(Mis)adventures of P3X-073 (1/1)
Title: (Mis)adventures of P3X-073
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Characters: John/Cam friendship (whoa, I can write them and not slash them? news to me.)
Word count: 3,397
Rating/warnings: PG-13/language
Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis.
Prompts:hc_bingo ; 'major illness.'
Summary: 'P3X-073 was, Cam decided, hell.'
P3X-073 was, Cam decided, hell.
Not literally, and certainly not as literally as Sokar’s planet had been, but it was a hell nonetheless. Cam had the dubious honor of leading a so-called “peace team” to a meeting of a coalition of planets who were trying to unite for protection purposes. If there were two things Cam didn’t like, they were leading teams that weren’t his own and peace negotiations. And, just because today didn’t suck quite enough, they all had to go through some sort of purification ritual before the negotiations could begin.
Except Sheppard. Cam scowled across the clearing at the man’s back, wondering again how his friend had managed to convince the Ahari priests that their ritual was unnecessary for him because he was already clean. Cam had tried to weasel his way out of more than one of these and usually ended up with the sour-looking priestess for his troubles, but Sheppard, no, he just waltzed right in like he owned the damn place. This wasn’t even his galaxy, for crying out loud, why was he the one catching all the breaks?
Sheppard was part of the peace team, something that highly amused them both. They’d shared a good laugh over it when the summons had first come through; Sheppard had forwarded him the email he’d received in the databurst, adding a single line of text (“this is a fucking joke, right?”). Cam had gone to the General, who had frowned at him and assured him that, no, Colonel Mitchell, he’s really on the team, because he has experience with this sort of thing. Stop complaining. And, oh, by the way, you’re leading this crazy bunch!
Okay, so it had been phrased a little differently. But the sentiment was there.
Cam looked around at his fellow ritual-ees. At least some of his team was present. Daniel was kneeling at the far end, looking excited at the prospect of observing yet another weird alien thing, and beside him sat Jonas Quinn. Cam had had to listen to the two men have some sort of archaeological orgasm all over each other pretty much since they walked through the Gate, so he was glad that they were now seated away from him. Teal’c sat next to Jonas, looking like… well, Teal’c really only had three facial expressions, and he wasn’t angry or laughing, so Cam figured he was probably bored. Next to him sat Richard Woolsey, because who didn’t love a bureaucrat in a suit on a foreign planet, and finally, Cam knelt on the end.
And Sheppard, damn him, was talking easily on the far side of the tent with the head priest. A bell sounded and five priestesses stepped in unison from the back of the tent, proceeding to walk to the group kneeling on the floor and sit in front of them. Cam sighed. He’d gotten the sour-looking one, all right.
Sheppard’s voice rose on the other side of the tent, and though Cam couldn’t make out the words, the expression on Sheppard’s face was priceless. He looked like he’d lust been told he would be the father of twins that he’d have to birth himself. He grinned at the thought as he turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, who was holding a cup up to his lips. Cam didn’t register Sheppard’s shouted, “Mitchell! Don’t!” until he’d drained the cup almost dry. The priestess took it from his mouth and dabbed at his lips with a towel, and Cam frowned up at Sheppard, who was suddenly much closer to him. Jonas was talking next to him - when had he come so close? - and Woolsey looked like he was ready to pass out. Cam looked down the row; everyone else had taken only a sip, where he’d drained the entire cup. Hm. Had he missed something?
Cam looked back up at Sheppard, wondering when the man had gotten so tall. Why could he suddenly see Sheppard’s boots? Why did he smell dirt? Wait a minute, were there two Sheppards? That could be both a good thing and a bad thing…
Cam decided to close his eyes because really, this planet was hell, and if he had to be in hell, he didn’t want to be awake for it.
-0-
“Fuck,” John spat as Mitchell slumped to the floor and promptly passed out. This mission sucked. He’d known it since he’d gotten that email from Landry, known that something would go wrong and someone would end up naked or dead (or both, his mind supplied) but he really thought that it wouldn’t have been the leader of the illustrious SG-1. He’d forgotten, apparently, that the man was still Mitchell underneath all that heroism, and was, therefore, kind of a trusting dumbass.
