Warnings: None

Rating: PG

Season: 5 or before, Daniel's in it

Spoilers: None

Pairing: None

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of SciFiChannel, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Author’s Note: Thanks to SD for the medical knowledge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some days, Dr. Janet Fraiser hated this place, days like today, when the people she considered friends came home like this.

Colonel Jack O’Neill, hard-headed Irish career military man with a chip on his shoulder the size of Colorado and a heart of pure mush… the best friend you could ever have, and the worst enemy; the one person you always wanted on your side in any fight, and never, ever wanted mad at you.

The last person you wanted in your infirmary.

Not just because he was the biggest pain in the ass impatient patient any doctor could imagine, Janet knew, but because he was the leader of SG-1: the SGC’s premier, front-line, directly in the line of fire team; the ones who came home with the weirdest diseases, the oddest damage, and the most holes.

Really, she was sure the Colonel had to hold the SGC record for most visits to the infirmary for alien-induced injuries. Aliens were, as she’d heard him say more than once, “always poking me full of holes.”

Sometimes, it seemed that SG-1 was a train wreck waiting to happen, Janet mused silently, and the Colonel was the engineer, steering, as always, from the front, directly in the path of disaster, doing his job regardless of the possible personal consequences.

But she knew better than anyone how fragile his life was, how hard he’d had to fight for it, and how often he’d come far too close to losing it.

She hated it when he landed in her infirmary, because she liked Jack O’Neill.

Janet knew what a huge responsibility it was to have all these lives in her hands; an immense privilege but at the same time a huge burden, to carry their trust and hold their fate in her hands; but she also knew they fought well together. She was glad to be here for them, for all the SG teams, but especially for this one, for SG-1, her friends, the longest surviving team; a team whose bonds, one to another, helped pull them through time and time again.

And this time, Janet knew, the Colonel was going to need all the help his team and her staff could give him.

(((((((((())))))))))

He came through the gate, stumbling; truthfully, Janet would later wonder how he’d been on his feet at all, considering how much blood he’d lost and the amount of pain he had to be in.

O’Neill was leaning on, no, make that draped all over, Sgt. Miles’ shoulder. Tom Miles was a damn good medic, Fraiser acknowledged, regularly assigned to SG-2 Search and Rescue.

Miles had gone through the gate with his team just minutes ago. Janet had been in the gateroom to see them off as they headed out to rescue SG-1. She’d assumed Miles would be going on with the rest of his team on the rescue mission to aid the three members of SG-1 who were pinned down by hostile natives far from the gate.

The Colonel had made the call for back-up just minutes before. When O’Neill called in, his radio signal relayed via the MALP transmitter, he didn’t, of course bother to ask for help for himself, just requested assistance for his trapped team and never said a word about his own condition.

SG-2 had gone through as quickly as the rescue unit could be assembled, more than a dozen volunteers from other teams, plus some SFs and other available personnel joining the relief force.

Janet hadn’t even gotten halfway back to the infirmary after the rescue team’s departure when the gate activated a second time. No one had expected to hear the gate dial up and see SG-2’s iris code transmitted mere moments after they’d left.

“What the hell?” General Hammond muttered under his breath. “Open the iris,” he ordered immediately.

Moments later, the two men had lurched out of the Stargate, and things started to happen.

It was odd. In that first fraction of a second, as Janet watched the arrivals, backlit by the blue glow of the wormhole, she didn’t think O’Neill was wounded, just exhausted. Then she wondered when had SG-1 switched to woodland camo BDUs? Finally, with horror, Fraiser realized it wasn’t a camo pattern at all, it was a dark, wet stain, splotches of blood soaked into the cloth, creating a random pattern of green and near black.

Miles, catching his breath, shouted, “Medical emergency!”

O’Neill’s eyes were wide open, but glazed and unfocused, his face pinched with pain, his whole body hunched over in a way that told her she’d better get the hell up on that ramp and help him.

The two men stepped away from the wormhole, stumbling a few steps down the ramp, and stopped. Ever so slowly, O’Neill lost his grip on Miles and slid toward the floor. The medic’s quick grab of the sodden jacket slowed but couldn’t stop the Colonel’s descent.

Fraiser was close enough to hear O’Neill groan as he landed on is knees, and near enough to see him shiver, reflexively curling his shoulder in toward his chest as he went all the way down flat on the ramp.

The doctor was by his side in mere second, a 40 yard dash time worthy of the Olympics despite her short legs and high heels, dropping to her knees at the Colonel’s side. Miles was cradling the wounded man, and Janet could see the bright red of fresh blood staining the medic’s hands. Her medical training kicked into immediate over-drive, assessing his condition as a pair of orderlies knelt beside her, ready to assist.

“Colonel?” Fraiser took hold of O’Neill’s hand. It felt chilled, looked translucent, pale like his face, which was burning hot. “Colonel O’Neill?”

He tried, she had to say that for the stubborn SOB, he never quit trying. The eyelids fluttered, lifted, and the shadow of a grin slid across his face. “Doc?”

