Tag by Leah and Bastet

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Category: General
Characters: Aiden Ford, Carson Beckett, Elizabeth Weir, John Sheppard, Original Character, Other, Radek Zelenka, Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagan
Rating: PG
Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Friendship, Humour, Hurt Comfort, Team
Warnings: None
Series: None

Word count: 25708; Completed: Yes

Summary: McKay wakes up with a hangover, and then the city tries to kill him. And things go downhill from there.

***

A long, long time ago, back when Leah had a Live Journal, she participated in a challenge set out by Lady Bastet, to use the line "Oh, crap, he's dead," as the first line of a vignette. Leah wrote what ended up being the first scene of this story, and Bastet liked the scene so much that she continued it. Then Leah continued that, and pretty soon this story was the result.

"Tag" was originally published in the Zine "Atlantis Utopia" by Demon Bunny Press in 2005.

***

"Oh, crap, he's dead," Sheppard mumbled, nudging the still figure at his feet with his toe.

"I am not," McKay said, and then groaned. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Sheppard's boot. "Quit it already." He rolled heavily onto his back and threw an arm over his tightly shut eyes. "Oh dear lord. I'm dying."

Sheppard looked at Ford, who shrugged.

"He didn't have any more of the wine than I did, sir."

"It had citrus in it," McKay kept groaning. "It must have had citrus in it. My throat's going to close up any second. Stop kicking me."

"Oh, sorry," Sheppard said absently. He stopped prodding McKay's kidney. He'd kind of got into a rhythm. "I don't think this is an allergic reaction, though--not unless it normally takes twelve hours..."

McKay moved his arm, squinting up at the two men. "Twelve hours?" he asked. He tried to look around, but didn't manage it very well from his position on the floor. "Where is everyone? Were they medically evacuated?"

"They went home," Sheppard said. He nudged McKay again. "C'mon--time to get up. We'll get you back to Atlantis and you can have some food and aspirin, okay?"

McKay looked like he was considering that very hard. "Okay."

Sheppard and Ford grinned at each other. They reached down and helped McKay stand.

***

The trip back to the Jumper was mercifully quiet. Teyla had talked the village chief into trading a substantial amount of grain and a couple of barrels of the wine they had tasted the night before for a rather small amount of medical supplies.

They were to come back in a few days, to give the people time to gather the things together to complete the deal.

Now, just to get everyone home and call it a day.

Sheppard frowned and rolled his eyes at the man currently slung between him and Ford. "Lightweight," he quipped. He could not believe that McKay was this hung over from the single glass of the wine the villagers had insisted they drink the night before. "How much did you have, really?" he asked.

"Just that one glass they made us all drink and do you have to talk so loud?" McKay griped; his eyes squeezed shut, letting them lead him.

"He really doesn't look that good, Major," Ford commented, frowning at the scientist.

Sheppard sighed. "Let's get him back to Atlantis and get Beckett to check him out." He was starting to get a little worried at how quiet McKay was being. Give the man a hangnail and he'd whine for hours that he was sure to get some kind of flesh-eating bacteria, and gangrene, and about every other infectious agent known to man. This silence from him was unnerving.

"McKay, how you holding up?" Sheppard asked.

"Don't talk to me. If I talk, I might throw up," McKay ground out.

Sheppard's irritation quickly gave way to concern. "Let's get a move on."

***

"Are you sure he only had as much as you did?" Beckett asked Sheppard and Ford. The three of them, plus Teyla and Weir, were in the doctor's office. McKay had been brought in by Sheppard and Ford about a half hour earlier, and was now sleeping on one of the medical cots after an examination.

"Yeah," Ford said, nodding. "Just one glass. And they were small glasses, too." He looked at Sheppard for confirmation, who nodded. Ford shrugged. "At least while I was there, anyway. And he seemed perfectly fine when I left--he was just talking with the Headwoman about ways to improve their crop yields, I think."

Sheppard looked at him. "Crop yields? Are you serious?" Was there anything the man didn't know?

"Did you notice anything unusual about Rodney, Major?" Weir asked pointedly, bringing him back on topic.

"I'd already gone, myself," Sheppard said. "I went to relieve the guys guarding the Jumper, so they could mingle with the natives." He raised his eyebrows when Weir gave him a look of mild admonishment. "What? It was a good party."

"I did not see anything untoward before I left as well, Doctor," Teyla said. "I retired after Aiden and the Major, and McKay did not drink anything else in that time, that I remember."

"Carson," Weir said. "What's wrong with him?"

"That's the thing," Beckett said. "I don't really know. To all intents and purposes, he's just got a really bad hangover. But it makes no sense how a man his size could be so badly affected by the same alcohol you all drank without any consequences."

Sheppard pursed his lips, thinking. "He did say he thought there might have been citrus in it..."

Beckett's eyes widened. "What? Good Lord, man! Don't even joke! He'd be dead by now if that drink had citrus in it!"

"Whoa, hey," Sheppard said, a little shocked by the doctor's vehemence. He took a step back, spreading his hands. "I'm just going on what McKay told me."

"Could this be something like an allergic reaction?" Weir asked. "Perhaps there was something in this wine that his body reacted to more strongly than the rest of his team?"

Beckett nodded. "I'd thought of that, but it would be impossible to tell without a lot of testing."

"Will that be necessary?" Weir asked. "After all, if this is essentially just a hangover, he'll be fine in a few hours, right?"

"Most likely," Beckett said. "But I would like to find out what may have caused this, in case it's a harbinger of a more serious allergic reaction to the substance--it might be common in this galaxy."

"All right," Weir said. "I'll make sure you get a bottle."

Sheppard arched an eyebrow. "Have fun trying to run the tests on him."

Beckett's expression was equally sardonic. "Oh, it'll be a joy, I assure you."

***

"Carson, this is completely unnecessary," McKay protested. I'm fine." He sighed. "Well, I've still got a headache, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Is that so?" the Scottish doctor responded, not even bothering to look up at him. "How about you let me be the judge of that? You were unconscious on an alien planet for an unspecified time under the effects of a completely alien substance that may or may not be something you're allergic to."

McKay sighed and continued to fidget on the diagnostic bed, his knee bouncing with his impatience. "You make it sound like I got abducted by lemons or something," he said, snorting at his joke.

Beckett muttered something under his breath and McKay stared at him.

"What?"

Beckett looked up, smiling benignly. "Nothing."

McKay sighed again, loudly, and rolled his eyes. "You've taken samples of nearly everything inside and outside of my body and poked placed I didn't even know I had, can I please go before you start to dissect me?"

Beckett had a malicious gleam in his eye. "Now, there's a thought."

"Carson!" McKay snapped.

Beckett laughed. "I was teasing. And, yes, you can go, but I want you to tell me if your headache gets worse or you start to notice any other symptoms." Then he quickly added, "Not that I expect you will."

McKay hopped down and stretched. "I'll be in my lab if you decide you have this irresistible urge to torture someone." He grimaced at his own wording. "I--" he shook his head. "I'll be in my lab," he said quickly, hurrying from the infirmary, leaving the startled physician in his wake.

McKay finally slowed to brisk walk when the infirmary was out of sight. He sighed. Why couldn't he keep his big mouth shut? Beckett didn't deserve that jab. He was just doing his job, and his job was keeping them all alive.

He scrubbed a hand across his mouth, trying to push back his memory of the short time the Genii had been on the base and his own failures then. Everyone kept telling him, he wasn't trained for that kind of situation, that it wasn't his fault. But he knew it was. He was weak and the Genii had known that and exploited it.

He gritted his teeth as he neared his lab and tapped the mechanism that triggered the door. Nothing happened. He tapped it again, and almost reluctantly, it opened. He frowned. He had never noticed it doing that before. Even before Beckett had done the gene therapy on him to give him the artificial ATA gene, simple things like this in the city had always responded to him.

"Doctor McKay!" a female voice called from down the hall.

He turned and saw a redheaded woman heading for him. He racked his brain for her name and came up with nothing. "Yes...?" He waited for her to fill in the blank.

She trotted up with a small device in her hands. "Can you turn this on?" she asked him, holding it out, slightly breathless. "I was going to go try to find Doctor Zelenka or Doctor Beckett, but you're here and so..." She smiled and thrust the device at him.

He took it, giving her a bewildered look. "What is it?"

"We think that it is some kind of memory storage device, but none of my linguistics team has the ATA gene. So..." She gestured at it. "It won't turn on for us."

McKay closed his eyes and frowned in concentration, willing the device to activate. His first few attempts yielded nothing, and he started to wonder if it were broken until it switched on. He grimaced as his headache flared a notch. He handed it back to her, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There," he stated, irritation coloring his voice.

The woman frowned at him. "Are you all right? You don't look all that good." She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Bad mission?"

McKay stared at her. "Who are you?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh!" She smiled, a bit sheepishly. "I'm sorry. Daria Peterson," she said, holding out her hand to him. He took it.

"Hello."

"I didn't mean to sound presumptuous about the mission remark," she said. "I was just a member of SG4 for a couple years, and I know some missions can really take a lot out of you."

He looked at her. "You don't look military."

Peterson smiled. "I'm not. Civilian anthropologist," she told him. "I've been part of Doctor Jackson's research team, working on translating the Ancient's language for the last three years. That's how I ended up in the Atlantis Project."

She looked down at the device. "Oh."

He followed her gaze. "Oh, what?"

"That looks like it needs the other device we found to work." She looked at him. "Could I borrow you for a moment to come look at it?"

McKay shrugged. "Sure."

Peterson led him to one of the transporter alcoves. "Our lab is a few levels down," she said in explanation.

Again the door didn't seem to want to open for him.

Peterson looked at him. "That's odd. I've never seen them do that before."

"There must be some kind of malfunction going on with them," McKay told her. "That's the second one to do that for me."

They stepped in and the doors covering the control panel hissed open. Peterson reached up tap the section of the map that held the lab, and then things went nuts.

***

"Milk, Lieutenant?" Sheppard grinned at Ford over his coffee mug.

Ford just grinned back before he took a healthy swallow and put the metal cup down on his tray. "I don't like coffee much, sir. And milk's good for you."

"Such a kid." Sheppard shook his head. "Isn't that the Manarians's stuff?"

"Yup." Ford carried his tray further down the line, hoping that whatever they were serving for lunch was halfway decent. He was beginning to really miss Earth food. Even the stuff back at the SGC was better than some of the meals the chiefs had to improvise down here. "It tastes a little different, but I like it. It's kind of like goat's milk."

"Goat's milk?" Sheppard asked, looking amazed. "You've tasted goat's milk?"

"Sure," Ford shrugged. "My grandma likes..." He trailed off, because it was obvious that Sheppard had stopped paying attention. "Sir?"

Sheppard was standing completely still, his head slightly cocked as if he were listening to something, though Ford couldn't hear anything other than the usual noises of the mess. The major's face had an expression of intense concentration. Then his eyes suddenly widened.

"Angry--" he said.

The lights went off. Everywhere in the mess, all at once. There were a few shocked exclamations, and the sound machinery makes when it's winding down. Ford dropped his tray, ignoring the clatter of the mug as it bounced along the floor. He reached automatically for his sidearm, before he remembered that in Atlantis there was no reason to carry one.

Not normally, anyway.

The only illumination coming into the mess was the noon light, shining through the far windows. It wasn't bright, but it would be enough to see by once Ford's eyes adjusted. Only they never got the chance. A second later all the lights went on again, and he heard the rising hum of working machines.

Ford blinked spots out of his eyes, turned to ask Sheppard what the hell just happened--

And saw that Sheppard was on his knees on the floor, in a puddle of spilled coffee. He had his eyes clenched tight and his hands were clutching the sides of his head. He looked like he was in agony.

"Major!" Ford dropped to his knees beside him, ignoring the coffee and milk that immediately started soaking into his pants. He put one hand on Sheppard's shoulder, the other on the back of his neck, thinking he might have to steady him, or help him lie on the floor. "Sir! What's wrong?"

"I'm okay," Sheppard said, though his voice was gravelly. He slowly dropped his hands and opened his eyes. He blinked a few times at Ford. "That really hurt."

"What happened?" Ford asked him. Sheppard really didn't look okay, he decided. Sheppard actually looked like he was reeling, like someone had just kicked him in the head.

"The city," Sheppard said. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut like he was trying to wake up. "The city... Something's wrong..."

"I'd better get you to the doc," Ford said. He started to stand, grabbing Sheppard under the arm to pull the major up with him.

"No," Sheppard said. He took a fistful of Ford's shirt, keeping him next to him on the floor. When he blinked his eyes open this time they looked clear, and very concerned. "I'm okay. It's just..."

Ford wanted to point out that if Sheppard was so okay then why were they both still on the floor, when Sheppard bolted upright of his own accord, still holding Ford's shirt. Ford scrambled up with him.

"Rodney!" Sheppard exclaimed. He let go of Ford and bolted from the room.

***

Peterson groaned and sat up slowly. Okay, that wasn't supposed to happen. She opened her eyes and darkness was all that greeted her. She rubbed her eyes and that didn't help. She dug into her breast pocket and pulled out a penlight, using it to pan around her. They were in a transport alcove, but one that didn't look like it had been used in a very long time. Ten thousand years, give or take a decade, she thought wryly.

She slowly got to her knees, still panning the tiny light around, wishing she had something bigger, when her light moved across what appeared to be someone's legs.

"Doctor McKay!" she exclaimed, crawling over to him. She checked for a pulse and found one readily enough, but he was clearly unconscious. She leaned in and gently tapped his cheek. "Doctor McKay, wake up."

He groaned a little, his eyes flickering a moment under closed lids before they cracked open. He squinted hard at the penlight she was shining in them and threw his arm up to block it. "Get that out of my face," he grunted.

"Sorry," she said, pointing it down on his chest instead. "Are you all right?"

He slowly sat up, groaning in pain as he did. "Where are we?"

"It looks like another transporter alcove, but not the one we were supposed to go to," she said. "Are you all right?" she repeated.

He huffed in impatience. "I'm fine. I've just got a headache." Then he looked at her, concern crossing his face. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "Fine, just lost," she quipped.

She stood and moved back to the control panel for the alcove and tapped the plate. The control panel opened up with a groan of protest and she frowned, but the map lit up as it should. She touched the area for where they should have gone, and the device let out a harsh alarm. It reminded her of the noises 80s video games made when you pushed the wrong button. The map blinked out and refused to come back on.

"That's odd," she commented, looking over at McKay. He was still sitting on the floor, massaging his temples. Her frown deepened. "You're not okay. What's wrong?" she asked, going back to him.

