. He reached out his hand and John took it gingerly, eyes darting to the door automatically.
"I wish I could stay, but I can't."
Carson nodded. "I understand."
John leaned down and quickly pressed a kiss to Carson's knuckles. "Get better quick. Call me if you need anything."
"I will," Carson promised, regretfully releasing John's hand. He watched his lover walk out, wanting to call him back, to beg for the comfort of his arms-- a comfort he longed for even as the thought of it twisted a knot in his stomach.
***
"I don't remember," Rodney insisted. "It must have been one of the men I knocked out of the way to get to Carson. Why is this so important?"
"I don't know. Why can't you talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about," he answered.
***
Elizabeth set the medical report down, her hands shaking. bite wounds She picked up her coffee and drank, trying to school her thoughts. anal tearing What were the odds that they wouldn't lose Carson over this? minimum of 7 semen donors She thought back to the faces of Team Sheppard, the devastation writ large in each pair of eyes, especially Rodney's. ligature wounds He'd been so silent when they reported. How would this affect him? bruising and lacerations of the lips and gums There was a knock at the door. "Come in," she called, looking up to see Kate Heightmeyer. She waited until the door was shut behind the psychiatrist. "How are they, doctor?"
Heightmeyer slipped into a chair. "It's really too early to tell with any certainty how well Doctor Beckett will recover. As for the rest of the team..." She considered her words carefully. "Well, their stories are notable for being remarkably similar."
"Wouldn't you expect that?"
"Not really, no. Individual variations always crop up in stories. Different people will remember events differently-- emphasise one point over another, remember one thing and forget another. Up until the team storms the room to rescue Doctor Beckett, their stories are appropriately variable. But then suddenly everyone's accounts align."
"What's the significance of that?" Elizabeth asked.
"It generally means the story has been rehearsed."
"You're not suggesting they were somehow involved in what happened to Carson, surely?"
"Absolutely not. But something happened in that room-- something no one is talking about."
***
"I thought you had him on an antibiotic."
"We do," Heightmeyer explained. "It's not working. We're running some tests to find something better."
Rodney's mouth set into an unhappy line. "How long does it take to run a few--?"
His words were cut off by a crash from Carson's room. Rodney followed as half the staff dashed into the room of their chief medical officer. Carson was on the floor a couple steps from his bed, feebly trying to get up.
"Doctor Beckett!" Patterson gasped, reaching his side first. "Are you okay?"
His eyes widened in terror and he flailed at her weakly. "Ge' away! Don' touch me!"
She glanced back at Heightmeyer while Carson scooted away from her, curling into the corner, breath coming in harsh gasps.
"Carson, it's okay," Heightmeyer said in her best calming voice. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
He tried to back further away, found his way blocked and instead rolled to his feet, swaying. His face was shining with sweat, hair and clothes plastered down. Heightmeyer stepped back, trying to avoid spooking him and he took the opportunity to turn and flee. He was in the doorway when his knees buckled.
When he didn't move, Heightmeyer swooped in, hand going to his forehead and then to his pulse point. "He's burning up. Pulse is thready. Help me get him back to bed."
Rodney stepped back and watched as a couple of the burlier nurses got Carson back in bed and then Heightmeyer started hooking in monitors. "I'm seeing a rash," she reported to Patterson who grabbed Carson's chart and began writing. "BP 70 over 50 and dropping. Get him out of here and get Castillon," she nodded toward Rodney.
And then he was being pulled from the room amidst calls for norepinephrine and trache tubes and oxygen. The infirmary was a whirlwind around him as he stood dumbfounded. Finally, seconds and aeons later, he clicked his radio. "Colonel? Something's happened to Carson..."
***
"Sepsis?" Elizabeth repeated.
Heightmeyer nodded. "It's an infection of the blood. Given the nature of his injuries, it was a risk. We're trying to determine the specific treatment for the pathogen, but it looks like it might be a Pegasus mutation that's not responding normally to the antibiotics we're throwing at it."
"What are the risks?" John asked, slouching back in his chair at the conference table.