“You’re home, Sir, we’ll get you fixed up…”

“You should see…other guy,” he mumbled, trying for another grin.

“Colonel, don’t talk, Save your strength.”

His hand gripping hers suddenly spasmed. She thought he was going to break her fingers as his strong grasp tightened convulsively, his back arched and his eyes rolled back into his head. With a soft sigh, he went completely still.

“He’s got a penetrating wound to the back of the shoulder with no exit wound,” Miles updated the physician. “There’s a foreign object, a broken off spear or projectile of some kind, embedded beneath the skin. He’s lost massive amounts of blood.”

As the medic talked, Fraiser’s hands were working almost of their own accord, one section of her brain listening to the man’s report, the other assessing her patient and already formulating plans for what had to be done to save his life.

“The infirmary, now!” she snapped at the orderlies. “Lift him easy.” As soon as O’Neill was on the gurney, one of the nurses was at his side, slipping an oxygen mask into place on the Colonel’s face.

They ran from the room, one of the gateroom SFs in front of them, clearing a path through the crowded hallways. They passed a blur of faces but none of them registered on Fraiser’s consciousness.

Her mind was focused on her patient, and what he needed.

Someone was holding the elevator door for them, and quickly the patient and his medical team were on board, going up. To Janet, it seemed that the mere seconds of the ride took forever, and then they were in the infirmary, surrounded by the people and the technology that could save his life, *if* he was lucky and *if* they were very good.

“Onto the bed, on his chest. On three: one, two, three…”

They lifted him off the stretcher and onto the exam table. O’Neill was rousing, pushing her away with his good arm, his legs churning like he was trying to walk, and mumbling. Janet leaned down closer, her ears near his lips, trying to understand his muttered, disjointed words.

“Trapped. Left…help…send help…too many…”

“Help is on the way to your team, Colonel,” she tried to reassure and calm him. “It’s okay. Lie still. You’ll only do more damage to yourself by struggling.”

His eyes opened slightly, and the doctor bent down once more, needing to make sure he listened to her amid the noisy, chaotic situation. “Colonel, lie still,” she commanded.

O’Neill blinked at her, acknowledging her request, or so she hoped. His jacket and shirt had already been cut away. Portable x-rays were being taken, initial blood samples were already on their way to the lab. A large bore IV was in place, lactated ringers already running into his veins to begin the work of replacing blood volume. As she carefully sponged blood away from the wound, trying to get a closer look at the injury, he flinched and moaned.

“Sorry, Sir, I know it hurts.” Fraiser could swear she heard his teeth grinding as she worked, carefully swiping more disinfectant across the wound, noting the rough, torn edges, the six inch long gaping wound and the steady flow of blood. He must have been injured several hours ago, she realized with growing worry; finding more blood had tickled down his back and crusted in a rust red trail from his shoulder all the way down past his thigh.

“Get him prepped for surgery, now,” she ordered upon seeing the x-rays. A large triangular shaped object was clearly embedded in his shoulder blade.

Leaving her staff to their task of getting the Colonel ready, Fraiser went to scrub. By the time she was set, O’Neill was already in the operating room, face down on the table, draped, intubated, anesthetized, and the area around the wound disinfected.

“How’s he doing?” she asked the anesthetist.

“His BP is a little low, but his respiration is holding.”

Janet glanced up at the monitors, noting the steady rhythm, and went to work. His back was a mess: damaged tissue, torn blood vessels, swollen flesh, the whole wound dirty.

The primitive spearhead was lodged deep in his back, the tip wedged into the bone of his shoulderblade. It had taken some force to do that, she knew.

She dug down to the spearhead as more and more blood welled. Looking up, the physician noted the level of the IVs that were pouring more blood and fluids into his veins, worried it was running back out as fast as they were putting it in. Finally, she was able to grasp the weapon and extract it. Holding it in her hand, she studied it for a moment: a primitive, chipped, carved stone spearhead, big, heavy and dirty.

Working steadily, Dr. Fraiser sewed up damaged blood vessels, debrided the wound site, then packed it with gauze, eager to get O’Neill off the table. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d have an infection here, as dirty as that weapon had been, and as long as he’d gone without any treatment. She didn’t even consider closing the wound.

Satisfied that she’d gotten as much of the contaminants out of the wound as she could, Janet finally stepped back, nodding at the anesthetist. A nurse covered the Colonel with several warmed blankets and prepared to move the patient to the ICU.

“Dr. Fraiser?”

Startled, she looked up to see General Hammond watching from the viewing area above the OR. Focused on her work, she hadn’t realized he was there, and wondered how long he’d been observing.

“How is he?” There was worry plain on the General’s face. Janet considered him a great commander, one who cared deeply about all the people under his command, and especially about O’Neill.

Fraiser shook her head. It was far too soon to be making firm predictions. “The Colonel made it through the surgery better than I’d expected, General. Now we’ve got to worry about infection and complications. Only time will tell, but he’s got a good chance, Sir.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Hammond acknowledged her report.

