A Bee in the Bonnet - Second Half
By NotTasha...   Back to the First Half

PART  8:  LAWRENCE WELK

Rodney’s movements were tortoise slow.  One trembling hand reached out, grasped what he figured was a protected cable, and pulled himself along.  His arms were like cooked pasta, and he progressed by inches – making his way toward the sliver of light that found its way into his darkness.  He shook.  The buzzing hadn’t ceased, it continued as an irritating incessant whine.

For all his struggling, he never seemed to be closing on it.  He’d rest, trying to stay awake, but he drifted.  His head pounded, but the floor above his head no longer rang with footsteps.  Whoever had been up there – was now gone.  Pity, he thought. Yes, a big fat pity.  Big pitiful pity.  Pitty-pitty-pitty-pot.  Bing tiddle tiddle bong.

He listened, wondering if the racket above him would resume so that he might try pounding for help, wondering if anyone was looking for him – but, after the initial cacophony, the world had gone quiet.  Closing his eyes against the wretched ache in his skull, McKay wanted to laugh at his predicament – stuck between floors -- but his throat was too dry, and he felt too damn tired to even try.

Where was Major Sheppard?  Rodney had continued searching the area, reaching around, trying to come in contact with another body in the black space, but there’d been no one there to keep him company.  Apparently Sheppard made it through the transportation correctly – hadn’t had a stray and utterly ill-timed run-in with a ridiculous allegory.  Of course I’d end up stuck inside the floor.  Why couldn’t I have thought of something a bit more comfortable?  Like I’d really rather be in Honolulu… or Russia… or Antarctica even. 

And he sighed, thinking about how everyone on that frozen continent must have hated him.  McKay knew that he was an arrogant bastard.  It wasn’t as if he disguised the fact that he was mentally superior to everyone.  Was he supposed to hide his light under a bushel basket?  People regarded his importance with undisguised irritation, disgust… hatred.  It was no surprise really.  He expected it.  He’d lived with that disparagement his entire life.

But… he’d rather liked Lt. Roger Murphy… Dodge… Rodger Dodger.  Murphy was everyone’s pal, and Rodney had felt rather pleased that he’d formed a bond with the young lieutenant.   Finally, he was with the ‘in-crowd’!  Not forever the outsider.

Well, Murphy made his feelings clear to Lt. Ford.  Why am I always so stupid when it comes to understanding people? 

McKay rather liked the Major, too, and Lt. Ford and Teyla and Weir.  He wondered what they said behind his back.  Did they barely put up with him?  Just kept him around so that he could solve problems?  He wondered what they were saying right now.  Good riddance?  Their lives certainly became more pleasant – no longer having to put up with an arrogant jackass on their team.

Yet, he’d been happy – with these ‘friends’: Ford, Teyla, Sheppard – it felt good to work with them. He’d felt ‘connected’, as if he was part of something bigger -- bigger than just McKay and his over-inflated ego.  It felt good to work with them  --  fun even.  Together – they felt like a team – McKay felt as if he was part of that team.  Was he wrong about them as well?  

He liked Weir and her style of management – she had a tough job, but was excelling at it.  He liked  Grodin, too… and Zelenka.  He’d liked working with them – same as he’d liked working with Murphy.

Perhaps they were all having a bit of a celebration now, glad to have finally rid the lab of the brilliant and self-important McKay – that arrogant bastard. 

Why am I such an idiot when it came to things like this?  He smiled humorlessly, imagining a party currently in full swing.  Everyone would be there.  Streamers and balloons, and Lawrence Welk with his orchestra and his ‘champaign’ tunes.  Bubbles everywhere.  Lawrence Welk… that just goes to show how out of touch you are.  Well, maybe Dick Clark instead.  He wracked his brain, trying to think of a more ‘current’ celebrity but came up short.  It didn’t matter anyways.

McKay lay his head on his arms again, too tired to continue forward.  He kept his eyes closed and let out a slow breath, feeling the empty world spin around him, trembling still.  Why did I have to empty my pockets of all my gear before I started this?  Yes… well… you didn’t want any of it damaged during the testing… but why couldn’t I have kept the radio?  Or a few Power Bars at least?  And his stomach growled discontentedly as he thought of food.  That was his biggest mistake.  He usually planned so well for snacks.   What he wouldn’t give for a Power Bar at that moment – or a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup – or one of those big cookies that they had in the commissary back in Antarctica --  the ones with the big chocolate bits in them. 

A nice tub of popcorn would be good now… cheese corn… no… wait… SmartFood Cheese Popcorn.  Love that SmartFood.  Makes your hands a mess, but there’s nothing like it. Cheese… everyone loves cheese.  Well, not everyone…

He knew he was in trouble.  And he was thirsty as hell.  This was not good – not good at all.  His thoughts drifted too often, too far.  He couldn’t concentrate.  He had to think though – if he wanted to survive this.

He had to find a way out.

Time to get moving again… and he pressed his hands against the floor and forced himself onward.


PART 9: STIR CRAZY

“Zelenka,” Sheppard snapped as he strode into the lab.

The scientist leaped to his feet, his hair wild and his eyes large.  “Major,” he returned, fixing a smile as he stood beside one of the lit counsels.

“You find out anything yet?” Sheppard asked, as he made his way into the room, Teyla and Ford flanking him.

The smile fell.  “No… nothing,” the Czech stated dejectedly.  He picked up the ‘bee’ from the examination device he’d been using, and glared at it.  “I haven’t been able to hit upon the initiation sequence.”

“McKay figured it out in less than an hour,” Sheppard pointedly stated.

“I’m not McKay,” Zelenka returned, a snip to his voice.  “And you’ve depleted the energy source.  I’m doing the best I can.”

Teyla threw Sheppard a knowing glance and stepped forward.  “We understand that,” she said consolingly.  “We know you are doing everything you can.  Have you made any progress in learning how to use it?”

The Czech shook his head abruptly, making his frazzled hair fluff about him.  “I’ve tried every method we’ve used in the past.  I can’t get it to activate.  And nothing will matter if it’s out of power.”  He held the bee, discouraged.  “It just won’t give up its secrets.  You haven’t found Dr. McKay yet?” he asked, his eyes looking huge and doleful under the lenses.

Sheppard made a disgusted sound as he leaned against one of the counters.  “No sign of him.”

Rubbing the bee in his hand, Zelenka said softly, “I do hope he’s all right.  He must be hurt somewhere, otherwise he would have made himself known by now.  Wherever he is, he must be frantic to be found.”

“Damn it!” John exclaimed, feeling that same worry.  “If I could just use that transporter, I could focus on him and get to him.”

“Do you think that’s wise for you, Major?” Zelenka asked.   He didn’t seem to want to say it, but the scientist spoke anyway.   “Dr. McKay may be somewhere dangerous.  Your appearance there may just endanger your own life.”

“If he’s someplace dangerous, then, I damn well better get to him,” Sheppard returned, his voice softer than he might have expected.

“I really wish he’d had that personal shield with him,” Ford commented, holding his hands stiffly behind his back.  “If he had it, we’d know he was all right.”

Sheppard paused at this comment, and turned to Zelenka.  “Where is it?”

The Czech, still staring at the portable transporter in his hand, looked up at the Major.  He gave Sheppard a perplexed look.

“The Personal Shield.  Have you seen it lately?”

Zelenka considered this and shook his head.

“What about a re-charger?  McKay mentioned something about a re-charging unit.”  Thank God, Sheppard thought.  McKay might have curtailed his babbling, but hadn’t been able to restrain himself completely.

The scientist puzzled for a moment, then set the bee where it had been.  “I think I know what you’re talking about.”  He strode across the room.  “We found a device not too long ago.  McKay mentioned that perhaps it was used for revitalizing Ancient Technology, but it seemed unlikely.”  Determined, Zelenka keyed open the bay where they kept their discovered-but-not-yet-quite-understood Ancient devices.

He opened the door to reveal dozens of objects, from mechanisms as small as the bee to others the size of a breadbox.  Widgets, do-dads and gadgets of all manner crowded the space.  They came in all colors and shapes – blue, green, yellow, rose, purple – tubular, rectangular, spherical, dodecahedron.  Lights, handles and buttons augmented them.  The stored objects looked like the contents of a toy box.

Muttering as he searched, Zelenka commented, “I am certain it is an oven or incubator.  I thought the purpose was a means of heating its contents.  Whether to hatch eggs, the sterilization of instruments or heating of food, I couldn’t say.”

As he rooted around, shoving one device aside and looking for one in particular, Sheppard and the others huddled close.  “Dr. McKay thought it might be used for recharging devices,” Zelenka continued.  “But I thought it was just wishful thinking.  His experiments with that theory proved unsuccessful.”  He frowned as he continued looking.  “He just wanted to find a way to power his Personal Shield and…” Disgusted, Zelenka shoved himself away from the bay and stood.  “It’s not here.”

