DISCLAIMER: All characters and property of Stargate SG-1 belong to MGM/UA, World Gekko Corp. and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
"So," I said. "On a scale of one to ten, just how pissed off are you, Colonel?"
"Thirty seven," said Jack, glowering. "And a half."
Oh, dear.
You know, over the years I've collected quite a lot of handy little tips for survival. Tips like, 'Don't jump out of an aeroplane without a parachute'. 'Don't threaten to shoot someone holding a gun unless you're sure you've got bullets in your gun'. 'Don't ever leave the house without lipstick'. 'Don't make Jack O'Neill mad, especially not at you'.
That last one I consider particularly important.
I didn't know, then, exactly what had happened on P3R636. All I knew was that Jack, Sam and Teal'c had come back looking like they'd just had a two week vacation in hell ... and Daniel didn't. And that as far as Jack was concerned, it was all Daniel's fault.
I said, "Uh huh. Well, try to relax anyway, or I won't be able to finish this exam. Okay?"
Jack gave me a look that would easily have ignited rock. But he made an effort to untense his muscles.
It wasn't a long exam. For once, he was still in one piece. But he was malnourished, dehydrated and exhausted. There were some nasty bruises, a few cuts and scrapes that thankfully only needed Betadine. The anterior cruciate ligament in his left knee was just about dangling by a thread, begging for surgery ... but raising the subject of a looming knee construction wasn't an option just then.
All in all, he'd been lucky. I'd say only his extreme fitness level saved him, and even that nearly wasn't enough. Forty isn't old, but as they say it ain't the years, it's the mileage. Jack has more wear and tear than I like to think about, and the Stargate project isn't helping.
I took blood for a routine screen. Gave him a multi-spectrum vitamin B group injection. Jotted some notes in his file. Jack could barely keep his eyes open. I don't think I've ever seen him so tired, before or since.
"Okay," I said. "You're on forty eight hours medical leave, as of right now. All of you are. I'm going to arrange for a car to take you home. Captain Carter, too. Neither of you is in a fit state to drive."
With a grunt, Jack shook his head. Stared at me muzzily, and said, "Can't. Debriefing. Hammond --"
"Can wait," I said. "No arguments, Colonel. I want you to go home."
He was swaying where he sat. "Sleep here."
"No," I said. "Not this time. I want you at home, in your own bed. When you wake up, I want you surrounded by your own things, not bare concrete walls. You were in prison." He opened his mouth to object. I held up a hand. "Yes, you've been there and done that. I know. I don't care. Your minds are as battered as your bodies. They both need rest. Which you will best get at home. And that's an order. Now get dressed and I'll call you a limo, Air Force style."
Jack hates it when I pull medical rank. I grinned. He scowled. Just as he finished dressing, General Hammond knocked on the door.
"Come in, sir," I said. "We're done here."
"And how's our favourite Colonel doing?" the General asked, smiling. Putting on his brave face ... but I knew him well enough, by then, to see beneath the surface.
"He's fine," I said. "But I'm afraid your mission debrief will have to wait a couple of days, sir. I'm placing SG1 on immediate forty eight hours medical leave."
"I suspected as much," the General said. Reached out a tentative hand and patted Jack's shoulder. "You look like you could sleep for a week, Jack," he said gently. "And I wish I could give it to you, but I can't. I'm afraid you'll have to settle for a couple of days. Go home. Recuperate. Then we'll talk."
"Yes, sir," said Jack. "If you insist." On principle maintaining his grouchy reluctance, but he wasn't fooling anyone. With studied nonchalance, he rested a hip against the exam table. From the looks of things, it was that or fall over.
The General and I shared a sly smile, then he said, "Captain Carter? Teal'c?"
"Teal'c is Teal'c," I said with a shrug. "Thanks to the symbiant, he's fine. A little tired, not surprisingly, but he assures me he'll be back to complete health and fitness by tonight. Captain Carter is very tired, too. Malnourished, dehydrated, like the Colonel here. But with a little rest she'll be as good as new."
"Ah, youth," said the General, with a sigh. "I remember it well." Then he hesitated. Frowned. "What about Doctor Jackson?"