Jackson and that alien liaison, Jonah maybe, knelt down next to Mitchell. “Cam?” Jackson slurred out. John’s eyes slid to the cups that held the dark liquid. Jackson had barely taken a sip, but he sounded as if he’d been hit by a train. He glanced back to Mitchell’s empty cup and felt, suddenly, that this was all about to go to hell in a flaming handbasket. Probably as soon as Jackson started talking again. “Wake up, Cam. Jonas says this stuff can kill you if you drink too much, so you should try to wake up.”
“Whoa, wait, this shit can kill him?” John demanded, turning to High Priest Anosh. “You said it would knock him out, not kill him!”
The priest spread his hands apart and smiled blandly. “Those who are not deserving of purification do not arise from the trial.”
John vacillated between his urge to punch the man in front of him and the need to get Mitchell back to the SGC so he could have his stomach pumped. The latter won out, but only just.
“Teal’c,” he called out to the only other unaffected member of the group. Apparently, the tretonin in his system had absorbed the drugged juice. Teal’c turned to him.
“Colonel Sheppard,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps it would be best if we returned to the SGC.”
“I’m with you there,” John replied, kneeling down to shake Mitchell’s arm. “Mitchell, hey, buddy. Wake up.”
Mitchell didn’t move.
“Mitchell,” John called again, louder, then leaned right down to his ear. “Cam.” There was still no response. John checked his pulse, which was steady if a little light, and breathing, which seemed normal. He glanced up and saw that Teal’c was leading Jackson and Jonah - Jonas, he mentally corrected himself, Jackson called him Jonas - towards the Gate, a babbling Woolsey hanging over one shoulder.
John sighed down at the man before him and rose, struggling for a moment to haul Mitchell up with him. He somehow managed to get him slung over a shoulder and stood straighter. John was suddenly glad he’d kept up his sessions with Ronon and Teyla; before Atlantis, there was no way he’d have been able to haul two hundred pounds of unconscious pilot off the ground, let alone face carrying him almost a mile to the Gate.
John swore as the information crossed his mind. A fucking mile.
He set out, glaring at the remaining priests as he left the ritual tent. There was a pathway, at least; some of the planets he’d been to hadn’t bothered with that little formality. It was warm, though, and John recalled Mitchell comparing the planet to hell when they’d arrived: hot, flat, boring, and dusty. John hadn’t minded it at the time, but he found himself revising his opinion as he travelled back to the Gate, Mitchell bouncing along on his shoulder.
John had to stop twice to rest. A mile wasn’t that far, he knew; hell, he ran at least three around Atlantis most mornings with Ronon. He didn’t have to drag Ronon around, though, and he supposed that was the difference.
By the time he got back to the Gate, Teal’c was standing by the DHD with a team of Marines. “Teal’c!” John shouted, and the Jaffa turned. In three quick strides, Teal’c was in front of him, taking Mitchell’s weight from his shoulder and slinging him almost carelessly across his own broad frame.
“I apologize for leaving you by yourself, Colonel Sheppard,” Teal’c said as he walked back to the Gate. Mitchell’s arms banged uselessly against his thighs. “I felt it important to escort the other three back as quickly as possible.”
“That’s fine,” John gasped out, suddenly lightheaded. “Anyone got an extra canteen?” Someone passed him a bottle of water, and John drank greedily as the Gate flared to life and he stepped back through.
Landry looked furious. His entire head had turned red, from the tip of his nose to the back of his neck, and he spluttered incoherently as John rematerialized in the SGC’s Gate room. John blew by him, headed for the infirmary before the General could get his act together.
“Sheppard!” he heard as he headed down the hallway, but he kept walking. Landry would figure out where he was soon enough.
John swung into the infirmary and caught a nurse by the arm. He sat through his post-mission physical examination and passed with flying colors; the rest of his assorted team-for-the-day was scattered around the room in various states of disrepair. Even Teal’c was being forced to endure an IV drip of something. John got to his feet and headed to the nearest bed.
“Hi,” the alien liaison said brightly. “I’m Jonas Quinn. You’re Colonel Sheppard from Atlantis. I saw a photograph of you once.” He lowered his voice fractionally, though he could still quite clearly be heard. “We don’t have photographs where I come from.”
