Chapter Text
"Fucking goddammit."
John Sheppard stands in the kitchenette in his quarters. On the floor under him is the shattered remains of a mug and a spreading puddle of very hot coffee. Goddammit. He groans, grabs the nearest towel and drops it on the mess, then heads for the closet for a broom and dustpan. 7:00am and his day's already taken a sharp downturn. Guess he'll be going without coffee. As he heads back across the kitchen, he hears another set of footsteps approaching from the hallway.
"You okay in there? Little early to be injuring yourself."
"I dropped my fucking mug," John snarls, picking up the sodden towel and dumping it in the dustpan. "it broke and now there's coffee everywhere and I don't have time to make more -- do NOT come in here, you're not wearing shoes!"
Rodney stops in the doorway, hands raised. Looks over the scene, back to John. "That's one of the mugs from the commissary, right? They have like a million of 'em, you can just grab another one."
"That's not the point. I'd already made it, and they don't know I took the mug in the first place and I'm already gonna be late as it is."
"What are you still doing here, then? You go, I'll clean it up. I'm not on duty for another two hours. Go, c'mon --" Rodney shuffles fully into the kitchen, making a shooing motion at John as he goes. His husband blusters.
"Rodney, no, you're gonna -- you're gonna cut up your fucking feet, I am not patching you up -- RODNEY --"
Somehow, in the scuffle, the dustpan and broom change hands. John stands indignantly by, defeated, as his husband stoops to continue sweeping. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, huh?" Rodney teases. "You're like, uh...what's the term Radek uses...a bear with hangnails." it's a decent impression of Zelenka, but it's lost on John; he seems to deflate somewhat.
"Shit, I'm sorry." he leans back against the counter, arms folded. "I dunno what my problem is, it's like my first year on T all over again. Teyla's called me out for it too."
"I do. You're working too hard -- again." Rodney stands up and dumps the contents of the dustpan into the garbage. John sighs, half annoyed and half resigned.
"Yeah, you're probably right."
"Ninety-nine percent of the time, yes. And I'm humble, too."
John rolls his eyes and pushes off from the counter. "I gotta go, they're gonna leave without me."
"Hey, hey --" Rodney steps in front of him so quickly they almost collide, and John makes another sound of annoyance. "Without a goodbye? I'm not gonna see you till tonight." John can feel himself relax. Maybe paradoxically, Rodney always has that effect on him. He steals a kiss -- a quick, chaste peck on the lips -- and Rodney promptly wanders off, having gotten what he wanted. "If you bite anyone's head off, I'm not gonna bail you out," he calls over his shoulder. John rolls his eyes again.
"Love you too."
It's not a terribly long walk to the gateroom, at least, but John is still thinking longingly of his bed as he goes, not to mention his late cup of coffee. It's a beautiful morning. Outside the windows, the sun is just rising; sunrises and sunsets on Atlantis are the color of auroras back on Earth, and the horizon is awash with pink, green, and blue. The rising sun glitters on the water and catches the spires and towers of the city, making the place seem to glow...and yet John's still in a bad mood. He walks with his eyes fixed forward, and notes with some satisfaction that more than one person steps out of his way as he approaches. Bear with hangnails, indeed.
One of the tall corridor windows is open when he walks by, with a maintenance tech fixing some electrical component just outside. The ever-present ocean wind gusts through the gap, cool and bracing, and he breathes it in despite himself -- and then has to turn sharply away when he's hit with a sneaker wave of nausea. Something outside smells foul. Dead and rotten and fishy. How does the tech not smell that? John faces the wall and takes a few deep breaths, swallows hard a couple times...you're fine, Sheppard. Mind over matter. For god's sake do not puke in the corridor, you'll never hear the end of it. The wave passes as quickly as it came, leaving him standing awkwardly by a bulkhead; he takes one more deep breath for good measure and resumes course. That's what he gets for skipping breakfast.
Teyla often takes the lead for missions like this one, and she runs a tight ship. She and the rest of the team are already standing around the stargate when he arrives. She looks annoyed, but doesn't comment, just grabs her phaser rifle and gives him a nod good morning.
"Sorry I'm late," he grumbles, "overslept." it's a bad alibi; he's infamous for being an early riser. But again, she doesn't comment. She whistles sharply to get the team's attention and starts giving orders -- move back from the gate, we're going to a new address so keep your wits about you, let's go. Then the gate whirs and clanks and whooshes into life, and they're off.
They step through the gate into a wintery day: misty, chilly, and overcast, and a cold breeze plucks at their uniforms. Fantastic. The team wanders through bare trees -- taller and skinnier than any John's ever seen on Earth -- and across frozen mud, scanning as they go. "We do not know yet if this planet is inhabited," Teyla says over her shoulder, "the atmosphere has a scattering effect, our initial scans were inconclusive. Think of this as a potential first-contact mission." there's a murmur of acknowledgement from the team, and they press on.