Disposing of the blood stained surgical gloves and OR gown, covering her blue scrubs with her white jacket, Janet followed the Colonel’s route to the ICU. The nursing staff already had him settled in. She checked his vitals once again, wrote the orders for his meds, including large doses of broad spectrum antibiotics and more units of blood and saline, and finally, having done all she could for the moment, assigned a nurse to stay at his bedside.

Taking a moment, Janet walked up to stand beside the bed. O’Neill looked uncomfortable, she thought, lying flat on his back on the white sheets, silent and still, surrounded by equipment and tubes that monitored virtually every one of his bodily functions. Reaching out, she ran her hand along his forearm, and talked soothingly. “Colonel, you’re doing fine. We’re all done with the surgery, we’ve cleaned the wound and removed the spearhead. You’ve come through with flying colors once again, Sir. Rest now. There will be someone here with you if you need anything, so don’t worry. Concentrate on getting well.”

Janet nodded over at the nurse. “Any change in his condition, no matter how slight, I want to know. Immediately. I don’t expect him to awaken for hours, but…”

Just then, the klaxons sounded through the base. “Off world activation, it’s SG-2,” came the voice over the loudspeakers. “Medical team to the gateroom.”

Fraiser uttered a low curse. She hadn’t even had time to think about what might be happening on that far-off planet. Was this the rest of SG-1 coming home? Alive? Hurt? And the rescue party? She had the distinct feeling that her infirmary was going to get very busy.

It did.

Within minutes, it was pandemonium on top of chaos.

The casualties, including seven injured from the rescue party, two of them serious, plus the exhausted members of SG-1, fortunately bearing only minor wounds, converged on the medical ward.

Janet hardly had a chance to talk to any of them, what with all that was going on. Thank goodness she’d been able to get Dr. Warner called in to help.

Hours later, exhausted, Dr. Fraiser finished up the last of the first aid, tucking four more patients into beds in the regular ward and one more surgery patient into the ICU across from O’Neill. None of the injuries appeared to be life-threatening. Janet let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to ever have to tell the Colonel that they’d lost one of his team. Or vice versa.

By the time Janet got an opportunity to check on the Colonel, she could hardly find space by his bedside. Nurse Lee was still there, of course, but so were his teammates, Teal’c and Daniel. Sam was one of those in the infirmary with a minor wound. She’d needed a dozen stitches to close a cut on her arm, and was getting a dose of IV antibiotics, too.

“Hey,” Janet said softly, walking into O’Neill’s crowded room. “Visitors in here are limited,” she reminded the men kindly.

“We just needed to see how he was,” Daniel looked up worriedly. “Major Griff said he was badly injured…” Jackson’s blue eyes looked tired. “We didn’t know he was hurt, he never said…”

The SGC’s CMO patted Daniel’s arm, then picked up O’Neill’s charts, skimming over them briefly before catching nurse Lee’s eye. “He’s doing as well as can be expected right now,” she told the Colonel’s teammates. “You should rest. Both of you. I’ll let you know where there’s any change.”

“He should not awaken alone,” said Teal’c softly.

“He won’t, Teal’c. I’ve got a nurse here with him all night. And frankly, I’d be shocked if he’s awake before morning,” Janet explained. “But I will let you know if he shows signs of coming around.”

The Jaffa nodded. “Please do, DoctorFraiser. At any hour,” Teal’c bowed slightly.

“I will. Now go say goodnight to Sam, and get some rest.”

The infirmary was quiet at last, well, somewhat quiet. Fraiser had a full house of patients now, so there was a steady undercurrent of noise. She’d called in an extra nurse and two orderlies to help with patient care and the clean up. Sighing, Janet called Cassie and left her daughter a message that she wouldn’t be home. Again.

Making the rounds of the ward once more, Fraiser saw to it that each patient was resting comfortably, including Sam, reassuring her that the Colonel was doing just fine.

Finally, Janet went back to the ICU to check for herself on O’Neill’s condition. Not that she didn’t trust Lee, Captain Carroll was a veteran nurse, and one the doctor knew had a soft spot in her heart for the Colonel. For some reason, they got along well, Janet had observed. Lee had the special skills to cope with this most difficult of her patients, maybe because of her own extensive military experience. The Colonel couldn’t bluff or buffalo her, and he knew it, and she knew it. It was a mutual respect thing, Janet realized.

‘I’m glad she’s here with him tonight,’ Fraiser thought. ‘There’s no one I’d rather have watching over the Colonel in the crunch.’ Not that she was expecting problems, but Janet had been a doctor long enough to never take things for granted.

********

Things *were* going well, to start with at least.

The Colonel’s eyes opened briefly in mid-morning. He looked around, mumbled “Hi,” to Lee, and went back to sleep.

His vitals remained stable, though his temperature was up a bit, hovering at 100-101.

Around noon, Fraiser sent two of her other patients home, including Major Carter.

The Colonel awakened again around 4 p.m., alert for a bit longer this time.

“Hey, Doc,” he rasped, licking dry lips. Fraiser spooned some ice chips into his mouth, and he savored them gratefully. “My team?”

“They’re all fine, Colonel,” the physician reassured her patient. “Sam got a cut and needed a few stitches, but I’ve already sent her home. The others are resting. They were here to visit you earlier.”

