Dr Janet Frasier

The doors of the Infirmary banged loudly as Terry Bledsoe sprinted for the lab. I knew she would stand over anyone and everyone until she received the information I requested -- needed. And, she wouldn't trust the phone; she would bring back the answer herself, to insure that it was understood; not instantaneous, but extremely sure. She'd saved lives this way before, leaving a civilian hospital to join the Air Force, determined to buck convention. Here, we appreciated the motives behind her actions and the SGC was her perfect niche.

Leaven too, was one of those special imports, always providing every possible detail of a case in his care. And just like that he's already gone, re-supplying his packs; our medics never knew when they would be required. And prepping to go again he considered his first priority, even before himself. Dedication like that saved lives.

Without saying a word, Gino Lambert showed his dedication as he handled the Colonel's failing efforts to breathe, using a portable bag and O2 to deepen and maximize the shallow inhales, checking his success via ECG/Sat monitor. Since there were no shrill alarm from it, blood oxygen levels were still good. Gino's was a more personal dedication, he claims the Colonel saved his hide once, I don't know if he means here or elsewhere, he's never spoken of it. But I bet it's one riveting tale. The confusing part is that this 'personal dedication' is afforded every person under his care, not just our favorite colonel.

Tearing my eyes from those competent hands, slowly crushing the bag, giving life saving oxygen, I knew intubation would be the logical next step, but a nearly impossible one. Inserting the airway while the Colonel exhibited so much movement, which increased every second, would be too dangerous.

Even when a patient isn't in the throes of such involuntary movement, we provide a sedative and paralytic. Pushing metal and plastic down someone's throat is risky. Using the normal, short-term drugs for the procedure would suffice, but I knew that the seizures would soon return, and they would be even more life threatening while intubated.

There are many drugs available for involuntary movement; Diazepam or Valium is too mild to control such violent spasms for long, or completely. And Dilantin, which is stronger, has an unwanted side effect; it will enhance the depressive properties of the morphine. I don't want to compound his already compromised breathing. I needed something stronger, his whole body was now involved, and I'll have to opt for one of the anesthetic class drugs, an anticonvulsant. But was morphine the only drug in currently in his system? If there was something else there...

The doors crashed open once more, splitting my attention yet again.

"Morphine, it's morphine!"

Terry's welcome words rang in my ear as I once again ran through my options with this more solid information. All of his symptoms screamed morphine overdose, but I had needed to be sure. He'd been in its grip too long; mistakes now could be fatal.

"Contamination?" I yelled as I willed my team to greater speed as they positioned the ventilator and prepped for intubation. The laryngoscope's blade shone in the bright lights, a giant among the smaller, duller instruments we had need of.

"None." A muttered 'sorry' followed, not meant to be heard, but my senses were straining for every sound the man before might make, she wouldn't make that mistake again, she would see to that. I knew the second syringe was suspected as being something different and I needed to know that the one empted into the Colonel wasn't laced with something nasty that could derail my treatment. Even an off the shelf, anyone can do it; street test can tell purity, eliminating the possibility of an unknown drug component, a component that might make a life saving decision into a death penalty.

My team and I have worked together long enough that I only needed to nod my assent when the proffered doses of thiopental and pancuronium, a paralytic, when they appeared. I double-checked the dosages, all were appropriate, and these were short-term drugs, used only to facilitate the placement of the endotracheal tube. With such a short window of effectiveness I would need the stronger drugs in place and diffusing into his system, ready to do their job as the short-term drugs wore off. Though thiopental is intended to quiet the patient during intubation, it was also an anesthetic class drug, an anticonvulsant, just what I needed in the long term to stem the seizures.

"I need a drip started, rider it, thiopental at 15 per," I snapped out, my decision made, and heard the swift sure movement as it was prepared, the infusion would become effective just at the injected dose wore off. The Colonel was familiar with this drug in another form -- truth serum. He was a strong man and I needed a strong drug, to calm his abrupt twitching and help combat the inevitable swelling of his brain, a much-needed side effect of my drug of choice. More importantly it would allow us to provide better support of his deepening inability to breath on his own.

With a critical eye I studied my friend, the seizures had progressed from subtle twitches across his face to uncoordinated jerking of random single muscles across his body. Soon groups of muscles would contract and relax, moving towards the most damaging type of forceful movement. His legs... I smiled; ...his legs were involved in the restless jerking. There was hope; only a viable connection along the spinal cord would allow the brain to involve the lower body in this pseudo-epileptic fit. I found myself stroking the strong sun-browned arm before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"Looks like you've already taken care of the hard part Colonel; Relax, we have you now, let us handle the rest."

With a sigh, I straightened and saw that everyone here realized the same hope for his recovery that I had. He wasn't entirely paralyzed; his reported paralysis could very well be temporary. But we all knew that this could be his last hurrah, the last movement he might make for the rest of his life. Each and every one of us was determined to prevent that.

Only seconds had transpired while the team moved in unison, it was time we began.

As the short-term drugs were injected into the IV port, my team crowded around, ready to restrain my patient. His movement stilled over the 60-second interval the drugs took to accomplish their task, and his breathing ceased. Gino continued bagging, but at a deeper slower rhythm. He was using a higher percentage of oxygen now, flooding the Colonel's blood and tissues with as much O2 as possible, for during the attempt to insert the breathing tube he cannot breathe at all, even if he tried, those muscles are now chemically frozen. Twenty seconds, that or less was our goal, twenty seconds from last lungful to next in which to accomplish our task.

Confidence had little to do with my estimate of time, unfortunately I'd had lots of practice, all of us had. Twenty seconds would be more than we needed.