Heightmeyer considered the three people watching her and sighed, knowing she couldn't sugar-coat it. "The overall death rate for sepsis is forty percent. Many of those are the elderly, infants, and those with suppressed immune systems. For a relatively healthy adult like Carson, rates are closer to five percent, but we are dealing with an unknown pathogen."
"Forty percent," Rodney gasped. "In this day and age?"
Heightmeyer nodded. "Yes, in this day and age."
"Not to sound crass, but beyond the worst-case scenario, what other risks are there?" John asked.
"Organ damage is the greatest risk. We caught this early and he's on oxygen, so the odds are good that he won't suffer any permanent effects."
"Except possibly death," Rodney said.
Heightmeyer ignored him. "Once we've got an effective treatment, he's likely to need a few days' recovery and observation before he can be released."
"And everything goes back to being normal," Rodney said, clenching his fists.
"Of course not," Heightmeyer said gently. "He's going to need a lot of support, but he has many good friends here to rely on. We just need to be sensitive to him reaching out."
"Yes. Thank you for the feel-good psychobabble, doctor," Rodney said, standing. "I've got work to do."
The three watched in shock as Rodney stormed out. Elizabeth looked across the table at John. "Is he okay?"
He quirked an eyebrow. "Would you be?"
***
John curled up next to Rodney, head in hand, watching his lover's face. "You okay? It wasn't that bad, was it?"
Rodney forced a smile. "No, no. It was good. It's just it feels... wrong, just the two of us."
"How so? We've all paired off when one of us was working late, or too tired, or sick, or not in the mood."
"It hasn't been like this. Never like this."
John slipped a hand into Rodney's damp hair and began playing, pulling it into spikes. "We knew if we were together long enough, eventually something like this would happen... or worse."
Rodney shivered, thinking of all the close calls they'd had. "I know, but I never expected it to be him."
"I think I should take offense at that."
"Yeah, right, Mister Sacrifice-of-the-Week taking offense that I figure one of these days his idiotic heroics will actually succeed in getting him killed."
"I don't think you have room to talk right now," John said.
The smell of sweat and blood and sex was overpowering. The man at Carson's head had jerked back as the door crashed in and Rodney had watched Carson spit strings of blood-tinged semen as the wall behind the man had suddenly bloomed in shades of crimson, the small red mark on his forehead seeming impossibly small for the spray on the other side. The door across from them flew open and as their companions fell amidst gunfire, two men fled the scene. Rodney fired after them, then moved to Carson as his teammates fired past him. A hand on his shoulder. "Stop!"
"You bastard!" he'd screamed and reached out...
"Rodney?"
He jerked back into the present. "Sorry."
"Are you okay?"
Rodney shook his head. "Forty percent."
"He'll be okay." John pulled him tight. "He's got to be okay."
***
"Yes, yes. Tomorrow. Because I don't have anything better to do with my time," Rodney griped, stepping out of Heightmeyer's office and turning automatically to the infirmary next door. He nodded to John who was coming out. "Colonel. How is he?"
John shrugged. They'd been together long enough that Rodney picked up the tension and frustration in the fluid movement. "He's unconscious. They think they've found something and they started administering it this morning."
An alarm went off inside the infirmary and the two men turned to watch as the staff dashed into Carson's room. They exchanged concerned looks, then stepped inside, listening.
There was a lot of shouting, but above it all was Castillon's voice calling for a crash cart.
Rodney felt his knees start to give out and John was grabbing him under one elbow and leading him to an empty bed. "Sit."
"This can't be happening."
"Clear!" Castillon's voice called out.
They strained to listen, finally catching the hiccup of sound that was the heart monitor before it went back to a steady tone.
"Oh, God, no," Rodney whispered.
"Again. Clear!"
There was another tentative beep and then the straight tone returned.
He'd watched Carson bring John back to life, sure they'd lost Sheppard. Now it was Carson under the paddles.
"Once more. Clear!"