He closed his eyes, squinted, reopened them. “Don’t ‘member.”

“That’s okay, Sir. You were asleep.”

The Colonel shifted slightly on the bed, a grimace crossing his face.

“How’s the pain level?”

“Tol’able.”

“I’m gong to increase the pain meds a bit then, Sir.”

“No need,” he protested groggily.

“I want you to relax and rest, Colonel. Doctor’s orders.”

“Yes’m.” O’Neill’s eyes closed and within moments he was asleep again.

Janet stood a moment, watching the Colonel while the medication kicked in and he drifted off, her smile fading to a worried frown.

Even as she checked his chart once more, Dr. Fraiser was worried about the infection. They’d cultured his blood and found an unknown substance. It could be a simple bacteria from the planet, she knew, something that the antibiotics would clear up quickly. That was the best-case scenario, and sadly, the least likely. It could be a poison, applied on purpose to the weapon. It could be something harmless to the natives, yet deadly to someone from earth who’d never been exposed to it before. Only time would tell...

With a sigh, Janet headed for her office.

*******

Two hours into her shift, Lee left her patient’s bedside, hurrying to the CMO’s office, a worried frown on her face. “Dr. Fraiser, Colonel O’Neill has spiked a temperature of 104…”

Janet was off her chair, out from behind her desk and into the ICU faster than she could mutter “Damn, damn, double damn,” which she was chanting under her breath.

The Colonel was no longer sleeping peacefully. He was making small, restless movements, as if he was uncomfortable. His face looked flushed, tight lines around his eyes indicating distress, a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin and dampening his hair.

“Help me move him,” Fraiser requested, and they rolled him onto his right side, supporting his body in place with a stack of pillows. Carefully, then, Janet pulled the dressing off his wound, and gasped. The heat was rolling off the skin around the incision. Even as she watched, a drop of yellowish fluid oozed out of the inflamed, reddened tissue.

“Damn!” Her mind was racing as she collected a sample of the exudate for analysis in the lab. “Let’s get some new blood cultures and then we can add vancomycin to his IV,” she told Lee.

O’Neill’s pulse was increased as well, his heart-rate up a couple of notches. “Colonel,” she laid her hand on his face, feeling the heat. “Colonel. Can you wake up for me?”

“Hmmmm,” he mumbled. His right hand fluttered, scratching across the sheets. “Tired.”

“Sir, I know you’re tired, but I need you to wake up for a minute.”

The eyelids raised, glazed brown eyes appearing, looking up at the doctor.

“How do you feel?” It was an inane question, she knew, but getting him to talk to her, if he could, was part of assessing his condition.

“Hot.”

I’m sure,” Janet reached for a cloth, wiping the sweat that was beginning to appear on his face. “We’re changing your meds. The wound is infected, Colonel, and you’ve got a fever.”

“Hot,” he repeated, the sluggishness of his response worrying her.

“Yes, Sir, we’re working on this… we’ll get you feeling better soon.”

“Soon,” he mumbled.

“Rest, now, Colonel.”

“Hmmmm…”

He tossed and turned, pushing his blankets away, before finally settling into a restless sleep that lasted only a couple of hours. His skin was warm, sweat slicked, his clothing and bedding soon sweat-soaked as his temperature hovered around 105. By the time the nurse got his clothes and his sheets changed, his temperature started to drop.

And drop. And kept dropping.

That’s when the chills started.

It began with another bout of restless movements, curling in on himself, and a fine shiver passed over his whole body. Within minutes, he had goosebumps rising on his arms. Dr. Fraiser swept the blanket back over him, but he was still shaking. She added another blanket but the shivering didn’t stop. Janet could have sworn his skin was turning blue from the cold, his fingers felt like ice when he roused enough to grip her hand in answer to her questions.

“Cold, Doc,” he mumbled.

“Yes, Sir,” Fraiser soothed. “It’s part of the infection.”

He moaned and nodded, fighting to suppress the shudders that racked his lanky frame.

Fraiser had an orderly bring in warmed blankets, and finally, the shaking stopped, his temperature stabilized and he slept.

For a few hours.

Fraiser had managed to catch only about an hour’s worth of nap when a nurse came to wake her again. “It’s the Colonel, ma’am,” she said, a worried look on her face.

O’Neill’s temperature was spiking once more. Unfortunately, it didn’t even pause at 102 or 103 but soared right on past to 104 and 105. By this time he’d pushed off his blankets and was trying to climb out of the bed. The Colonel’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, his movements weak and uncoordinated, as he clumsily tried to push the nurses away.

Placing her hands on his arms, helping the others hold him down, Dr. Fraiser asked, “Colonel, what are you doing?”

“Team,” he mumbled, “got to..go…gate. Go home.”

“Sir, you are home. Your team is home, too. Everyone is here and they’re all okay,” except for you, Colonel, she thought. “You need to lie still and rest. You were wounded. You’re not ready to leave the infirmary.”

Sick or not, he was surprisingly strong. Only his inability to exert anything like his normal control allowed the doctor to keep him down on the bed. “No,” he muttered.