“You’re high,” John told him, and moved on. Jonas kept babbling behind him, talking to nobody about Langaran trees.
Woolsey was in the next bed. His eyes were glazed over, and he stared straight ahead. John waved his hand in front of the former expedition leader’s face. “Mr. Woolsey?”
Woolsey’s eyes suddenly snapped straight to John’s. “I can taste purple,” he said matter-of-factly. John decided it would be a good idea to keep walking.
Jackson was in the next bed. He had a pencil and a pad of paper, and was drawing out some symbols that John didn’t recognize. He glanced up as John neared the bed and held out the pad. “Any details you’d like to add?”
“Um,” John said eloquently, staring at the randomly placed dots and squiggles on the page. He turned his head to the side and squinted, but no, it still didn’t make any sense.
Jackson gave a long-suffering sigh that would have made Rodney envious. “Some people don’t understand the importance of recording things,” he lamented, snatching the pad back. “I want to document our experiences today for future generations!”
John stared at the pad. “That’s a drawing of today?” he clarified. Jackson nodded. “You know this is all classified, right?” he added a minute later. Jackson nodded again.
“It’s for Sam,” he whispered, clutching it suddenly. “She didn’t get to come, because you came instead and she had to stay in Atlantis. So I’m making her a picture and you can take it back with you.”
John grinned. “You want me to take it now, so I don’t forget?” he asked casually. There was no way Jackson would give him the drawing once his head cleared. The archaeologist smiled brightly and nodded, tearing the page from his sketchpad and signing it with a flourish.
“Why don’t you label it?” John suggested. “You know, with the planet designation. So we know which one it is. For, um, future generations.”
Jackson nodded thoughtfully and scribbled four letters across the bottom of the page. It wasn’t even close to the right address. John took the page from him and folded it carefully, sticking it into the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll get it to her,” he promised, and Jackson smiled up at him.
“Thanks!” he said cheerily, starting a new drawing on the clean page before him.
Teal’c sat in the next bed, expressionless. John paused briefly, unsure of what to say, but when Teal’c turned to glare first at his own IV, then at John’s arm, and then finally at John’s face, John decided that maybe Teal’c didn’t want to talk. He backed away and turned, glancing around the infirmary for the last bed.
Mitchell was nowhere to be found.
John looked around more carefully, inspecting the four beds he’d already passed and the four others in the room, but none contained his old friend. John frowned as he saw Dr. Lam darting around the far end of the infirmary, ducking in an out of a room John had been in himself a time or two. His stomach twisted.
Isolation.
John hurried to the end of the room, aiming for a nurse standing near the room’s observation window. John tossed a quick look inside and saw Mitchell, lying still as death in the bed, before he turned and gave the nurse what Weir had more than once dubbed his “charm smile.” She smiled back at him, but seemed a little distracted.
“What’s up with him?” he asked, shrugging a shoulder at the window and opting for casual. Casual generally got a better response than panicked, which is what he was actually feeling.
“Oh,” the nurse replied, turning to stare in at Mitchell. “He had a bad reaction to whatever that drug was. Dr. Lam’s trying to flush it out of him before it can do any more damage.”
John frowned. “More damage? That doesn’t sound too promising.”
“No.” The nurse was straightforward. “He’s in pretty rough shape, Colonel Sheppard. Dr. Lam was able to stop the reaction from progressing when he got here, but she’s having a lot of trouble reversing what’s happened.”
“What, exactly, has happened?” John asked. The twisting in his stomach was turning into knotting. The nurse shook her head and frowned.
“Dr. Lam thinks that the drink is toxic in large amounts anyway, and that Colonel Mitchell has an allergy to some of the components on top of that. It’s trying to eat its way out of his stomach, more or less, and he’s having trouble breathing due to the allergic reaction. She’s trying a bunch of different things, hoping that something will just work for him.” The nurse frowned and pressed a hand to the glass. “She’d reverse engineer something, but we don’t have a sample of the original drug. I’m not sure how much she can do without it.”
The nurse stared through the glass for a moment more. When she turned back to John, she found that he had already left.
John had heard the nurse’s last phrase and headed straight for Landry’s office. The man was seated behind his desk, frowning at some papers he held in his hands. He looked up as soon as John entered the room and opened his mouth, but John beat him to it.