With the laryngoscope in my left hand, I moved my right close to the Colonel's jaw. My eyes met Gino's where he stood bagging via a face mask to my patient's left, he stopped and stepped back allowing another to move into a restraining position. Immediately I gently pushed open my patient's mouth, his jaw not resisting as it normally would. My hand touched fleetingly on his chin as I slide the scope in, illuminating its slide down his tongue towards his throat. Once I'm sure of the conditions, the plastic of the tube travels along the shinning stainless steel surface until I have it deep enough. Quickly and gently I withdraw the scope, leaving behind the artificial airway as Gino moves in again, attaching his bag to the now inserted tube. I'm listening more than seeing as my team checks my work, listening to my patient's bagged breaths, breaths powered only by Gino's strong fingers. A stethoscope is rested on the battered bare chest before me.

"Right sounds good."

The hands move to the other side.

"Left good too."

Holding my breath I watch the hands move to the hollow of his stomach, I get an 'okay' sign and only then do I meet the eyes of the speaker and smile. Meanwhile, Gino is already taping the tube in place and connecting the ventilator, he returns the smile that everyone now wears.

Out of habit I keep track of the ventilator's rhythm, and thought hard about my next step. He'll have to be x-rayed to confirm the proper placement of the tube, the sooner the better. But there are other things that need doing now.

There were two issues in the Colonel's treatment. The seizures were the result of the overdose and any move I made to correct one would affect the other. The seizures were caused by swelling of the brain, an effect of morphine poisoning, and they were driving up his blood pressure. This also endangered the stability of his injuries, especially his spine. Even with the evidence of movement in his legs, there appeared to be serious trauma to his lower back and who knew just how precarious that connection between brain and toes might be. Just a twitch at the wrong time could end all movement - forever. So, dealing with the more immediate threat, the seizures had been my first concern. That was now controlled.

It was time to deal with the underlying cause of those seizures, the morphine overdose. Considering the Colonel's history with the drug, I'd kept up on all the literature, just in case, a lucky coincidence since I'd just read a case history that clinically paralleled this incident closely. They used a slightly different method to deal with the overdose, abandoning the usual invasive gastric lavage, totally inappropriate due to his back injury. With the right medications to offset the spiking blood pressure and an antagonist to the morphine I might be able to squeak him through, keep him alive long enough for the morphine to flush out. Brain swelling has already occurred; the seizures are proof of that. Minimizing the damage is all I can do.

"Gino, I need someone to stay on the BP, the seizure activity is pushing it up too high, we'll use sodium nitroprusside to combat that, but I expect as the seizures tail off his BP will drop like a barbell through a rotten floor and I need to know the instant that occurs. We'll change over to dopamine to bolster it back up, as the morphine will push him into hypotension. Got that?" His smile and nod told me he understood, I told him the dosages that would be needed as I recorded the instructions into the Colonel's chart and he left to fill those, he would take care of the monitoring himself, he always did when it was the Colonel.

"Okay, I need someone to prep and hang a continuous of Naloxone at 4 per and set up a toxicity testing schedule for the next couple of days to track its progress." Another left to prepare the morphine antagonist as the first returned with the anticonvulsant drip.

"Next we need to get him to x-ray and check the placement of the breathing tube. Then I'll need an MRI, full spinal and a head series. Those seizures are caused by swelling in the posterior of the brain, vasogenic edema, fluid retention, from the morphine poisoning, I need to know how bad. I'll also need full neural checks done until further notice. Let's get to it people."

Dr Daniel Jackson

Sam was still slumped against me, but there was someone else here, I felt them; that had nudged me from my uncomfortable sleep. Whoever they were they loomed over me. Recognition flooded me; this was someone I knew - very well, someone who made it a habit to surprise me, but maybe not this time.

"Good, DanielJackson. Very good."

I grinned slightly, I had succeeded somewhat in hiding the fact that I was awake and aware of him, I opened my eyes and looked up at Teal'c.

"You're back."

"Indeed."

"How's Eric?"

"He is well."

"You don't look convinced?"

"He is among friends."

Ah... friends, the team must have decided who they would follow. That had been faster than any new SG Team has been able to accomplish in the past, cohesion could take weeks, months or never. Jack could be like a bear when a new team didn't jell as fast as he'd like, complaining that finding good leaders was impossible. Eric may not be 'totally' well, but Teal'c trusted that he would soon be or he would never have left. His honor demanded he step in if Jack were unable.

"That's good. Uh... we haven't heard anything yet."

"As I surmised," sweeping his arm out to indicate we were still out in the hall. We had been here long enough for Sam to wind down and fall asleep.

Just then a figure stepped around the far corner of the hallway and moved towards us, the night lighting making it difficult to recognize whom they were.

"The General."

Teal'c about faced and stood waiting for the man, I remained seated, but nudged Sam, who like any good soldier, was now fully awake and alert.

"Good, you're all here," he stopped centered in the hallway, practically at attention, he raised his arm and checked his watch in near parade ground precision before catching each of us in turn with his eyes. "Conference Room in thirty minutes. Dr Fraiser will brief us on Colonel O'Neill's condition."

Each of us acknowledged his order in our own way, and then, he nodded and strode back down the hallway. It's always a bit astonishing when a two-star general comes in person like this; it's just another indication of just how much the SGC is like family. And, just how much Jack means to the man who wears those stars.

Lt. Eric Van Sickle

Feet swinging in the wind, I rubbed a dusty hand across my face.

Tired, I was really tired, tired to death -- of death.

Below, the last vestiges of the slowing sinking sun heightened the gold of the air, and deepened the green of the earth. The flocks of near-flamingoes were harder to hear now, only the occasional whoop-snap of a lone voice, answered by another. Seeking, and finding.

Sigh.

I'd come out here to be alone, but no one would let that happen. They're worried, so they crowd me, their eyes on my back as I sit here in an illusion of solitude. Couldn't blame them, I'd done some pretty stupid things in the past, what was to stop me now?

So close, I'd come so close to having that special relationship with the Colonel. I don't even know if he'll live. Why is it that I can't find someone to love me -- for me? My father showed me how little he loved me, even taking that final route, making sure I knew just how much he hated me. My mother, well... she'd long ago left. I don't blame her, not after little Suzy died. She left me too and she couldn't even walk yet; she could barely say my name. I'm alone; I'll always be alone.