“Sir, you can’t go anywhere…”

She didn’t know where he got the strength. Suddenly, he pushed her, hard, and Fraiser stumbled, skidding to her knees. Nurse Lee was shoved back against the wall as O’Neill somehow lifted himself off the bed. His feet hit the floor, his knees wobbling, then locking, a look of determination on his otherwise pale face. He took a shaky step, one hand on the bed helping to prop himself up, and then a second step. Janet saw him lose control then, saw his muscles quiver and his whole frame collapse and begin sinking toward the floor.

Teal’c caught him.

Fraiser didn’t know where the Jaffa had come from, but suddenly, he was there, arms outstretched to catch his collapsing commander. “O’Neill, you must return to the bed. You are not well.”

The Colonel blinked, looking at the Jaffa with bleary, exhausted eyes. “Teal’c?” the soft voice was little more than a whisper. “That you?”

“It is I, O’Neill…”

“Carter, Daniel, where…” O’Neill’s look was beseeching, begging for information.

“They are home and well, unlike you. Now you must return to your bed, and let the doctor assist you.”

“Nnnn…”

“Yes, O’Neill,” said Teal’c, who simply picked up the tall lean form and deposited it once again upon the bed.

The Colonel threw his head back and forth, restless, trying once more to climb out of the bed.

“O’Neill, you must desist from this behavior,” the Jaffa’s tone was gentle, as if he were talking to a child. “You shall only injure yourself further…”

The brown eyes were fading, the eyelids sinking, growing heavier. “Teal’c, T…”

“Rest, O’Neill. You must rest.”

The eyes went closed, the body relaxed.

And then he coughed.

Janet’s heart nearly seized.

Shit. He didn’t need any more complications, Fraiser worried, didn’t need this infection moving somewhere else, damn it.

Before the doctor reached O’Neill’s side, he coughed once more, hard, a wracking, deep nasty cough that shook his whole frame. Sweat was popping out on his forehead. His chest was heaving as he obviously gasped for adequate air.

Fraiser grabbed an oxygen line and mask, ripping the bag open, connecting the line and flipping the switch on the O2 as she slipped the mask over his face. At first, Janet thought the Colonel was going to fight it. His hands raised toward his face, his shoulders lifting off the bed, his head twisting, and then he sank back, his chest rising and falling roughly.

One of the nurses slapped the leads for the monitors back on his chest, and the heart monitor sprang back to life once more, a too rapid beat sounding through the room.

“Damn it!” Feverish. Trouble breathing. Heart rate up, pulse increased.

She didn’t like this at all.

O’Neill was in trouble.

Even though they had him back on the bed, the Colonel was still agitated. Between fits of coughing, O’Neill was mumbling, muttering disjointed words and nonsense sentences, talking to people who weren’t there; to people the doctor didn’t know, and some she did, like Kawalsky and Frank Cromwell and his son, Charlie. Worried the high temperature could lead to vascular collapse and seizures, Janet ordered a cooling blanket brought in, and kept a nurse stationed at his bedside, wiping the sweat soaked face, talking calmly to him, constantly monitoring his condition as she tried to keep him comfortable.

The temperature readings wavered and dropped to 102, before climbing back to 104.

Dr. Janet Fraiser did *not* like the way this was going.

Once more checking his chart, and skimming all the notes, Janet left the Colonel in nurse Lee’s competent care and headed to the lab. The physician knew it was too early to get any help there, but she needed to get away and think. They’d drawn blood samples as a routine part of O’Neill’s initial exam and immediately started to culture them. That was standard procedure for any off-world injury, since there was no way to know what alien contaminates might be present in a wound. The good thing, Janet reminded herself, was that they hadn’t wasted any time getting started; the bad thing was, cultures couldn’t be rushed. A 48-hour minimum was needed for any bacteria to grow, and nothing could change that immutable fact.

Until she had cultures to test, Fraiser knew she was only guessing at what antibiotics could help. And she *hated* guessing.

So in the meantime, all she could do for the Colonel was treat the symptoms with supportive therapy, keep him as comfortable as possible, and hope his strong constitution could keep him going until a treatment was found.

That was her other big concern. Modern medicine provided her with dozens of available antibiotics and countless combinations. But there was always the chance that none of them would be truly effective against a hitherto unknown bacteria, or that a rapidly progressing infection wouldn’t leave her enough time to look for all of them.

Once at the lab, Fraiser checked with the technician, reminding Captain Deshoya that the samples were a priority; indeed, could very well be a life and death priority for O’Neill.

Having satisfied herself that the lab was aware of the urgency of the situation, Janet walked back to the infirmary, mind absorbed once again reviewing all the steps she’d taken. By the time she was back to the ICU, Janet heard voices in the hallway outside O’Neill’s room. The rest of SG-1 was standing clustered together in the corridor, looking worried.

Sam asked first. “Janet. What’s happening? How’s the Colonel?”

“There’s really no change,” Fraiser explained. “The wound is infected, and though I’ve given him a broad spectrum antibiotic, it’s really too early to see any improvement. He’s feverish…”

“Is he awake?” Daniel asked worriedly.