“What’s it look like?”  Sheppard asked tiredly.  Just what he needed – every time he was close to a solution, he got smacked upside the head.

“This size,” Zelenka described, holding his hands less than a foot apart.  “A clear, removable dome.  A black base, flat with four legs.  There’s a propeller-like mechanism inside the base for agitating the contents to assist with the warming.”

“Like a ‘Stir Crazy’?” Sheppard asked, getting blank looks from all three. “You know, the popcorn popper?  Hot oil?  From West Bend?  Melt the butter in the little compartment on top.  You use the lid as a bowl.” John shook his head, annoyed at Czech scientists, Athosians and Americans too young to remember the ‘real’ popcorn poppers of his youth – before microwave popcorn screwed it all up. 

“Ah,” Teyla responded, understanding.  “We ate popcorn as we watched your video about Hail Mary.”

“It was a football game, and yes, that was popcorn, but it was microwaved.  Not the same.  He turned to Zelenka and declared, “We’ll find it.”

The major glanced again at the bee on the counter, wishing he could will it into working.  As he looked at it, the thing seemed ‘different’ somehow.   He moved past Zelenka and picked it up.  The ‘wings’ weren’t quite right.  They were higher on the insect’s ‘back’.

“What are you doing?” Zelenka asked impatiently as he watched Sheppard jam down on the fragile looking disks.

“Trying to make it work,” Sheppard declared. It took more force to move them than it had in the past. His fingers ached with the effort, but the wings did move.  For a moment they fit into their previous position, but they stayed in place for only as long as Sheppard shoved them downward.  The moment he released the pressure, they moved back to their previous ‘wrong’ position.

“Please,” Zelenka cried.  “I’m trying to fix it!  If you break it now…”

Sheppard ignored him, trying again – forcing the wings down – and then to pressing them together – as he had to make the transporter work.  But, although he could get them down, they would not move inward.

“No power,” Sheppard decided.  “We have to find that re-charger.”

“It’s quite possible that it’s not a re-charger,” Zelenka reminded.  “It’s most likely a warming device of some sort.”

“Could make popcorn, too, but I’m betting that McKay was right on this one.”

“It didn’t work for the personal shield,” Zelenka griped.

“Maybe it wasn’t designed for the personal shield.”  Sheppard clutched the bee in his palm.  “Maybe it was made for this.”

He lifted his head to McKay’s room – the door that accessed the lab.  Leave it to McKay to nearly LIVE in the laboratory.  He smiled, realizing that if Rodney was trying to recharge that personal shield, there was one likely place for him to be performing the experiment.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The state of the room honestly surprised Sheppard.  He’d expected Rodney’s quarters to be: either stark and bare – or a complete mess.  Because, didn’t mad scientists go either one way or the other?  Clean to the point of absurdity, or a complete disorder to complement a crowded mind?   What Sheppard found was a room very much like his own. – enough disorder to make the place looked lived in.

The wall of diplomas and accolades was a little creepy though

The bed had been loosely made – covers pulled up and little more.  A jacket was thrown over a chair – a collection of electronic devices were scattered on a small table, apparently emptied from pockets.  Sheppard grimaced as he picked up McKay’s abandoned radio.  He saw no visible personal effects, but they’d been allowed so few.

There was no time to think about rooting through the doctor’s things – they were in search of a ‘Stir Crazy’.  And there it was, sitting in plain sight on a cabinet, looking like a popcorn popper with a turtle inside.

“That’s it?” Ford asked, over his shoulder.  “I guess it does look like one of those old fashioned corn-poppers.”

“Old fashioned?” Sheppard echoed with a sneer in his voice, as he lifted the lid and pulled out the Personal Shield.  He replaced the defunct device with the darkened bee, and then fit the lid back in place.

“How does it work?” Teyla asked, standing just behind his other shoulder.

Sheppard’s hands stayed on the domed lid.  “I don’t know,” he responded, looking to Zelenka who stood in Rodney’s doorway.

“Try twisting the lid,” the scientist suggested gamely. They tried a half dozen things, but nothing activated.

“Damn it,” Sheppard growled, tired of disappointment after disappointment.   Why did everything have to fail?!  This was their chance!  Get the bee working again!  If he transporter worked, he could focus on Rodney and find him.  He pushed and pulled and twisted everything he could think of, but the popper didn’t pop.  It sat there, pooped.

Frustrated to the point of rage, Sheppard grabbed the ‘popper’ by the handle-like flanges on the base and jerked it from the counter.  “Make it work!” he ordered, swinging around to shove it at Zelenka.

He almost collided with Ford in his haste.  The soldier stepped back, and stared.  “Major,” he said softly, his eyes on the popper.

Sheppard, who’d turned his attention on the wide-eyed scientist in the doorway, had to change his focus to the item in his hands – it glowed.

He held the popper, squeezing the flanges tightly, watching as the propeller-like agitator in the base started to spin.  The ‘bee’ levitated and the whole thing glowed a pleasant periwinkle.

Sheppard finally allowed himself to smile.  The thing seemed to vibrate in his hands, a gentle little buzz as the agitator whirled and the bee hovered above it – the bee’s stripes taking on the merest glow.

Ford and Teyla leaned in, watching in fascination.  Zelenka stepped closer, adjusting his glasses and blinking at the sight.  The four of them said nothing – finally having a reason to hope.


PART 10: HOPSCOTCH

McKay rested on his back. It had taken nearly everything he had to make it this far.  Then, after the tremendous effort it took to turn over in that narrow space, he found no further energy.  God, he was so unwell.  His head buzzed, his hands felt swollen and heavy.  He’d stopped sweating, but was left sticky and miserable.  He was so damnably tired, yet could feel his heart hammering in his chest and his mind still buzzed.  He couldn’t think.

He wanted to stop – he simply wanted to stop working and sleep.

If you let yourself do that, you’ll die.  No one will find you.  You know that, don’t you?  Who do you think will help you?  You got yourself into this mess and you have to be the one to get yourself out. Now, get cracking!  Oh, but he felt so sick – so exhausted.

Oh, I don’t want to die here.  Please, don’t let me die here.  No one will know… no one would ever find me.  They’d just think that one corridor smelled unusually gamey for a while. Maybe they’ll shut down this wing until the stench clears.  Then they’ll find an odd mummy, clothed in polyester, jammed in between the floors when they remodel in the next 100 years, and they’ll wonder how the hell that got there.

Stop it!  This isn’t doing you any good.  Think!

But it’s so hard… so hard to form any coherent thought.  Do it!

And he opened his eyes to blink up at that tiny shaft of light – a pinprick – that looked like the aperture in a pinhole camera.

He’d read about homemade cameras in a book when he was seven, or six or five -- and had set about making one on his own – had constructed it out of materials he’d found around the house – a coffee can, a plastic lid (meticulously painted black), a flap made from thick, dark paper, hinged with heavy tape, a hole punched through a bit of tin and painstakingly smoothed to ensure a sharp image.  He’d even made a viewfinder out of a piece of wire, secured to the top of the can.  The instructions said it wasn’t necessary – but it completed the project.

Carefully, diligently, he’d followed the instructions, loading the film in a dark room, sealing the device so no light could enter.  He’d considered that he might want to be a photographer – posing subjects, adjusting lighting, making everything perfect.  He’d tried to use his parents as subjects, but they were too busy of course – they had no time for such foolishness, and their animosity toward each other had risen to the point that they’d hardly stand to be in the same room together anymore – let alone pose for a photo.  That was his fault of course – somehow it was always his fault.

McKay remembered the professional photographs that the family had attempted.  He recalled the car trip to the studio, sitting in the back seat with his sister -- she in a pretty dress that she was constantly plucking at -- he in a stiff suit -- his parents bickering the whole way.  Yes, his mother and father were doing this for the benefit of their children, of course, and let them know about it.  The photographer would try to cajole them into relaxed poses, to smile, to laugh, to (at least) not grit their teeth… but it always ended up the same – four people with tight, counterfeit smiles, stiffly positioned, and wanting to get the hell out of there.  “Now that’s a happy family!” the photographer would say, grinning stupidly, hoping that he wouldn’t get blamed for the result of his work.

They’d given up on that sham when he was twelve, or ten, or nine.  He just couldn’t recall exactly when.  You should know!  You should know everything!  You have to know everything!

Why hadn’t his parents divorced sooner -- like every other family?  Why had it taken them SO LONG to realize that living together was torture… and not only for themselves? They stayed together on account of the children.  He’d done everything he could think of to make them ‘like’ each other – he’d been so ‘good’ most of the time – to keep things calm and easy.