My heart sank. Daniel. There was something very, very bad going on with Daniel. I said, "To be honest, General, I'm not exactly sure. I'll know more once his blood work and muscle biopsy are complete. But I have to tell you, my initial impressions aren't encouraging. Quite apart from the fact that he seems to have somehow developed perfect 20/20 vision when two weeks ago he was myopic with an astigmatism, his whole demeanour is significantly altered. If I had to take an educated guess as to what's wrong, I'd --"
"Wrong?" Jack straightened. "I'll tell you what's wrong," he snarled. And it really was an honest to God snarl. "What's wrong is the little bastard screwed us."
"That's not fair, sir," a quiet voice said from behind us. The General and I turned. Sam. Not quite as debilitated as Jack, but visibly tired. Dark smudges beneath her eyes, cheeks hollowed from hard work and lack of food. "It was the sarcophagus."
Wincing, Jack stepped forward and jabbed a finger in Sam's face. "Don't," he said, and his voice was as close to menacing as I've ever heard it among friends. "Don't you dare stand there and defend him to me. He nearly got us all killed, Sam. Nothing excuses that."
It was as though the General and I had disappeared, and it was just the two of them. Exhaustion had stripped something from them, some layer of dissembling or polite usage. The air was suddenly raw, storm clouds descending, a cold wind howling.
Sam said, "He never meant to hurt us. You know that. He's not -- you can't hold him responsible for his actions. It was the sarcophagus, it --"
"Screw the sarcophagus!" Jack said. "A drunk driver gets behind the wheel and takes out a family. Do you say, oh well, never mind, it wasn't his fault, he's not responsible, it was the whiskey? Nobody made him climb into the damned sarcophagus, Sam! Nobody made him keep on using it, even after you told him it was dangerous!"
Sam said, "But it was Shyla --"
Jack slashed the air with a bladed hand. "She put him in it after the rock fall. To save his life. Fair enough. But after that, it was him. His choice. And while he was playing with his new toy and his precious princess, we were dying. And nothing you say can change that."
"Look," said Sam, and closed the distance between them. Reached out her hand and brushed his forearm with her fingertips. "I know you're angry. Disappointed. What he did was thoughtless, I agree. But you know him. You know him. He would never hurt us in cold blood. Never."
Jack shook his head, and he looked so tired, so beaten, that my heart broke for him. "Don't ask me to pretend this didn't happen, Sam," he said, so quietly it was hard to hear him. "Don't ask me that."
"Sir," Sam said, and it was a whisper. A plea. "We have to get past this. We have to. Or SG1 is finished."
Jack shrugged. "Then I guess it's finished." He looked at General Hammond then, and that peculiar air of intimacy vanished. "Sir. With your permission, I'll be heading on home. Doctor Fraiser won't let me drive, so if it's all right with you I'll borrow an airman and a car, and I'll see you at 0700 Friday."
Speechless, the General just nodded. Stared after Jack as he left the room, limping slightly. I was pretty speechless myself.
Sam said, "He didn't mean it, General. He's just upset. It's been a bad two weeks, sir, and he thinks Daniel let us down."
Gathering himself, the General stared hard at her. "And is he right, Captain?"
She struggled with that. Took her time before answering. "Sir ... Daniel made a mistake. A couple of mistakes. I won't deny it. But sir, we all make mistakes. Now that he's home again, away from that damned sarcophagus, I'm sure Daniel will be fine. And when the Colonel calms down, they'll work things out."
"Colonel O'Neill didn't have the look of a man willing to work things out, Captain," the General observed.
Reluctantly, Sam nodded. "No, sir. I know. But give him a couple of days. He'll come around."
"I admire your optimism, Captain," the General said. He didn't look as though he shared it. I can't say I did, either. Jack's been cranky with Daniel, mildly pissed off, moderately annoyed ... but until then I'd never seen him truly, deeply angry.
It wasn't a pretty sight.
General Hammond said, "What's all this about a sarcophagus? Do you mean a goa'uld sarcophagus? One of those healing machines?"
Tiredly, Sam nodded. "Shyla and her father had one. Daniel was crushed in a rock fall. She put him in it to save his life, and then somehow convinced him to keep on using it after he was healed. That's when everything started to go wrong." She pulled a face. "Well. Really wrong."
"How so?" asked the General.
For a moment she didn't answer. Just rubbed a hand over her face. She looked near to tears. "Captain," I said, "I know you're exhausted. But if I'm going to help Daniel I really need to know what you know."