“I have to go back.”
“Beg pardon?” Landry didn’t sound surprised but he did sound obstinate. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Colonel Sheppard.”
John shifted on his feet. He wouldn’t snap, he told himself, wouldn’t say something to Landry that would make the man put his foot down and doom Mitchell, but it would be tough. “Have you talked to the doctor?”
Landry frowned further and shook his head. “Every time I call down there, I get a nurse,” he said. “She’s busy.”
“The sum of the situation,” John relayed, “is that if she doesn’t get a sample of that drug to reverse engineer a cure, Mitchell’s going to die.”
Landry stared at him for a long minute before picking up the phone and dialing. He spoke in short, clipped sentences, and John knew that his information was being verified on the other end of the line. He waited patiently as Landry heard the news officially.
Landry hung the phone up and looked at John. “Gear up. I’ll have SG-6 meet you in the Gate room. Get a sample, get back here, no head-bashing.” He leveled a glare at John. “I mean that, Colonel.”
John was already moving for the door, but he paused and turned around. “Under normal circumstances, that might be a concern, but I came here after I saw Mitchell, sir. I know how serious his condition is. His life actually depends on how quickly we can get this stuff back to the SGC.” John lifted one shoulder as he backed out of the room. “I’m not about to let my friend die just so I can crack a few skulls, even if it would make me feel better.”
They were back in an hour, sample in hand, and it was all John could do to sit still in the infirmary with the now-crashing peace team while the doctor worked on a cure for Mitchell. Jonas was frowning at everything around him, Woolsey was licking his lips and looking thoughtful, Jackson was paging through his sketchbook with a confused look on his face, and Teal’c was still sitting placidly in his bed. John tapped his foot on the floor and tried not to glance at Mitchell’s room every few seconds.
They had been friends for a long time, since the Academy, though they hadn’t seen a lot of each other through the years. It would figure that they’d both end up in the same place; their careers had gone in two spectacularly opposite directions, but Fate had a funny way of working with what you gave her, so John hadn’t really been surprised to get an email from cam.mitchell@sgc.af.mil a few years back. They’d picked up their friendship right where they’d left it, an easy acquaintance based mostly on football rivalries and their combined love of flying. Now, though, it also included near-death experiences, insane enemies, and aircraft so intensely amazing that neither could find the words to describe it.
In short, John didn’t want him to die.
“Just go in there,” Jackson grumbled at him, jerking John from his thoughts. “Check on him. Let us know how he is.” Dr. Lam had let them know that Mitchell was recovering, albeit still unconscious, and that John could go in if he wanted. The rest of them were still confined to their beds.
John nodded and walked to the isolation room. Mitchell was pale, still looking like he wouldn’t ever move again, and but for the slight rise and fall of his chest could be dead. John frowned and moved further into the room.
Talk to him, Dr. Lam had said. Right. What do you say to a guy who had nearly died doing his job, whose life you had been willing to save even if it cost you your own career, though it hadn’t come to that? What do you say to a friend who, though you’d been assured he would recover, still looked like he might die if the fragile balance of wires and machines and blankets and air around him were even fractionally disturbed?
John took a deep breath. “Hey, Mitchell.”
There was no response, but then, John hadn’t really expected one. He’d maybe hoped a little that Mitchell would crack open his eyes, give him a smartass grin, and joke about NC State’s bowl chances this year, but no, neither of their luck was that good. John sat in the chair by Mitchell’s bed.
“You gotta stop drinking the local brew,” he advised, leaning into the back of his chair. “Learned that one in the Athosian settlement. Ruus wine, man. Two cups you’re buzzed, three you’re drunk, four you might never wake up.” John frowned. “Seriously. Apparently we almost lost Johannes.”
John shook his head. “I really have no idea what to say to you,” he admitted to the open air. “I mean, the Doc said it would be good for you to hear voices, for us to tell you shit, but to be honest, I feel really weird sitting next to you while you’re all catatonic, telling you about my day.” He paused. “It sucked, by the way.”
“So did mine,” came a rasp from the bed, and holy shit, maybe one of them had better luck than John had thought, because Mitchell was awake and giving him that goofy-ass smile.