He’d learned the piano partly to please them – because they both found some enjoyment in listening to classical music.  In his childish mind, he had created a fantasy – if he could only play the piano well enough, he might be able to make everyone happy.  He’d imagined a scene – a boy playing a piano – a husband and wife, smiling and serene, lovingly watching their progeny, lovingly listening, lovingly loving each other.

But he wasn’t good enough… 

God, why are you even thinking about that?  He snickered softly, wondering how he could be thinking of anything.  His mind, that had always been so dutiful to his commands, was off playing hopscotch somewhere.  Get working again…Reach your goal – escape!

Aw, what's the point?  You’re trapped.  There’s no way out.  You’re never getting out. You're doomed.  What does it matter in any case? You might as well just let yourself sleep.  Get it over with.  Give up.

But that’s not like me…

You gave up on the piano… on being a photographer… what else?

Not this… I won’t give up on this.

He could hardly find the strength to open his eyes, to stare up at the tiny pinprick of light that came down on him… pinprick…pinhole camera… that’s right.  That’s what he was thinking about – the coffee-can-camera.

Unable to use his family as subjects, he’d carefully staged little still-lifes and landscapes, trying to get the lighting just right – because there’d be no flash to illuminate the scene.  He’d never been creative, and had photographed little more than fruit and coffee cups, and an empty backyard.  He could set it all up perfectly.

The photos didn’t come out…or at least they were never developed.  His parents had seen no point to the silly endeavor when they had a perfectly good Nikon, with three different lenses – never used.   The painstakingly-constructed, homemade camera had gone into the trash, along with the exposed film – the family portraits eventually followed.

Stop it!  You must concentrate!  Get yourself out of here!  How?  Through that little hole?  Come on now… think. What could possibly fit through there?  It’s little wider than a needle. There has to be a way.  Figure it out… it’s what you do… you always figure things out.  You have to… they count on you… to figure things out.

They need you.

And Rodney stared at the little hole and started thinking.


PART 11: BLUE

Frustrated, Sheppard made his way back to the corridor – the balcony where McKay had disappeared. The lights had turned off while they were gone – they came back on as he walked along. Finding the place dark had disturbed Sheppard.  Had they abandoned this area already? Had they already given up on continuing to checking within that 10-meter radius?  He knew that there were personnel on the neighboring floors, but why hadn’t anyone stayed here?

The recharging of the ‘bee’ was taking far too long.  The popper didn’t need to be held throughout the procedure, they'd discovered.  Zelenka would monitor it, but the transporter hadn’t yet reached its previous luster, and after the fiasco of using the partially-charged device, Sheppard conceded that it would be best to wait a bit longer.  Ford would bring the bee to him once Zelenka relinquished it.  Teyla was with Weir, talking leader-to-leader, discussing what their next moves might be.  Sheppard was alone again.

Not knowing where else to go, Sheppard went back to where this started.  He passed rooms that displayed their ransacked contents, where teams had searched through every possible space – and had come up empty-handed.

10 meters – McKay had insisted that the range of the device was only 10 meters.  So why had they strayed so far from that limit?  Because they’d searched everywhere already – they’d checked every possible place within that limit, hadn’t they?

It was late – very late.  Sheppard gazed out across the ocean as he walked.  A gentle breeze blew past him, comforting and cool.  It looked as if the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, and he checked his watch – morning was nearly upon them.  He and most of Atlantis had been up all night – searching.

He trod onward, his feet falling heavily with his discouragement.  Why hadn’t they found McKay?  The only explanation was that he was dead.  Otherwise they would have found him by now, or Rodney would have made his presence known somehow.  Sheppard sighed.  He didn’t want think that McKay was dead.  He didn’t want to do this without the physicist.  Sure, the doctor was a pain in the ass at times, but weren’t they all?

Okay… maybe McKay irritated more often than others… but Sheppard liked him -- honestly liked him.  There was something exciting about being around such genius.  It was like watching lightning.  But it wasn’t just that McKay was as smart as hell … Sheppard just liked him, liked exchanging barbs with him, liked his sense of humor, liked having him around.

The thought that he’d never see McKay again, made Sheppard feel like crap.  Already, Sheppard missed him.

He’d failed McKay.  Yesterday, he’d gone looking for Rodney, wanting to make him feel better about that damn letter – and this was what come of it.

10 meters – Rodney really should have been within those ten meters.  But he wasn’t.  They’d searched everywhere.  If McKay wasn’t in Atlantis…  John gazed out into the black surf and hoped for a better answer.

That’s what he needed – a better answer.  But where was the Answer Man?

Wearily, Sheppard stopped his slow walk, just beside that black mark on the floor – where they were BOTH supposed to have appeared, safe and sound.  He leaned against the railing and stared at the floor.  “Where the hell are you, McKay?” he asked for the umpteenth time.  “What happened to you?  Why can’t I find you?  What’s the answer?”  He let himself slide down, to sit on the flooring.

He closed his eyes, resting his head against the half-wall.  Frustrated, he tried again, calling inwardly, Are you in here, Rodney?  Come on… if you’re in my brain somewhere, you’d better come out and say it because we’ve been looking everywhere.  Been missing your sorry ass.  It’d be a real kicker if you were so close all the time.  I know it isn’t quite as orderly in there as you’re used to, but you shouldn’t be THAT offended.  So, come on … ah hell, who my kidding. He’s not here.  I know that.

He thought he heard a thump… a muffled pounding.  Perhaps someone was still in the area, looking.

He opened his eyes and stared out over the walkway, looking at nothing in particular, crossing his arms across his chest as if he was cold, although the barrier protected the space from the wind.  Why couldn’t he find Rodney?  What had they missed?  Where had they neglected to look?

And he cringed as he remembered the image Ford had created – McKay transported into a wall – half formed into a solid object, an arm or leg sticking out.  It didn’t happen! Sheppard reminded himself.  There was a failsafe!  McKay didn’t get himself into a wall or the ceiling or the floor!

There was that thumping again… seeming far away, yet close at the same time.

John’s unfocused eyes suddenly shifted as something flitted about in the corners of his perception. A bit of fluff caught in the breeze, no doubt.  He tried to find what had gained his attention, needing something to focus on.  He frowned at his inability to find the thing.

It must have been his imagination.

But no… there it was again.  Something shifted. There was a trace of blue against the white floor. Sheppard leaned forward, crouching on hands and knees, determined to be able to solve SOMETHING today – even if it was to just catch the bit of litter and throw it into the proper trash receptacle.  Now where…?

There again, something blue and very fine flopped about.  Sheppard leaned closer, ready to snatch up the debris, but it was so hard to focus on the fiber.  The thread flounced about in the wind, but there was no wind so near the floor.

Puzzled, John leaned closer – squinting at the thread that didn’t move away from its spot, though it continued to flick one way and then the other.  It was anchored somehow.

Slowly, he reached for it, taking a couple attempts to capture the moving figment.  It was frayed, frazzled, the filaments, twisted apart.   He grasped it between thumb and forefinger, holding it tightly as it tried to twist out of his grasp.  He tugged it, lightly.  Something tugged back.  He pulled harder and it came away in his hand – plucked from some tiny pinhole in the floor.

He squeezed on the bit of frayed thread.  It felt like plastic, like polyester.  It was dusty blue …  like the shirts that the scientists wore.

For a moment, Sheppard’s heart seemed to stop.  “Oh, for the love of…” he exclaimed as he reached for his radio.  “I’ve found him!” he shouted – much louder than necessary.  “I found him!”

The channel burst with activity, people excitedly responding to his announcement, but John didn’t listen as he leaned to the floor, trying to find that hole… that tiny little pinhole that had produced the thread.  Damn it!  Too small to find.

“McKay!” he cried, thumping with one fist.  “McKay!  Answer me!  Goddamn it!”  He held his breath, turning off the radio, and listened.  Rodney was down there – he had to be.

But Sheppard received no response – not even a tiny tick to show that he’d been heard.  “Come on, Rodney,” he whispered.  “I know that was you… I know it…”

But there was nothing… just the sound of the ocean.

John leaned back, still holding the bit of blue thread.  McKay was there! Sheppard had no doubts.  God, how were they going to get him out?  He turned on the radio again, in time to hear Weir’s voice call him over the radio, asking:  where… how… what?

Grimacing at his own stupidity, his own inability to have figured this out sooner, Sheppard uttered, “He’s in the goddamn floor.  He’s been right here the whole time!”


PART 12: CAMEL

McKay had considered the possibilities – trying to muster a plan, but nothing would come to him.  He had no tools, no light, no brain to speak of.  Perhaps, if he could see the wiring around him, he might have stood a chance at MacGyvering something fantastic, but all his attempts to claw at the tubes had been fruitless.  Whoever designed the space had done a good job – it wasn’t going to be easily damaged.