An hour goes by. If the place is inhabited, they're not the friendly type. They find absolutely nothing, just tall blue rocks and skinny trees and the occasional winged thing that chatters as it flies overhead. The team's energy changes from cautious excitement to boredom. Even Teyla seems a little disappointed. John, on the other hand, finds himself relieved: the lack of breakfast is starting to catch up to him. He leans on the nearest tree or rock whenever the group pauses, and wills his head to stop spinning. Rodney was right, maybe he does need a break.
"John, are you alright?"
He opens his eyes. Teyla is staring back at him, wearing a mix of concern and bemusement. He quickly straightens up against the tree he's leaning on. "Yeah -- yeah, I'm fine, just tired. Think the air's kinda thin here. I'm good."
Teyla takes a deep breath. "I hadn't noticed any difference."
"No?" John pants, "that's weird." then, without waiting for an answer, he pushes off from the rock and walks doggedly on ahead.
John's never been afraid of heights. As a kid he was always the first one to the top of the tree and the last one down, and his head is never clearer than when his aircraft is above the clouds. But today, as Teyla leads the team to a rocky ledge overlooking a shallow ravine, his head starts to spin and he finds himself balking. And that annoys him. So he forces himself onward with one hand on the wall and his eyes fixed straight ahead. If only one goddamn thing goes right today, it's gonna be this.
He risks a glance down at the ravine. The landscape seems to tilt, and he has to lean into the wall to keep his balance. Mind over matter, Sheppard. You're fine. You're a colonel, for god's sake, act like it. His ears are ringing; he shuts his eyes.
"John?"
He opens his eyes to find both the team and Teyla looking at him. Damn.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, just a little off my game today. And I'll be even better if you all quit staring at me." he plants his feet and stands up straighter, drops his hand from the wall and takes a deep breath of the cold air. "See? Better already. Let's go."
Somewhat reluctantly, the team turns and continues down the path. Teyla goes last; she knows something's up, and that annoys him even more. He trudges along, eyes fixed on the horizon to keep his balance. One foot in front of the other. Mind over matter. You're fine.
There's a tree growing just above the path; its roots -- smooth and skinny like electrical cables -- snake up from the ground and across the ledge. The team slows to pick their way over and around them. John hesitates. He's not about to be bested by a tree, but keeping his eyes forward is the only way he can keep the ground and himself right-side up. He takes a deep breath. Steps over the first one, no problem. Second, third, fourth. Alright. He's just getting the hang of it -- when his boot catches on a side root he hadn't seen. Reflexively, he looks down. The world wheels around him, then back the other way when he tries to correct. His ears start to ring again, he can't tell which way is up, the horizon tilts crazily, he can faintly hear Teyla calling his name, and as the ground rushes up to meet him one last thought flashes through his head: Rodney's never going to let him live this down.
Things are hazy for a while, after that. John can't open his eyes without getting violently nauseous, so he keeps them tightly shut (which is just as well, that way he can't see everyone making a fuss over him). He hears Teyla radio Atlantis for a medical emergency -- shit, Carson's never gonna let him live this down either -- then he's being helped back to the stargate. Someone presses a cloth into his hands: something to cover his eyes. He thanks whoever it is and ties it on.
The trip back through the wormhole is like going through a dryer on spin cycle. John vaguely registers the hustle and bustle and clean metallic smell of Atlantis, but he's too focused on keeping his head on his shoulders to notice much else. Someone guides him to lie down; there's the sting of an IV being set in his hand, then something cool flows through it into him. Little by little, the nausea subsides. He might even be on solid ground again. Gingerly, he sits up and unties the blindfold.
He's in the infirmary. On a bed. The lights are turned down some and the curtain is drawn, and he's alone. He fidgets with the blindfold -- someone's bandana -- and tries not to look at the IV. Not just a crappy morning, but an embarrassing one...no breakfast, no coffee, he snapped at Rodney and to top it all off, a whole team of five science officers plus Teyla saw him faint. The whole city's gonna find out, too, the junior science officers can never keep their mouths shut. Ugh.
"Ah, good morning." Dr. Beckett pulls the curtain aside and steps into the little room. Fusses with the IV, checks where it's attached to John, then looks him up and down. "Good to see you upright, I understand you had a bit of an incident on the other side of the gate. How are you feeling?"
John fights the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm fine. It's not a big deal, I just had a dizzy spell."
"Fainting out of nowhere is never a good sign, colonel. Keep your head still and follow this with your eyes --" Carson picks up a pen and traces a plus sign with it in front of John. Following it brings on another, smaller wave of dizziness, and he has to close his eyes again for a moment. "Did you encounter any wildlife on the surface? Plants, animals?"