He sighed. "I don't know. My head feels weird." He looked up at her. "Do you have a radio?"

She shook her head. "No. You?"

He started to shake his head and then stopped, wincing in pain. "No." He slowly dragged himself to his feet. "We better get out of here and see if we can access a comm system."

Peterson reached out to steady him. "You don't look so good. Did you hit your head or something?"

"Not that know of," he told her. "I just feel... wrong."

"Wrong how?"

He huffed in frustration and snapped. "Wrong, wrong, I don't know how."

She backed off. "Fine. Let's just get out of here," she said, going to the door. She nearly ran into it when it didn't open. She tapped around the doorframe, but nothing happened. "Great," she groaned.

"What?" McKay said, turning toward her.

"The door won't open," she said, moving aside so he could look at it.

He waved his hand around the door panel and it made that same alarm noise again.

"What was that?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I have no idea. I've never heard that before." He moved to an access panel and pulled it off. The crystals inside gleamed dimly in the pale light of Peterson's penlight. He held out his hand. "I need the light."

She handed it over to him and he started poking around inside the panel. The strange alarm sound chirped again as he started to pull one of the crystals free.

"Do you think you should be doing-—" Peterson started to say, when sparks erupted from the panel in an electrical arc, sending McKay flying backward.

***

"We'll have to take the stairs," Sheppard called to Ford over his shoulder as they ran. "The transporters won't work."

Ford didn't know how Sheppard knew that, but he followed him anyway, heading for the wide metal staircases that led to the control room. At least that's where Ford assumed they were going--this was the first thing Sheppard had said to him since they left the mess hall.

"What's going on, sir?" He asked. Sheppard was one hell of a runner; Ford had to really hustle to keep up with him.

He didn't really expect Sheppard to answer, and the major didn't. Sheppard had been uncharacteristically quiet and grim since his exclamation in the mess. The way he was moving now reminded Ford of nothing so much as when they were on the Wraith ship, when Sheppard was about to go off on his own to find the colonel.

Ford didn't like that comparison much.

They were on the stairs when the lights blinked off again.

Sheppard cried out at the same moment, as if the sudden darkness had hurt him.

"Major!" Ford went up the stairs separating them as quickly as he could, feeling his way in the dark. His hand hit Sheppard's back just as the lights came on again.

Sheppard was bent over the rail, gripping it as if for dear life. His face was completely white and his whole body was shaking. He was panting, and as Ford watched, a thin trickle of blood slid out of Sheppard's nose.

"Oh my God!" Ford hesitated, unsure what to do. He began helping Sheppard away from the railing, so he could at least sit the major down on the stairs. He had to pry his fingers off--Sheppard was gripping the rail so hard Ford figured he'd have bruises on his palms.

"Jesus," Sheppard whispered. He moved stiffly, and would have collapsed if Ford hadn't been holding onto him.

Ford tilted Sheppard back until he was mostly lying on the stairs. "Don't move, okay?" He said to Sheppard. "I'm going to get Beckett."

Sheppard grabbed his shirt again, before Ford could straighten. His grip was still surprisingly strong. "No," he said weakly. "Rodney. Help Rodney... Carson..."

Sheppard's hand relaxed, falling limply to his side. His eyes closed, and for a moment Ford thought the major had lost consciousness. But then Sheppard grimaced and opened his eyes again. But this time they were clouded with pain, and Ford doubted Sheppard was fully there anymore.

"No," Sheppard said weakly. He was still panting. "Stop. Stop it. He's not bad. He's not..." He seemed to focus with an effort. "Help him," he said to Ford, his voice pleading. "You have to help him."

"I will. I promise," Ford said solemnly, because he knew that's what Sheppard needed to hear, and because he meant it. "You just stay put, okay? I'll be right back." He waited for Sheppard's tiny nod, then bolted the rest of the way up the stairs.

***

"Bloody hell," Beckett muttered, "I'm not half coupin."

Svetlana Vasileva, one of his nurses, turned around with an expression of polite concern. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he said, waving his hand with a dismissive smile. "I've just got a headache." It had come on very suddenly, at the same time the lights had blinked out in the infirmary. If Beckett didn't know better, he might have even thought that the one thing had something to do with the other. But that made no sense--people didn't get instant headaches from a change in the light.

He hoped that whatever had caused the momentary blackout wasn't anything serious. He couldn't help wondering if there was another one of the black entities loose in the city, and the thought almost made him shudder. He remembered all too well what it had been like when Lieutenant Ford had been brought in after being touched by the creature. He'd never said anything to Ford or Sheppard, but he was privately amazed the young man hadn't died.

He really didn't want to have to go through that again, not with anyone.

But whatever the cause, it felt like he had a nail in each temple; he could practically feel the pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. It wasn't going to be possible to work like this.

Beckett sighed, leaving the experiment he was conducting to go get a painkiller. Hopefully a couple of aspirins would set him to rights--

The lights went off again, and the nails suddenly became railroad spikes. Beckett cried out involuntarily, clutching the edge of his worktable when the world started spinning. When the lights blinked on a moment later he was nauseas and trembling.

Svetlana was at his side in an instant, helping him back to his chair. "What is it?" She asked, her Russian accent becoming more pronounced with her worry. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Beckett said. He was blinking spots out of his eyes. He felt something on his upper lip and rubbed it absently with his hand. His fingers came away bloody.

"Do you need to lie down?" Svetlana asked. Her eyes kept flitting between his fingers and his face. "Should I get Doctor Olivares?"

"No," Beckett said. He knew better than to shake his head. "Just... give me a minute. I'll be all right." He was still staring dully at his blood-smeared fingers. The pain had only faded from excruciating to agonizing, but that didn't matter. It was obvious now that the power shortage and his headache was no coincidence. He had a bad feeling he was going to be needed.

"I'll get Doctor Weir," Svetlana said. Beckett nodded carefully, and she went over to the comm system set in the wall.

She was just about to turn it on when Sergeant Stackhouse came in, dragging Sergeant Markham. "He said his head hurt," Stackhouse said, "--and then he just collapsed." The poor lad looked terrified.

Svetlana came rushing over, and she and Stackhouse helped move Markham onto one of the infirmary beds. Markham's face was very pale, and there was blood leaking out of both his nostrils.

Beckett pushed himself off the chair with an effort, trying not to weave as he walked as quickly as possible to the comm.

He needed to let Weir know that members of her personnel had somehow been incapacitated, if she wasn't already aware of it; they might well need to send rescue teams for some of them.

And then he needed to contact Doctor Olivares. It looked like he'd be asking for her help after all.

***

Peterson swore hotly in nearly every one of the seventeen Earth based languages she spoke, liberally peppering the expletives with a few choice words of Goa'uld and Ancient she had picked up at the SGC.

The bright flash that arced in the tiny room had blinded her momentarily, but the all-too human scream that had accompanied it galvanized her into action. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the near-dark of the room and let her locate the pen light. She snatched it up and crawled over to Doctor McKay's inert body. Peterson heaved him onto his back and franticly searched for a pulse. She realized she was panicking, and made herself stop, take a breath, and then check. McKay's skin was cold and clammy, but she found a pulse. It was really fast, but it seemed steady enough. She started checking him over. He was obviously unconscious and in shock, but breathing. He had a nasty bruise already forming along his temple from where he had hit the wall. Peterson felt down his arms and his chest and didn't feel any broken bones, but that didn't mean he couldn't have cracked ribs. She shone the light on his hands and grimaced. They were burned, but not too badly.

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap! This was one of the reasons she had transferred out of her exploration team!

Peterson wracked her memory, trying to remember first aid for electrocution, head trauma, shock. She started through her litany of expletives again.

She sat back on her heels a moment to think. One at a time, she told herself.

Electrocution.

Peterson checked his hands again. Burned. Some blistering, but nothing charred. She thought a moment. Electricity affected the heart and the brain. His heart was beating and he wasn't having a seizure or anything, so maybe that meant he was all right. Also, the body acted as a really good conductor and went in one place and out another.

She paused and then gently rolled him on his side, sliding his arm out of one the sleeves of his jacket. She grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up, checking his back. After a minute or so of examination, she couldn't find any exit wounds. The brunt of it must have just been located in his hands. Peterson breathed a small sigh of relief and pulled his shirt back down, and then threaded his limp arm back through the jacket sleeve. She rolled him onto his back again.

Head trauma.

Peterson grabbed the penlight from where she had left it on the floor and knelt over McKay. She could vaguely remember something about checking to see if the pupils were equal and reacted to light. She carefully peeled back his right eye and stared at it, flashing the light into it and out again. Peterson watched in fascination as the pupil dilated in the darkness and then contracted to a pin prick in the light. She repeated the process on the left eye with the same reaction. Well, that was a good thing, right?

Peterson checked for bleeding from the ears. Nothing. McKay's nose was bleeding slightly, but didn't seem to be broken. She dug in her pockets for something to wipe away the blood with, but came up with nothing, so she used her sleeve. It didn't take much work because it had already stopped bleeding on its own.

Shock.

She sat back. There wasn't much she could do for that, but keep him warm. She tried to make him comfortable as she could and pulled off her jacket and draped it over him.

Peterson sighed. This was bad. This was why she transferred off SG4 and became a lab monkey. That, and because she didn't trust herself any more after that mission to Avalon. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her forehead down on her knees.

A soft groan snapped her head up and she quickly crawled over to McKay's side. He shifted a little and then confused, pain filled eyes struggled open.

"Doctor McKay, are you okay?" she asked him.

He stared at her a moment. "What happened?" he asked, closing his eyes and grimacing as he shifted to try to sit up.

Peterson helped him sit up and slide back so he was resting against the alcove wall.

"The panel you were working on shorted out and you took a pretty hard jolt. How are you feeling?" she asked him again.

"Electrocuted," McKay said dryly, his eyes finally focusing on her. "Did the door open?"

Peterson shook her head. "No."

He groaned in frustration and struggled to get to his feet, but Peterson pushed him back down. "Doctor McKay, you need to rest for a minute. You just about electrocuted yourself. Give your body a moment to recover."

McKay frowned at her. "We really need to get out of this alcove."

"Fine. I agree," she told him. "But tell me what to do and rest for a minute."

McKay put his hands down on the floor to shift his position and hissed, quickly pulling his hands onto his lap. "Ow," he said, his face screwing up in pain. He swore softly under his breath and then looked at her. "Did I burn out the door crystals?"

"I don't know."

"Then check them," he snapped.

Peterson bit back a comment. The man was hurt and not thinking too clearly yet. She got to her feet and went to the panel. With some trepidation, she touched one of the crystals. She jerked her hand away, almost expecting it to shock her, but it didn't. She pulled one of the crystals out and shone her pen light over it. "This one is fine."

"Check the other two," McKay said shortly, cradling his hands against his chest.

Peterson slid the crystal back into place and then pulled out the other one. It looked fine as well. The third one wasn't there. She shone the light along the floor, looking for it. After a few minutes of searching she found it, lodged in a crack against one wall. She held it up to the light and sighed. "The ones still in the panel are fine, but this one is cracked," she said, holding and shining the light through it so McKay could see.

McKay reached up for it, flinching as he took hold of it. He struggled to get back to his feet. "It might still work for us it as a jumper to hotwire the door open."

Peterson bared his way. "I don't think so," she said, snatching the crystal out of his loose grip. "You nearly fried yourself doing that the last time. That's obviously not going to work."

"There isn't another way," he shot back. "These things don't have wires you can just reroute."

She stared at him long and hard another moment, and then looked at the crystal. "What do I need to do?"

He stared at her. "I'll do it."

"No," she said, pinning him with a look. "You're hurt and you can barely hold onto to it. What do I do?"

He sighed. "You need use is as a jumper between the top crystal and the bottom on. The arc should be enough to open the doors."

She nodded and took it back to the panel. She took a deep breath, then touched the top crystal, and slowly bumped the bottom one with the crystal she held. She let out a yelp as electricity snapped at her fingers, jolting the crystal out of her hand. She stuck her fingers in her mouth, but this time the door opened.

"Are you okay?" McKay asked worriedly, hovering behind her.

"I'm fine," she said, grabbing his arm and hauling him through the door before it shut on them again.

The door clamped shut with a dull metallic clang behind them. The sound echoed eerily through the darkened corridors.

"Oh, this is nice," McKay said softly, his voice sounding strangely flat.

***

"We have to get everyone with the ATA gene out of the city," Beckett said. "At least to the mainland. Off-world might be better still."

He, Elizabeth Weir and the remainder of John Sheppard's exploration team were gathered in the infirmary, along with several of the civilian scientists and Marines. Weir and Teyla had come in just as Beckett's team brought in Sheppard from where he'd collapsed, lieutenant Ford following anxiously behind him. None of them had left. The other ATA gene carriers were trickling in, from all over Atlantis.

Now they were having an impromptu briefing in the infirmary out of deference to Beckett-—because he had so many patients to look after, and because he honestly didn't think he'd be able to make it all the way to the briefing room.

"The Althosians would be more than willing to accommodate your people, Doctor," Teyla said.

"Thank you." Beckett managed to smile for her, though the barest movement felt like it might split his skull. "But I'm worried the mainland won't be far enough."

He'd taken the strongest painkillers he could that wouldn't knock him out, and they'd barely made a dent in the pain in his head. He couldn't recall ever being in such raw agony. It felt like someone was using a claw hammer to slowly pry his skull off his brain.

He dearly wished he could be lying on one of the infirmary beds, heavily sedated, as were the majority of everyone with the ATA gene. But he was the chief medical officer here and that simply wasn't an option.

"Do you have any idea what's causing this, Beckett?" Weir asked. She was standing with her arms crossed, her narrow face pinched with concern. "Apparently there's been two malfunctions in the city's power, but that doesn't explain why these people are so ill."

"I don't know," Beckett admitted. "Obviously the gene is responsible in some way--but I don't know why. We've had power outages before, but nothing like this ever happened."

"It doesn't make sense," Ford said. He was looking between Major Sheppard and Sergeant Markham, on their infirmary beds, his eyes wide and worried. "I mean, the Ancients all had the gene--they wouldn't've built a city that would've hurt them, right?"

"Most likely, no," Beckett said. "But don't forget that we're not Ancients--even those of us who have the gene, it's not necessarily expressing itself the way it would in an Ancient's body. Not to mention several thousand years of possible mutations..." He sighed, rubbing between his eyes. He hurt too much to try to explain something like this.

Ford's head suddenly snapped up. "McKay!"

Beckett looked at him, squinting through his pain. "What?"