John couldn’t help but smile back.
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Characters: John/Cam friendship (whoa, I can write them and not slash them? news to me.)
Word count: 3,397
Rating/warnings: PG-13/language
Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis.
Prompts:hc_bingo ; 'major illness.'
Summary: 'P3X-073 was, Cam decided, hell.'
P3X-073 was, Cam decided, hell.
Not literally, and certainly not as literally as Sokar’s planet had been, but it was a hell nonetheless. Cam had the dubious honor of leading a so-called “peace team” to a meeting of a coalition of planets who were trying to unite for protection purposes. If there were two things Cam didn’t like, they were leading teams that weren’t his own and peace negotiations. And, just because today didn’t suck quite enough, they all had to go through some sort of purification ritual before the negotiations could begin.
Except Sheppard. Cam scowled across the clearing at the man’s back, wondering again how his friend had managed to convince the Ahari priests that their ritual was unnecessary for him because he was already clean. Cam had tried to weasel his way out of more than one of these and usually ended up with the sour-looking priestess for his troubles, but Sheppard, no, he just waltzed right in like he owned the damn place. This wasn’t even his galaxy, for crying out loud, why was he the one catching all the breaks?
Sheppard was part of the peace team, something that highly amused them both. They’d shared a good laugh over it when the summons had first come through; Sheppard had forwarded him the email he’d received in the databurst, adding a single line of text (“this is a fucking joke, right?”). Cam had gone to the General, who had frowned at him and assured him that, no, Colonel Mitchell, he’s really on the team, because he has experience with this sort of thing. Stop complaining. And, oh, by the way, you’re leading this crazy bunch!
Okay, so it had been phrased a little differently. But the sentiment was there.
Cam looked around at his fellow ritual-ees. At least some of his team was present. Daniel was kneeling at the far end, looking excited at the prospect of observing yet another weird alien thing, and beside him sat Jonas Quinn. Cam had had to listen to the two men have some sort of archaeological orgasm all over each other pretty much since they walked through the Gate, so he was glad that they were now seated away from him. Teal’c sat next to Jonas, looking like… well, Teal’c really only had three facial expressions, and he wasn’t angry or laughing, so Cam figured he was probably bored. Next to him sat Richard Woolsey, because who didn’t love a bureaucrat in a suit on a foreign planet, and finally, Cam knelt on the end.
And Sheppard, damn him, was talking easily on the far side of the tent with the head priest. A bell sounded and five priestesses stepped in unison from the back of the tent, proceeding to walk to the group kneeling on the floor and sit in front of them. Cam sighed. He’d gotten the sour-looking one, all right.
Sheppard’s voice rose on the other side of the tent, and though Cam couldn’t make out the words, the expression on Sheppard’s face was priceless. He looked like he’d lust been told he would be the father of twins that he’d have to birth himself. He grinned at the thought as he turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, who was holding a cup up to his lips. Cam didn’t register Sheppard’s shouted, “Mitchell! Don’t!” until he’d drained the cup almost dry. The priestess took it from his mouth and dabbed at his lips with a towel, and Cam frowned up at Sheppard, who was suddenly much closer to him. Jonas was talking next to him - when had he come so close? - and Woolsey looked like he was ready to pass out. Cam looked down the row; everyone else had taken only a sip, where he’d drained the entire cup. Hm. Had he missed something?
Cam looked back up at Sheppard, wondering when the man had gotten so tall. Why could he suddenly see Sheppard’s boots? Why did he smell dirt? Wait a minute, were there two Sheppards? That could be both a good thing and a bad thing…
Cam decided to close his eyes because really, this planet was hell, and if he had to be in hell, he didn’t want to be awake for it.
-0-
“Fuck,” John spat as Mitchell slumped to the floor and promptly passed out. This mission sucked. He’d known it since he’d gotten that email from Landry, known that something would go wrong and someone would end up naked or dead (or both, his mind supplied) but he really thought that it wouldn’t have been the leader of the illustrious SG-1. He’d forgotten, apparently, that the man was still Mitchell underneath all that heroism, and was, therefore, kind of a trusting dumbass.