It's warm, but the breeze cuts into me like ice.

Burying my face in my arms I pulled my legs up to the rough stone to have a place to rest them. I'd just rest. Not think anymore. Just hide for a while in the gathering darkness.

Something hot and salty slid across my cheek and into the corner of my mouth. Drops of wetness fell onto my arms, I could feel my shoulders start to shake, and then sobs, from deep, deep inside started popping out.

My body grieved as my mind slouched back, stunned at my own reaction to my drifting thoughts. Sadness pulled me in. And, no longer willing to fight it, I gave in to the pain and shock as it broke over me like a wave, completing my destruction.

Dimly, through this maelstrom of emotional self-immolation, I felt someone holding me, stroking my back, rocking me like a child. I didn't care who, or why. Burrowing into that safe haven, my tears flowed unchecked as I clenched frantic fingers at this precious unaccustomed comfort. My breath hitched in and out, each exhale vomiting out part of an endless store of desolation contained within my heart. Strong arms tightened around me and held me safe for what felt like an eternity until I finally relaxed into the calm healing darkness of an exhausted dreamless sleep.

***

From a darkness so deep, that nothing existed there, even myself, I jerked to full awareness, bolting to a sitting position. Bedazzled, stupefied and stiff, I saw nothing but the sky before me, not blue, but a tawny-green. Under me a blanket covered brilliant gray-white stone, insulating my body from its chill. So abrupt was my awakening that I couldn't place my location, but had to think about it. PBX 123.

Bushes rustled behind me, swinging my head around, all I caught was a vaguely human shape dropping from sight too fast to fasten onto. My hand sought support at my swift move, brushing against something. Looking down I saw containers of food and water -- and a piece of paper.

It was full light and practically in reflex I brought my watch up... gone. Damn. Rolling from one hip to the other, I patted down the blanket looking for lumps and scanned the immediate area. No watch. Great, just great. A watch-less leader.

In irritation I snatched up the paper.

Have your watch. When it's time for you to quit sleeping we'll let you know.

Van Sickle's Survey Team

Ah... ah.... Crap!

Clenching the paper to my chest, I lay back onto the blanket, confused. To block out the distraction of the sunlight, I flung an arm over my eye and thought. Last night came back in a rush, clear, but dream like, almost as if it had happened to someone else. Did I really break down? Absently I rubbed the bump on my head, remembering hitting it more than once yesterday, maybe I jarred my brain just a little too hard and I actually dreamed up last night. No, no, I was sure it happened and there should be proof, physical proof that it did.

Ghosting my fingers across my shut eyes, I felt the swelling there, the kind that happens when you cry uncontrollably. My throat felt a little sore too. I did break down and bawl like a little kid. And if that happened, who held me? All I could remember was a masculine voice and strong arms. I felt so safe, so wanted. Now, all I felt was embarrassed that I'd acted like that, taking comfort like a small child.

Slitting my eyes open I held the paper up and read it again. The signature told me more than the other words. They accepted me even after my childish behavior last night. The back of my mind kept whispering that maybe they were doing this to control me, or that I was a soft touch, or they were mocking me. I shook my head at those thoughts; I'd been around them enough to know they wouldn't think like that. They cared -- about me. It was scary.

Not only was I in charge, but they also trusted me to be in charge. The sudden weight of that responsibility threatened to crush me. Only my loss of Colonel O'Neill prevented that. If I couldn't be his friend, if he died -- if I truly lost him, there was something I could do. Living up to his standards and ideals would never be enough, but I needed to show the world how much I held him in regard -- and in my heart.

The Colonel trusted me with this project, it was important to him and he told me I was the best he has found. Now was the time to prove that his trust in me was not misplaced, his or those who have declared themselves: Van Sickle's Survey Team.

Since I had their trust, I needed to show them that I trusted them in turn. A loud grumble from my empty stomach seconded that decision; rolling unto my side I opened my eye to see what they had left me for breakfast.

Dr Daniel Jackson

Fidgeting with the half-full coffee cup between my hands, I thought back to my glimpse of my friend as he appeared in the Gate Room, he'd looked awful, but I'd seen him look worse. Jack has come back on his shield enough times for me to acquire the ability to shrug it off -- temporarily. He always comes back; he's always okay, eventually. What made this worse than any other time was Teal'c's expression; it tumbled my bizarre comfort zone down around my ears. My Jaffa friend's face held the usual mask he wears when one of us is hurt, a mask I'd only seen after Janet had pronounced her verdict, to see it before... that told me volumes, Jack was badly hurt. But, Teal'c standing between us: that gave a finality to Jack's injuries, telling me without words that he believed Jack was beyond help -- this time. The realization that Teal'c believed our friend and commander was dying, or irrecoverably injured, pushed my horror into the realm of true fear.

My thoughts drifted through all the times I'd been around helping Jack recover, how he refused to admit that he was in pain or that he found doing his usual routine difficult. So much unnecessary pain to preserve an image that wasn't truly him, forcing himself through the pain, preserving an illusion of strength he did not yet possess. I saw again his grim, determined face smoothed into that impassive mask in the surface sheen of my coffee, like a way-back machine of images, denial was how he dealt with many of his problems. But Jack may not be able to deny this. Would he try? Would I?

Jack's face disappeared in the ripples across my cooling coffee; Sam had stood, jarring the conference table enough to disturb my ruminations in its reflective surface. The reason strode into the room, followed by Dr Janet Frazier -- General Hammond. The general stood while she and Sam seated themselves.