"Sorry," Ford said quickly. "But I was thinking about McKay, and how he only has the gene artificially, and then I remembered that the major was talking about him, before I came to get you."

"I have not seen Doctor McKay in some time," Teyla noted. Beckett realized that he hadn't, either. Not since McKay had all but fled from the infirmary.

Weir shook her head. "I tried contacting him from the control room, when Ford came in. We couldn't raise him." She turned to Ford. "What did the major say?"

"It was weird--I didn't really get it," Ford said. "But he told me that I had to help McKay, and then..." he licked his lips, thinking. "Sheppard said something about... something like, 'he's not bad.' And it was like he was asking the city to stop."

"Stop what?" Sergeant Bates asked. His eyebrows lowered. "Are you saying Doctor McKay is responsible for this? For these people being injured?"

"I'm sure he's not saying that," Weir put in quickly. She gave Bates a look that Beckett knew was a warning. She turned back to Ford. "Do you mean Sheppard was communicating with the city? That he knows what's going on?" She looked over her shoulder, at the nearest bed where the major was lying. Sheppard was in a drugged sleep--it was the only way to keep him free of pain. As it was, he'd been barely conscious when the medical team had brought him into the infirmary. Only Markham was in worse physical shape after the second blackout.

"I don't know." Ford shrugged helplessly. "He was already pretty out of it--he might not have been really saying anything."

"But he did tell you that Rodney needed your help?" Weir asked. Her eyes were still on Sheppard, obviously considering.

"Yes, ma'am." Ford nodded. "He was pretty insistent about it."

Weir turned back to Beckett. "How long until he wakes up?"

Beckett did a quick mental calculation. Even thinking seemed to hurt. "Perhaps an hour--but we're going to give him a second dose before that." He didn't like where this was going at all.

"No." Weir gave him a curt nod. "Let him wake up."

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to subject my patient--"

"Carson," Weir's voice was like steel, "we've got a lot of very sick people here-—including you-—and one who may be in danger. Major Sheppard might know why. I don't think we have much choice here, under the circumstances."

Beckett looked at her for a long moment, seeing no way past her determination. "All right," he said. "But it has to be for as little time as possible. I'm not going to let him suffer so you can interrogate him."

Weir nodded. "Very well. All right, people..." She shifted her focus to the others in the room. "We need to get Carson's patients off-world as quickly as possible, and we need to start a search for Doctor McKay." She turned to Bates. "You're in charge of the search, sergeant. Peter--"

She cut herself off, and Beckett saw her quickly concealed wince. Peter Grodin was currently sitting on one of the infirmary beds. Grodin was better off than most of the patients--he hadn't needed to be sedated, at least--though he had his elbows on his thighs and his bowed head in his hands.

"Simpson," she amended quickly, turning her attention to one of the other scientists. "I need you to collect a team to go over every bit of data in the city's database. Maybe there's information about what's happening somewhere in there. And do a diagnostic of every system you can as well."

She finally looked at the two members of Sheppard's team. "Teyla Emmagan and Lieutenant Ford are in charge of the evacuation. Let's get to it."

The group left, each moving quickly to their appointed tasks. Beckett waited until the last of them was well gone before he let himself sag forward, crossing his arms on the table and leaning his forehead on them.

Mother of God, he was in such pain. And he doubted it would end until they got this mess sorted out.

***

McKay sighed and leaned against the wall. It felt cool against his back as he slid down to sit on the floor. He rested his forehead against his left hand, cradling his more injured right hand on his lap. He felt like crap. He must have hit his head when they transported in, because right now it felt like his skull was going to explode. On the upside, it made his hands feel better in contrast. The corridor they had been exploring for the last hour or so felt uncomfortably hot and stuffy and it was making him lightheaded. That and lack of food, but right now he felt too sick to his stomach to actually be hungry.

"Doctor McKay?" Peterson came back over to him from the room she had been checking out. "Are you okay?"

"No," he said testily, and then stopped. He looked up at her, squinting against the pain in his head. She was shivering. "Are you okay?"

She gave him a brief smile. "Fine, just cold. I think the temperature is dropping in here."

"Where's your jacket?" he asked, watching her.

"It got left in the transporter alcove."

He shifted and pulled off his jacket, holding it up to her. "Here. I don't know why you're cold-—it's so hot I can't catch my breath."

Peterson frowned and knelt down beside him, resting the back of her hand against his forehead and then his cheek. He raised his eyebrows in question to her.

"You're hot," she and then quirked a smile. "In the temperature sense."

He rolled his eyes and then flinched, the pain in his head flaring. When he opened his eyes again, Peterson was staring at him in concern. "I'm fine," he snapped.

She just shook her head and stood. "I found something that might be a door, but it's not working for me."

He blew out a breath. "And you want me and my gene to open it."

"Standard drill," she said, holding out a hand to help him up.

Reluctantly, he took it. The room tilted a bit as he stood and he struggled to hide it. Peterson reached out and steadied him and he tried to shrug off her hand.

"Would you stop that? You're hurt and something's wrong with you. Let me help you," she snapped at him.

"I don't need help," McKay said, shrugging his way past her. He closed his eyes. He didn't mean to snap at her like that, but something felt seriously wrong with him and he didn't want her close. Better to piss her off now and make her keep her distance-—he had a bad feeling it might be safer for her in the long run. McKay squared his shoulders and headed into the room Peterson had just come out of. It looked like some kind of lab, but he wasn't sure. He looked around. "That was weird," he said softly. It was almost as if the already dim lighting dimmed even more when he stepped into the room.

It didn't take much looking to find the door Peterson was talking about. A narrow alcove led to a depression in the wall in the size and shape of a door. He saw a small panel on the right side that looked like an activation plate. He heard Peterson behind him as he lifted his left hand to touch it.

Fire lanced up his arm and seemed to explode in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Pain consumed his every thought, then nothing.

His head hurt and this irritating rasping sound grated against his ears.

Something cool brushed against his face and then went away. He frowned. That felt good, why did it stop? He knew he would have to open his eyes to find out, but he really didn't want to. He was almost comfortable, if he didn't hurt so much.

He sighed and something tickled in his chest and he started to cough. Pain bit hard into his chest again and he rolled onto his side, curling against the pain. The cool hand rested against his forehead again and another hand rubbed his back until the worst of the coughing let up. He sagged in exhaustion and realized someone was talking. They had been talking before, but he really hadn't understood it. He struggled to pay attention this time and the words slowly started to make sense.

"...Need to talk to me here. You really need to open your eyes for me, Doctor McKay. Please, just open your eyes and I'll stop bugging you for a while."

He took him a lot more effort than it should have to manage to get his eyes open. He blinked a few times before things finally came into focus and a red-haired woman with a relieved, yet still worried expression came into view. Peterson. Daria Peterson.

"Hi," she said.

He blinked a few more times, before trying to answer. He managed a hoarse, "Hi."

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

He just closed his eyes and then he felt her shake him a bit.

"Come on, you need to keep with me here. I need you to tell me what happened, Doctor McKay," she said.

He groaned, but she wouldn't leave him alone. In exasperation, he opened his eyes. "It doesn't like me," he said, struggling to get the words out.

She frowned. "What? What do you mean?"

McKay frowned. He didn't really know himself. He just knew something didn't like him and wanted him to go away, but he didn't know what. He frowned, trying to puzzle it together and a chill swept over him. He started to shiver and he felt something being placed over him. He opened his eyes and saw that Peterson was tucking his jacket around his shoulders.

He struggled to sit up, but pain flared behind his eyes in very interesting patterns. Kind of like Doppler plotting. Very pretty colors. Very...

***

"The medical tent's being set up," Doctor Lupe Olivares said. "We'll be ready to receive the first patients in about another two hours."

"Very well. Thank you, Doctor." Teyla nodded, then touched the radio in her ear, updating Ford on the situation. She glanced over at the Stargate as she listened to his acknowledgement. The event horizon shone blue and serene, rippling like water. Teyla didn't understand most of what Dr. McKay had said, when she'd asked him how it worked once. It made very little sense to her--the idea that people and objects could be broken down into small pieces and sent somewhere, only to be recreated as whole in the new place. She preferred to think of it as traveling through water, for that was what it seemed like when one used the gate to travel from one place to another: You took a deep breath, and stepped in, and then surfaced somewhere else.

She only hoped that being somewhere else would do as much good for the poor men and women in the infirmary, as Dr. Beckett thought it would. She could not understand why the city itself seemed to be responsible for their torment, but the connection between the power losses and their pain was too obvious to allow any other kind of conclusion. She could also not understand why a city built by the Ancients would turn on their children, but then that was one of the things Beckett and Weir were trying to discover. Perhaps Dr. McKay would be able to give them the answer, when they found him.

When, she told herself, not if. That was another thing to be hopeful about.

Teyla watched as Olivares went through the 'gate, followed by the members of the medical team she was taking with her. The planet they had chosen for the evacuation was uninhabited, which should mean no threats, if the Ancestors were kind. Unfortunately, it also meant that those off-world could only ask Atlantis for help. They had the medical tent, and currently were transporting enough supplies and equipment to last the doctor, her three assistants, and those afflicted for two days.

No one had mentioned that it might take longer than that for the city to become safe for those with the ATA gene again. But it was nonetheless obvious that they all were thinking it.

It was also obvious that they were thinking that possibly no one with the ATA gene could ever return to the city at all.

Teyla dearly hoped it would not come to that. As she had told Beckett and Weir, anyone from Earth would be welcome on the mainland for as long as they chose to stay. But she could not imagine the people from Earth being content to forever share the simple existence the Wraith had forced her people to take on. The Athosians were hunters, traders and farmers; they were not explorers, as were Weir's people. Teyla was sadly certain that a life on the mainland would be unsatisfying for them.

Of course, that would only be true if those with the ATA gene could indeed live on the mainland. If it wasn't too close to the city's influence to cause them further harm.

Teyla sighed. It served no purpose to borrow trouble, as Ford had once told her. She should only concentrate on getting Weir's people off-world as quickly as possible--

The light disappeared again, plunging the area around the 'gate into darkness.

For a moment only the false-water of the 'gate itself glowed blue, casting eerie shadows over the large room, and then it shut off as well.

***

"He should be coming round very soon, now," Beckett told her. The doctor looked like death warmed-over; Weir had no idea where he got the energy from to sound so angry.

Beckett had already refused to evacuate with the others. She was still trying to decide if she should order him to or not.

But the truth was, Weir feared she didn't really have any choice. Dr. Beckett had discovered the ATA gene. He was the foremost expert on how it expressed itself in humans, and how it enabled them to interact with Ancient technology. If there were any hope of finding out what was going on, or how to stop it, it would most likely lie with him.

Beckett--and McKay, since McKay knew how the Ancient technology itself worked better than anyone, even if Major Sheppard was the best at actually using it. But Bates' teams had been searching for him for over an hour already, and still hadn't reported any progress.

After what Ford had told her during the briefing, it seemed terribly likely that McKay had something to do with the blackouts, and even this mysterious illness. Though no one knew how.

Well, she amended to herself, someone might know how, but he was currently unable to answer any questions. Weir let out a silent breath of air, forcing herself not to glance at her watch.

It was, Weir had to admit, a distinct possibility that McKay had even caused this, though it certainly wouldn't have been intentional. McKay was generally very cautious when it came to testing unknown Ancient technology, but she wouldn't put it past him to have discovered something fascinating in some remote part of the city, and to have started playing with it without considering the consequences.

Weir wondered if he was currently suffering the same kind of pain as all the other people with the ATA gene were, even though he'd gained his artificially. She hated to think of him being alone and in agony, unable to get help.

And if things weren't bad enough, William Corrigan, one of the anthropologists, had called in a few minutes ago asking if anyone had seen Daria Peterson. Apparently she'd gone searching for someone with the ATA gene to activate an artifact, and hadn't returned.

Which meant that Weir had two of her people lost. On top of everything else. Exactly what she didn't need.

The only good thing about that was the possibility that Peterson and McKay were together, though Weir knew that was an empty comfort--if either of them had been able to communicate with anyone, they would have done it by now.

Weir could only hope that didn't mean they were lying injured somewhere, or worse.

Damn it, Elizabeth! She silently chided herself. Hadn't Simon always told her not to borrow trouble? She had to deal with the tangible, here and now, the things she could actually deal with.

Like finding out what John Sheppard knew about what was going on.

She watched his face, the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He hadn't made any movements that would indicate he was waking up, but she thought that maybe his breathing was speeding up a bit.

His eyelids twitched, and finally cracked open. He looked up at her with eyes that were glazed with pain.

"What hit me?" He asked.

She was able to dredge up a smile for him. "I'm sorry we had to wake you," she said, ignoring the look Beckett shot her. "But Aiden said you might know what's been going on."

He looked at her blankly. "My head really hurts."

"I know," Weir said quickly, before Beckett could make Sheppard any promises he'd then force her to keep. "It has something to do with the city, right? Aiden said you told him something was wrong."

"Yeah," Sheppard said. He tried to nod, and then winced. "The city's angry."

Weir raised an eyebrow. "Why?" She asked. "Do you know why?"

Sheppard swallowed, took a breath. He was even paler than Beckett, if such a thing were possible--Weir didn't even want to imagine how much pain the two men were in. How much pain so many members of her team were in. She shoved aside a stab of guilt at forcing Sheppard to be conscious, for agreeing with Beckett that the doctor couldn't leave.

"John," she repeated, trying to keep her voice gentle, "do you know why Atlantis is angry?"

"Rodney," Sheppard said. His eyes slid shut, as if it hurt him too much to have them open. "The city..." he whispered. "The city thinks he's bad... Evil. It's trying... to protect..." He paused, grimacing. "To protect us," he finished. "And itself."

Weir looked at Beckett, who managed a tiny shrug to show his confusion. She turned back to Sheppard. "Why does Atlantis think it has to protect us from Rodney?"

"Elizabeth," Beckett said. His voice was terribly weak, but still full of admonition.

"This is the last question," she said to him. "Then you can put him back under. I promise."

Sheppard heard that, and he turned his head to look at Beckett. It seemed to take him a great deal of effort. "No," he said. "No drugs. I have to help."

"You can barely talk, son," Beckett said gently. "I'm afraid you'll have to sit this one out."

"No," Sheppard said again. He tried to sit up, but sank back with a tiny moan. "He doesn't know. I have to--" He broke off, his eyes going wide. "Oh no."

And the power went off again.

***

Peterson sat back on her heels and chewed on her bottom lip. She leaned forward and tucked McKay's jacket more snuggly around him. This was bad. This was really bad.