"Tripped over a tree root, does that count?" John asks dryly.
"Unless you had skin contact with it, no." there's the smallest note of amusement in Carson's voice. He puts down the pen and does a few further examinations -- looks at John's eyes, turns his head from one side to the other -- then steps back. "Well, it doesn't seem to be neurological. If you'd had a stroke, we'd know by now. When's the last time you ate?"
"Uh..." John sifts through his memories. "Lunch yesterday, I think?" Carson sighs, and John hurries to cut him off. "I know, I know. I was busy, okay? I've had a lot going on."
"There's another thing, when did you last take a break?"
John thinks again. Several seconds pass; Carson arches an eyebrow. Eventually he admits, rather sheepishly, "I don't remember."
"I think we have our answer, then. Here's what we're going to do: I'm going to draw some blood to make sure you haven't picked up any pathogens, and I'd like to keep you here long enough to finish this bag of fluids you're on --" he nods to the IV pole "--then you're going back to your quarters and you're going to have some food and rest, in that order. Read a book, watch some TV, anything that requires holding still. Starting now, you're relieved of duty for the next two days. Doctor's orders." as he talks, Carson bustles around, retrieving bits and pieces from various drawers.
"Two days?" John sputters. "For a dizzy spell??"
"You're exhausted, colonel. You need the rest. If you like, I can relay the orders to your husband. I'm sure he'd be happy to enforce them."
Carson doesn't make idle threats. John heaves a sigh and admits defeat, feeling rather like a kid who's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "Understood." the doctor swabs his free arm with an alcohol pad; he turns away until the deed is done and Carson stands up with a vial of dark red.
"Shouldn't be more than thirty minutes," he says, continuing to bustle. Takes off his gloves, pockets the vial, fusses with the IV again. "then I'll set you loose. I'll be right next door, just yell if you need anything."
"Thanks, doc."
Carson slips out of the room and pulls the curtain shut behind him, and John is alone again. He lies back down and shuts his eyes. He is tired, especially after this morning's fiasco...maybe a couple days off wouldn't be so bad.
It is nice to have a break. John is loathe to admit it, but Rodney and Carson were right. He takes a bite of toast and turns back to the football game he's only half-watching (pre-recorded, he's seen it a million times). He's not looking forward to telling Rodney about this little adventure; he'll worry, and John's had enough of people fussing over him for one day. He's embarrassed enough already. And he still can hardly believe it happened. Back in college, he did way worse than skip a single meal, and he never passed out like that.
You were younger then, he reminds himself. You're not twenty-something anymore.
Well. It happens to us all, eventually. He takes another bite of toast. Outside, the light is starting to change; it's a couple hours past midday. Maybe he can sneak in a nap before Rodney gets back. John turns off the game, gets up, brushes a few crumbs off his shirt, and heads for the kitchenette to put his plate away. Carefully relocates Rodney's laptop and notebook from the other end of the couch and replaces them with a pillow, then lies down and gets comfortable. Napping in the middle of the day...maybe he really is getting old.
"Infirmary to Colonel Sheppard."
Or maybe not. John sits up and grabs his communicator. "Sheppard here. Making sure I'm actually in my quarters, doc?"
"No, but I appreciate the confirmation." Carson sounds gently amused, even through the communicator static. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need you to report back to the infirmary. I've run your blood panel, and there's something I'd like to discuss."
Well, he's wide awake now. John swallows hard past a sudden lump in his throat. "What, do I have cancer or something?"
"Good heavens, no. It's nothing bad; it would be easier to explain in person, that's all."
He's not sure if he believes him, but Carson's a terrible liar. If there was something wrong, he would have said so. He reaches for his boots. "Alright, I'm on my way. Sheppard out."
xxx
Dr. Beckett is tapping away at his computer when John arrives, but he rises to meet him at the sound of the door, looking almost sheepish.
"I'm sorry I alarmed you, Colonel --."
John waves a dismissive hand. "Just tell me what's going on."
Carson leads him to one of the little curtained partitions, at the end of the room farthest from the door. Inside is a laptop on a cart; John perches on the edge of the exam table, tall and straight and trying very hard not to fidget.
"Overall," says Carson, gesturing to the laptop screen, "your blood values look good. No indication of any infection that would have caused your vertigo. You're healthy as a proverbial horse," he adds with a half-smile. Then he turns serious again. "There is one thing, however, that I'd like to bring to your attention --" he points to a column of numbers and abbreviations on the screen. John squints. hCG 25,700 mIU/ml...progesterone, 19 ng/ml...well, those are certainly words. "your hormone levels are off," Carson continues, "and not in a way consistent with someone on hormone therapy. In particular, your hCG and oestradiol are very high."