Jackson and that alien liaison, Jonah maybe, knelt down next to Mitchell. “Cam?” Jackson slurred out. John’s eyes slid to the cups that held the dark liquid. Jackson had barely taken a sip, but he sounded as if he’d been hit by a train. He glanced back to Mitchell’s empty cup and felt, suddenly, that this was all about to go to hell in a flaming handbasket. Probably as soon as Jackson started talking again. “Wake up, Cam. Jonas says this stuff can kill you if you drink too much, so you should try to wake up.”
“Whoa, wait, this shit can kill him?” John demanded, turning to High Priest Anosh. “You said it would knock him out, not kill him!”
The priest spread his hands apart and smiled blandly. “Those who are not deserving of purification do not arise from the trial.”
John vacillated between his urge to punch the man in front of him and the need to get Mitchell back to the SGC so he could have his stomach pumped. The latter won out, but only just.
“Teal’c,” he called out to the only other unaffected member of the group. Apparently, the tretonin in his system had absorbed the drugged juice. Teal’c turned to him.
“Colonel Sheppard,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps it would be best if we returned to the SGC.”
“I’m with you there,” John replied, kneeling down to shake Mitchell’s arm. “Mitchell, hey, buddy. Wake up.”
Mitchell didn’t move.
“Mitchell,” John called again, louder, then leaned right down to his ear. “Cam.” There was still no response. John checked his pulse, which was steady if a little light, and breathing, which seemed normal. He glanced up and saw that Teal’c was leading Jackson and Jonah - Jonas, he mentally corrected himself, Jackson called him Jonas - towards the Gate, a babbling Woolsey hanging over one shoulder.
John sighed down at the man before him and rose, struggling for a moment to haul Mitchell up with him. He somehow managed to get him slung over a shoulder and stood straighter. John was suddenly glad he’d kept up his sessions with Ronon and Teyla; before Atlantis, there was no way he’d have been able to haul two hundred pounds of unconscious pilot off the ground, let alone face carrying him almost a mile to the Gate.
John swore as the information crossed his mind. A fucking mile.
He set out, glaring at the remaining priests as he left the ritual tent. There was a pathway, at least; some of the planets he’d been to hadn’t bothered with that little formality. It was warm, though, and John recalled Mitchell comparing the planet to hell when they’d arrived: hot, flat, boring, and dusty. John hadn’t minded it at the time, but he found himself revising his opinion as he travelled back to the Gate, Mitchell bouncing along on his shoulder.
John had to stop twice to rest. A mile wasn’t that far, he knew; hell, he ran at least three around Atlantis most mornings with Ronon. He didn’t have to drag Ronon around, though, and he supposed that was the difference.
By the time he got back to the Gate, Teal’c was standing by the DHD with a team of Marines. “Teal’c!” John shouted, and the Jaffa turned. In three quick strides, Teal’c was in front of him, taking Mitchell’s weight from his shoulder and slinging him almost carelessly across his own broad frame.
“I apologize for leaving you by yourself, Colonel Sheppard,” Teal’c said as he walked back to the Gate. Mitchell’s arms banged uselessly against his thighs. “I felt it important to escort the other three back as quickly as possible.”
“That’s fine,” John gasped out, suddenly lightheaded. “Anyone got an extra canteen?” Someone passed him a bottle of water, and John drank greedily as the Gate flared to life and he stepped back through.
Landry looked furious. His entire head had turned red, from the tip of his nose to the back of his neck, and he spluttered incoherently as John rematerialized in the SGC’s Gate room. John blew by him, headed for the infirmary before the General could get his act together.
“Sheppard!” he heard as he headed down the hallway, but he kept walking. Landry would figure out where he was soon enough.
John swung into the infirmary and caught a nurse by the arm. He sat through his post-mission physical examination and passed with flying colors; the rest of his assorted team-for-the-day was scattered around the room in various states of disrepair. Even Teal’c was being forced to endure an IV drip of something. John got to his feet and headed to the nearest bed.
“Hi,” the alien liaison said brightly. “I’m Jonas Quinn. You’re Colonel Sheppard from Atlantis. I saw a photograph of you once.” He lowered his voice fractionally, though he could still quite clearly be heard. “We don’t have photographs where I come from.”