McKay's breathing had taken on an ominous rasping quality. She brushed her hand against his forehead again and almost flinched back in the intensity of the heat pouring off him. This was more than just a reaction to being electrocuted, again.

Her heart had almost stopped when he had put his hand against the door panel and electricity had arced out of it, enveloping him in an undulating ball of energy. She hadn't dared touch him, but had used one of the tables scattered around the workroom to break the connection. He was going to have a heck of bruise from where she had hit him when she threw the small table at him, but it had broken his connection to the panel.

Peterson rubbed her wrist and then rested a hand on his chest, just to double check he was breathing. She relaxed a little when she felt the steady rise and fall there.

He hadn't been breathing when she had dragged him out of the workroom. His heart wasn't beating. Instinct had kicked in, and all those courses they had been given on first aid when she been on SG4. She had started CPR and rescue breathing. He probably had a couple cracked ribs, but he was alive. She had only ever done CPR on one other person, and poor Captain Rodgers ended up with two broken ribs. Dr. Fraiser had said she was a bit enthusiastic with her CPR style.

She sighed. Something was seriously messed up with this place. She looked around and then checked him one last time. Either unconscious or sleeping, he wasn't going to be moving for a while.

Peterson slowly got up and looked around. The tech down here didn't seem to like him very much. Maybe it wasn't so ticked off at her. She gave him once last look and then took off down the hall.

Going back the way they had come was a waste of time. The transporter alcove there was broken. If this section was like the others in the city, there had to be another one on this level. She just had to find it.

Peterson walked briskly down the hallway, her boot heels making a hollow ticking sound on the floor. She glanced in darkened rooms, the lighting flickering around her. This section of the city wasn't in as good as shape as the parts of the city they were living in. Dusk coated the floors in places and a dank musty smell permeated everything. They must be pretty deep in the bowels of the city, closer to the water line and the areas that had been resting on the ocean floor. Peterson kept a close eye on the walls around her, but she didn't see any telltale comm consoles. Peterson picked up her pace. She didn't like leaving McKay alone this long.

Peterson was just about to turn around and head back to check on McKay when she saw something that made her break into a run. She skidded into the transporter alcove, and paused outside the transporter door a moment. She took a deep breath and touched the door panel. The door hissed open with the familiar sound of the normal Ancient hydraulic systems. Peterson stepped in and the back panel snapped open, showing the map of the city. She breathed a sigh of relief.

She smiled when she saw the familiar comm access panel and she brushed her fingers against it. "Peterson to the control room. Control room, do you read me?"

***

John Sheppard was going to break her hand.

He'd started screaming as soon as the lights had gone off--the kind of noise Weir associated with dying animals. She'd automatically reached for him in the darkness, trying to offer some kind of comfort. And he'd found her hand, and now Sheppard was squeezing it so hard Weir thought she could feel the bones grinding together.

She had heard Beckett cry out as well-—a short, truncated sound that made her think the worst, though in the dark and unable to move away from Sheppard she hadn't been able to find out-—and then other exclamations of shock and pain from the few still-conscious people with the ATA gene. She was certain she'd heard Peter Grodin's appeal to God.

It was like being in hell.

It had taken longer this time for the power to finally come back on, Weir was certain, though maybe it just seemed that way because of the agony in her hand. She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to add to the noise, not to try to yank her hand away. If the only thing she could do for Sheppard was to be his anchor right now, then she'd damn well do it, even if she lost fingers in the process. She just hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The lights began glowing, finally, and the horrible cries faltered and stopped. The relative quiet was almost startling.

The nurse Svetlana Vasileva was at Beckett's side the moment the room was visible again. The doctor was on his knees, hands pressed to the side of his head. His teeth were bared and clenched, and Weir could hear his rapid breathing hissing through them.

His nose was bleeding quite badly.

Beckett swayed, all but falling against his assistant, and Weir wanted to help but Sheppard hadn't let go of her yet. Her fingertips were bright red.

"John!" Weir said loudly, though she strongly doubted the major could even hear her. "John! You're breaking my hand! Let me go!"

He didn't. But then she hadn't expected him to.

At least the patients who had been unconscious didn't seem to have been affected, which was a small mercy, though it did nothing for the vicious guilt Weir felt while she watched Svetlana try to help Beckett get to his feet.

It didn't make her hand hurt any less, either.

"John!" She was shouting now, trying to pry his fingers off with her free hand. "John! Please, let me go!"

He didn't respond at all. His face was a white, contorted mask of pain, tears leaking out the sides of his clenched-shut eyes. His nose was bleeding heavily, like Beckett's, running over Sheppard's lips and into his mouth.

A noise to her right drew Weir's attention, and for a moment she forgot about her hand entirely. Sergeant Markham was seizing, shaking violently on the infirmary bed. It looked like the young man's nose was hemorrhaging blood, and Weir had to look away. At least there were two of the medical assistants with him.

Ford rushed in from nowhere, though Weir assumed he'd been on his way to the infirmary when the power cut out again. The lieutenant looked around, his keen eyes taking in everything, then he went right to Weir. He reached for Sheppard's hand, obviously intending to help.

"Help her," Weir grit out, gesturing sharply at Svetlana with a tilt of her head.

Ford blinked, glanced uncertainly at Svetlana. She was having a lot of trouble with the taller and heavier doctor.

"I'm okay! Go!" Weir insisted.

Ford was obviously unhappy leaving her, but he went to Svetlana anyway.

Weir hadn't entirely lied--Sheppard seemed to be finally coming out of this latest attack. His hand slowly relaxed around hers, dropping to his chest. Weir snatched her hand back, massaging it automatically. There were already bruises forming on her skin, in the shape of Sheppard's fingers. It was incredibly painful, and she thought she felt bones sliding under the skin.

The tension in Sheppard's face eased a little as well, though there were still deep lines of pain around his mouth and eyes. His lips moved, but Weir couldn't hear any sound.

"Don't try to talk," she said. "It's all right."

She glanced up quickly, looking for Ford. He and Svetlana had managed to get Beckett into a chair--there were no free beds--and the nurse had a gauze pad pressed to Beckett's nose.

"Ford!" She called to him. "We need to get these people off-world now."

He looked at her and nodded. She saw him press his fingers to his ear, relaying her order to Teyla via his radio. Weir knew that the evacuation team wasn't ready for them yet, but it didn't matter. Weir was certain that if these people stayed through one more blackout, they'd start dying. She wasn't even sure that Markham wasn't dying already.

"Markham goes first," she amended to Ford. He nodded again.

And then Sheppard, she added to herself. He couldn't take another hit like that. None of her people could.

She looked over at Beckett.

He seemed marginally better--at least he was able to sit upright and staunch his bleeding himself. He stared back at her with eyes darkened and dulled by pain.

Weir couldn't let him stay here. She wasn't sure she could let him leave, even if he was willing to.

"Elizabeth."

She turned back to Sheppard, amazed he was even talking. "I'm here."

"The city..." Sheppard was obviously struggling to speak. His voice was almost nonexistent, and he couldn't open his eyes.

"It's all right--" Weir started.

Sheppard ignored her. "...Thinks he's a Wraith." He said. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and even that looked like it hurt. "The city thinks McKay's a Wraith."

Weir blinked. "What?" The city thought McKay was a Wraith? How was that even possible? "Why?"

Her radio sounded.

"Damn it," she muttered, just before tapping her earpiece.

It was Wing, up in the control room. "Dr. Peterson's just called in," he said. "She's with Doctor McKay."

***

Peterson shifted uneasily on her feet. She didn't like leaving Doctor McKay alone this long, but they needed her here, so they could try to find her location and send help.

"Dr. Peterson?" Wing's voice came back over the comm.

"Yes, I'm here," she answered quickly.

"Sergeant Bates' team is trying to pinpoint you now and then they will be transporting to your spot."

"We need a medic and stretcher," she told him. "Doctor McKay's not in very good shape. There's no way he's going to be moving out of here under his own power, and we can't use the transporter."

"Understood," Wing said. "Just a moment."

Time seemed to crawl. Peterson waited tensely, willing herself not to start pacing.

"Dr. Peterson," another voice came across the speaker. She could tell by the Scottish accent it was Dr. Beckett. She frowned--he sounded awful.

"Yes, Dr. Beckett."

"What's McKay's condition?"

Peterson sighed. "He's been electrocuted twice. First time, he just ended up with burns on his hands from the panel shorting out. Second time, his heart stopped and he wasn't breathing." She cleared her throat, tried to push the memory of that back to deal with later. "I did CPR on him, and his heart started back up and he started breathing again. He was still pretty shocky, though, when I left him. He's also got a high fever and he sounds congested or something. He's having some difficulty breathing." She paused, racking her brain. "Oh, he may have a concussion. When he got shocked the first time, he got thrown against the back of the transport alcove and hit his head pretty hard. He was complaining of a headache after that for while."

There was silence over the comm for a moment, and she started to worry that it had stopped working when she heard a quiet, "Holy crap."

"Dr. Peterson?" It was Wing again.

"Yes?"

"If you could step out of the transporter alcove, Dr. Zelenka's got you located now and his team is ready to... well... 'beam' to your location."

"Give me a couple seconds to get out, and then have them... 'beam'." Peterson hurried out of the alcove and the doors closed behind her. She smiled. They were still hunting for the right terms for these things. Beaming was as good as anything.

She had started to pace when the door popped open and Dr. Zelenka, Sergeant Bates, and a few other personnel she didn't know stepped out, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank the Lord," she said softly.

"Dr. Peterson, where is McKay?" Zelenka asked.

"This way," she said, turning back the way she had come. She led them quickly through the empty corridors to where McKay was.

The injured scientist lay where she had left him. His breathing was coming in painful-sounding, rasping gasps. His skin was the color of parchment and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. The doctor with them quickly dropped to his knees beside McKay and began to check him over.

"Crap," Peterson said softly. "He wasn't this bad when I left him here."

Zelenka just nodded, looking shaken. "This is not good," he said softly. Peterson remembered the two of them were friends.

"I'm sorry," she said to him.

He looked at her. "No, it is not your fault. Thank you for helping him as much as you did."

The doctor slipped an oxygen mask over McKay's face, and then started working on hooking him to an IV line. A couple more of the men helped transfer him onto the stretcher.

"How is he?" Peterson asked the doctor.

The man frowned. "Not good. We need to get him up to the Infirmary, maybe even off-world with the rest of them. That's a call for Dr. Beckett, but he's stabilized for transit now."

Peterson frowned. "Off-world with the rest? What 'rest?'"

Zelenka looked at her. "Oh, the others with the ATA gene. Something in the city--or perhaps the city itself--is affecting them all adversely. They are trying to figure out what, but it seems... or, at least Major Sheppard and Doctor Beckett believe, that McKay is the key."

Peterson tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. "That would explain why it seemed everything he touched wanted to kill him," she said with a grimace.

The doctor motioned for the other men to pick up the stretcher. Zelenka nodded. "We should get moving. It will be a long walk."

"How far down are we?" Peterson asked him.

The Czech scientist grimaced, holding out his one hand at eye level. "The upper level of Atlantis is so," he said and then held his other hand down near his waist. "We are so."

Peterson groaned. "Great."

***

For a moment, Beckett had... felt something. Just after the lights had gone out the third time, right before the agony had rushed in again.

It had almost been like words, like someone was speaking; only it was right in his head, as if the sound had somehow bypassed his hearing and registered directly in his brain.

Almost like words. But it was more than that--and also less. Like a child who didn't know how to speak yet, trying to communicate that something was wrong.

And something was terribly wrong.

The city was angry.

Beckett knew that, though he didn't know how he knew. It was in the words/non-words imprinted on his brain, the sudden, flaring shock of comprehension that had briefly flared behind his eyes.

The city was angry. Atlantis was angry at Rodney McKay, with all the desperate, anguished fury of a helpless child.

Atlantis thought that McKay had betrayed it.

Beckett understood it perfectly, what the city had told him. He knew it as well and as completely as he knew his profession, his own name. And he wanted to tell the city that it wasn't true, that McKay would never purposely hurt it, or any of them...

But then the pain came in like an explosion inside his skull, bright red and then black on black. And by the time he could even think again, Svetlana and Ford were helping him stand, and his connection to the city was gone.

He was sitting now, holding yet more gauze to his bleeding nose, watching as Weir talked to Sheppard, cradling her right hand. He wondered what Sheppard was telling her, though Beckett suspected that now he already knew. He just had no idea whatsoever what he could do about it.

Ask him. Sheppard would know, of course. Ford had said the major had known the city was angry right from the beginning.

Good Lord, he could barely think. It was like trying to swim through sand.

Beckett pressed his free hand to the tabletop, trying to lever himself upright. He really didn't like how much his arm shook--it gave him uncomfortable little qualms about nerve damage--but he gritted his teeth and stood.

His legs nearly gave out. He felt his knees giving way, and his arm collapsed, so that he was leaning his weight on his forearm and elbow. He dropped the gauze so he could use his other hand.

The world spun and dipped. He wasn't going to pass out again--

"Doc! Are you okay?" It was Ford, grabbing his arm, trying to steady him.

"No," Beckett snapped. He lifted his head with an effort, squinting at the lieutenant. "I need to talk to Sheppard."

Ford looked from him to where Weir was still standing with Sheppard. She had two fingers to the radio receiver in her ear now, in the midst of a conversation. She had her right hand tucked into her chest; Beckett wondered if she'd hurt it. The short distance between his lab table to the major's bed suddenly looked like half the length of the city.

"Weir was just talking to him," Ford said helpfully.

"Right." Beckett nodded slowly. He let Ford help him back into the chair, resisted the urge to lay his head on his folded arms.

Ford was still hovering. "Should I get the nurse?"

"Good lad," Beckett said, almost whispering. He'd have Svetlana give him something for the pain. Then he'd be all right.

"Carson."

It was Weir's voice. Which meant he had to turn his head to look at her. He managed it, but it wasn't pleasant.

"Daria Peterson just contacted the control room," Weir said. Her expression was guarded, but he could still see the renewed hope in her eyes. "She's with Rodney. Bates' team is helping them now."

"Thank God," Beckett murmured.

Weir licked her lips. "It's not good news yet," she said. "Peterson said Rodney's in bad shape. Very bad."

"Ach." He'd been hoping not to hear that, but after his... experience just now, his awareness of the city, he had feared that McKay would be hurt. He tapped his earpiece, told Wing to patch him through to Peterson as soon as the technician answered.

"Holy crap," he said quietly, after listening to Peterson describe McKay's symptoms. McKay wasn't just in 'bad shape.' This was terrible.

Weir was looking at him, her expression radiating concern.