So he did the only thing he could think of – rather lame, really.  Not up to his normal standards, but his resources were rather low at that moment.  Besides, the hole was so damn small, it wasn’t as if he had many choices.  He doubted that he could have forced much through it.  He’d managed to work a length of thread out of the cuff of his sleeve – cautiously – careful not to break the fine fiber.  Then he worried it, trying to turn the single slim piece into something bigger – something that might be seen.  Painstakingly, he’d compressed it again, and eased it through that little hole in his roof.  It had been difficult to hold his arms in that position, to lift them, to keep those trembling limbs still while he worked.  He felt so heavy, so tired, so stupid.  At times, the task was like trying to force a camel through the eye of a needle. He’d manage it, he promised himself.  He was a meticulous person after all – but this simple task was almost beyond him.

He’d rested when he completed that task … and waited… waited for the sound of someone walking above.  How long would it take?  It might take days -- the corridor was rarely used.

Why would anyone pass this way?

He drifted again, trying to concentrate, knowing that he was failing… that he was fading.  He wasn’t going to last much longer – not like this.

He tried to concentrate – on anything – to keep his mind awake.  He imagined empty backyards, Smartfood, balloons, polyester mummies and grinning photographers, macaroni and cheese MREs, and Lawrence Welk waggling his baton.  He saw Antarctica with its endless wasteland, and camels slipping through needle eyes and walking through an eternal desert. He blinked in the darkness, trying to see the thread in the tiny hole above his head, knowing it was there.

And then it came – the muffled clomping of someone walking just above his head.  At first, he thought it was merely the camel, coming closer, wending its way through an empty desert – toward nowhere – to nothing.  He could see it clearly in his minds-eye.

He listened… closer.

… someone was coming.  He wanted to shout out, but his throat ached and tongue was too thick in his mouth.   He gripped the little string with one hand and tried to pound with the other, but the ceiling – crisscrossed with protected wires and tubes – left him no surface to get a clean whack at it.  Besides, the quality of sound coming from the feet above was muted, as if some sort of insulation rested between them.  Would anyone even hear?

He couldn’t yell. He couldn’t pound.  He’d have to trust a tiny, unraveled thread to catch someone’s eye.  He had to hope that whoever walked above him – would pause.

Please…

And then the tramping stopped just above him, and he released a sigh.  Here was his chance!

Placing all of his hope in one basket, he twisted the thread.  Please…  With his other hand, he slammed a fist against the tubing above him – knowing the sound wouldn’t reach anyone – but he had to try.

See it!  Come on already!  Just look down.  It’s as plain as day!  I mean, who wouldn’t notice a little thread dancing on the flooring?

Unable to hold both hands above him anymore, he let one drop, still hanging to the filament with the other.  God, his head hurt – it buzzed and throbbed.  He tried to swallow, but his mouth was useless by this point.  You know, this is ridiculous.  No one will see the little thing.  This is useless… worthless… pointless.  But still he tried, waving around that little piece of nothing…even though his arm burned with the effort and his fingers ached.  Please…

And then he felt resistance. Oh no!  You got it stuck!  You’ve ruined everything!  It was your only hope!  He pulled it back – but the thread slipped from his fingers.

NO!  No! No no no no… oh no…

He tried to find the string again, but it was gone…

Oh God!  He had to get another thread, work one out of his other cuff… but why?  Why.  What was the point?  By the time he’d managed that, this person would have moved on. No one would have seen it anyway.  Why’d you even try it?  Do you have any idea how ridiculous you are?   What a fool… what a godforsaken fool.

Even the light went away, as if something blocked it the hole… totally, finally.

With a miserable sigh, McKay let his hand drop to his chest.  He closed his eyes, letting himself succumb to the blackness that had been pulling at him for so long.  Above him, his ceiling rang with a sudden violence and he thought, perhaps, he heard someone call his name.

But… at least… the buzzing finally went away.


PART 13:  UNCOMFORTABLE READINGS

“Come on, Rodney, I know that was you,” Sheppard called, kneeling on the floor, near that black mark.  “Make a sound… come on… make a sound.”  And he closed his eyes, listening.

There was a thumping, a clatter, and Sheppard held his breath, hoping… but the noise grew louder, coming toward him and he lifted his head to see a small army running toward him.

Beckett and Grodin were in the lead – both carried a case, one medical and the other technical. Teyla was outpacing them, nearly flying down the corridor.  Marines were with them, along with Weir, pushing her way forward from behind.

“They’re here,” Sheppard whispered.  “We’ll get you out of there.  I promise.” And he patted the floor as if he could comfort the man beneath it.

Most stopped a few feet from him, looking in disbelief as Sheppard crouched, as if they were afraid to stand on that portion of the walkway.  Teyla came all the way, kneeling beside him.  She gave him a hopeful look, and squeezed his arm.

“Is he all right?” Weir asked, as she stared apprehensively at the floor.

“I don’t know,” Sheppard answered truthfully.  “He was awake enough to send out an SOS.  He flagged me down.”

“Flagged you down?” Teyla asked, confused by the terminology.

Sheppard unclenched one hand, showing her the length of unraveled blue thread.

Teyla took it from him, looking curiously at the bit of string.  “That is the flag?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard responded, letting himself grin.  “What was he thinking?”

Grodin had squatted down not far from them, opening his case and pulling out a gadget or two.  He shook his head, asking, “Why didn’t we think of it?  We should have considered the floors.”

“Because we dinnet think the balmy fool would get himself in there, did we now?”  Beckett responded with a huff, crouching down beside Sheppard.  “You really believe he’s in there?” 

Sheppard nodded, convinced, sure of this as he was sure of anything – which wasn’t much.

“But there can’t be much room, can there?” Beckett asked, his voice filled with wonder.  Sheppard had no response for him.

Others were arriving, the maintenance crew. A tall, scrawny civilian with a weedy mustache carried a cordless circular saw.  A big man with graying hair toted an impressive looking toolbox.  The crew was ready to rip up this portion of Atlantis to get the scientist out.

Teyla said nothing, she reached out one hand to gently touch the floor near Sheppard.

John looked up at the man with the saw.  He recalled that his name was Finn, but couldn’t remember if it was a first or last name. “Hand it over!” he demanded as he reached.

Grodin shot up a hand.  “No!  Just a moment …wait!”  He waved a scanner over the area, frowning.  “Wait…” he uttered again.

“What?” Sheppard barked, grabbing the saw Finn’s spindly hands.  “He’s not staying in there another minute.”

Grodin shook his head, discontentedly.  “There’s too much power running through this area.  I’m getting … uncomfortable readings.” He glanced down at Sheppard.  “We can’t just cut through this surface… not knowing what’s there.  There are certainly data cables, water, electricity.  We could shut down the power to this entire wing of Atlantis. Who knows what else is down there that can be damaged.”

“There’s only one ‘damaged’ thing that I’m worried about at this particular moment, Grodin,” Sheppard growled as he gripped the saw.  “And I’m getting him out right now.”

Looking helpless, Grodin insisted, “But the power… Look, if you cut through the wrong line, it could electrocute you… me… Rodney…” and he let that thought hang.

John’s face fell as he held the now useless saw.  With a groan he let it rest on one thigh.  Damn it…so close…  He looked to Teyla, who kept her hand on the floor, her face compassionate and concerned.

Lifting his head to the scientist, Sheppard asked, “Can you figure out where the power cables are?  Where can we cut through to get at him?”

Grodin nodded, but didn’t look convinced as he swung the device.

The others milled about, waiting for orders, wanting to do something.

“There should be some sort of an access hatch,” the big man with the toolbox stated, looking concerned.  “He must be in a crawlspace.”

“So we find the hatch!” Beckett declared.

The milling group seemed suddenly happy to have something to do.  They broke off – to search for anything that looked like a door in the flooring.

Sheppard sat back with a sigh.  Beckett grabbed his case, and started fiddling through it.  The dark-skinned doctor came down the hallway with a gurney, and Beckett pulled out IV bags– getting set up.   John tried not to worry as he watched the amount of material the doctor seemed to think he’d need.

Finn, looking nervous, took circular saw took it back from Sheppard and stood with it beside the wall, trying to look casual. The man with the toolbox put an arm over the other’s shoulder.  Grodin, and a couple of the other scientists were scanning the walkway, frowning, looking perturbed.  

John looked up to Elizabeth who stood with a taut expression.  She gave him a narrow smile and said, “He’s going to be fine.”

Yeah… John thought.  But how much longer is this going to take?  Rodney had been stuck in the floor for a good part of the day, and all of the night.  Sheppard glanced up as the sun crested the horizon – and now it’s another day.