I'd arrived with Sam, a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, my last chore in the Commissary while Sam had excused herself to the latrine, or ladies room, or what ever you want to call it. We met up again half way to our goal. We'd wolfed down a sandwich each, while Teal'c had uncharacteristically inhaled a fruit salad. Not that he didn't eat fruit salads; it was the speed in which he ate it. Without a word he stood and left, really not all that unusual, but a little disconcerting considering what was going on. All that mattered I guess was that he was here when we arrived, sitting next to the empty seat that Jack always occupied, as if guarding it.

"Dr Fraiser, let's hear your report."

"Yes, sir. Just to state for the record, all of us present here are listed as 'family' in Colonel O'Neill's records, entitling each of us to full details of his condition and limited power over his treatment, the US Air Force having complete power and the added responsibility for evoking his DNR as it currently stands."

This was standard, except for the 'family' part, exactly like mine, Jack and I had no family, except for SG-1, Hammond and Janet. Nick was included in mine and Sara, Jack's ex-wife, in his. However, both are listed as 'only inform in case of death.'

I'd been surprised to find that arranging it this way was possible. Jack explained that it was common in special operations of all branches of the military, as most members tended to be single men with no immediate family. Their team became their family.

Not unlike waves of pain, Janet's litany of medical jargon washed over me, the reality of Jack's injuries almost too much to contemplate. Even worse, his recovery was still shrouded in speculation and mere chance. Janet insisted that even as bad as it sounded, Jack did have a chance for full recovery, and I knew she would make sure that that slim chance he had would be protected, and maximized through her dedication to her job, and her friend. Hope began to grow within me again, springing from that hollow that Teal'c's well-meaning actions back in the Gate Room scooped out. But still, she warned, disaster had better odds.

There was entirely too much 'if ', 'we hope' and 'a chance' for my taste, I wanted something more concrete. However, from my own visits to the Infirmary I knew that was something I would never get. No one was even sure if his recovery was up to him and him alone, there was just too much uncertainly. Jack, my best friend, lay paralyzed by drugs given him by us; a machine breathed for him, and, were he conscious, he would be befuddled by drugs given him by his would-be assassin. How could he fight his way back like that?

Maybe there was something I could do? Only Janet would have an inkling, there must be something I... we, can do.

"So, Jack's not going to really know where he is. Waking up will be terrifying. He's strong, but even the strongest can take only so much," I stated more to Janet than the rest of those seated around the conference table.

"Yes, that's true. It has been a problem with him in the past..." She paused, glancing at the General, I got the impression that was a tidbit she'd rather have keep from him, "...a very minor one, but this time it will be a major problem. I do have a plan if the rest of you are agreeable to it."

"Anything to help the Colonel, Janet. What is it that we can do?" Sam's curious voice from next to me said, I nodded in agreement as did General Hammond and Teal'c added his usual head bow.

"Okay. He'll be unable to move or speak, but he can feel and hear. I need someone to be in constant physical contact with him at all times. And of course speaking to him would help enormously." Janet looked at our faces, her own fearing that we might just refuse. Did she actually think she was asking too much of us? Jack would do it for us; we could do no less for him.

The General was the first to speak.

"Dr Fraiser, I believe I speak for all of us. We'll do whatever it takes to get Colonel O'Neill through this crisis."

I joined in the low words of agreement and head nods. Sam offered to set up a schedule that would afford us all time to do our jobs, rest, and still help Jack in the Infirmary.

"It should only be for few of days, until the drug is flushed from his system. That will allow the swelling of his brain to subside, eliminating the seizures and the need for the paralytic. Once he's coherent I'm certain he'll be able to cope easily." Janet glanced at the General again, that feeling of not wanting to talk about that certain subject showing on both of their faces and furtive glances at one another. Janet and General Hammond may share that tidbit she was reluctant to reveal about Jack, they both shared a secret regarding my friend.

"Sam, if you'll alert me as to the schedule I inform my staff of it. The Colonel will be moved to a private observation room. He's still very ill and needs constant monitoring; I've done all that's possible. Now only time will tell, we'll know more after 24 hours." She smiled, looking relieved; but still worried. That last indication of her inner thoughts worried me, Jack was very much in danger of not recovering and she knew it. She'd told us, but understanding that was an entirely different issue.

Colonel MacKenzie

"Hey, Mac. What ya doing?"

I was grappled by what felt like a BDU clad octopus. Cochran! What was he doing here? He'd caught me here for the last two evenings, suddenly he was everywhere I went and I knew that if I were to survive until my next fitness review he would not be the reason why; most likely the reason why not. He was like a narcotic, I felt good for just a second. For that one second I knew he had sought me out - me. But after that second then everything seemed to fall apart. Like how long it would take to pry myself from his dubious company? And how much would his presence add to my credit card balance. The aftermath was not worth the second of pleasure.

"My job... and don't call me 'Mac,' " I uttered in that voice I 'knew' made everyone within earshot cringe, everyone, 'except' CAPTAIN Isaiah Cochran. He could cause irreparable damage to my ability to command; luckily the corridor was empty, thank God for small favors.

Couldn't he see that I was busy? Go away. Go away. Go away. No, don't...

"What's that?"

His big grubby paw batted at the small injection tray balanced in my left hand, like some hairy bear intent on honey from a hornet's nest. My right hand was trapped in my pocket trying to extract the keycard I needed for my next stop, I hadn't a chance to forestall the inevitable, the tray tipped from my hand.

"Oops, clumsy me."

Once I recovered from my contortions to prevent it's fall, knowing full well that I had totally lost contact with it, yet had not heard the metal tray's clang on the hard concrete floor, I unclenched one eye to peer about. He stood there with that goofy grin he wears like a long past its prime favored holey t-shirt; the tray perched atop four fingertips of one hand, a clear mockery of servitude.

"Lead, I'll follow," he said, giving me a half bow and swinging his free hand across his body inviting me to continue down the hall.

My mouth must be open. I know it must be open. Shut it. Shut it. Shut it!