A pause. "So...what does that mean in English?"
Carson takes a deep breath. "Well -- I believe you're pregnant."
John stares. His head's spinning again. "Pregnant?" he echoes dumbly.
"Aye. Given these readings, I'd say...mid- to late first trimester." Carson's tone is gentle; he must have heard the shock in John's voice. "I'd like to do a quick scan to confirm, if that's alright with you, then we can discuss possible next steps."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's...sure. Whatever you gotta do," says John hazily. He lies back on the exam table and stares at the ceiling while Carson gathers what he needs. His mind is blank. He hikes his shirt up when asked, and watches in a distant sort of way as the doctor applies a blob of cold blueish gel to his stomach, then presses a showerhead-looking probe on top of it. The machine it's connected to flickers on like an old TV. Grainy, abstract shapes swim on the screen. They don't look like much of anything to John, but Carson seems to know where he's going. He points the showerhead probe this way and that, watching the screen, until a new shape slides into view: a black blob with a smaller whitish blob inside.
"There we are," he says, pushing a few buttons on the machine with his free hand. He angles the probe around some more, pushes a few more buttons, then turns to John. "Well," he says slowly, "that's as positive as it gets. Looks to be around eleven weeks, give or take, and stone-cold normal from what I can tell."
John lets his head fall back on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. Today just keeps getting better. No wonder he passed out and snapped at Rodney and almost barfed.
God, Rodney. He'll be off-duty any minute. How the hell is John gonna explain this to him? Hey babe, how was your day? Mine was pretty boring, just fainted in front of an entire science team cuz I'm fucking pregnant and had no idea. Yeah, that'll go over well. Belatedly, John realizes Carson is still talking.
"...should be fine in that case, fetuses are surprisingly resilient even this early on --"
"Hey, doc."
"Hm?"
"With all due respect, could you just...can it." John keeps his hands over his eyes so he doesn't have to see Carson or the screen.
"Of course, I apologize. Are you alright?"
That's the million-dollar question. "Yeah, of course. Peachy." he takes a deep breath. "Look, today's been really goddamn weird. I appreciate the heads-up, but I cannot think about this right now." Carson seems to understand; he hears the ultrasound machine power down, then a cloth cleans the gel off his stomach. He lifts his hands away from his eyes and slowly sits up. His chest feels tight. Carson looks worried.
"May I say one last thing?"
"Mm."
"Don't take too long to decide, one way or the other. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're nearing the stage where termination is a rather...involved process."
"Gotcha. Thanks." John twitches his shirt back down.
"And --" Carson stops him as he goes to stand up, "promise me you won't do anything rash in the meantime."
It takes a moment to parse out what he means. "I won't. I promise, I just...I need to sleep on it. That's all."
Carson studies his face a moment, then steps back. John gets up and brushes past the curtain, moving almost robotically, and he follows a few steps behind. "Call me day or night if you need anything, colonel. I mean it."
John waves a vague 'thanks' over his shoulder as the infirmary doors close behind him.
xxx
John could walk the route to his quarters in his sleep, by now. Muscle memory. He lets it take the reins; his head is still reeling. Ten floors up, walk to the end of the corridor, take a right, another five floors up, walk until you can see the west pier out the window. Easy.
He doesn't bother to take off his boots at the door. With the way his day's going, he'll probably need to leave again. He perches on the edge of the couch and stares into the middle distance.
He's pregnant.
He's pregnant.
Christ.
The thought is still too overwhelming; suddenly the room feels too small. He gets up, crosses the room and slides open the door leading to the tiny, rarely-used balcony each apartment is equipped with. The sun is behind the main tower now, so it's not as blinding, and the ocean wind is a little more gentle this time of day. It's soothing. He leans on the railing, takes a few deep breaths and feels his head start to clear. You're okay, Sheppard. Mind over matter. You're okay.
He's not sure how long he stands there, staring out at the ocean. Eventually he hears the front door open and close and the busy sounds of his husband arriving home, which lead through the apartment and out to the balcony. Rodney scans the horizon, then looks at John. "Aren't you freezing?"
"Hello to you too."
"Yeah, hi. What are you doing out here?"
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
John swallows hard to keep from blurting it out. He's not ready to say it just yet. "Nothin' in particular," he says at length. "Had a weird day."
"Oh? Weird how?"
"I'll tell you later." Rodney looks skeptical; John leans over to kiss his cheek. "I'm fine, I promise. Go inside if you want, I'll be there in a minute." his husband looks at him, out at the water, back at him, then shrugs and heads inside, closing the door behind him. John leans on the balcony railing again. The ice is broken, at least...now how is he going to break the news?
xxxXXXxxx