“You’re high,” John told him, and moved on. Jonas kept babbling behind him, talking to nobody about Langaran trees.
Woolsey was in the next bed. His eyes were glazed over, and he stared straight ahead. John waved his hand in front of the former expedition leader’s face. “Mr. Woolsey?”
Woolsey’s eyes suddenly snapped straight to John’s. “I can taste purple,” he said matter-of-factly. John decided it would be a good idea to keep walking.
Jackson was in the next bed. He had a pencil and a pad of paper, and was drawing out some symbols that John didn’t recognize. He glanced up as John neared the bed and held out the pad. “Any details you’d like to add?”
“Um,” John said eloquently, staring at the randomly placed dots and squiggles on the page. He turned his head to the side and squinted, but no, it still didn’t make any sense.
Jackson gave a long-suffering sigh that would have made Rodney envious. “Some people don’t understand the importance of recording things,” he lamented, snatching the pad back. “I want to document our experiences today for future generations!”
John stared at the pad. “That’s a drawing of today?” he clarified. Jackson nodded. “You know this is all classified, right?” he added a minute later. Jackson nodded again.
“It’s for Sam,” he whispered, clutching it suddenly. “She didn’t get to come, because you came instead and she had to stay in Atlantis. So I’m making her a picture and you can take it back with you.”
John grinned. “You want me to take it now, so I don’t forget?” he asked casually. There was no way Jackson would give him the drawing once his head cleared. The archaeologist smiled brightly and nodded, tearing the page from his sketchpad and signing it with a flourish.
“Why don’t you label it?” John suggested. “You know, with the planet designation. So we know which one it is. For, um, future generations.”
Jackson nodded thoughtfully and scribbled four letters across the bottom of the page. It wasn’t even close to the right address. John took the page from him and folded it carefully, sticking it into the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll get it to her,” he promised, and Jackson smiled up at him.
“Thanks!” he said cheerily, starting a new drawing on the clean page before him.
Teal’c sat in the next bed, expressionless. John paused briefly, unsure of what to say, but when Teal’c turned to glare first at his own IV, then at John’s arm, and then finally at John’s face, John decided that maybe Teal’c didn’t want to talk. He backed away and turned, glancing around the infirmary for the last bed.
Mitchell was nowhere to be found.
John looked around more carefully, inspecting the four beds he’d already passed and the four others in the room, but none contained his old friend. John frowned as he saw Dr. Lam darting around the far end of the infirmary, ducking in an out of a room John had been in himself a time or two. His stomach twisted.
Isolation.
John hurried to the end of the room, aiming for a nurse standing near the room’s observation window. John tossed a quick look inside and saw Mitchell, lying still as death in the bed, before he turned and gave the nurse what Weir had more than once dubbed his “charm smile.” She smiled back at him, but seemed a little distracted.
“What’s up with him?” he asked, shrugging a shoulder at the window and opting for casual. Casual generally got a better response than panicked, which is what he was actually feeling.
“Oh,” the nurse replied, turning to stare in at Mitchell. “He had a bad reaction to whatever that drug was. Dr. Lam’s trying to flush it out of him before it can do any more damage.”
John frowned. “More damage? That doesn’t sound too promising.”
“No.” The nurse was straightforward. “He’s in pretty rough shape, Colonel Sheppard. Dr. Lam was able to stop the reaction from progressing when he got here, but she’s having a lot of trouble reversing what’s happened.”
“What, exactly, has happened?” John asked. The twisting in his stomach was turning into knotting. The nurse shook her head and frowned.
“Dr. Lam thinks that the drink is toxic in large amounts anyway, and that Colonel Mitchell has an allergy to some of the components on top of that. It’s trying to eat its way out of his stomach, more or less, and he’s having trouble breathing due to the allergic reaction. She’s trying a bunch of different things, hoping that something will just work for him.” The nurse frowned and pressed a hand to the glass. “She’d reverse engineer something, but we don’t have a sample of the original drug. I’m not sure how much she can do without it.”
The nurse stared through the glass for a moment more. When she turned back to John, she found that he had already left.
John had heard the nurse’s last phrase and headed straight for Landry’s office. The man was seated behind his desk, frowning at some papers he held in his hands. He looked up as soon as John entered the room and opened his mouth, but John beat him to it.