Its chain tangled in my fingers, the freed keycard swung in slowing arcs as I stared at Cochran like he was insane. If I moved, would someone shout, 'You're on Candid Camera?' Mentally I shook myself. He was insane. I just hadn't proved it yet.

My mouth closed with an audible click as I ground into movement, juddering as I picked up the pace, like I'd shifted from First to Fourth at too low a speed. My street shoes clicked sharply, faster and faster, matched by the thuds of his boots following me. I couldn't escape.

"Hey, you okay there, Mac?"

Puzzled, I soon realized that my hand was clapped to my forehead; casually I dropped it, my eyes checking for witnesses.

"Fine, perfectly fine. And don't call me Mac."

Of course he will ignore my request, like the last one, the one before, the one prior to that, the previous one prior to that one, ad infinitum. He only heard what he wanted to hear.

Before us was a side corridor, a sentry sat reading in a chair touching the wall opposite it. He was there to guard the two detention cells located here; one was my destination. Dr Means' cohort resided there and I needed to provide a sedative. He was catatonic and really didn't need it, but General Hammond wanted him sedated until he could be transferred out of the Mountain. Sedating this man was a totally unnecessary precaution, but not harmful for a few days, perhaps, even therapeutic. Without the sedative a surveillance camera inside the cell was manned 24 hours a day, and the sentry was equipped with a cardkey just in case a problem developed. But isolation was the watchword for cases like this, still I felt like my profession was being prostituted. Drug security rather than drug therapy.

Cochran led me to the door of the cell after I informed the sentry of my intention. Then he followed me into the room, which was most irritating; even more irritating was that he was between my patient and me. This was the man that Teal'c had terrorized so badly that he broke with reality and as soon as the Air Force figured out what to do with him he would be gone from here. Not soon enough for me, I disliked dealing with the man this way and would dislike treating him even more. I doubted that I could be profession in the least with him or Dr Means.

"Would you mind?" Cochran had almost knocked me down when he bent over the man in the bed; my patient was equipped with a feeding tube and a catheter. A nurse from the Infirmary checked him once every two hours, more than adequate with the video surveillance and the heart monitor. His heart rate and breathing was relayed to the Security Monitor Bunker and the Infirmary. Very little could go wrong.

"Uh, he looks okay to me. Why doesn't he wake up?"

Sigh. Groan.

"He's in denial."

"Egypt?" Only his back was visible, but that goofy grin was on his face, I just knew it.

"No you ninny, he's denying the existence of anyone except himself, and he's probably trying to deny that too. This is just easier for him at the moment, he'll wake up when he's ready."

"When will that be?"

He was full of questions tonight, like a large child, too curious for his own good. Some people never grow up.

"When he feels safe enough or scared enough, he'll wake up."

"Oh."

Disappointment, I heard disappointment. Why would he be? Maybe he wanted to see Teal'c interrogate him? That probably excited him. I'd had just about enough, I just stepped up next to him and bumped him aside with my hip, eliciting a 'Hey!' from him in the process. I waved him away and pointed out the silver eagle for good measure before lifting the patient's hand to access the Injection Port installed there. Seconds later it was done, until the same time tomorrow. I pointedly opened the cell door and stood staring at Cochran, tapping my foot. He stared at me looking incredulous, the fingers of one hand splayed across his chest, questions in his eyes. I motioned him out. He silently mouthed 'moi?' I nodded. He shook his head. I pointed out the door. He made to sit on one of the chairs against the wall. I stepped forward, locked a hand around his upper arm and pulled.

"Hey, all you had to do was ask!"

"With what, an engraved invitation?"

"I think you're getting the concept of humor," he huffed grinning.

Preceding me out the door and to the main corridor, I slowed my steps trying to keep him ahead of me I wanted to break away as soon as possible. I was not paying for another dinner, no matter how nice he was to me. The gap widened between us. Ah, it was working. Past the sentry, down the corridor, around the corner, he was at the next corner as I came around it. Rounding the last corner before the elevator, I heard the ding and slam of its doors. The corridor was empty. The car was ascending I sprinted for the stairwell. I would go down a couple of levels and wait before using the elevator. I was a full colonel, outsmarting a captain should be child's play.

My shoulder complained when I jerked open the heavy fire door to the stairs, my steps echoed loudly as I rushed down the first flight, my left hand anchored me as I swung around for the next flight when a hand reached out and caused my shoulder to complain again as I lost my grip on the railing and skidded to a stop.

"Hey, Mac where ya going? Thought we'd were doing dinner tonight?"

"Dinner? You might be going to dinner, but not with me. And don't call me 'Mac.' " Huffing, trying to regain my breath at such a long speech after one flight of stairs I cringed. Not only was I out of shape, I still had my human leech. Signing up for fitness classes here at the SGC would solve the first, but I knew that I would be buying dinner for the second.

***

He wants something.

Through the forest of alcoholic cocktails and a lone Shirley Temple, I glared at my unwelcome dinner companion. Why all the drinks? Was he trying to get me drunk? Again!

"What's this all about," I asked Cochran, waving a hand over the 90 proof concoctions, before pulling the cherry topped child's drink closer. "Isn't it enough that the current topic of gossip is whether I'm a top or a bottom? And I prefer a Roy Rodgers!" spiting that last comment out, finding it didn't faze him in the least while taking a long pull on the straw, savoring it fizzyness, crushing the cherry hidden in my mouth, mingling it's taste with the cola. As if mere alcohol could rival the simple pleasure of a childhood memory.

"Well... Ah, actually we're both considered bottoms, and they are discussing who... or what, the top might be. As for the drinks... I thought yo'd like to explore the new and exciting some more," he grinned at me, like I would enjoy being plied with drink, no matter how exotic. After all I'd learned my lesson, never get drunk, and never ever get drunk with him around.

"You want something. Don't you?"

"What? What could I want from the great Bird Colonel?"

So, innocent, so nonchalant, and such a liar.