Beckett swallowed, gathered his strength for the explanation. It was painful to speak. "She said he's been electrocuted, twice," he told Weir. "The second time Peterson was forced to use CPR to get his heart going again. Right now he's apparently feverish, and having trouble breathing."

Weir's face tightened. "At least they're bringing him back here now."

"Aye," Beckett whispered. But something Peterson had told him didn't make sense. "He shouldn't have a fever, though," he said, hoping Weir would understand.

He was grateful when Weir nodded. "I was wondering that myself. I mean, it's not a symptom of being electrocuted, is it?" She nodded again when Beckett shook his head in confirmation. "Could it be that whatever's causing the fever--could that be what's making the city think he's a Wraith?"

Beckett blinked at her.

"Oh! Sorry." Weir shook her head, rubbing her forehead with the fingers of her left hand.

"You'll need that x-rayed," Beckett said. He moved his head just enough to gesture at her hand with his chin, then instantly regretted it.

Weir blinked, as if she'd forgotten, then seemed almost embarrassed. "I think it's broken," she said apologetically.

"It looks it," Beckett agreed. It was badly bruised, and beginning to swell. Beckett guessed that she had probably taken Sheppard's hand when the lights went out. Sometimes that wasn't always a good idea. "I can have Dr. Jackson take care of you before he joins Dr. Olivares off-world."

"Thank you," Weir said. She'd started cradling it again, probably not even aware of it. She glanced back at Sheppard while Beckett was radioing Jackson, but it looked like the major was unconscious. Beckett knew he had to check on his patients, especially Sergeant Markham, and help finish getting them ready for transport. But right now he really didn't have the strength. He was just glad he had assistants with him, who didn't have the ATA gene.

"John told me," Weir said when he'd clicked off his radio, "that the city is trying to protect us from Rodney. It thinks that Rodney's a Wraith."

"Oh," Beckett said, very softly. The anger he'd felt, that deep feeling of betrayal--it made sense now, or it almost did, at least. Beckett remembered the sense he'd had of trying to communicate with a child, that very real feeling of anger. Was the city somehow truly sentient?

He put that thought aside, since it was irrelevant. All that mattered was getting McKay to the infirmary, and getting the other patients off-world where they would be safe. And then figuring out what was going on inside McKay so that the city was reacting to him as if his entire physiology had changed...

"What? What is it?" Weir asked him. She was leaning forward across the table, her eyes intent on his face.

"Sorry," he rasped. "Thinking."

Her impeccable eyebrows shot up. "Do you know what's causing this?"

"No," he said. "Not yet. But I might." He put his palms on the table again. This time when he pushed himself to his feet his legs supported him. He guessed it was the sudden rush of adrenaline. "I need someone to bring one of the sample bottles of that wine."

***

Bates tapped his radio earpiece. "Bates here. We're ready to get moving. Dr. Jackson says he's got Dr. McKay stabilized."

"A medical team will be waiting for you," Wing's voice answered him from the main control room. "What's your ETA?"

Bates glanced at Zelenka. The Czech engineer was tapping furiously into the laptop he had brought with him. "Doc?"

Zelenka looked up, his frizzy hair swinging down onto his forehead. "Yes?"

"How long do you estimate it will take us to get back to the main level?"

The man typed for a few more seconds and then stated. "Half hour to forty-five minutes."

Bates shook his head and relayed the message.

Bates looked over at Peterson as she was helping the doctor, a young black man by the name of Jackson. Bates grimaced at how bad McKay looked. They had him strapped to the backboard for transit. Bandages covered both hands and an oxygen mask covered most of his face. Bruises mottled the chalky white skin under the mask. Doc Beckett was not going to be a happy man. That was if Doc Beckett hadn't also been taken out. Whatever was happening was affected everyone with the ATA gene pretty badly. Sheppard and Markham seemed to be hit the worst. Bates might not see eye to eye with Sheppard all the time, but the man had proven to be a good CO. He hoped the major would be able to get through this. Hell, he hoped all of them would.

"Sergeant, we're ready," Peterson told him, getting to her feet. She brushed the dirt staining her knees and frowned. "Let's get the heck out of here. This place is giving me the creeps."

"I agree," Zelenka added, shoving his laptop back into his bag and shouldering it quickly.

"Let's go," Bates said, moving to one side of McKay. Jackson positioned himself across from him, the two of them taking the front of the backboard and the bulk of McKay's weight, while Peterson and Zelenka took his feet. "On a three count," Bates told them. One... two... three!"

In unison, they lifted McKay and started off in the direction Zelenka indicated.

Bates glanced back at Peterson as they walked. She was a bit of an enigma. He had gotten a look at her personnel file when he had been putting together his gate team. She had been a member of SG4 several years before, but then transferred out after a mission went south. He had tried to talk her into joining his team, since she had more gate experience than most of them combined, but she had turned him down flatly, stating she didn't go into the field anymore.

He frowned. There had to be more to it than that.

She caught him looking at her. "What?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing."

She glared at him, but didn't push it. Instead, she glanced over at Zelenka. "Where did you say the stairwell was?"

The Czech glanced back at the doorways they had passed, counting quietly to himself. "Two more, then the one on the left of the corridor." His gaze wandered down to McKay's unconscious form, and worry lines settled in a bit deeper behind his glasses.

Bates counted the doors as they passed and then paused outside the one that Zelenka said lead to the stairs. All thirty-four freaking levels. He sighed and shifted his grip on the backboard. He had been a bit surprised when they had hefted McKay up. The scientist wasn't nearly as heavy as he had assumed, but then the Doc had probably thinned down some since he had joined Sheppard's team.

Bates glanced around at the small group and then reached out his hand and tapped the panel beside the door, letting out a grateful sigh when it opened. They moved through the opening cautiously. Thankfully, there were no nasty surprises, just stairs. He looked up. Lots and lots of stairs.

They started up, shifting their grips to try to keep McKay as flat as they could. The first floor passed quickly as they fell into a rhythm. At first they would go two landings before pausing for a break, but soon they were stopping at each landing to catch their breath. McKay was no lightweight, and Jackson had stowed his medical gear on the backboard with the man.

Bates glanced down the center of the stairwell and did a quick count, and then called a break when they got to the next landing. Jackson checked McKay over once they had stopped. Zelenka moved to look at a display panel inset in the wall.

Suddenly, below them, there was a loud metallic clank. Zelenka jumped. "I didn't touch anything!" he stated in a panicked voice.

The panel flashed a series of symbols, and then something started into what looked for all the world like a countdown to Bates.

"Oh, crap," Peterson said in a hushed voice.

"What?" Bates asked.

Peterson didn't answer him, but went over beside Zelenka, who had started jabbing at the panel.

"That didn't say what I thought it said, did it?" Peterson asked him.

Zelenka stared at the panel as the display changed. "Oh, no," he said softly.

"What's going on?" Bated demanded.

"We've triggered some kind of automated defense subroutine," Zelenka said.

"I told you the city is trying to kill him!" Peterson said, her eyes darting back to McKay. "I wasn't kidding about that. It's already tried to electrocute him twice. Why not try to drown him now?" she added in a sarcastic tone that would have done McKay proud, had he been conscious.

"Drown him?" Jackson gaped, looking up from where he was kneeling beside McKay.

"That's what the system we activated does," Zelenka stated in an annoyingly calm, clinical manner. "It fills stairwell up with water."

Bates frowned, but then a scene from an old movie he had once watched flitted through his mind. "We can use that. We can float McKay up."

"Not so simple, Sergeant," Peterson said, shooting Zelenka a dark look. "We could if that was all it did. It isn't. It fills this stairway up with water," she said, raising her hand slowly to demonstrate, "and then--whoosh!" She slapped her hand down quickly. "We get flushed out of the city and into the ocean, just like a wad of toilet paper down the commode."

"Oh," Bates said, glancing down the center of the stairwell, at the level upon level of stairs below them. "Then we better get out of here before that happens. He glanced up, doing a rough count, and then he looked at the door across from them. "Can we get out here and then find another way up?"

Peterson moved to the door, pressing her hand against the panel to open it. It let out a strange discordant sound and she jumped, visibly paling. "Oh, crap."

"What?" Zelenka shot back quickly.

"That's the noise things made before they tried to kill Dr. McKay."

There was a grating sound below them and the gurgling sound of water.

"Oh, double crap," Peterson said, hurrying to the railing to look down.

Forget this. Bates grabbed hold of the backboard with McKay on it, and Jackson grabbed the other side. "Come on, people. Move!" he ordered. "We need to put as much distance between us and that," he jerked his head toward the railing, "as possible!"

Zelenka and Peterson grabbed the other handholds on the backboard and they started back up the stairs. Bates had made sure Zelenka and Peterson took the lead, with him and Jackson shouldering McKay's weight as they ran up the stairs. He could hear Zelenka barking orders into his radio earpiece about getting the door open.

The rush of the water grew as they pushed on, lungs burning and legs on fire. They could feel the stairs shifting under their feet with the rising tide of the water, and Peterson stumbled a couple of times, nearly throwing them all off balance, but they managed to keep going. Above them, a light spilled into the dim stairwell and it took Bates several moments to realize it was an open door. He pushed his team the last two flights, yelling and cajoling them to keep moving, water licking his and Jackson's heels, making the steps under their feet treacherously slippery. They reached the door and the weight of the backboard abruptly disappeared as a waiting medical team snatched it from them. The door slammed shut.

Bates slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, when he heard a rushing, roaring sound from the other side of the door that sounded like... like... for lack of a better term... someone flushing a toilet.

***

He dreamed of lightning, and fire.

McKay woke remembering it: the stabbing arc through his chest, the burns like teeth, digging into his hand. What it had felt like when his body was frozen in place, paralyzed by the contracted muscle.

In his dream, he remembered what it had been like when his heart had stopped, and he woke up gasping.

Someone put their hand on his chest when he would have levered himself upright, gently pushing him back to the bed. He was so weak it took them almost no effort at all.

"It's all right, Doctor McKay. You're in the infirmary. You're safe."

It was Daria Peterson. She was sitting by his bed, looking down at him. Her small hand was still on his chest. "You're safe," she repeated. "It's okay."

He blinked up at her, trying to process what she'd said. It was very hard to think, and it was like her words just floated down around his ears, but didn't actually get anywhere near his brain. Safe, she had said. He was safe. He didn't know why that felt so important.

Maybe she could tell that something was wrong, because she moved her hand from his chest, and instead wrapped her fingers around his bandaged left hand. His right hand was completed swathed in white. He gripped back automatically, strangely comforted.

"You were trapped with me in one of the far piers of the city," Peterson said. "Do you remember?"

McKay thought about that. It seemed to take a very long time, but something...

Yes. The transporter. Burning his hands. Suddenly being--somewhere else. Lost. And the city...

He tightened his grip on her hand, though his fingers felt like limp rags. "Wants me dead," he told her. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and he found himself panting just to be able to speak. His head felt like it was filled with sand. "Lightning..."

No. That wasn't right. He hadn't been hit by lightning. That wasn't the right word. But then he remembered his dream.

Peterson was nodding anyway. "You were electrocuted. Twice. I'm sure the second time must've felt like being hit by lightning. You... you were hurt very badly." She smiled, but it didn't look right. Something about her eyes, but McKay couldn't figure it out. "The Doc says you might be feeling a little muzzy--you've got a fever, and he's got you on meds for pain."

He had a fever? Had the city done that? Made him sick? "Why?" he asked her. Maybe Peterson could tell him.

"I don't know," she said, with that wrong kind of smile again. "But Beckett told me he thinks it may be the answer to this, to why the city... doesn't want you here. It's--" She stopped talking abruptly. "It's complicated," she said at last. "Doctor Beckett can explain it when he comes back from his lab." She sounded apologetic.

He looked at her, at the worry on her face, and tried desperately to work out what it meant. Was he dying? Is that what she didn't want to tell him? But, if he was dying then surely his team would be there, right? They wouldn't leave him alone.

Had something happened to the city? Was this a mechanical failure? Maybe they were going to have to evacuate permanently, the way it had seemed they would during those first, awful hours when he'd been sure they'd gated to Atlantis city only to be forced to abandon it or drown. That would explain why it was Peterson here, and not his team--they'd be off-world, or on the mainland, finding a new place for them all to live. Maybe the hurricane had damaged some vital system, something he hadn't known about. Could he have made some miscalculation with the shield?

"What is it?" McKay asked her desperately. She had said he was safe, but this wasn't 'safe.' This was the end of everything... "What? Tell me!" Speaking that much exhausted him, made his chest hurt.

Something, some annoying thing, started beeping really fast.

Peterson suddenly stood up, and turned to face the back of the room. "Dr. Beckett!" She called, "Doctor! Something's wrong!"

She turned back to him. She was still holding his left hand, and she gripped it so tightly it began to hurt.

His chest was hurting, too, getting worse. And it seemed to be spreading. Hot, jagged shards of pain. Like lightning and fire.

"It's okay, Rodney," she said. "Just try and relax. It's going to be okay." But nothing on her face said it was going to be okay, and she put her hand on his forehead, and he was suddenly aware that he was sweating, that he was terribly hot.

McKay tried to ask her what was happening, but he couldn't speak anymore. It hurt too much.

He didn't have enough air to breathe. It was like there wasn't enough air in the entire world.

His vision started to gray, and then blacken. The last things he was aware of were Beckett's voice, and his clutching Peterson's hand.

***

Peterson stood well back from McKay's infirmary bed, where she'd been finally forced to retreat when it was obvious she was terribly in the way.

McKay had been unconscious by then, but it still felt terrible to have let go of his hand.

She had her arms wrapped across her torso, because otherwise she knew she'd have clapped her hands over her mouth, and she hated looking that scared, even if she was feeling it.

She was pretty sure Dr. McKay was dying.

Doctor Beckett gave Dr. Biro an order--something about antipyretics--and the woman had sprinted towards the back room. A nurse came in, handed Beckett something, and then walked up to Peterson.

"I'm afraid you need to leave now," she said. Her Russian accent was very strong.

"What's happening to him?" Peterson asked. She had switched into Russian automatically, not even realizing it. She kept glancing back towards McKay's bed, so much so that the nurse had to prevent her bodily from colliding with the wall next to the infirmary door.

"I don't know," the nurse answered, speaking Russian now as well. Peterson at least appreciated her honesty. "He's very sick--Dr. Beckett thinks he may have picked up a pathogen when he was with you on the pier." She glanced back herself, and her expression was extremely worried. "It is not responding so well to the medication."

Peterson stopped dead in the corridor just beyond the door. "You mean it's getting worse."