Rodney became aware that John hadn't moved his hand and it was now painfully tight around his elbow, grounding him in the surreal here and now where Carson was lying dead in his own infirmary.
There was a beep, seeming almost tentative, then another...
And another.
John released his elbow to lean heavily on the bed. "He's okay."
"Normal sinus rhythm," Castillon's voice reported.
John reached out and once again took his elbow. "You okay to walk?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Let's get out of here."
"Don't you have an appointment with Heightmeyer?"
"Rodney, please," John pitched his voice low.
"Oh. Okay."
They made their way to Rodney's apartment where they slid into each other's arms as soon as the doors were shut and just held on.
AN: Bocca chiusa is a musical term meaning "with closed mouth"
Next part
Author: SGAtlantisLight
Characters: McKay, Sheppard, Beckett, Biro, Heightmeyer, Weir
Relationships: Beckett/McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R, though the series as a whole is NC-17
Warnings: Mention of non-con, major character whumpage, language.
Spoilers: None this part
Summary: They had rescued him, but they had yet to truly bring him safely home. Part of the Aleatoric Life series.
Disclaimer: Undoubtedly I own them, and a whole lot of other things, in some universe, but not this one.
"Rodney?" John called, walking into the apartment that the three men shared several nights a week.
Technically, it was Carson's, which made it a bit odd to be here when Carson was spending the night under observation in the infirmary.
He followed the sound of running water. "Rodney?"
Steam billowed out of the bathroom. For a moment, it appeared the shower was empty, then John caught sight through the fogged glass of the figure huddled in the far corner. Still fully clothed, John threw the shower door open and hesitated only a moment. Rodney sat staring at his hands and rocking back and forth, gasping.
"Rodney?"
His lover continued to rock, staring, a strange animal sound in the back of his throat.
John shut off the water and dropped to his knees. "Hey! Rodney... Babe?" When Rodney didn't look up, John reached out and cupped his jaw, tilting his face to stare into bloodshot eyes. "Hey," he said as Rodney's eyes focused.
Rodney looked confused and lost. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"I... I don't know. I came in to wash... to wash off Carson's... blood."
"How long ago?" John asked, noting the deep pruning on Rodney's hands and feet.
"Um. I don't know. Right after I left the infirmary."
"How long after me did you leave?"
"Not long. Carson... He wanted to be alone."
"Okay," John said softly, hiding his worry. "Come on, let's get you dried off and dressed and fed."
"I'm not hungry."
"You either eat or I drag you down to the infirmary. Heightmeyer's taking Carson's shifts."
Rodney shuddered. "She asked about the scratches."
"Yeah?" John asked, rubbing a towel through Rodney's hair and then down to his arms and chest. "What did you tell her?"
Rodney closed his eyes, standing silently as John quickly dried him before answering. "I told her I didn't remember. I really don't, you know. It wasn't until afterward that I noticed them."
"Yeah," John nodded, leading Rodney into the bedroom and sitting him on the bed, Rodney frighteningly pliant. John dug into the drawer where Rodney kept a couple of spare outfits and pyjamas.
"All I remember is the blood... and the way they were laughing... and the smell. Oh, God! I could have... Well, yeah."
John dropped a pair of sweats and a soft tee shirt on the bed, then slipped his fingers into Rodney's damp hair, spiking it up. His lovers had teased him about his hair fetish, but hadn't seemed to mind his playing. He leaned down and kissed Rodney's hair. "Get dressed and I'll throw something together for you to eat."
A few minutes later when he returned, Rodney was still sitting on the bed naked, the shirt wadded in his lap, staring at his hands.
"Hey, are you sure you're okay?"
Rodney shook his head. "I want to go back and find the two that got away. I want to find them and make them pay." His hands curled into fists in his lap. "I want to watch them die... slowly. And that scares me."
John nodded, remembering the conflicting urges to follow the two and to get Carson back to Atlantis as quickly as possible. Carson had won out, but John had had to bite his lip to keep from ordering Ronon and Teyla to go after the two. "They'll get theirs one of these days."