At his insistence we had meal at a restaurant he chose; and to my vast surprise it was an excellent meal. Something I'd never in a million years would have suspected from any place he'd venture to, his idea of cuisine were the various fast food eateries that dotted Colorado Springs. Someone must have tipped him to this place. This was some kind of bribe; I just knew it. My suspicions was confirmed when the waiter brought the check and he used HIS credit card. I choked on my sip of water.

"What do you want," I gritted out at him as he gathered up the receipt, no doubt he would deduct it as a business expense on his taxes.

"Not a thing, Mac, I just wanted to pay ya back for the last couple of nights. Have a nice dinner with my friend. That's all."

He flung his arm over my shoulders and steered me towards the entrance and the street beyond, grinning.

Stunned, I felt stunned.

"Friend?"

Since when did anyone want me as a.... a friend. Yes, I was most definitely stunned. He considered me a friend. This was all so confusing.

"You don't want anything?"

"Just your presence."

He sounded quite serious as we strolled down the wide sidewalk to his bright red SUV, glaring under a street light. He had insisted on driving his vehicle, a drive that reminded me Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, only I didn't vomit. And mother wasn't around to harangue me about it.

"Just my presence?"

"I like having you around, Mac. You come in handy from time to time," he declared as he settled himself in the driver's seat, I was buckling my own seatbelt and checking the dash and door for air bags.

"Oh...." I thought about that, but decided to change the subject, because it still made no sense to me. "I should have just followed you in my own car, now you have to drive all the way back to base."

Was I feeling guilty? Because of his lack of planning I would have to go back to the base too, that should make me angry, but I wasn't. And I didn't even tell him to stop calling me 'Mac.' Maybe driving home in the dark wouldn't be too bad. Then I remembered, he would be on that road too - driving. An involuntary shudder shook me; he was a mobile accident looking for a place to happen. Maybe I had some paperwork to do?

Cochran yammered endlessly all the way up Cheyenne Mountain, leaving me time to review what work I might have still to do to avoid being on this narrow mountain road at the same time as he. I wound up thinking about our topic of conversation at dinner - Colonel O'Neill.

I'd given him the newest developments on the man's condition, why he didn't already know was beyond me. Everyone was keeping track, I must admit his condition concerned almost everyone on the base. He was well liked, even by those he had disciplined in the past. And that was strange too, those he had dressed down at one point or another boasted about it like a badge of honor. I couldn't remember enjoying any encounter with Colonel O'Neill that I would want to remember or pass on to another. The man had a cutting tongue and no regard for my profession or me. This trend was exceedingly strange.

Once we arrived at the base I was unable to shake Cochran, he hung around me like a lovesick puppy. He sat next to me on the transport from the parking lot to the tunnel entrance, followed me past the check point there and then into the elevator, where he punched in a number, I assumed it was my floor.

"I'll just keep ya company, Mac."

That got me started on his insistence on 'that' nickname. I abhorred it. I was not MacGyver, or anyone who would stand for having one's surname diminished in that fashion. With a few well-chosen words he had me almost shouting at him, the car stopped and I backed out still informing him that I didn't appreciate his disrespect, he just grinned at me. I turned on my heel and was to the main corridor before I realized I wasn't where I expected to be. I turned around and started back towards the elevator, Cochran strode right past me and turned into the corridor. Stopping I stared, he didn't come back, his footfalls became fainter and fainter. I reversed directions and hurried after him, towards... ohhhh, my... the seated sentry, who pointed done towards the holding cells.

Casual, stay casual. You belong here.

Cochran was at the door we had both used earlier, in his hand was my keycard, I fumbled in my pocket.

Ohhhh, No. Ohhhh, my...

Speeding up my steps, he was pushing the door open once I got to him. Too stunned to say a word I groped at him, he gripped me and pulled me into the room firmly.

"What do you think you're doing Captain?"

"My job."

He pulled a chair over to the head of the bed, sat down and leaned over the comatose man lying there. For a few long seconds he studied the face before poking him in the shoulder with two fingers, hard; then snapped his fingers loudly over the man's face. But he got responses, not much, flinches and grunts, but that had been more than I, or anyone, had gotten from this cowardly bully.

"Hey, asshole. Wake up, you and me are gonna talk."

"Talk, Captain? I think not!"

Cochran changed before my eyes, he becomes hard and I find myself stumbling back a step, I've only seen such transformations a few times, most of them from the safe side of a locked door.

"Ya know I honestly like ya, and you ARE my superior, but this is just a little more serious than rank and sediment. So sit down and shut up, will ya."

During his words the hardness dissipated, leaving the Cochran grin that I've come to know. He can't do this and it was up to me to stop him. Tapping my silver eagles I stepped up to the challenge only to find myself sat on the floor.

"Mac, didja trip? Here, let me help ya up."

There was no where to go, he levered me up from the floor and steered me towards a second chair, with a foot he pushed it into the corner farthest from the door, just beyond the foot of the cot Mr. A. Whole occupied.

God, I wish I knew the man's name, even a criminal should have something other than what we call him.

With gentle, but inexorable, pressure Cochran pushed me into the seat. As soon as his back was turned I popped up out of it like a jack-in-the-box. Only I couldn't move forward, I tried a couple of times before I realized his hand was planted in the center of my chest. He'd moved so fast that I hadn't realized that he was there preventing me from moving away from where he placed me.

Following the arm up to the chest and on to the face, I found he was that hard, hidden person again and I melted down into the chair slowly, like a mouse backing away from a snake, only to be caught in its magnetic stare. Stunned I watch him transform into my strangely bumbling Captain Isaiah Cochran again.

Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Stop it STOP IT! You're babbling. He REALLY is insane.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked as he moved back to the other chair, more than frightened and ashamed, frightened for him, because I had grown to like him and considered him my friend. And ashamed that I had backed down when I should be doing something to prevent him from doing this, to help him. Was I doing this because I liked him, making me willing to let him do the unthinkable just to keep him available for my own self-gratification.