Not that she needed more proof of that.

The nurse just nodded. "We are doing everything we can," she said.

"Of course." Peterson took a breath. "I'd better... I'll tell Dr. Weir."

The nurse thanked her, and went back inside the infirmary.

Peterson turned and ran for the nearest communications panel.

***

John Sheppard groaned and rolled over, the hard angles of the cot pressing in uncomfortably against his ribs. His head hurt and he was hot. He draped his arm over his eyes and tried to find a more comfortable position. Really hot. He cocked an eyebrow. Hot? Atlantis wasn't hot.

He shifted his arm to rest on his forehead and opened his eyes slowly to stare up at an expanse of canvas. Since when did they redecorate the ceilings on Atlantis in canvas? He carefully shifted his head to look around and took in the bland features of a tent. Okay, this was different.

He slowly sat up, the thumping in his head escalating to a dull thunder as he did. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Oh, yeah, he was hung over. Just what had he drunk and was there any more? He cradled his head in his hands.

"Major Sheppard, good! You're awake. How are you feeling?" An overly bright and chipper voice drilled a hole through his head. Oh yeah, the mother of all hangovers.

"Be quiet," he whispered hoarsely.

"Sorry," the voice said contritely in a much quieter tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache," Sheppard stated, and then decided not to elaborate. The words seeming to vibrate inside his head hollowly, making it hurt even more, if that were possible.

He felt something cool brush against his arm and then the pain eased up a notch. He squinted open an eye to see someone in a white shirt and tan pants beside him, holding an IV line Sheppard hadn't noticed was attached to his arm.

His eyes started to focus a little better and he did a quick glance up at the person's face. He was a little disappointed when he saw it wasn't Beckett. He dredged through his memory for the dark-skinned doctor's name and kept coming up blank. Great.

"Better?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "Thanks."

Sheppard looked around and frowned. "Where are we?"

"P4X-292. Deserted planet Bates' team did some recon on a few weeks ago. We've set up camp here until they can determine what's happening on Atlantis."

"What?" Sheppard looked up at the doctor, and then he remembered. The vague feeling of something being wrong that had quickly skyrocketed into a full blown something really, really wrong. Something else hit him and his eyes widened in concern. "McKay! Is he okay? Did they find him?"

The doctor rested a hand on his shoulder. "Easy. They found him. Before I left to gate here, they had him in the infirmary."

"What's going on?" Sheppard asked finally, shifting to work some of the kinks out of his back and looking around. Other personnel were on portable cots just like his own, set in even rows down the long tent.

"We're not sure," the doctor said tiredly. "We know it's connected to the ATA gene. Everyone that has the gene's been affected, and somehow it's centered on Doctor McKay."

"Everyone with the ATA gene?" Sheppard asked, looking around for the one person with it he didn't see. "Where's Beckett?"

The dark-skinned doctor frowned deeply. "Back on Atlantis. He opted to stay and try to figure out what's happening. He knows more about the gene than any of us."

"Crap," Sheppard said, pushing his way to his feet. The doctor's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Just where do you think you're going, Major Sheppard?"

"McKay's on my team."

"And you were pretty bad shape when you were brought through the gate, Major. You're not going back until this is over."

"I could..."" Sheppard huffed, realizing just how stupid what he was about to say was going to sound. "...I could feel what the city was so miffed about. I don't know how, but I could. The city wants to kill McKay. It thinks he's some kind of threat, like the Wraith. And it's going to keep trying if we don't stop it."

"The problem is, Major, it's not just Dr. McKay the city hurt," the doctor said, his eyes drifting over to an inert form on one of the cots. Markham lay there, his face gray and waxen, dark shadows smudged like bruises under his eyes. An oxygen line snaked under his nose and a heart monitor beeped softly beside him.

"Crap," Sheppard said again, softly, and then looked back at the doctor. "Is he going to be okay?"

The man sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I think so. He's improved a lot since we got him moved here, but he had a pretty bad seizure back in Atlantis. We won't know for a while yet if he has any brain damage."

Sheppard scrubbed his hands through his hair. "This is nuts! Why is this happening? The ATA gene is supposed to be something we have that the Ancients had. It should make the city want to like us, not hate us. What the heck is going on?"

"I think that's what Dr. Beckett's trying to figure out."

***

Carson Beckett closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He could barely remember what it was like not to be in pain, and Doctor Biro's ceaseless prattling as she examined samples of McKay's blood really wasn't helping things. The fact that the woman could sound gleeful in the middle of an autopsy had never been one of her most endearing traits, as far as Beckett was concerned, though her brilliance and expertise were practically legendary in her field. He just wished her... enthusiasm for her subject matter didn't seem to preclude her remembering that she was dealing with human beings, not just soulless pieces of flesh and blood.

Truthfully, he would have rather Dr. Jackson were still there, but he was off-world with Dr. Olivares, and Biro was really the best one to be working with on this, anyway.

"Well, well, well," Biro murmured. "This is interesting. This is very interesting."

"What?" Beckett tried very hard not to snap. He rubbed one eye with the heel of his glove-covered hand, remembering too late that wasn't the best idea. At least he hadn't actually touched any of the blood samples before Biro had begun examining them.

He was dangerously punchy to be doing this kind of work. Beckett thought longingly of the medical mission on P4X-292. He truly wished he could have gone to help Dr. Olivares, instead of sending Dr. Jackson to do it. But he was needed here. McKay needed him. He could only hope that he wasn't so sick himself that he was going to let the man down.

Because if he let McKay down, it meant McKay would die.

Beckett risked a glance through the window to the infirmary. He'd instructed Svetlana to check McKay's vitals every fifteen minutes, keeping a close watch on his temperature especially. McKay hadn't regained consciousness after his last crisis, and his temperature readings were hovering around 40.5 degrees Celsius. That high a fever was dangerous enough, but after what McKay had already gone through, Beckett was truly frightened his friend wouldn't survive.

"Well," Biro sounded particularly cheerful, which Beckett could only hope meant good news. "What if I told you that Doctor McKay had an illness that was tailor-made just to kill him?"

Beckett blinked, turning slowly to face his colleague, so he wouldn't jar his head. "What?"

Biro nodded enthusiastically. "Yup. I've examined this puppy down to the molecular level. It's meant just for McKay. We couldn't catch it if we injected it right into our bloodstream."

Beckett stared at her. Maybe his hearing had been damaged after the last blackout. "That's not possible. Viruses can't be that specialized."

"Oh." Biro looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry. It's not a virus. It's a nanovirus." She gave a little shrug, smiled and gestured at the display on her laptop. "Little machines."

"Holy crap," Beckett whispered. He looked at Biro, knowing his eyes were probably a little wild. "You're saying the city manufactured a nanovirus just to kill him?" He could hear his accent thickening as he spoke, but he couldn't control it--he was in too much pain, too startled to try.

Biro raised her eyebrows. "Would you be surprised if I said 'yes?'"

He wondered, briefly, if this was the source of the virus that had killed so many of McKay's team several weeks ago--if the city had somehow made those as well. At the time they'd thought either the Ancients had created the nanovirus, or some other people had. But what if it had always been the city itself? What if it was some kind of defense mechanism that had gone horribly wrong?

Beckett put his hands to his temples. He had to stay focused. The only thing that mattered right now was getting the bloody things out of McKay's body before they killed him...

He pulled his hands away from his head. Biro was looking at him curiously, but he just gave her a brief smile.

He hit the earpiece for his radio. "Beckett to the control room."

"Wing here."

Beckett was momentarily surprised when Grodin didn't answer, then remembered that the man was off-world, with Sheppard and the others, hopefully recovering. "This is Beckett," he said. "I need someone to tell me if the generator in McKay's lab still works. And if it does, we need it to be brought to the infirmary, stat."

"Understood," Wing responded. "Control room out."

When Beckett looked back at Biro, he gave her the first real grin since this whole mess had started. Even his headache didn't seem quite so bad. "Did I mention that you're a bloody genius?" He asked her.

Biro gave him a lopsided smile. "Not recently, no."

"Well, you are," he nodded. "If we're lucky, an electro-magnetic pulse will knock these wee buggers in his system dead."

Biro looked pleased, but then she raised her eyebrows. "And if it doesn't?"

"Then we'll get Sheppard to explode another Naquadah generator above the city," Beckett said. Then he remembered that Sheppard wasn't there, either; was probably still in no shape to fly anything. Well, hell, it didn't matter--Beckett would fly the damn jumper if he had to. He'd do whatever it took, to save his friend. "Or I'll do it," he amended. He was sure he could get lieutenant Ford to come with him...

"Wing here," Beckett heard through his earpiece. "The generator is still functional. It's on its way to the infirmary now."

"Thank you," Beckett said, grateful. He nodded again, letting out a breath. If this worked...

If this worked, they were half way home.

***

Beckett watched while his staff hurried to shut down all the equipment that had been brought from Earth. He knew that others throughout the city were racing to do the same thing. Hopefully, this would be enough to nuke the wee blighters trying to kill McKay.

"I do not care! Shut the system down now. I will be initializing the EM pulse in approximately five minutes." Zelenka and his team of engineers wheeled a trim cylindrical device into the room.

"Sorry," the Czech scientist apologized, tapping his radio off. "We are trying to get everything shut down as quickly as we can." His eyes strayed over to McKay's inert form engulfed in medical equipment. "We will work as quickly as we can," he said and then started issuing orders to his team.

***

"Rodney, this is nuts! We're going to get ourselves killed!"

Rodney McKay rolled his eyes at the other teen perched on the rooftop. "Would you quite complaining and get that thing attached? The storm's almost here."

"That's what I'm talking about! And just why am I up here and you're down there?" the dark-haired boy shot back.

"Because, Aaron, I'm down here hooking this all up while you stick the lightning rod on the roof and get down before either of our parents see you," Rodney said in exasperation. "Besides, you've got the easy job. I'm the one who has to make sure this is hooked up right and then disconnect the grounding wire from the battery before it overcharges and blows up," Rodney said. He quickly made sure his connections were correct on the string of batteries lined up on the makeshift rack. If this worked right, they would have enough juice in this thing to power their EM pulse generator, thus securing them first prize in the Province-wide science fair. Maybe then his father wouldn't see him as such a failure. His six-grade science project had been a disaster. Not only had it not won, but it had also brought the United States CIA calling at his house. His mother had not been pleased about that, and his father had to miss two days of work until it had all been ironed out. So, it was working model of an atomic bomb--it wasn't like he had any fissionable material to make it work.

Rodney sighed. He would never measure up to his father's expectations. He wasn't a jock. That gene seemed to have skipped a generation. A broken leg, broken arm, broken nose and a concussion had finally convinced his father he wasn't cut out for sports--hockey or football.

He narrowed his eyes, brushing rain from his face. Aaron fashioned off the lightning rod and then scrambled back down the ladder. "Done," he announced.

"Good," Rodney said absently, going over the connections one last time. They'd only have one chance to do this. He would have rather charged the batteries on a regular charger, but he could imagine the bird his father would have about that electrical bill--he could just kiss that new Commodore 64 good-bye...

"We ready?" Aaron asked, bouncing on his toes.

Rodney glanced over at him. "You are such a geek," he said, shaking his head.

"And you're not," Aaron shot back.

He sighed. "So my sister loves to remind me. I swear, if she introduces me to another one of her friends as, 'this is my little brother, the captain of the Chess team. You'll remember he's the one who nearly got us arrested making an atomic bomb for the science fair...' It's not my fault someone panicked over my design and called the U.S. government!"

"Easy," Aaron said pleadingly. "Remember, I'm on your side."

Rodney grimaced. "Sorry."

Thunder rumbled overhead. "Here we go," Rodney said, backing away from the battery cells. "You better get back to the garage."

"What about you?" Aaron asked, cringing as lightning lit the sky over them.

"I'll be there once the batteries charge. One strike should to it."

"You sure?"

"Aw, come on," Rodney teased Aaron, "where's your spirit of discovery?"

"Back in the garage, warm and safe."

Rodney just rolled his eyes at him. "Go on, I'll be right there."

Aaron nodded and ran for the cover of the garage.

Rodney stood in the yard watching the lightning rip through the sky. One strike was all they needed. He gripped the slip of string in his hand. He'd have to jerk the grounding wire from the lightning rod free once the majority of the bolt of lightening traveled down it into the batteries.

Lightning arced overhead and slammed into the lightning rod like a rifle shot. Rodney tensed to jerk on the string, just as something raced through his mind: The string was wet. Water was an even better conductor of electricity than the copper wire they had wired the batteries up with. 'Oh, crap', was his last conscious thought...

***

"Rodney?"

"Rodney, can you hear me? I need you to wake up now."

Pins and needles raced up and down his arms and across his chest. "Mom's going to kill me," he mumbled.

Someone chuckled softly above him, and McKay eased an eye open a fraction. A blurry face of a bearded man stood over him.

"Aye, there we go, Rodney. Just a wee bit more."

"Carson?" he managed to mumble his friend's name.

"Aye. How are you feeling?"

Beckett looked pale and haggard, dark shadows smudged under each eye.

"You look like crap," McKay stated, his eyes starting to drift shut as he heard Beckett start to chuckle again.

***

Dr. Margaret Biro peered at the two samples of Doctor McKay's blood, displayed in bright, artificially-colored glory on the screen of her laptop.

There was definitely something weird about the second sample.

Well, less weird than it could have been, if you took into consideration that it was taken after McKay had been hit by the EM pulse, so there were dead nanovirii floating around instead of live nanovirii swimming (and a live nanovirus was definitely weirder in Biro's book).

But still, it was weirder than it should have been.

"Doctor Beckett," Biro said, excited. She looked away from her screen to see that Beckett was reentering his lab after checking on McKay. He seemed to be moving all right, until he got to the doorway, and then he sort of swayed and leaned heavily against the doorjamb.

"Sir!" Biro ran around the end of the lab table, thinking she was going to have to catch him before he collapsed to the floor.

But he lifted a hand weakly before she could grab him. "It's all right," Beckett said, though he certainly sounded as if he were anything but. "I just need a moment."

"Sure," Biro said. She moved back a step, to give him room, nervously adjusting her glasses. She was also dying to tell Beckett her discovery, of course, but she held back because he was in obviously no condition to appreciate it right this second.

It occurred to her that she might still be crowding him, so she stepped back a little further.

Beckett finally lurched upright, shuffling the rest of the way into the room. "I heard you calling me," he said. "Have you got something, then?"