He looked up as two more people arrived – Ford, with Zelenka huffing behind him.

“Got it!”  Ford announced, holding out the bee.  “It’s charged!”  He reached Sheppard and passed him the bee.  “I know it’s too late to help, but we got it charged anyway.”

Zelenka came to a stop beside Ford, resting his hands on his knees and panting, his hair hanging down over his steamed lenses.  “It should work,” the Czech huffed.  “It is no longer glowing, but I believe it will again, if you were activate it.”  He stopped to draw in a breath.  “We may need to wait until we… can speak to… Dr. McKay to discover how he managed it.”

Sheppard stared down at the little device in the palm of his hand. The bee had held such promise when they were using it earlier – it was designed for ‘rescue’ after all.  It could still do some good.

Resolutely, Sheppard adjusted his radio and stated, “I’m going down there.”

“But we know where he is,” Zelenka told him.

Beckett looked alarmed.  “No sense in puttin’ both of you in there, now,” he proclaimed.  “We don’t know what sort of trouble is down there and…”

“…and he’s down there alone… in that trouble,” Sheppard snapped.  “Look, I can go down, check out the wiring and tell you where the hell to cut through.”

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,” Weir said tentatively.  “I don’t want anything to happen to you… too.  We should find the hatch.”

“I have to see if he’s okay.”  Scowling, Sheppard changed his position, laying down on his belly – thinking that if the space was tight, he’d might as well get horizontal.  Teyla touched his arm, smiling gratefully at his actions, and moved out of his way.  Ford gave him a tight nod, looking pleased, and handed him a flashlight.

Weir watched without speaking, and then when Sheppard looked up, she declared,  “Do it!”

The bee’s wings were wrong – they were higher than before.  But Sheppard knew what to do.  McKay had figured it out earlier… the wings needed to be fit into a lower position to put the device into a ‘ready’ mode.  He pushed down, and instead of resistance, the disks clicked into place…and the stripes began to glow again.  He glanced up at the others, long enough to see the encouraging looks, and then he pressed in on the disks, thinking about McKay and wanting to find him.


PART 14:  ROLLING PINS AND PYTHONS

There was that odd, exhilarating sensation of flying again and a rushing sound filled his ears – then John was plunged into blackness.  Oof!  Sheppard’s head slammed into the ceiling above him as he unintentionally threw back his head at the change.  Black… all around him… black.  And the floor beneath him was rippled and bumpy – about as uncomfortable as laying on a bed of rolling pins and pythons.

“McKay?”  There was no answer.  “Rodney!”  Nothing.  Damn it!  Sheppard blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the darkness remained.  Blindly fitting the ‘bee’ into his pocket, he snapped on the flashlight that Ford had given him.

The light cut through the blackness, illuminating a narrow space and an impossibly long corridor of tubes, cables and ducts, on ceiling and floor, spanning the length of this particular arm of Atlantis.  He swung the light around – not interested.  The beam struck a head of hair, just inches away.

Thank God… thank God… he’d finally found that irritating son-of-a-bitch.

“Rodney?” Sheppard called softly, reaching out one hand to touch the side of McKay’s head. They were laying head to head, and he could hardly see the man.  No response.  Not even a flinch.  John struggled forward, trying to maneuver in the too small space. “Pain in the ass place to get yourself stuck,” he commented as he wiggled.

How the hell did the Ancients figure that ANYONE could work in this space?  “Rodney?”  He positioned himself so that he could see the scientist’s slack face.

“God, Rodney, you look awful.”  It might have just been the light from the flashlight, but Rodney looked pale as a ghost.  McKay lay on his back, with his head turned to one side, an arm crossed across his chest, the other at his side. A tiny shaft of light came down at him, like a laser pointer in a lecture.  Sheppard tried not to think that the Canadian looked like a corpse, laid out in a coffin.  “You really should consider getting yourself a tan or something.”

McKay was breathing, slowly – deeply – almost sighing with each breath.

Tentatively, John reached out one hand to touch McKay’s neck, finding him cold and his skin tacky.  John waited, needing to find a pulse.  There it was.  John closed his eyes.  The pulse seemed weak and far too quick.  Damn it…

Weir’s voice suddenly sounded on the radio, startling him.  “Major Sheppard, report!  You just disappeared!”

“Yeah, that was kind of the idea.”

“Well, you rather startled all of us.  Did you find him?”

“Yes, yes!  He’s here!” Sheppard returned, irritated.  Didn’t he already tell them that Rodney would be here?

“How is he?” That was Beckett.

"He's unconscious," Sheppard replied testily.

  “He’s not stuck inside anything is he?”

“No, he’s not stuck in anything,” Sheppard declared, moving the light about to make sure.  It was hard to see all the way around the scientist, considering their positions, but as Sheppard waved the light around one side of the physicist, and then the other.  It looked like McKay was free.  Thank God for that.

“How’s he doing?” Becket’s’ voice cut through again.

“He looks like crap,” Sheppard returned.  “He’s pale.  His breathing seems slow and his pulse is fast.”

“Kin you give me a pulse rate?”

“No, I can’t give you a rate!”  Sheppard shot back. “Just get him out of here, now, or I’ll do it myself!”  He felt for the bee in his pocket.

"Don’t use that thing!”  Beckett’s response came quickly.  "Major, it went wrong last time you tried with two!  He can’t concentrate on where you’re goin’.  And what you’re tellin’ me is that he isn’t strong enough for you to do this again.  Don’t do it!  Major, d’you hear me?”

John pulled his hand away from the pocket as if stung by the faux bee.  “I hear you,” Sheppard responded, knowing Beckett was right. Damn it!  If McKay was this sick already, he wouldn’t be able to handle another trip.

“Where can we get through the floor?”  Grodin this time, sounding anxious – ready to go.

Sheppard swung the light around, leaving his other arm on Rodney, moving from his neck to his shoulder, wrapping the arm protectively around his head.  John surveyed the situation quickly, and smiled at a realization.  The Ancients didn’t make the crawl space wide enough for ‘crawling’ because they didn’t need to.  “They’ve left a whole row open,” he spoke into the radio.  “About two feet to the left of me.  It seems to go the whole length of the corridor.  There’s nothing on it.”

“Where?”  That was Ford.  “We can’t see you, sir.”

Sheppard let out an exasperated sigh.  Of course, they had no idea of his position.  “Stomp your foot, Ford!” he ordered through the radio.

In response, John heard a muffled thump.  “You’re to my right,” Sheppard stated.  “Move a couple of feet toward the other side of the corridor, and do it again.”

He looked to McKay in commiseration, keeping one hand on him.  “We couldn’t have heard you in here,” he stated aloud.  “Could have shouted your lungs out and no one would have heard.  Did you shout?”  He wondered if McKay had even tried.

The scientist said nothing.

“You sure found a crappy place,” Sheppard muttered.  “Makes me claustrophobic just being here."  And he grimaced, remembering once that McKay told him he suffered from that phobia.  "Hell of a place," he muttered.  "Fit for bats and maybe those… blind mole rat things.  What do you know about those?” he asked, wishing he could get a response.  Usually McKay couldn’t help but answer a question.  Instead, the doctor’s slow breathing seemed to hitch.

Sheppard felt suddenly cold.  “Don’t do that!” he ordered.

He could vaguely hear Aiden moving above him, and then another muted thump.  “You’re not there yet!  Further!” he directed.  He kept hold of Rodney, wishing the man wasn’t so cold, that he didn’t feel so clammy, that his breathing didn’t seem so strange.  “Come on, Answer Man… just hang on a bit longer.”  He felt for a pulse again and didn’t like what he found.  “Can you hurry this up!” he cried into the radio.

“We’re doing what we can,” Aiden responded, as he moved again and thumped his foot.

“There!”  The quality of the ‘thump’ changed as Ford reached the bare row.

“Do you see a hatch?” that was Grodin talking.

“No, I don’t see any goddamn hatch!  Just get us the hell out of here!”  There was a pause… probably Grodin scanning the area, trying to find exactly where to begin the surgery on the floor.  The sound of a saw cutting through the roof above him was the best thing Sheppard had heard all day.  He maneuvered closer to McKay, getting between the falling dust and the scientist.  “You’re almost out of here, Rodney.  I swear, we’re getting you out.”

But McKay gave him no response. He continued to breathe slowly, stopping and starting.  “Hurry,” Sheppard whispered, watching as light finally knifed its way in, along with the blade. The major cursed, thinking that McKay had been in this blackness for so long – stuck on this uneven and horribly uncomfortable surface.  This place wasn’t even fit for blind mole rats.