"Cause I was asked to help Colonel O'Neill and I want to help him. Him and anyone he's close to."

"That sounds noble, but you'll never get away with this," and I pointed to the camera above me, the one aimed right at him. He wasn't so smart he would get caught. He just grinned that goofy grin of his. He was so far gone that he didn't care about getting caught. It didn't make sense. He thought the world of O'Neill. Why would he jeopardize his mission to help the man by getting caught before he could finish?

"Did ya read my personnel file?"

"Ah... some of it," I wasn't going to admit that I hadn't, at the time I cubbyholed him as unimportant, in a low impact job, a warmer of seats. If he were a danger it'd be obvious, and if not... just how important was 'document security?'

Yeah, ignoramus. 'Radar telemetry.' You were conceited. Have you not learned?

"Didn't bother to even open it did ya?"

Grinning even broader he pulled a small recorder out of his pocket and turned to the man in the bed.

"He won't respond to you, he's sedated too deeply."

I was summarily ignored.

"Okay, Mr. A. Whole, or whatever your name is. Listen up," and he turned on the recorder.

"Convince me."

The man in the bed exploded upright, scrabbling to get as far away from Cochran and that recorder as possible, pressing himself up against the head of the bed, tying to crawl up the wall, his eyes wide with fear.

"STOP!" Bellowed Cochran, he caught the man's wrist in his hand and held on until the man looked at him.

"Answer my question and 'he' won't touch you," he evenly directed at the frighten man; holding him from fleeing by fisting his hand in the scrub top he wore. "Do you understand?" Cochran asked, he waited patiently until the man's eyes met his and he minutely nodded. As the man calmed he rearranged the tubes attached to his captive and threw back the bedding. Then he drew a sheet up to cover his lower body. The concern and consideration shocked me. Why all the solicitous actions while virtually torturing the man?

"Okay. First off, what's your name?"

To my amazement the man tried a few times before a whisper came out, I could not hear what he said, but Cochran parroted it back at him for confirmation.

"Manny Devine, your name is Manny Devine?"

Manny nodded.

"And you work for Dr Means?" Manny shook his head.

"Who then?" Manny shrugged, the man wasn't talking much, but his communications skills seemed intact. So different from the cocky bully of before, he was certainly cowed, his recovery was shockingly sudden, and wholly sadistic, abject terror can be a great motivator. The voice on that tape belonged to Teal'c, the man who had reduced him to his state of catatonia.

"Okay, the men from the plane, do you work for them?"

"No... no," stuttered Manny, eyeing the shadows, and me. He was very agitated, like he expected the boogieman to jump out at him at any time, a boogieman named Teal'c.

"Do they know who they work for?"

"No... big secret."

"Rumors, suspicions?"

"I can... can't..."

"You wish to live".

"Nonononono," chanted Manny, his eyes jerking around the room, yellow fluid pulsed along the tube that led down. The words even startled me, the menace clearly heard in them, menace Manny had experienced first hand. Cochran held on to him forcing eye contact, muttering to him, too low for me to catch. When Manny had calmed, Cochran resumed.

"You do know 'he' is more than just a friend to the people you were messing with, don't you?" Manny vigorously shook his head, clearing ignorant of the personal relationships he had trespassed onto. Pressing himself into surface at his back, Manny acted as if he could sink out of sight, into safety within the concrete wall behind him. "You think I'm not gonna let him know just how corporative you've been?" At that the man was near to panic stricken, enough so that Cochran gripped him by the shoulders, pinning him to the wall with a piercing look and a quirk of an eyebrow, preventing him from squirming away. And it seemed, from pulling on the tubes that tethered him to the bed.

"Please I don't wanna die. Please I'll tell ya everything, but that big guy is gonna wanna kill me. And if those guys I work for find out so will they. Please, please, please... nonononoo..." Manny was crying, clinging to Captain Cochran and to my surprise the captain was uttering soothing sounds and offering the man physical contact, providing him with safety and reassurance.

"Manny, ya gotta. I'll do what I can to get you some place safe, but that's all I can do. You speak and the big guy will probably leave you alone. Come on, spill."

Between insipid sobbing, hiccups and bouts of tears Manny 'Mr. A. Whole' Devine, thug and bully, became a pathetic example of what happens to the immoral eventually. With growing horror I realized that the whole plot wasn't aimed at Lt. Van Sickle, oh yes, they wanted him for experimentation, there seemed to be something unique about him, but that was just a bonus. Who ever was behind this whole mess was after Colonel O'Neill and it seemed their goal was twofold.

To hurt and to destroy.

There had been plans involving all of the members of SG-1, one at a time, in ways that would damage O'Neill as much as possible. Daniel Jackson was to have been the next target. Manny told of actually stalking the archeologist at the Public Library when he met with Van Sickle's roommate, that the later attempt to assault him had been called off when O'Neill himself showed up at the man's door, staying the night. Manny told of the speculation that they were lovers because of that random incident - a totally absurd assumption. All of SG-1 frequented each other's homes as if they were their own. Were they conducting sexual liaisons, that total sharing of each other's refuges would not have been possible.

Manny told of there being two different individuals involved in pushing the plot forward. The one with the ultimate power wanted Colonel O'Neill dead, but the man charged with carrying out that directive wanted to make him suffer first, he had his own agenda and was not above harming O'Neill's friends. Killing those friends he could not do as his superior deemed the rest of SG-1 irreplaceable - and subduable.

"Ya gotta get me outta here. It's not safe. They can get to me here. Please, please... I'm sure that I can remember something else. Please," and Manny dissolved into a quivering mass, leaning heavily on Cochran who hugged the thug to his chest, resting his chin on the sobbing man's head. His eyes were far away, thinking.

"That's not possible," I blurted out, drawing Cochran from his thoughts, focusing his attention on me.

"Mac, you may be a good psychiatrist, but you don't know shit about security," his trademark grin was missing; he looked very different - intelligent - almost.