“At times. He’s in and out, and delirious when the fever spikes. Hallucinating about people who aren’t here. Sometimes he thinks he’s still back on that planet, trying to reach the gate.”

Teal’c nodded. “Perhaps he would find our presence comforting, knowing we are here and safe.”

Janet nodded. “Though we usually restrict visitors in the ICU to just a few minutes per hour, in this case, I agree. Seeing you may be helpful, but only one at a time. If he comes around, reassure him that you've all been rescued and that you are all okay.”

Daniel didn’t wait for further permission, but stepped immediately into the room, taking a seat beside the injured man’s bed.

Sam was staring after Jackson, chewing her lower lip. “Janet, how is the Colonel, really?”

“You know how strong he is, but until I get the cultures back, I’m really just taking a shot in the dark in treating him.” Fraiser smiled at the Major, and Teal’c. “I know you’d all like to be there with him, but just one at a time for now. Sam, while Daniel’s with him, why don’t you come with me and I’ll check the dressing on your arm? We need to make sure you aren’t developing an infection as well.”

Carter shook her head. “I feel fine, Janet, really. I’d like to help in the lab while we’re waiting…”

“No, I need to check that wound, and then I want you to get more rest. There’s nothing you can do in the lab for now.”

“I shall remain here,” Teal’c offered, moving to stand beside the doorway.

**********

Jack was hot, so hot, stifling, the heat making him physically ill in its intensity. He figured the air conditioning wasn’t working again. Sweat trickled down his face, soaked his clothing, matted his hair. The air was so heavy it was like breathing in liquid, liquid heat, and he coughed, fighting to drag adequate oxygen into his starving lungs.

Water, shower, cool droplets rolling across his skin, that was what he needed.

He tried to sit up, but couldn’t.

That’s when he remembered.

There was no air conditioning, there was no cool soothing shower, only a dark, airless, stifling hot box-like thing.

And no escape.

He moaned in frustration, knowing there was no relief from the unbearable heat and the even more unbearable torture of being confined in the tiny, dark cell, day after day, wondering if anyone remembered him, if anyone would come for him, or if he’d just die here, forgotten and alone…

Jack’s mind drifted back to a better time and a better place, to Sara smiling and Charlie laughing. He immersed himself in the memories of a day at the beach, an unusually hot day for Colorado, and they’d gone to the lake to cool off. Funny, though, when he dived into the lake, the water was hot. Must be a thermal spring around there somewhere. He couldn’t remember the water ever being this warm, the lakes around there were usually cool, almost icy, fed by mountain streams that started up in the snowpack. ‘Come on in, the water’s fine, son,’ he called. He watched as Charlie ran toward him, laughing as the water splashed around his knees, and then the boy dove, his head disappearing under the water.

Disappearing, and not coming up. ‘Charlie! Charlie!’ it was a game, right, the boy was playing a game? No, he’d been under too long. Jack ducked under the waves, searching desperately for his son, for the small boy. Swim. Search. Gulp for air. ‘Charlie!’ Charlie! Where are you? Oh, God, son, please, Charlie…”

A face materialized above him, not Charlie’s face, a face he didn’t recognize, or didn’t want to remember, wearing a phony smile, muttering unintelligible, foreign words. God, no, they’d come for him again. Feebly, he pushed his tormenter away, ‘No, no. Leave me alone you bastard. Don’t touch me.’ Jack’s long, slender arms flailed as he fought wildly.

Hot. They must be burning him.

He twisted, trying to escape the heat, but it was everywhere, all over him, inside him, roasting him from the inside out. Oh God, was that what they were doing? Some new torture that boiled his blood in his veins, melted the bones and tissue under his skin?

********

“Jack, stop, please,” Daniel was helping the nurse hold O’Neill down on the bed as he thrashed in the throes of his delirium.

In just a few minutes, the frantic struggles ceased, the man falling back exhausted, coughing, gulping for air even as he mumbled in tones that alternated between frantic and defiant. Daniel could only make out an occasional heartrending word, “No…. Charlie… please… where…No… bastard… Chaarrrlieeee…”

Finally, the words ceased, O’Neill falling quiet until the next frenzied bout of fever induced nightmares and hallucinations gripped him.

When Teal’c finally came to relieve him on vigil, Daniel stumbled out of O’Neill’s room, exhausted. Stopping in the corridor, he leaned back against the wall, removing his glasses, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes, and wishing there was something, anything, he could do to help his friend.

And knowing there wasn’t.

********

The face was back before him, shouting, but he couldn’t understand. The words were odd, distorted, out of synch… a Goa’uld? When had the Goa’uld reached Iraq?

Which Goa’uld? Apophis? But Apophis had gone to hell, no Jack had gone to hell, in Iraq, and on Netu. He moaned. They were one and the same, Iraq and hell and Netu; Abdul the tormentor and Apophis and the Devil, the same, one and the same, different faces but the devil all the same.