"You could say that." Biro grinned, going back to her laptop. She started talking while she waited for Beckett to catch up to her. "So, remember how you wanted me to compare Doctor McKay's blood samples, both pre-and post the EM pulse, and pre-and post his visit to P9H-758?" She didn't wait for him to nod before she continued. "Well, I did, and aside from the expected dead nanoviruses--which look like they're being nicely destroyed by his white blood cells by the way--would you be surprised to learn that the proteins and enzymes produced by his ATA gene are being systematically altered?"

Beckett blinked slowly a few times, and Biro waited with barely-leashed impatience. Normally her boss was quicker on the uptake, but of course his difficulty at the moment was certainly understandable.

Something occurred to her, and Biro pushed her chair towards him; she wasn't using it anyway. "Sit down?"

Beckett just gave a tiny shake of his head, smiling ruefully. "I don't think I'd be able to stand again." He moved slowly to look at the laptop's screen. He stared at the display a long time, clicking keys until he was looking at the products created by McKay's ATA gene. He taped the screen with one minutely trembling hand. "That's it, isn't it? That's from the alcohol."

Biro beamed. "Got it in one."

"Bloody hell," Beckett whispered. "I was right."

"You sure were," Biro agreed enthusiastically. "Whatever he drank, it's still in his system, and it's changing everything his gene produces--I'm actually surprised that the city was responding to him at all, really. Since it wouldn't read him as an Ancient."

"That's the point," Beckett said. "It didn't read him as an Ancient. It's been reacting to him like he was a Wraith."

"A Wraith?" Biro's head bobbed back in surprise. "Is that why it tried to kill him?"

"Aye." Beckett nodded wearily. "That's exactly why." He tapped the screen again. "And the culprit's right there." He sighed, rubbing his face. "I just hope the city will function normally once we've got it out of his system."

"I don't get it though, sir," Biro said. "Why does the city want all of you dead, if McKay is the only one with the problem?"

Beckett shook his head a tiny bit, which made sense since large movements seemed to be beyond him. "It doesn't," he said. "It's... a backlash, I think. Accidental."

Biro stared at him. "Accidental?"

"Aye," Beckett said. "It's only Rodney it cares about. I don't even think it knows we were being hurt. Probably because we're not true Ancients, we just have the gene."

"Wait," Biro said. "How can you know that?"

Beckett chuckled quietly. "The city talked to me." He straightened up, moving with obvious effort. "Do we have any Gatorade left? Without citrus in it?"

Biro just stood there, blinking. "The city talked to you?"

***

Sheppard groaned as he stretched his arms over his head, working out some of the kinks in his back.

"Major, you should be resting," the dark-skinned Doctor said as he walked over. Sheppard racked his brain, but he still couldn't remember the guy's name.

"I feel fine," he lied. His head was still pounding, but at a manageable level now.

"Yes, of course, you are," the doctor commented dryly, obviously not believing him.

"Have you heard anything about McKay?" Sheppard asked quickly to change the subject.

The doctor nodded. "They've pinpointed and eliminated the cause of the fever. It was a Nanovirus--"

"Nanovirus?" Sheppard echoed. "You mean one like the one that killed those scientists a while back?"

The doctor nodded again, grimly. "Similar, but this one was created by the city itself, and engineered specifically for Doctor McKay."

It took Sheppard a few moments to digest that. He crossed his arms across his chest and frowned deeply. "Defense mechanism."

"It seems so."

"We going to need to nuke another of the generators?" he asked, running through the logistics of it in his mind. The only ones left with the gene on Atlantis were Beckett and McKay, and neither were up to the fancy flying it took him to get out of the fallout zone the last time.

"No," the doctor said quickly, as if anticipating his train of thought. "They were able to use Doctor McKay's EM generator to disable them, and his body is working to clear his system."

Well, that was the first good news he'd heard in awhile. Sheppard stared at him thoughtfully. "Do they know what's causing this? Why the city's so pissed at him?"

"They've identified an unknown substance in his blood, and it seems to be the cause. It something from the wine you drank on your last mission. It's causing a strange reaction with McKay's ATA gene."

"The wine?" Sheppard's frown deepened. "Why didn't it affect me? I had as much if not more of that to drink than he did."

"They think it may have to do with the fact that Doctor McKay's ATA gene isn't natural. It's been superimposed on his DNA."

Wow. That was wild. "What are they going to do?"

"Right now, flush what ever it is out Doctor McKay's system. Once they do that, everything else should right itself," the doctor explained.

Sheppard relaxed a little. "That's all?"

The other man nodded. "That--" his voice abruptly trailed off as the Stargate began to hum as it dialed. He looked at his watch. "That's odd. Atlantis isn't due to contact us for another hour."

Sheppard glanced at him sharply, then hurried to the flap of the tent and looked out in the direction of the Stargate. He squinted against the glare of the sun over their head. Correction--suns. The chevrons began to lock in sequence and he felt a thrill of alarm. "That's not the address for Atlantis." He took a quick look around. "Weapons?" he asked.

The doctor gave him a rather confused look and Sheppard glanced past him as Stackhouse came running up. "Major, what's going on?" The Marine looked sharply at the doctor. "Did something happen to Markham?"

"He's fine," Sheppard snapped quickly.

The Stargate blossomed open and two Wraith Darts came howling out of it.

Sheppard swore hotly. "Wraith!" He whirled on Stackhouse. "Weapons!"

The Marine nodded. "This way!"

They sprinted together toward a second tent beside the first.

"We didn't really think we would need much," Stackhouse said apologetically. He tossed Sheppard a P90 and a spare clip.

Sheppard nodded. "Then we'll have to make every shot count," he said. He ducked back out into the sun, scanning for the Darts.

The Darts had wheeled back around to make another pass at the tents. Sheppard and Stackhouse raised their P90s and started firing the moment they came into range. Bullets pinged off the hull of the crafts in sprays of sparks. The sand behind them erupted as energy weapon's fire plowed into it, but the men held their ground.

The lead Dart shuddered and then suddenly veered off course, slamming into the far side of dune behind them and erupting in a fireball. The second Dart climbed for altitude. Sheppard kept his P90 trained on the Dart as is abruptly wheeled as streaked straight for them. He emptied his clip into it, then ejected the spent clip and slammed the second in place in one move. He chambered the first round and fired again as Stackhouse reloaded. The Dart screamed as it suddenly faltered and crashed into the ground a few hundred feet in front of them.

It took them a moment for their vision to clear from the explosion. They wiped the sand from their faces.

"Okay, that's it," Sheppard said, turning and heading for the Stargate.

"Major?" Stackhouse jogged to keep with him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going back to get a Jumper. This is nuts. Our people are totally undefended here."

"Sir, may I remind you, that Doctor Weir said that you and the others with the ATA gene aren't to return until the situation back on Atlantis has been resolved."

"I know that, Sergeant, but if I don't go back, we put everyone we have left here with the ATA gene at the mercy of the Wraith! How long do you think the folks back on Atlantis would make out with only McKay and Beckett there to operate things?" he asked pointedly, taking his frustration at the situation out on the man. He sighed, "We'd all be dead one way or another." Sheppard paused at the DHD, turning back to Stackhouse. "You got a radio and an IDC?"

Stackhouse. "Yes, sir," he said fishing them both out and handing them over to Sheppard.

"Thanks," he said, punching in the address for Atlantis and then putting the earpiece in place as the wormhole established.

"Atlantis, this is Sheppard."

"Major, is something wrong?" Weir's voice responded. She sounded weary and worried.

"We just had a visit by the Wraith. I'm headed back to get a Jumper. I'd rather have a little more fire power than just a couple P90s the next time they come."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, for the moment. Drop the shield--I'm headed in."

"Hold on..." Weir said warningly. "We're having a little trouble getting the shield down. We're going to have to manually deactivate the system before you can come through. You'll just have to wait."

"Wait?" Sheppard shot back. "Wait how long?"

"Until they can dismantle it," Weir responded. "The city has locked down those functions for the time being. We'll contact you when it's safe to gate back."

Sheppard sighed. "Understood." He paused. "How's McKay?"

"Better. They're trying to clear the substance in his blood that's set off the defense systems, but he's stabilized."

"Good." Sheppard sighed in relief.

"Major," Stackhouse said, interrupting him. "The gate can stay open for thirty-eight minutes, right?"

"Right."

"What if we just keep it open to Atlantis until they get the shield down? It would keep the Wraith from gating back here."

Sheppard stared at the man. "That just might work."

***

Weir watched the light-on-water effect of the wormhole from P4X-292 from behind the shield over their gate. At least it would keep any more Wraith Darts from getting to her people on the planet that way, though it was hardly an ideal solution. Zelenka had already set up their controls to start a dialing sequence back to P4X-292 at 37 minutes and 30 seconds. Hopefully the trading back-and-forth of wormholes would effectively stop the Wraith from getting there at all.

Wormhole tag. She was sure Lieutenant Ford would name it something like that.

Weir just hoped there wasn't a Hive Ship in P4X-292's vicinity. If there were, no wormhole in the galaxy could protect them.

"Borrowing trouble, Elizabeth," she murmured to herself. She'd just have to assume that there wasn't, or the Darts wouldn't have used the gate in the first place. Still, she needed to get everyone off-world home, the sooner the better.

"How's the progress with dismantling the shield?" She asked Zelenka.

Zelenka peeked up from under the console he'd been working on. There were numerous blue crystals scattered near him on the floor, and Weir suppressed a wince. She was just glad that McKay or Grodin weren't there to see it. A very unhappy looking Wing was next to the scientist, sitting cross-legged on the floor and studying a data pad in his lap.

"It is slow," Zelenka said. He shrugged apologetically. "This is not so much my expertise. And we must be careful to disable the one component we want without shutting down the whole gate." He sighed, moving his glasses so he could rub his nose. He looked up with a hopeful smile. "But we will try to have it done soon."

"Good to hear," Weir said. She nodded, finding a smile for him. "Keep me posted."

She walked far enough away so she wouldn't bother them, and tapped the earpiece of her radio. She'd had to switch ears, since her right hand was in a cast and made touching her right ear awkward. "Weir to the infirmary."

"This is Beckett." He still sounded awful.

"The people on P4X-292 have been attacked by the Wraith," she said without preamble. "No one's been hurt," she added immediately, knowing that would be the doctor's first question, "but we have to get them home as soon as possible. Is there any way you can speed things up with Rodney?" Biro had already told her--at great length and with much eagerness--about how the wine McKay had drunk off-world was now affecting the way the city reacted to him. Apparently it was just a matter of time before the foreign substance worked its way out of Rodney's body on its own.

Time Weir was certain they no longer had.

There was a pause on Beckett's end, and Weir didn't know if it was because the doctor was considering her question or just gathering the energy to talk. She hoped it was the former.

"Dialysis," he said a moment later, though he didn't sound happy about it. "We could clean his blood that way. It normally takes only about four hours."

Four hours. That sounded possible. Except... "It won't hurt Rodney, will it?"

"It won't be comfortable by any means," Beckett said. "But it won't do him any harm." Weir could clearly hear Beckett's reluctance, all the same.

Unfortunately, they didn't have a choice. "Do it," she said.

"Very well." Beckett shut his radio off before Weir could respond. She sympathized that he didn't want to cause McKay any further discomfort after everything McKay had been through, but she also knew that Beckett would carry out her orders without hesitation. He fully understood the importance of getting Atlantis back under their control again.

And Beckett understood that the good of the many outweighed the good of the few. He probably understood that better than almost anyone.

Weir was sure that McKay would volunteer for the dialysis, as well, knowing what was at stake. She just hoped he was in good enough shape to comprehend what was going on.

But that was borrowing trouble again. And she had plenty as it was.

"Lieutenant Ford to Doctor Weir."

Ford and Teyla had gone with Doctors Olivares and Jackson to the desert planet, to help with the patients. Weir tapped her radio again. "Weir."

"Teyla and I just got back from scouting out the nearby ruins, ma'am," Ford told her. The young lieutenant always reverted to the military formality of address when he was in tense situations. Weir doubted he even realized he was doing it. "The structure seems sound, and it would offer good cover from an aerial attack--we're going to relocate there."

"That's a good idea, lieutenant," Weir said. She told him of their plan to keep swapping wormholes between Atlantis and P4X-292 and back. "It means someone will have to stay by the gate, to make sure there's not enough of a gap for anyone else to dial in."

"Understood," Ford said. "Ford out."

Weir turned off her radio and rubbed her forehead. Her broken hand was beginning to ache again, and she had a wistful thought for some painkillers before she shoved it aside. There'd be time enough for all that once her people were home safe and sound, and anything strong enough to truly dull the pain would just make her sleepy, anyway.

She glanced at her watch. Beckett would doubtless tell her when they'd started dialysis on McKay, but she was sure it would take a little time to set up properly, and that was not the kind of thing she would want to be rushed.

Weir suppressed a small shudder at that, trying not to think of McKay being trapped in an infirmary bed, while his blood was circulated out of his body and through a machine. It would probably be right up there on his list of worst days of his life.

The poor man had so many of them.

Weir shook her head. Don't borrow trouble! Especially trouble she couldn't have prevented. She'd just be there for him, when this was all over. Be a friend. At least she could do that.

So. Maybe four and a half hours from now, maybe five, and they'd possibly have the city back. McKay would no longer be in danger; Beckett would be able to recover; her people would come home.

She could only hope.

***

Peterson stood against the wall, watching as Beckett and his team huddled around McKay. She really wasn't needed here any more and she had already been medically cleared to return to duty, but she wanted to stay and make sure McKay was all right.

Beckett stood back as one of the nurses strapped McKay's arm down to an IV board and then set to work threading tubes into his arms. Peterson grimaced. Beckett must have noticed her expression, because he moved over to her.

"He'll be fine," he told her, his voice hoarse with fatigue and pain. "We' re just trying to speed along getting that substance out of his blood."

The nurse started a machine beside McKay's bed, and the tube flushed bright red, as blood circulated out of McKay, through the machine and then back into him.

"What is that?" Peterson asked, crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

"Dialysis," Beckett explained. "The substance that was in that alcohol he drank isn't clearing out of his system fast enough on its own."

The nurse slipped a syringe into a port on the tube heading into the machine, and drew a blood sample, and then repeated the process on the tube leading out of the machine and back into McKay.

Peterson glanced over at Beckett, studying him critically. The Doctor looked... awful. His face was a sickly shade of gray, making his blue eyes nearly colorless. The shadows under his eyes were so stark in contrast it almost seemed like someone had popped him a good one in the nose. "Are you okay?" she asked him.

He leaned heavily back against the wall and gave her a tired smile. "Nothing a few weeks sleep won't cure," he said, closing his eyes a moment.