Then, with amazing speed (but not fast enough as far as Sheppard was concerned) the roof peeled back and Ford’s head appeared upside-down in the hole. Sheppard’s flashlight drew the soldier’s attention and he squinted toward them.  Aiden grinned.

“We got you,” Sheppard whispered to McKay.  “You’re getting out – now.”


PART 15: MOUSE

“Major? Major?” for the second time within 24-hours, Sheppard was awakened by a lilting and insistent brogue.

The major squinted and peered up at the doctor.  “Carson,” he returned, stretching on the comfy chair.  He was in Beckett’s waiting room – a space that the doctor had set up for just this purpose – a place to sequester visitors when he’d had enough of them.  Sheppard had no idea where Beckett had procured the furniture, but it was certainly the most comfortable furnishings on the whole complex.

“If ye want to come in and see him, you can.  Just for a minute,” The doctor stood with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, looking terribly tired.

Stiffly, Sheppard peeled himself out of the chair.  He didn’t remember falling asleep.  He just remembered how long it took to extract McKay from that hole.  They’d started with such a small, experimental hole that was enlarged twice before it was big enough to actually use.  They’d pulled Rodney out first, Sheppard helping to guide him through the opening.  By the time Sheppard had gotten himself out – Beckett and the other doctor were already wheeling the astrophysicist away in a gosh-darn hurry. 

Sheppard felt his blood run cold when he heard the dark-skinned doctor shouting, “He’s seizing!” and then the gurney disappeared from sight.

John had followed, with the others – and they had been forced to wait here until Beckett could give them some news.

“How is he?” Sheppard asked, unable to read Beckett’s weary expression.

The doctor shrugged as he turned and lead the way.  “Hangin’ in there,” he responded.

Sheppard glanced about, surprised to find that he’d been the sole inhabitant of the waiting room. “The others?” he asked.  Weir, Teyla and Ford had all accompanied him here.

Beckett answered his question, “They’ve been and gone.  I’ve sent them to bed.  It’s where you should be right now, Major.”

“Should’ve woke me up sooner,” Sheppard grumbled, keeping at Beckett’s heels.

“Aye,” the doctor responded.  “Thought I’d let you rest a bit more.   You’ve had a busy day.”

They moved into the infirmary, toward a curtained off bed. Sheppard always hated this – the surprise behind the curtain.  Carson paused, looked at Sheppard as if to prepare him, then pushed back the drape.  Sheppard stepped forward and let out a sigh, his eyes on the unmoving inhabitant of the bed.  McKay was pale and motionless, with sunken eyes and hair plastered to his head.  He looked as if he’d fall to pieces if touched.

“He looks like shit.”

“Aye,” Beckett replied.  “That’s not the clinical term, but it's fitting.”

Rodney was hooked up to a half dozen different things:  oxygen, beeping monitors, IV bags, other bags placed lower on the bed frame.  The IV’s were attached to his legs instead of his arms where Sheppard would have expected them.

“Couldn’t find a vein,” Beckett explained, reading his question.  “He was pretty much dried out.”  He tsked as he shook his head.  “What with the severity of his dehydration and his hypoglycemic reaction, he wasn’t going to last much longer.  If you hadn’t ‘ave found him when you did…” and Beckett trailed off.

Sheppard watched the monitors around the bed, hating them.  “Is he going to be okay?”

The doctor shrugged again.  “We’ll do everything we can for him,” he stated.  “I’d like to say that he’ll be right as rain in a day or so, but there may be complications.  I’m tryin’ to keep him from shock and any further seizures, and…” Beckett paused to run a hand through his tousled hair.  “He’s had three since we found him.  Then there’s the possibility of brain damage.”

Sheppard closed his eyes as if pained.  God, no… not that.

Beckett continued, “We’ll just have to wait it out and hope.  He was in a bad way, Major, a really bad way.”  He glanced to Sheppard, and said, “Now, it’s time for you to go to bed.  I’ll call if anything changes.”

“Can I stay here?”  Sheppard asked.

Beckett let out a breath.  “Now, Major, you need your rest.  It’d be best for everyone if you get out of my way and into your own room.  We have rules here, you know.”

“What’d be best for him?”  Sheppard asked, nodding toward McKay. When Beckett offered him no response, Sheppard declared.  “I’ll stay out of your way and not make a sound.”

The Scotsman quietly declared, “You need your rest.”

“So do you.  When do you sleep?” Sheppard shot back.

“I sleep when I’m able,” Beckett replied enigmatically.

“I’ve had a nap,” Sheppard bargained.  “Come on, just let me sit with him.  He was in that goddamn floor, alone, in the dark …for almost a day.  Do you have any idea what that must have been like?  And, for Christ’s sake, the last thing he needs to do is wake up without anyone near him.  If you just let me…”

“All right!  All right!” Beckett held up his hands in surrender.  “You sit in that chair and stay out of my way.”  He spoke sternly, “If ye cause me any trouble, I’ll have you marched out of here.  Don’t think I can’t.”

“Right, right,” Sheppard responded, grabbing a chair and shoving it into position beside Rodney’s bed.  “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

“Mice are loud little buggers,” Beckett mumbled.  “You ever try t’sleep when a whole family of them are dancin’ about your head?”

Sheppard chuckled, wanting to laugh at something as he sat down. “Where’ve you been sleeping, Carson?”

“Oh,” Beckett responded, moving away.  “My gram’s house is a bit rustic.  She’s a little addled, but a dear thing.  She leaves cheese out for them.”

”Everybody loves cheese,” Sheppard said as he smiled, but the expression faded as he got a closer look at Rodney.  Yeah,  ‘shit’ was the only way to describe that pasty, sickly look.  Damn it, McKay, how could this happen?  He sat down and prepared himself for a long night – wondering why the chairs within the infirmary had to be so damn uncompromising compared to those in the waiting room.

Beckett returned to Sheppard’s side, dropping a blanket on him without saying anything further.


PART 16:  PRUFROCK

Let us go then, you and I.
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Hmmm… there… that’s right.  Intriguing.  I’ve always rather liked that particular poem.  Probably because "Prufrock" isn't so easy to understand.  One has to work a bit to get at what it truly means.

I know that feeling.

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

Deserted streets…  It’s all been rather deserted lately, hasn’t it? 

Depends on where you’ve been.  Been pretty busy in some places.

All quiet and deserted and empty.   Terribly lonely actually.  The words create an excellent mood, don't you think?

Honestly, it’s not the mood I'm looking for.

And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent

Tedious… tedious… tedious.  Well, that describes me rather well, doesn’t it?  One long uninterrupted tedium.   I guess that sums me up pretty well.

Not so much.

To lead you to that overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

People were always asking me questions, insisting on answers.  Why?

Because you’re the Answer Man.  It’s what you do.  I think you kinda like it.  I like it, too. I like having someone I can count on.

Yes, but it’s damn tedious, isn’t it?  Always having to listen to me run off on some insane subject.  I just don’t know when to shut up.

Well, yeah, that’s sometimes true.  But I’ll tell you to when it’s time to shut your yap.  Couple of times now, I wish you’d actually said something.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo

I really wish I had some creativity, could create something magnificent like the Masters… like… well… Michelangelo.  I'm  not kidding myself of course, no one could match his mastery, but I don’t even have the imaginative talent of a five-year-old.  I don’t have a creative bone in my body.  I wish I did.  I have no sense of Art.

There’s more than one kind of creativity.  More than one kind of Art.

The yellow smoke…
No, wait… it’s the yellow fog…

Which comes first? Smoke or fog?  The lines are so similar…

Does it matter?

Of course it matters!  One is right and the other is completely wrong.  One comes first.  Everything must be done in the correct sequence.  If the proper sequence isn’t followed in all activities, there may be dire consequences.

You’ll figure it out.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.

That sounds right.  Yes, that’s it.  That’s the right order.

I knew you’d get it.

It goes on for a bit after that about the fog… comparing the fog to a cat.  Do you think my cat’s okay?

You have a cat?

Well, yes, I just said that, didn’t I? 

Hell, how am I supposed to know things like that? 

He likes things done a certain way, and will let you know if it isn’t right.   He’s very particular, but can be so patient.  I left him with a neighbor.  I left him knowing I might never come back, might never be able to come back and claim him. 

I’m sure the cat’s fine.  Don’t worry about it, okay?

She might give him up to the animal shelter

I don't think she'd do that

Why not?  What do you know about her?

I just figure, if you trusted her enough with the creature, she must be a good enough person.

Do you think she’ll remember to leave a curtain open?  He likes to sit in the window.  He was always there, watching when I came home.

Sure… I’m sure she’s doing that.

For I have known them all already, known them all…
Have known the evenings, mornings and afternoons, 
I have measured out my life coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music of a farther room.
So how should I presume?