“I have to go back.”
“Beg pardon?” Landry didn’t sound surprised but he did sound obstinate. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Colonel Sheppard.”
John shifted on his feet. He wouldn’t snap, he told himself, wouldn’t say something to Landry that would make the man put his foot down and doom Mitchell, but it would be tough. “Have you talked to the doctor?”
Landry frowned further and shook his head. “Every time I call down there, I get a nurse,” he said. “She’s busy.”
“The sum of the situation,” John relayed, “is that if she doesn’t get a sample of that drug to reverse engineer a cure, Mitchell’s going to die.”
Landry stared at him for a long minute before picking up the phone and dialing. He spoke in short, clipped sentences, and John knew that his information was being verified on the other end of the line. He waited patiently as Landry heard the news officially.
Landry hung the phone up and looked at John. “Gear up. I’ll have SG-6 meet you in the Gate room. Get a sample, get back here, no head-bashing.” He leveled a glare at John. “I mean that, Colonel.”
John was already moving for the door, but he paused and turned around. “Under normal circumstances, that might be a concern, but I came here after I saw Mitchell, sir. I know how serious his condition is. His life actually depends on how quickly we can get this stuff back to the SGC.” John lifted one shoulder as he backed out of the room. “I’m not about to let my friend die just so I can crack a few skulls, even if it would make me feel better.”
They were back in an hour, sample in hand, and it was all John could do to sit still in the infirmary with the now-crashing peace team while the doctor worked on a cure for Mitchell. Jonas was frowning at everything around him, Woolsey was licking his lips and looking thoughtful, Jackson was paging through his sketchbook with a confused look on his face, and Teal’c was still sitting placidly in his bed. John tapped his foot on the floor and tried not to glance at Mitchell’s room every few seconds.
They had been friends for a long time, since the Academy, though they hadn’t seen a lot of each other through the years. It would figure that they’d both end up in the same place; their careers had gone in two spectacularly opposite directions, but Fate had a funny way of working with what you gave her, so John hadn’t really been surprised to get an email from cam.mitchell@sgc.af.mil a few years back. They’d picked up their friendship right where they’d left it, an easy acquaintance based mostly on football rivalries and their combined love of flying. Now, though, it also included near-death experiences, insane enemies, and aircraft so intensely amazing that neither could find the words to describe it.
In short, John didn’t want him to die.
“Just go in there,” Jackson grumbled at him, jerking John from his thoughts. “Check on him. Let us know how he is.” Dr. Lam had let them know that Mitchell was recovering, albeit still unconscious, and that John could go in if he wanted. The rest of them were still confined to their beds.
John nodded and walked to the isolation room. Mitchell was pale, still looking like he wouldn’t ever move again, and but for the slight rise and fall of his chest could be dead. John frowned and moved further into the room.
Talk to him, Dr. Lam had said. Right. What do you say to a guy who had nearly died doing his job, whose life you had been willing to save even if it cost you your own career, though it hadn’t come to that? What do you say to a friend who, though you’d been assured he would recover, still looked like he might die if the fragile balance of wires and machines and blankets and air around him were even fractionally disturbed?
John took a deep breath. “Hey, Mitchell.”
There was no response, but then, John hadn’t really expected one. He’d maybe hoped a little that Mitchell would crack open his eyes, give him a smartass grin, and joke about NC State’s bowl chances this year, but no, neither of their luck was that good. John sat in the chair by Mitchell’s bed.
“You gotta stop drinking the local brew,” he advised, leaning into the back of his chair. “Learned that one in the Athosian settlement. Ruus wine, man. Two cups you’re buzzed, three you’re drunk, four you might never wake up.” John frowned. “Seriously. Apparently we almost lost Johannes.”
John shook his head. “I really have no idea what to say to you,” he admitted to the open air. “I mean, the Doc said it would be good for you to hear voices, for us to tell you shit, but to be honest, I feel really weird sitting next to you while you’re all catatonic, telling you about my day.” He paused. “It sucked, by the way.”
“So did mine,” came a rasp from the bed, and holy shit, maybe one of them had better luck than John had thought, because Mitchell was awake and giving him that goofy-ass smile.
John couldn’t help but smile back.