"Are you still getting walloped by whatever it was that went after Doctor McKay?" She frowned. "Was it the nanovirus, getting everyone else to?"

He stared at her and frowned. "What?"

"One of the nurses was telling me about the headaches and everything everyone with the ATA gene got whenever the city tried to kill McKay. Could that have been the nanovirus affecting you as well?"

Beckett shook his head. "No, it's something different. The nanovirus afflicting Rodney had been created by the city especially for him--it couldn't have affected anyone else. I don't really know why the rest of us were laid low," he said, sounding immensely weary.

"Why don't you try to get some rest?" Peterson said. She pulled over a chair for Beckett to sit in, and he sank into it gratefully.

Peterson leaned her back against the wall again and slowly slid down to sit on the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rested her forehead down on her knees. The soft whir of the dialysis machine and the steady beat of the heart monitor were the only sounds around them.

"Doctor Beckett?"

The chair beside her shifted a little and bumped her leg. Peterson lifted her head and blinked at the nurse talking quietly with Beckett.

Beckett was intently going over a chart the nurse had given him. He frowned as the nurse whispered something to him and he made a notation on the chart.

Peterson rubbed her gritty eyes with the heels of her hands and then tucked a loose bit of hair back behind her ear. She waited until they were done talking to ask, "Doctor Beckett?"

He looked down at her. "Daria, I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I forgot you were here."

"What's wrong?"

Beckett blinked at her. "What?"

Peterson shifted to sit cross-legged on the floor. "You're frowning. What's wrong?"

Beckett shook his head. "Nothing's wrong. The dialysis is working the way it should," he said. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"You don't look happy," she commented.

"I'm just tired," he said, leaning his head back to rest against the wall.

Peterson contemplated telling him he should go get some sleep, but knew that would be futile. She sighed and put her chin on her knees. She stared over at McKay's still form on the bed. The dialysis machine whirled softly to the counterpoint of the heart monitor.

This was why she didn't go on missions anymore. This was why she didn't want to be part of Bates' team or anyone else's. Being on a team meant you spent time sitting, watching... waiting for someone to either pull through or die.

And the Pegasus Galaxy wasn't like back home. There weren't Tok'ra to show up with the fix at the last minute. There wasn't a sarcophagus to stick someone in if something went horribly wrong. They were on their own. All alone.

Peterson realized she was being studied by a pair of very tired blue eyes. McKay's eyes. She roughly brushed away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. McKay gave her a half-hearted attempt at a smile, and then closed his eyes again.

She sighed and rested her chin on her knees again. She was wrong. They weren't totally alone. They had each other, and that would have to be enough.

***

Lieutenant Aiden Ford stood tensely in front of the DHD on P4X-292, watching the light- and dark-blue of the event horizon shift and change. In approximately two minutes the wormhole from Atlantis would disappear, and he'd have to dial up a new one before the Wraith had a chance to do it first.

He checked his watch again. One minute twelve seconds. Almost time to start dialing. He felt his heart speed up again in anticipation, the same way it had the last two times he'd done this. There was always the chance that the Wraith would start dialing in first, and the idea of that always freaked him out a little. Ford figured it would make anyone nervous.

The rest of the time had just been waiting, and watching the sky in case more Darts or a Hive Ship showed up despite having no access to the gate. Ford had no idea doing almost nothing could be so exhausting.

Teyla had offered to spell him after two hours, but he'd refused, since it was a far enough distance from the ruins to the gate that he figured it'd be better just to stay put, rather than risk having either of them somewhere useless out in the desert if the Wraith attacked.

He really wished he'd agreed to it now.

It had been almost five hours. He and Zelenka, back in Atlantis, had been trading off gates five times already; this would be the sixth. Weir had told him that McKay's dialysis would take only about four hours, but Ford guessed that was just the procedure itself--he had no idea how long it would take to set something like that up, and didn't even want to think about it. He'd just keep on switching wormholes until he got the 'all clear' to start sending people back.

Hopefully that wouldn't take too much longer.

Thirty seconds. Ford all but pounced on the DHD and stared dialing, hitting the address for Atlantis so fast he barely even registered his hands on the keys. The chevrons glowed blue with reassuring speed...

Two different chevrons lit up before he'd finished dialing, chevrons marking a different address of origin. Ford hit the control to dial the gate with his heart in his mouth, only relaxing marginally when he saw the wave-crest explosion of the wormhole opening.

He tapped his radio. "Ford to Atlantis." His heart was pounding so hard it was hard to speak.

"This is Atlantis." Wing's voice, and Ford had never been so grateful to hear the technician in his life. "Is everything all right?"

"Affirmative," Ford said, letting out a breath. Part of him had been certain that he hadn't opened the new wormhole in time. "But it was a close one--the Wraith have figured out what we're doing. They'd started dialing before I was finished imputing the city's address."

"Understood," Wing said. "Hang on a second." The line went dead, and Ford assumed Wing was relaying what Ford had just told him to the rest of the crew in the control room.

"Ford? This is Weir. How is everyone over there?"

Ford smiled a little. "We're just fine, ma'am. The relocation to the ruins went smoothly, and Stackhouse radioed me a few minutes ago saying that Markham's awake. Doctor Olivares thinks he's going to be okay."

"That's good news," Weir said, and Ford could hear the relief in her voice. "Wing just told me that the Wraith tried to dial in."

"Yes ma'am," Ford said. "The Wraith are on to us--they must've figured out when our wormholes go down. You'll have to be really fast with the next dialing sequence."

"Hopefully that won't be an issue," Weir said. "McKay's dialysis finished about ten minutes ago."

"Is he all right?"

"Beckett says he'll be just fine once he's had a chance to recover from his injuries," Weir told him, and Ford could hear the smile in her voice. He was smiling as well. "But Beckett isn't--"

Weir was cut off, and Ford could hear someone speaking to her, though the voice was a little too far away to let Ford make out what was being said.

Weir was back a second later. "The shield just dropped of its own accord, Lieutenant," Weir said. "Give us a few minutes to verify, but it looks like it'll be safe for everyone to come home."

"Thank you, ma'am," Ford said, thrilled. "I'll pass on the good news."

"Talk to you soon," Weir said. "Atlantis out."

Home. That word had never sounded quite so terrific.

Ford let out a short, wild whoop to the clear blue sky, then radioed the people waiting in the ruins.

***

Sheppard sighed and struggled to hide his impatience. The overwhelming agony that had been thundering in his head in Atlantis before had finally settled down to an aggravating, but tolerable, ache. He was getting antsy about getting his people home. He paused and shook his head. Home being Atlantis. He sighed. He didn't have time to think about what that meant right now.

Ideally, they would have sent a few of the least affected personnel with the ATA gene back first to assess the situation, but with the Wraith waiting to dial in on them as soon as the wormhole closed, this was less than ideal. Right now getting the heck out of Dodge seemed the best plan.

Personnel scrambled to pack up the most important and least replaceable of the supplies to haul back with them. The rest would be left and they'd bring a Jumper back for the rest--if they could get back.

Ford trotted up to him. "We got everything ready, sir."

Sheppard nodded. "Let's do it." He glanced at his watch. "How long do we have left?"

Ford glanced at his watch. "We've got about fifteen minutes, sir."

He nodded. "Send the IDC." He watched the Lieutenant punch in the code and get the 'all clear,' and then Sheppard glanced at the people gathered around the gate.

"Let's move!" he called out.

The black doctor whose name he still couldn't remember lead the way back through the wormhole, holding the front of Markham's stretcher. Teyla followed him, her arms full of equipment and herding people along. Sheppard waited, keeping an eye to the sky as personnel filed through the gate. He found himself glancing at his watch, mentally doing a countdown on the time they had left.

"Pick up the pace people," he growled as time slowly crept away.

He and Ford grabbed several pieces of equipment each and began herding the last of the personnel through the gate. Sheppard paused at the edge of the event horizon and gave the clear blue sky of the planet one last look, and then nodded to Ford and they stepped through, bringing up the rear.

Sheppard felt the disorienting rush of the wormhole, and then he stepped out into the cool, dim interior of Atlantis's gate room. He put down the case he was holding as the Stargate closed behind them. He tensed a moment, waiting for the pain to come crashing back over him again and... nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced up at the balcony beside the control room. Weir gave him a tight smile in return, but he could see the worry lurking behind her eyes. He gave her a small nod and then nudged Ford. "I think the others can deal with putting this stuff away. Let's go see how McKay's doing."

***

He was dreaming of cool, quiet darkness, though he knew someone--not a person, though, but a presence, a being all the same--was watching him. Studying.

But he didn't mind. The presence was... content. Quiet, now, like the darkness around him.

"You see?" he asked it. "I never meant you any harm."

There was no reply, though he hadn't expected one. Just that sense of contentment, which slowly faded along with the dream, dissipated...

McKay blinked open his eyes.

"Hey there, sleeping beauty," Sheppard said. The Major grinned down at him. "Nice to have you back among the living."

McKay looked at him. "The dialysis worked?"

"It sure did." That was Ford, smiling at him too. "None too soon, either." His face sobered a little. "We were really close to being smoked by the Wraith."

McKay's eyes widened.

"Aiden is exaggerating," Teyla said calmly. She was standing next to Ford, on the far side of McKay's bed from Sheppard. She reached down and took one of McKay's bandaged hands, gripping it gently but warmly. "They were attempting to use the gate to access our location, but we were able to return before they had the opportunity."

"Oh," McKay said, relieved. "That's good."

"How're you feeling, anyway?" Sheppard asked him. "'Heard you got a little cooked."

McKay had to think about that. "Like I've been electrocuted," he decided finally.

For some reason, Sheppard and Ford seemed to think that was terribly funny.

"Well, the doc says you're going to be just fine," Ford said. "And now that the toxin's out of your system, you won't have to worry about touching anything again."

"I know," McKay said. He sighed. "Thank god."

Sheppard nodded soberly. "Tell me about it. For awhile there Atlantis really had it in for you--and we were getting worried no one with the ATA gene could set foot in the city again."

"I'm sorry," McKay said. He knew what Sheppard was talking about—Beckett had told him about the evacuation as soon as McKay had been tracking enough to ask why Beckett looked so sick. "I'm really sorry." This was all his fault. If he hadn't drunk the stupid wine in the first place, none of this would have happened--

"This is not your fault, Doctor McKay," Teyla said, as if reading his thoughts, and her voice had a hint of admonishment. "None of us could know you would be adversely affected by the drink we were offered."

"We all had it." Ford shrugged. "You were the only one who reacted to it." He looked at Sheppard, who nodded again. "It could've been any of us."

"Yeah," Sheppard said. "And at least this way we know something we didn't--that an artificial ATA gene works differently than a natural one."

That was true, at least, though Sheppard's words reminded McKay that Beckett should be in the infirmary now, but he wasn't. "Carson," he said, worried. "Is he okay?" He looked at Sheppard. "Are you okay?"

"We're both fine, McKay," Sheppard said, smiling reassuringly. "Carson's just resting. The backlash from the city attacking you stopped hurting us as soon as we went off-world, and it's totally gone now." But he winced a little bit. "That doesn't mean I don't have a lousy headache still, but it's going away." His smile spread into a grin at whatever he saw on McKay's face. "Honest. We're all going to be fine."

"Thank god," McKay said again.

"Tell me about it," Ford said. He gestured at Sheppard with his chin. "I'm the next in line for command after this guy." He shuddered theatrically. "I don't think I'm ready for the responsibility yet."

McKay chuckled a bit at that, at Ford's obvious attempt at humor. "Me neither."

That earned him a patiently false affronted look from the lieutenant. "Hey!"

Sheppard just looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You did kind of walk into that one."

Teyla ignored both Sheppard and Ford, squeezing McKay's hand carefully. "I for one am most pleased that things will be back to normal, and that you will be able to rejoin our team."

"Yeah," Sheppard said. "It wasn't the same without you."

McKay blinked. "Really?"

"Sure," Ford nodded. "No one to snark at us, no one to tease..."

Teyla glared at him, and Ford laughed. Sheppard just shook his head, but he was smiling. A moment later, McKay was smiling with him.

Yeah, it was good to have things back to normal again. Very, very good.

***

McKay sighed and shivered a little, jamming his hands down into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't know why he was doing this. Interest? Inquisitiveness? Morbid curiosity? Something.

He looked around the dusty corridors and sighed. Okay, this really existed. This part he didn't dream.

A slim redhead glanced his way, and her eyes widened a moment. She quickly excused herself from the small knot of scientists she was talking to.

"Doctor McKay! What are you doing down here?" she asked quickly, giving him a critical look. "Aren't you supposed to be resting? I didn't know Doctor Beckett had cleared you for duty yet."

McKay stared at her a moment, trying to place her name. He knew he knew her and somehow she was tied to everything that had happened...

She must have caught his hesitation. "Daria Peterson," she told him. "It's okay if you don't remember. Everything kind of went to hell in a hand basket after I introduced myself to you."

He felt a blush creeping up his neck. "Sorry."

"Oh, it's not your fault," she said quickly, and then glanced over her shoulder. "I don't know how much you remember."

"Getting lost, getting electrocuted, getting electrocuted, again and the whole city trying to kill me," McKay said, a bit glibly. He rubbed his chest unconsciously--his cracked ribs still hurt a bit. Beckett had assured him they'd be healed around the same time as his concussion. "And I do remember you, but things are kind of fuzzy." He looked at her. "I think I should be thanking you for saving my life."

It was Peterson's turn to blush. "I just did what I could. Doctor Beckett and Doctor Biro deserve all the credit for keeping you alive."

He smiled. "I know. Carson keeps reminding me."

Peterson laughed. "I'm sure." Something crashed behind them and angry voices floated out from one of the rooms. "Be thankful you're not cleared for duty yet," she said with a grimace. "They've had me down here for the last two days going over what I touched, what you touched, and what just sort of came on of it's own accord."

"Fun," McKay said dryly, but he hugged himself tightly against the chill that seemed to seeping into his bones.

Another crash sounded from the room. "Oh, yeah." Peterson sighed and then looked at him again. "You're really not supposed to be up wandering around like this, are you?" she asked.

McKay grimaced. "I'm allowed up," he said cagily, and then he gave her a sheepish smile. "To go back to my quarters and rest."

She nodded, steering him towards the transporter alcove. "That's what I thought. Anyways, you better not let Kavanagh see you. He's been having a bird about the 'damage you've done to the systems.'" Peterson rolled her eyes. "And there's still that device in the linguistics lab that needs to be activated."

McKay smiled to himself. Things were going to be okay.

~fin~

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