It seems I’ve lived my whole life that way – everything carefully measured and categorized.  Pointless really.  All of it is so pointless.

That’s not what I’ve seen.  Time to stop this, okay?

It wasn’t even in the right order, was it?  I left out a whole lot of it.

I don’t know.  I’ve never heard the poem before.

I just can’t remember all of it now.  I think I got it all wrong.

It doesn’t matter.  Can you just let this go?

Of course it matters!  It must be perfect.  I must remember the entire thing.

Why?

Because I have to know everything, don’t I?  If I'm wrong, people may be hurt.  I have to always be right.

Right now, you just have to quiet down and rest, okay?

No!  I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one who will do 
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, the Fool.

There, that’s my favorite stanza.

I don’t know.  I didn’t care for that one so much

Why?

Well, it didn't really ring true, did it?

I got it wrong then?  I can't get it wrong.  I must always be right, because if I'm wrong people may die.

Nobody's... oh come on...You really have to stop this.

Why, am I tedious?

For the love of… no, you’re not tedious.  You’re just wearing yourself out.  Come on already, your voice is almost gone again.  You got to let this be.

But there’s so much that needs to be done.  There’s always... something that needs to be done.

Not right now.  Nothing needs to be done.  There's nothing for you to solve right now. 

There’s always… something…  Because if I have nothing to solve, then what good am I?

Damn it!  What the hell are you talking about?  Okay... Okay, how 'bout this? You can solve all the damn problems you want when you wake up.  For right now, just go back to sleep.  Okay?

But I have to finish it.  I can’t… can’t  leave it… undone.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed …with seaweed red and … and brown
Till human …

Come on…please?

…Till human voices wake us
…wake us…

Rodney… don’t do this….  Becket, get over here, he's doing it again.

… and we drown.

"Beckett!"


PART 17:  NOODLE

He opened his eyes with a start … expecting blackness…and stared out at the brightly lit room.  He tried to figure out where the hell he was, but before he could register anything, he heard his name.

“Rodney?”

He turned toward the voice, to see a tired-looking Sheppard sitting beside him, eyebrow arched, looking apprehensive. 

“Hey,” Sheppard said.

“Hey,” Rodney whispered.  Around him, machines beeped.

“Welcome back,” John replied, smiling and looking goofy.  “How’re you feeling?”

He considered a moment before he answered, “Not so good.”

“Yeah, well, that figures.”  Sheppard continued to smile, as if he hadn’t heard how McKay had just described his current disposition. 

McKay tiredly registered the tubes and wires that connected him to the devices around him. “What…?” he tried to ask.

“Just stay still, okay?” Sheppard extended one arm and lay it gently on his shoulder.

What did he expect? Rodney thought.  It wasn’t as if I have any strength to even lift a hand, let alone lunge out of the bed at him.  He felt as if he were made from limp noodles, unable to move, hardly able to keep his eyes open.

“Are you going to talk sensibly this time?” the major asked, not moving his hand.

“What?”  Rodney responded again, and had to pause to cough.  Sheppard’s eyes grew concerned as the cough continued. Why did the major look that way?  What had happened?  What was wrong? Did something need his attention?  And here he was, lounging about in bed. “What …?” McKay tried to ask, wanting to know so much, but unable to say anything.

“He’s awake, is he?” Carson’s voice sounded from somewhere in the room.  “Oh, thank goodness.”

“Yeah,” Sheppard responded.  “He’s not saying much.”

“Quieted has he? Thank goodness for that.  As badly dehydrated as he was, I was surprised he’d managed anything at all.  Amazing he caused no damage to his throat.”

"Hard to keep the man quiet."

Carson chuckled. 

The next thing he knew, Rodney was staring up at the smiling doctor.  “Rodney, how’re feelin’?”

McKay grimaced, finally stilling his cough and John answered for him, “Not so good.”

“Oh, well that’s to be expected,” Beckett responded glibly.  He picked up one of Rodney’s arms and pumped on a bulb.  McKay felt a blood-pressure cuff constrict around his arm. Now when had that gotten there?  Carson took his pulse as he worked.  “Much better!” he exclaimed as he let the cuff loose.   He gave McKay a pat on the shoulder.  “You’re lookin’ much better, Rodney,” the doctor declared.  “Almost 100%!”

McKay looked to Sheppard for concurrence.  The major gave him an expression that seemed to say he only partially agreed with that assessment.  Sheppard had sat back in his chair by that point.  Rodney hadn’t even noticed that he’d moved.

“You’re well on your way to recovery,” Beckett continued on.  “I’ve been pumpin’ you full of all manner of liquids, but I’d like you to try to drink an ORS.”  And he moved toward the counter where he’d kept the packets of oral rehydration solution.  “Best thing for you, really.”

But everything was getting fuzzy again and he couldn’t focus.

“McKay?”

He heard Sheppard call his name.  The major sounded alarmed, and McKay really wanted to answer him, but he was far too tired to respond and he slipped again into sleep.


PART 18:  ABOUT THAT LETTER

McKay grimaced as toggled about on the laptop, reading the latest reports from Zelenka and the others.  He sighed, wondering how the hell they functioned without him.  “Look at this!” he called across the room to Beckett.  “They started working on the portable water purification device without me.  What were they thinking?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Beckett responded without looking up.  “Maybe about purifying water… portably?”

With a harrumph, McKay jabbed at a button. “Well, they’re going about it totally ass-backwards.  Oh!  This will never do!  Look at the experiments they’ve set up?  Do they honestly think this will show them anything?  Beckett!  Call Zalonka for me.  Get him here right now. I have to set him straight before he wastes any more valuable time.”

“For the twentieth time, I’m not calling anyone in the lab,” Carson replied with a tired sigh.  “And the man’s name’s ‘Zelenka’.  You’re to rest up and relax.  I dunno why I let you have that computer.  Soon as you fall asleep, I’m takin’ it from you.”

“Oh, that’s mature,” McKay responded petulant, as he reached for the bottle of blue Gatorade and took a swallow.  “Well then, I’ll hide it and you won’t be able to get it.  So ha ha on you.”  He poked at the keys, groaning again. “Look at what Grodin’s been up to!  My God, is the science department run by chimpanzees in my absence?”

“I wouldn’t go around calling your coworkers chimps,” Sheppard stated as he strolled into the room.

McKay, momentarily surprised by the major’s appearance, rolled his eyes and settled the sports drink on the little table at his side.  “I wasn’t calling them chimpanzees.  Certainly you realize that? I only have the highest respect for my colleagues. Of course they’ll never reach my level of understanding, so they need a little extra hand-holding.  I was referring to the reports…”

“Which were chimp-like?”

“No,” McKay grumbled.  “Simply that the manner in which the information recorded here made it appear as if chimpanzees had invaded the… oh, forget it.”   And he jabbed again at the keyboard.  It was jerked from his hands before he could pull up the next report.

“Enough,” Sheppard stated holding the laptop above the head of the frustrated astrophysicist.

“Thank you!”  Beckett exhaled, stepping quickly across the room and taking the computer away from the major.  “Finally!” He shut it down and jammed it into a cabinet, then locked it.

“Wait!  That’s mine!” McKay called out.

“No, it’s not yours.  Yours is in your room. That’s one of the ‘loaner’ machines.” Sheppard grinned.

“I knew that,” McKay shot back.  “I can recognize my own laptop.”

“Relax, McKay,” Sheppard returned, sitting down at the chair beside Rodney’s bed.  “I just came by to talk to you a bit before Beckett releases you tomorrow.”  And he glanced to the harried medical doctor, who threw up his hands in exasperation.  “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I should be out of here and back in the lab,” McKay responded bluntly.

“You’re not going back to the lab!” Beckett told him.  “Tomorrow, you’re going to your room, and you’re stayin’ there until I tell you that you can leave.”

“We’ll see,” McKay replied, and then smiled as he realized something.

“I’ll take care of your laptop,” Sheppard promised.  “Don’t want anything to happen to it while you’re convalescing.  I’ll keep it safe.”

McKay snorted and folded his arms at his chest.  “How am I supposed to relax if I don’t have any work to do?  With so much that needs to be completed, you can’t expect me to just do nothing.”

“Better get him temporary quarters,” Sheppard said to Beckett.  “Consider where he lives.”

“Ach,” Beckett groaned. “Nearly lives inside the lab.  Yes, I’ll requisition something for a few days.”

“Now see here!” McKay protested.  “I’d like to be in my own room, thank you very much.”

“We’ll fix the room up nice for you,” Beckett said with a charming lilt. “You’ll see.  You’ll feel right at home.”

“McKay…” Sheppard started and then shook his head.  He glanced to Beckett and asked, “Can I talk to him a minute… you know… privately.”