He’d seen Charlie there, Apophis had shown him Charlie, in hell, on Netu. No, Jack, that’s not right. Charlie wasn’t in hell, Charlie was home, in Colorado, with Sara, waiting for him, begging him to hold on, to fight one more minute, one more hour, one more day. Never give up. Come back. He’d promised them he’d get home, that nothing would keep him from coming home to them, they were his home and his life and his soul and he’d always come home to them.

He was just so tired.

So confused.

He needed his family, needed his son and his wife…

Where were they?

He fought to see beyond the gray curtain that surrounded him, strained to hear past the roaring in his ears. His ears rang like this, when he’d had the skull fracture… the ground rushing up at him, his chute not opening, his backup opening late, too late... knowing what was about to happen, anticipating the awful jolt… ‘Forgive me, Sara. Forgive me…Sara,’ the impact and everything going black.

Blackness. Pain. Heat.

It was hot there, too, on the Iran-Iraq border. Hot. Alone. Hurt. Struggling, walking when he could, crawling when he couldn’t. His water was gone, his mouth dry, his body shutting down.

“Thirsty…”

His thirst was a living thing, a craving.

Oh man, that felt so real, felt just like someone giving him ice chips. He could feel the plastic spoon tapping against his teeth, the cold bite of the ice on his tongue, feel the sweet drops of cool moisture in his mouth, icy against his molars. It felt so good, so real.

Real.

Hallucinating.

He was hallucinating.

Which thing was he hallucinating? Not his thirst, he *was* thirsty. Was he hallucinating the heat, or the water?

Somehow, he managed to force his eyelids to lift. Everything was out of focus, soft and fuzzy, distorted the way the world had looked when he’d awakened after too many beers. Or from anesthetic. No, not anesthetic, not this time, there was no bitter medicine taste leftover I his mouth, so that wasn’t it.

Heat.

He *was hot. He could feel the sweat pooling on the sheets beneath him, smell it on his skin, taste it on his lips when he licked them.

Sudden coolness soothed the heat that burned his cheeks. He recognized what he knew was a hand, using something soft and damp and cool, wiping his face, a gentle touch. Quiet sounds, soft, soothing. Gratefully, he gave in to his exhaustion and drifted away.

*************

“He’s asleep again,” Doctor Fraiser wrung out the damp cloth she’d used to wipe his face. “I think the fever’s dropped a bit.”

“That is good news, Doctor Fraiser,” said the Colonel’s Jaffa teammate.

“I hope so, Teal’c. But I’m afraid it’s only temporary,” the tiny physician was weary, and, if she admitted it, worried. Nothing was working. The cultures weren’t responding to any of the other drugs she’d tried, and the antibiotics she’d been dosing the Colonel with weren’t lowering his fever. If anything, the opposite was happening. His fever would spike, plateau actually, staying at 104-105 for long periods, hours and hours, before breaking. Then he’d once again be overcome by chills, coughing, shuddering with cold while they covered him with warmed blankets. At first, there had been a few hours respite before the fever would rise again, but now, the peaks and valleys varied more and more in spiraling waves. The most worrying thing was the intervals between the fluctuations were getting shorter and shorter, leaving him less time to recover before the next crisis arrived.

The rollercoaster ride was slowly sapping his strength, wearing down his laboring body.

For the moment, at least, O’Neill seemed to be in one of the calm interludes between the highs and lows. “Colonel, we’re going to move you onto your side and check the dressing on your wound,” Janet told him. Though she didn’t expect he’d answer, or even understand, Fraiser firmly believed that a patient, even one only semi-aware, needed the grounding sound of the human voice, the comforting touch of the human hand.

With Teal’c’s gentle assistance, Janet rolled the Colonel onto his side and once more checked the seeping wound on his back. It was still draining. She removed the saturated bandage and fixed a new one in place.

Her work complete, she let Teal’c ease the unconscious man onto his back once more.

Janet watched as Teal’c paused, standing beside O’Neill for a moment, worry evident in the alien eyes and the tight line of his lips.

“We’re doing all that we can, Teal’c.”

“Of that I have no doubt, DoctorFraiser. But it is difficult to watch a friend suffer such illness, of body and spirit…”

The tiny physician nodded in understanding.

**************

Freezing to death wasn’t slow or pleasant, Jack had realized long ago. Of course, multiple broken bones didn’t exactly do much to enhance one’s comfort level, frozen or not. He shuddered, wrapping his arms as far around his chest as he could reach, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. He didn’t want to wake Carter. She needed her sleep. She was their only chance. She would think of something, some way to get the DHD to work so they could go home and get warm.

Warm.

Seemed like he’d never been warm. The cold was seeping into his bones, dulling his mind. Funny, it seemed like he could remember… no, he and Carter were trapped, thrown out of the gate on some frigid ice planet, far from Earth.

‘C-cold.’

So cold each breath seared his lungs, making him cough and fight for air.

Too cold for people to be outside.