"Karma?" Rodney smirked, still not moving to dress.
John shrugged. "Live by the sword, die by the sword; What goes around comes around; You reap what you sow. It's not an uncommon idea."
"Maybe there's some truth to it, then."
"Here. Let me help you get dressed."
"I'm not helpless, Colonel."
"Funny. I distinctly remember telling you to get dressed while I fixed food and you're still naked. Come on."
"I thought you liked me naked."
"I like you healthy. Now let me help you."
"Tyrant," Rodney griped, even as he stood and let John help him.
***
He was cold, shivering with it even while sweat coated his skin. He hurt. Deep aches mixed with sharp tearing pain.
The soft swish of cloth caused him to open his eyes, taking in the sight of Biro frowning at the monitor beside his bed. His eyes followed her gaze and took in the temperature. Too high. Probably an infection. Heart rate and breathing were a bit elevated, probably due to the shivering.
"Probably should prescribe an anti-pyretic," he murmured.
"Is that your diagnosis, doctor?" she asked, a sad smile playing on her lips.
"Aye, it would be."
"I see. And what else would you prescribe?"
"Anti-depressant, perhaps a sleep aid, therapy."
She sank into the chair beside his bed, studying him. "You're allowed to let go of being a doctor for a while and just feel, you know?"
"Can't," Carson answered.
She nodded. "Okay. I can see where that would be hard in front of your staff. Now let's see what we're dealing with here. I need a blood sample, so I'm going to have to touch you."
He nodded and closed his eyes. "It's okay."
***
"Hey, doc," John said, peeking around the corner of Carson's door. The smile, more forced than not, disappeared from his face as he took in Carson's condition. He turned, finding Castillon walking his direction. "What the hell happened?" he demanded.
"A very aggressive infection," Castillon answered. "We're trying to get it under control."
John's grip tightened on the doorframe. "Trying? What if you don't?"
Castillon looked grim. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
***
"It was a very stratified society," Rodney said, staring at his hands. "Warriors at the top of the ladder. Since I was treated like an equal on our first visit, they assumed I was a warrior. But Carson, by his very profession, was assumed to be a slave... property." His hands clenched in his lap. "We thought it was funny."
As John stepped back to kick in the door, they'd heard a voice. "That's a good slave. Ah, yes! Take it!"
"We thought it was funny..." He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. "Goddammit!"
***
There was a cool cloth on his face. Carson moaned and turned into it, opening his eyes.
John sat beside his bed. He pulled his hand with the cloth back. "Hey. You looked really shitty, so I decided to try to cool you off a bit. Is that okay?"
Carson nodded and closed his eyes. The cool cloth returned. The silence stretched out between them as it often did in public, filling in for the words they couldn't say. The cloth slid down onto his throat. He felt hot and gritty and the coolness was good. Then suddenly it stilled a hair's breadth away from the twin arcs of teeth marks on the side of his neck.
The whimper bubbled out unexpectedly and he pushed John's hand away. "Sorry."
John drew away without complaint. "God, I'm so sorry, Carson. I would... I would so trade you places rather than see you go through this."
Carson cracked his eyes open. "It's not your fault."
"It is," John said. "I should have seen the danger. I should have protected you."
"Ye can't save the whole world."
"You aren't the whole world," John said, then his voice dropped. "Only half of it."
Carson looked askance at his lover. Those weren't words John ever said in private, let alone where he could be overheard. He reached out his hand and John took it gingerly, eyes darting to the door automatically.
"I wish I could stay, but I can't."
Carson nodded. "I understand."
John leaned down and quickly pressed a kiss to Carson's knuckles. "Get better quick. Call me if you need anything."
"I will," Carson promised, regretfully releasing John's hand. He watched his lover walk out, wanting to call him back, to beg for the comfort of his arms-- a comfort he longed for even as the thought of it twisted a knot in his stomach.
***
"I don't remember," Rodney insisted. "It must have been one of the men I knocked out of the way to get to Carson. Why is this so important?"
"I don't know. Why can't you talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about," he answered.