Beckett looked relieved.  “Have all the time you want.  I’m blasted tired.  The both of you may like staying up to all hours, but I, for one, am going to get some sleep.”  He turned toward his quarters, but called to Sheppard before he left, “Ring me if you need me.”

Once the door shut, McKay grabbed the Gatorade, took a slug and looked up to Sheppard.  The major was giving him a pointed look.  “What?”

“He’s been doing an awful lot for you,” Sheppard stated.

“I know that,” McKay responded, his voice suddenly quiet.  He swirled the bottle in his hand.   “He’s been running himself ragged looking after me.  I know I’m not the most pleasant patient.  I’ll make it up to him.”  McKay ran his free hand over his face, still looking incredibly worn out. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.  You and Carson.  I'll make it up to both of you.  I don’t know how I can begin to thank you for…”

“You know that nearly every person on this base was looking for you?  Teyla even had some of her people patrolling the coast on the mainland.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Soon as everyone heard something had happened to you – they looked.  Everyone was looking for you – non-stop, around the clock.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Hmm,” McKay looked nonplussed as he settled the bottle beside him on the bed.  “Well,” he finally stated, “I suppose I’m an important commodity.  I mean, my brain is something that cannot simply be misplaced and forgotten, right?”

“They weren’t looking for your brain,” Sheppard stated firmly.

“Well, of course, but what I meant was… they realized the importance of finding me.  Think about the sheer number of personnel it would take to replace me.  They’d probably require six or seven normal men to equal my brainpower.  Anyone with a basic grasp of math could figure out that equation.  It would be best to keep me around.  Even you should understand…”

“McKay…” Sheppard ground out.  “They were looking because they were worried about you.  I was worried about you.  Goddamn it, Rodney… I was worried.”  Rodney actually looked shocked by this revelation.  Aw hell! It was that goddamn letter again, Sheppard realized.  He thinks that everyone is just like that idiot, Roger “Dodge” Murphy.  “Listen, about that letter…”

McKay’s face fell, then looked pinched and pained, “Oh, not that again. Please, that’s what started all this mess.”

"It's what put you in the floor?" Sheppard asked, confused by this news.

Rodney just groaned and shook his head.

“Look, he’s a jerk, a punk-ass kid, Rodney, that doesn’t know his ass-hole from a hole in the ground.”

“Well, he obviously had his hand on the pulse of the personnel in Antarctica.”

“The hell he did!  Goddamn it, McKay, why do you believe shit like that?”

“Because he’s right.  I’m not good with people.  I just can’t read them,” McKay admitted. "I'm gullible as hell on some matters.  I honestly thought the man 'liked' me.  I thought he was a friend.  You see, I just can't tell if someone is being honestly friendly toward me, or just jerking my chain."

"You don't have to have any doubts about me, Rodney."

McKay paused, narrowing his gaze at the major, not knowing what to think.  So he went on, “I’m the foremost authority on the StarGate and Ancient technology.  Hey, it’s like ABC to me.  If can produce hard evidence, if it if can be measured and relied on… I’m your man…”

“Relied on?”

“But people are … difficult for me.”

“Because you can’t rely on us?”

“No, no… not that at all.”  And Rodney grimaced and changed his position in the bed.  “Because I can’t be relied on.”

“Oh, now that’s a crock.  You’re Mr. Reliable.  Come on, did you ever play hooky from school?  Have you ever called in sick for work?”

McKay waved a hand. “That’s not what I’m talking about.  I’m just not ‘friend’ material, okay?  I’m the ‘Answer Man’, yes, that’s right.  I’m not the ‘buddy’ or the ‘pal’, now am I?”  McKay’s voice rose as he spoke.  “I’m the one you seek out when something’s broken, the man you want when something perplexing is happening, the guy you go to for long convoluted answers, but who the hell wants that out of a friend?”

“I do,” Sheppard returned.  “Ford and Teyla wouldn’t hesitate to say the same.  I’m thinking Weir and Beckett would, too.  Zelenka, Grodin, whoever else you want to mention.  Heck, they might not want to listen to you all the time… but EVERYONE was looking for you, McKay.  Nobody was looking for answers.  There was nothing broken.  Nothing needed fixing.  They just wanted to find you.  I wanted to find you.  Don’t you get it?  Not because you’re smart as a goddamn super computer, not because you answer every frickin’ question anyone ever asks you, not because you can spout Prufrock in your sleep… but because we were so damn worried about you.  We thought you were hurt.  We knew you were alone and couldn’t get to us.  We wanted to find you and make sure you were okay.”

Not responding, McKay seemed to stare off into space.

”You’re our friend, Rodney,” John added.  “That’s all there is to it.”

McKay was silent --  a unique situation -- so Sheppard continued.  “Ford threw that letter in the crapper, so that should tell you what he thought of it. No one else has read it. He only let me see it because he was so upset about it. The pages are gone, along with everything that was written on them.  Forget it.  That moron is in another galaxy.  You understand what that means, Answer Man?”

Rodney started to speak, but Sheppard cut him off, “It means we thought Rodger Dodger was full of shit and we wanted nothing to do with him.  Now, get over it and get better, okay?”  He gave McKay a slap on the knee, then leaned closer and said, “The opinion of that jerk means nothing to me, to Ford or to anyone on this base, you got that?”

“Okay,” McKay responded tentatively.

“Good,” Sheppard said and straightened.  “One more thing… a thread?” And John gave McKay a dark look.

“…And…. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was supposed to see a little thread waving around on the ground?”

“It’s all that would fit through the hole,” Rodney declared.

“A thread…”

“It was a very small hole and I had nothing else to work with,” McKay stated.  “And I frayed it so that it would be easier to see!  If I’d had my pack, well, I might have fashioned some sort of a homing beacon, or sent up a flare, or tapped into the station’s communication system.”  He looked thoughtful.  “If I’d been able to see, it would have been fairly easy to decipher which cable to cut into, then it would only be a matter of finding the right wiring and I would have been able to reach nearly anyone on the base, send out a message in Morse Code or something.  Do people still know Morse Code?”

“I'm sure there's a few," John responded.  "You’ve been thinking about this a lot.”

“If I had my tools and a decent light, I would have been out of there in less than a minute.”

“And if you weren’t so sick that you could hardly think straight…”

“Well, there is that, too…”  And Rodney jabbed a finger at Sheppard.  “In any case, fishing with that thread did the trick. You saw it!”

The major grinned, realizing that there was no disputing that fact.  “Yeah, but that was one hell of a Hail Mary.” 

"And you didn’t need to transport yourself into the floor, you know,” McKay admonished.  “Grodin would have figured it out how to find a means into that space.”

“Yeah, I did have to do that,” John returned.  He shook his head, still wondering at how he’d managed to see that little thread – what had made him stop and look?  He remembered that dark, cramped, uncomfortable place and didn't want to think about being trapped there for a day.   “I wasn't going to leave you there alone."

And he let that thought hang for a moment -- again, Rodney had nothing to say.

Finally, Sheppard stated, "I got to be going.  I’ll be seein’ ya, okay?”  He turned to leave, waving over his shoulder as he passed through the doorway.

“Oh, Major?” McKay called after him.  When Sheppard turned, Rodney smiled sheepishly.  “What did you do with it… the bee?  You didn’t just… hand it over to Zelenka or Kavanaugh, did you?”

Sheppard smiled and patted his breast pocket.  “When you’re feeling better, maybe we can try some more experiments.  This time, we’ll be a little more restrained.  Once or twice… maybe three times.”

“What if we bring water, a little something to eat?” McKay sat forward in his bed, looking livelier than he had since before this began.  “Maybe we can find someone who smuggled in some Smartfood?”

“That’s popcorn isn’t it?”

“It’s only the best snack food you can buy in a bag.”  And the doctor seemed to be getting some of his color back as he grinned. “Well, there’s also the really cheap cheese puffs that they sell on the bottom shelves in the supermarkets.  You know, the off-brand, neon-orange ones.”

“I’ll see what I can round up,” Sheppard responded.  “Don’t know if I can find any more popcorn, but at least I know where we can get a popper.”  Then, he turned and moved into the hallway and out toward the rest of Atlantis beyond.

McKay watched Sheppard go, actually feeling good about their little discussion, feeling better by the minute.  As the door slid shut behind the major, a thought struck Rodney and he frowned about something John had said.

“Prufrock?” he uttered, scratched his head and pondered what the hell Sheppard had meant.

THE END
The poem used in Part 16 is "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock", by T.S. Eliot, a poem that I felt fit Dr. McKay rather well. You should go out and read it... now

Hope you enjoyed the story.  I'd love to hear what you thought about it. comments and suggestions
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