"Yeah. It's okay," she said. Sniffed. "I had a -- well, I guess you could call it a vision. In the mine. I remembered something. But it wasn't my memory, it was Jolinar's. The sarcophagus --"
"I'm sorry," the General interrupted. "You had a what?"
"A vision," said Sam. "It's the best word I can think of to describe it." And as we stared at her, open mouthed, added, "There's nothing to worry about, I'm okay."
The General turned to me. "Doctor?"
"This is the first I've heard of it," I said, and gave Sam a look.
"I really am okay," she insisted. "I promise."
"Well --" The General said. Sighed. Appealed to me again. "Doctor?"
"Nothing in my most recent exam suggests that there's anything to worry about right now," I said. "But I will be conducting a thorough examination with CAT scans and an MRI as soon as Captain Carter has recovered from her latest mission."
"Fine," said the General. Harrassed. Overburdened. Oh, did I know how he felt. "Now. You were saying, Captain? About the sarcophagus?"
Sam said, "It does more than heal sickness and injury. It enhances -- perfects -- a healthy body. But it screws up your mind at the same time. I think that's what's happened to Daniel. I think he's addicted to the effects of the sarcophagus." She had to bite her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.
"Addicted?" the General echoed. "Like a drug?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. I'm not sure. All I know is that he's different. Changed. And it's not for the better."
The General turned to me. "So now what?"
"I wish I knew," I said. "I guess we'll just have to take it one step at a time. One hour at a time." I patted Sam on the arm. "Thank you. Now go home. Rest. And don't worry about Daniel. He's in good hands."
She managed a smile. "I know."
"You've acquitted yourself with distinction, Captain," the General told her. "Now do as the doctor says. Find yourself an airman, and have them drive you home. Try and put the last fortnight out of your mind."
"Yes, sir," said Sam. "Thank you, sir." And with a quick, strained smile, she was gone.
"Where is Doctor Jackson now?" asked the General.
I answered without thinking. "Floating somewhere between the stratosphere and outer space." And then, at the look on the General's face, I added, "He's around here somewhere. Teal'c is keeping him occupied, sir."
The General looked about as helpless as I've ever seen him. "Is Captain Carter right?" he asked. "Is Daniel addicted to this goa'uld machine?"
I spread my hands. "It's possible. I don't know much about them. I've only ever seen one once. The Hathor crisis, remember?"
He grunted. Glanced away. Not our boys' finest hour, that. A topic unsuitable for mixed company around the base.
I said, "It healed the Colonel, but I have no idea how. I couldn't begin to tell you if what the Captain says about it is true or not."
He pressed the heel of his hand over his eyes. "Dear God. What next?" he murmured. Sighed. "Is he dangerous?"
And wasn't that just the sixty four million dollar question. I chewed my lip for a moment. "Right at this moment? No. I don't think he is. He's ebullient. Expansive. Aggressively confident."
The General's expression was grim. "In other words, he's high."
Reluctantly, I nodded. "Yes. I suppose that's as good a term as any."
"And what goes up, must come down," he added. "How far down are we looking at, Doctor?"
God, I hate questions like that. What did he think? That I had a crystal ball tucked into my pocket? "It's impossible to say just now, sir. The next twenty four to forty eight hours will give us an indication, I suspect."
The General turned away, started to pace. His disquiet, his frustration, were palpable. I felt for him: I was disquieted and frustrated, too. He wanted answers. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. He wanted a situation that he could understand, that was familiar and controllable and covered in an Air Force procedures manual.
In which case he should have turned down this assignment, shouldn't he?
"Does he pose an immediate threat to this facility?"
Ooh. That was a curly one. I chewed my lip. Took a deep breath. "As of right now, sir, I'd have to say no. He doesn't."
"But he might?"
God. What to say? "Sir -- look. I know you're worried. So am I. But I have no evidence to suggest that Doctor Jackson is in any way a danger to himself or this base. Not at the moment. And I can't lock him up because I think he might be in the future. What I can do is make sure he's kept under close observation, monitor his vital signs, and be ready should the situation deteriorate."
"Is there any point asking him about the sarcophagus?"
"I can try," I said doubtfully.
The General stopped pacing. Sighed, a deep, right from the bottom of his boots sigh. "All right, Doctor. The truth. What do you really think?"
My own sigh was pretty boot deep, too. "I think, sir, that it's going to get worse before it gets better."
You know .... I really hate it when I'm right.