***
Elizabeth set the medical report down, her hands shaking. bite wounds She picked up her coffee and drank, trying to school her thoughts. anal tearing What were the odds that they wouldn't lose Carson over this? minimum of 7 semen donors She thought back to the faces of Team Sheppard, the devastation writ large in each pair of eyes, especially Rodney's. ligature wounds He'd been so silent when they reported. How would this affect him? bruising and lacerations of the lips and gums There was a knock at the door. "Come in," she called, looking up to see Kate Heightmeyer. She waited until the door was shut behind the psychiatrist. "How are they, doctor?"
Heightmeyer slipped into a chair. "It's really too early to tell with any certainty how well Doctor Beckett will recover. As for the rest of the team..." She considered her words carefully. "Well, their stories are notable for being remarkably similar."
"Wouldn't you expect that?"
"Not really, no. Individual variations always crop up in stories. Different people will remember events differently-- emphasise one point over another, remember one thing and forget another. Up until the team storms the room to rescue Doctor Beckett, their stories are appropriately variable. But then suddenly everyone's accounts align."
"What's the significance of that?" Elizabeth asked.
"It generally means the story has been rehearsed."
"You're not suggesting they were somehow involved in what happened to Carson, surely?"
"Absolutely not. But something happened in that room-- something no one is talking about."
***
"I thought you had him on an antibiotic."
"We do," Heightmeyer explained. "It's not working. We're running some tests to find something better."
Rodney's mouth set into an unhappy line. "How long does it take to run a few--?"
His words were cut off by a crash from Carson's room. Rodney followed as half the staff dashed into the room of their chief medical officer. Carson was on the floor a couple steps from his bed, feebly trying to get up.
"Doctor Beckett!" Patterson gasped, reaching his side first. "Are you okay?"
His eyes widened in terror and he flailed at her weakly. "Ge' away! Don' touch me!"
She glanced back at Heightmeyer while Carson scooted away from her, curling into the corner, breath coming in harsh gasps.
"Carson, it's okay," Heightmeyer said in her best calming voice. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
He tried to back further away, found his way blocked and instead rolled to his feet, swaying. His face was shining with sweat, hair and clothes plastered down. Heightmeyer stepped back, trying to avoid spooking him and he took the opportunity to turn and flee. He was in the doorway when his knees buckled.
When he didn't move, Heightmeyer swooped in, hand going to his forehead and then to his pulse point. "He's burning up. Pulse is thready. Help me get him back to bed."
Rodney stepped back and watched as a couple of the burlier nurses got Carson back in bed and then Heightmeyer started hooking in monitors. "I'm seeing a rash," she reported to Patterson who grabbed Carson's chart and began writing. "BP 70 over 50 and dropping. Get him out of here and get Castillon," she nodded toward Rodney.
And then he was being pulled from the room amidst calls for norepinephrine and trache tubes and oxygen. The infirmary was a whirlwind around him as he stood dumbfounded. Finally, seconds and aeons later, he clicked his radio. "Colonel? Something's happened to Carson..."
***
"Sepsis?" Elizabeth repeated.
Heightmeyer nodded. "It's an infection of the blood. Given the nature of his injuries, it was a risk. We're trying to determine the specific treatment for the pathogen, but it looks like it might be a Pegasus mutation that's not responding normally to the antibiotics we're throwing at it."
"What are the risks?" John asked, slouching back in his chair at the conference table.
Heightmeyer considered the three people watching her and sighed, knowing she couldn't sugar-coat it. "The overall death rate for sepsis is forty percent. Many of those are the elderly, infants, and those with suppressed immune systems. For a relatively healthy adult like Carson, rates are closer to five percent, but we are dealing with an unknown pathogen."
"Forty percent," Rodney gasped. "In this day and age?"
Heightmeyer nodded. "Yes, in this day and age."
"Not to sound crass, but beyond the worst-case scenario, what other risks are there?" John asked.
"Organ damage is the greatest risk. We caught this early and he's on oxygen, so the odds are good that he won't suffer any permanent effects."