"Our security is good..."

"No, it's not. There are too many holes. This is an old installation; it's huge, needing lots of outside support for operations here. There are ways in if they really want in. But that's not really the problem. I think they're already here."

"What?"

"Hey, I may be captain to your colonel, but I'm a specialist in security, the de facto head of information security. I admit I was brought in to review security for documents and information transfer, but I was raised in the security business. I'm confident that they are already on the base and were here even before we knew what was going on."

"Shouldn't Mr. Devine know all this?"

"Nope, he's just muscle. Goes and does what he's told. No need to know, ya know."

through the entire interrogation, one that used fear as a motivator, I had not interfered. Somehow I couldn't, I had come to trust this man and really wanted him as a friend. But, could I, should I? He has just revealed psychological traits that screamed his mental imbalance. I needed to do something to stop this and I needed to do it now before it got any further. There was no telling what emotional damage he'd down to Manny Devine, and what physical damage he might do based on his suspicions, suspicions that were suspect. And I wondered just how does the mentally impaired see something like this?

Cochran eased Manny down into the bed, covering him up like a child before turning to me.

"Mac, I need your patience. And your word that none of this goes anywhere, if I don't get it, I'll be forced to do something we both will regret. I'm sure I've scared you with this little performance, and performance it was. I'm as sane as Colonel O'Neill, even if you think Jack is far from sane. What do ya say, buddy?"

He slipped a syringe from his pocket, a familiar syringe; he held it out to me and waited.

Moments later my hand grasped it, positive that it was the one I had thought I had used earlier, he'd switched them. My face burned with shame, I'd thought him without imagination or intelligence. He'd just proved that assumption incorrect, and I would bet the camera here in this very room showed something very different than I can now see. He stepped away from the bed, revealing Manny's obvious bared arm atop the blankets. He had been very sure of me; just as sure as I wasn't of him any longer.

Methodically I emptied the drug into Manny, Cochran soothed his brow as the drug pulled the stricken thug into the only place of safety he knew now, the darkness of his own mind.

My eyes rose to Captain Isaiah Cochran's and I wondered if I'd just sold my soul to Satan himself.

Dr Daniel Jackson

Somehow I wound up being scheduled in late afternoon. Janet hadn't allowed any of us near Jack during the first night as her own team of professionals was monitoring his condition. He was not expected to awaken until tomorrow at the earliest. Even then he would be too confused to know what was going on. Sam, Teal'c and I decided that starting as soon as possible, getting Jack used to our touch, our voices, easing him into his incapacity through suggestion was paramount to his recovery. Janet surprised me by agreeing.

All the tests had been done, my friend's status showed little change from what we had been told in the Conference Room. His profound dehydration had added a new and delicate wrinkle to his condition. It seemed that it was hard to flush out the morphine unless Jack could expel wastes in urine, but urine forms slowly when there is nothing to secrete. Clearing his system of contaminates was imperative to his recovery, the sooner the better according to Janet. But, increasing his fluid intake too fast would complicate the inflammation of his brain. Jack was being escorted down a knife's edge of re-hydration therapy inch by slow inch, prolonging his unmoving, deathlike existence as his neural status was protected as carefully as possible.

Jack's condition was not unlike a medical house of cards that could tumble at the slightest stir in the air, and such a fall of delicate, near weightless cards representing an effect that would be like a brick wall falling onto him, doing incalculable, but not unimaginable harm.

The room was dim as I stepped in, Sam had tried to prepare me for this, but words cannot describe the utter desolation that seeing Jack like this fostered in my soul. And I felt responsible for this; all Jack had wanted to do was fix things with Lt. Van Sickle, to protect him. And, I talked him into letting me look into the mystery surrounding the young man, talked Jack into letting his heart lead him, convincing him that becoming the lieutenant's friend was okay. Talking him into feeling those paternal feelings again, telling him that no harm would come of it, no guilt or betrayal would be awaiting his gift of friendship. Letting him know that giving of himself, as he had done with me, would be good for him. But here he lies -- broken.

Slowly I made my way to the bedside chair, taking in the ventilator that breathed for Jack; its cruel cold plastic violation of him chilled me. It was as necessary as the array of monitors connected to him by their various colored wires, wires that festooned his chest and head, like tendrils of a monstrous fungus. The number and types of IV bags suspended above him and the few tubes that led to bags below him drove home just how ill Jack was as every drop of liquid was accounted for, going in and coming out. My friend was nothing more than a Grand Central Station for the medical methods that supported his weakened body. So clinically cold, it sent tremors through my body as I dropped into the seat beside him.

His long legs lay motionless beneath the thin blanket. Was he cold? Could he feel it if he were? Equally motionless, but more visible, were his arms and those expressive hands, long fingers alarmingly still. Jack spoke with his hands as much as with his voice, a voice that was stopped by the technology keeping him alive, its external extension taped to his face after emerging from his mouth, hidden under more stark white tape, giving me an impression that it hid a vile mutilation.

Expecting to see his face lax and expressionless, I was shocked at its tightness, skin too snug over bones that normally presented him as ruggedly handsome. It was seasoned with the type of character that tragedy breeds, but still capable of an emotiveness that enabled him to hide or reveal his noble loving soul with minute precision. Now he appeared transparent as milked plastic, expressing only a frozen regret in his tenseness, a shadow of whom he truly was.

Reaching out, my fingers only brushing the hairs above the skin of his hand, I sought for some sign of my friend. At the lack of that electric feeling he always invoked in me a tear slid down my cheek. There was a good chance that I would never again feel that current course between us. Bowing my head I let fall my pain, fear and confusion in tears, they bathed the hand of a man who was my occasional surrogate father, eternal friend and indispensable shield; but most of all the brother of my soul.

"Jack... please..." I whispered. 'Don't leave me,' I selfishly thought.

[see Chapter Eighteen]