"Except possibly death," Rodney said.
Heightmeyer ignored him. "Once we've got an effective treatment, he's likely to need a few days' recovery and observation before he can be released."
"And everything goes back to being normal," Rodney said, clenching his fists.
"Of course not," Heightmeyer said gently. "He's going to need a lot of support, but he has many good friends here to rely on. We just need to be sensitive to him reaching out."
"Yes. Thank you for the feel-good psychobabble, doctor," Rodney said, standing. "I've got work to do."
The three watched in shock as Rodney stormed out. Elizabeth looked across the table at John. "Is he okay?"
He quirked an eyebrow. "Would you be?"
***
John curled up next to Rodney, head in hand, watching his lover's face. "You okay? It wasn't that bad, was it?"
Rodney forced a smile. "No, no. It was good. It's just it feels... wrong, just the two of us."
"How so? We've all paired off when one of us was working late, or too tired, or sick, or not in the mood."
"It hasn't been like this. Never like this."
John slipped a hand into Rodney's damp hair and began playing, pulling it into spikes. "We knew if we were together long enough, eventually something like this would happen... or worse."
Rodney shivered, thinking of all the close calls they'd had. "I know, but I never expected it to be him."
"I think I should take offense at that."
"Yeah, right, Mister Sacrifice-of-the-Week taking offense that I figure one of these days his idiotic heroics will actually succeed in getting him killed."
"I don't think you have room to talk right now," John said.
The smell of sweat and blood and sex was overpowering. The man at Carson's head had jerked back as the door crashed in and Rodney had watched Carson spit strings of blood-tinged semen as the wall behind the man had suddenly bloomed in shades of crimson, the small red mark on his forehead seeming impossibly small for the spray on the other side. The door across from them flew open and as their companions fell amidst gunfire, two men fled the scene. Rodney fired after them, then moved to Carson as his teammates fired past him. A hand on his shoulder. "Stop!"
"You bastard!" he'd screamed and reached out...
"Rodney?"
He jerked back into the present. "Sorry."
"Are you okay?"
Rodney shook his head. "Forty percent."
"He'll be okay." John pulled him tight. "He's got to be okay."
***
"Yes, yes. Tomorrow. Because I don't have anything better to do with my time," Rodney griped, stepping out of Heightmeyer's office and turning automatically to the infirmary next door. He nodded to John who was coming out. "Colonel. How is he?"
John shrugged. They'd been together long enough that Rodney picked up the tension and frustration in the fluid movement. "He's unconscious. They think they've found something and they started administering it this morning."
An alarm went off inside the infirmary and the two men turned to watch as the staff dashed into Carson's room. They exchanged concerned looks, then stepped inside, listening.
There was a lot of shouting, but above it all was Castillon's voice calling for a crash cart.
Rodney felt his knees start to give out and John was grabbing him under one elbow and leading him to an empty bed. "Sit."
"This can't be happening."
"Clear!" Castillon's voice called out.
They strained to listen, finally catching the hiccup of sound that was the heart monitor before it went back to a steady tone.
"Oh, God, no," Rodney whispered.
"Again. Clear!"
There was another tentative beep and then the straight tone returned.
He'd watched Carson bring John back to life, sure they'd lost Sheppard. Now it was Carson under the paddles.
"Once more. Clear!"
Rodney became aware that John hadn't moved his hand and it was now painfully tight around his elbow, grounding him in the surreal here and now where Carson was lying dead in his own infirmary.
There was a beep, seeming almost tentative, then another...
And another.
John released his elbow to lean heavily on the bed. "He's okay."
"Normal sinus rhythm," Castillon's voice reported.
John reached out and once again took his elbow. "You okay to walk?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Let's get out of here."
"Don't you have an appointment with Heightmeyer?"
"Rodney, please," John pitched his voice low.
"Oh. Okay."
They made their way to Rodney's apartment where they slid into each other's arms as soon as the doors were shut and just held on.
AN: Bocca chiusa is a musical term meaning "with closed mouth"
Next part