What was Charlie doing here in the cold? It was too cold out here for a kid. But Charlie wanted to go sledding. He’d promised Charlie they’d go sledding and a four year old never forgot. A four year old depended on his Dad. You kept your word to a four year old. You always keep your word, Jack. Always. You will never let Charlie down, because Charlie is the joy of your life. You’re his Dad and Dads always protect their kids…

Sledding. Falling in the snow laughing. Digging snow forts and tunnels, up at Granddad’s cabin. Lots of snow in Minnesota. He’d always intended on taking Charlie there in the winter, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t ever taken Charlie sledding at the cabin. Never. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t Charlie, Charlie was… oh God, Charlie was dead, gone…

Jack moaned and thrashed on the bed, caught up in the grip of the hallucination, knowing it wasn’t real, but unable to let go, unable to fight it. Charlie was out there, in the snow, lost, needing him, needing his Dad to find him. ‘I’ll find you Charlie. Don’t give up. Don’t give up.’

***********

Janet looked down at her patient with worry. The mumbled words, muffled further by the oxygen mask, were mostly unintelligible as the fever and its accompanying vivid dreams gripped him. Here and there she’d been able to make out a word, and they did nothing to ease her mind. The Colonel wasn’t having pleasant dreams, that was obvious from the twisted expression on his face, from his restless movements and the occasional futile attempts to leave his bed and go in search of Charlie.

When O’Neill asked for his son, she didn’t have the heart to tell him the boy wasn’t there. The doctor, the nurses, his teammates, whoever was with him, they all simply ignored his requests and talked calmly to him about the present. “Sir, you were wounded and you’re running a high fever. You’re hallucinating. You’re in the infirmary. You’re going to be all right, Colonel. Relax. Rest. Sleep,” she reassured him for what must have been the hundredth time in the last 48 hours.

Sometimes he got insistent, calling out for his son. Janet resisted the urge to give in and soothe him with a lie. Somehow, despite his delirium, she knew that it wasn’t right, that it was far too cruel to give him that hope that would only be torn away again.

Of course, not all his dreams were about his son. Other nightmares marred his rest. Fraiser was one of the few who understood the significance of his ravings about Iran and Iraq, the occasional phrases and curses in Arabic. Those seemed most vivid when the fever soared highest; it made sense, she supposed, for the heat to bring back those dreadful images of his experiences there in the desert. He’d mentioned Netu as well, another hellish place of intense heat; Apophis, the Goa’uld, this last planet where he’d been wounded, and his team: Daniel dying in flames on Nem’s world; Teal’c falling dead into his arms on the dry sands of Vorash. When the chills returned, he’d raved on about the nearly fatal discovery of the Antarctic gate. She’d heard him beg Sam to leave him and save herself.

Tiny bits and pieces of his life, of his worst nightmares, surfaced during his delirium, horrifying experiences he wouldn’t normally talk about even to his closest friends, or his doctor, Fraiser knew. They spilled out now as the fever stripped him of those self-imposed barriers he’d thrown up to shield himself, and his friends, from the horror of his worst memories.

She just prayed, when this was all over and he was well again, that he wouldn’t remember re-living them. Once would have been awful enough for anyone… Janet shook her head. This was not the time to be thinking of that. She was his doctor, before she was his friend, and she had a job to do. Even if, for the moment, it seemed as if all her efforts were futile as he gradually lost ground to the raging infection.

Janet heard soft footsteps behind her, and turned to see Sam enter the room, a worried frown on her face.

“How is he?” she asked hopefully.

“About the same,” the doctor answered quietly.

Sam walked up to the bed and looked down at her commanding officer. He looked so ill, and weary, his restless mumblings and small, aimless movements were all but unbearable to watch. He was usually so strong and vibrant, loud and brash and so in charge of himself and every situation. It hurt to see him like this, to hear his fevered ramblings. She remembered Antarctica, and his determined fight against the pain of his injuries and the numbing cold; how he’d given in at last, only when his body could no longer answer to his iron will.

The Major shook her head, banishing the memory. He was going to pull through this, just like he’d pulled through then and a hundred times since.

His eyes flickered, and opened, prompting her to smile. “Hi, Sir.”

But his eyes didn’t focus. Yes, the lids were open, but the normally intense brown eyes were fever glazed, unseeing of her; instead seeing someone and someplace else, in fact. His gaze swept right on past her, drifting, even as she reached down and tentatively took hold of his hand.

He didn’t seem to notice. His hands scrambled at the edge of the blanket, picking aimlessly at the frayed edge of the soft material.

Janet handed her the damp cloth, and Sam immersed it in the bowl of cool water that sat on the bedside table. Wringing it out, she set it against his forehead. He stilled then, seeming to revel in the cool feel as she blotted his cheeks, his neck and collarbone, brushing the damp hair back from his forehead.

His eyes wondered across her face, then stopped momentarily, a puzzled look forming on his face, his eyes holding hers for a minute. “Carter?” he muttered.

“Yes, Sir, it’s me…”

“Planet…I’m…” he looked lost, confused.

“We’re home, Sir, back at the SGC.”

His eyes slid shut but he nodded. “Why’s…why…” he seemed to have trouble forming the words and she grabbed a glass of water, sliding the oxygen mask away from his face and offering the straw to him. He raised his head slightly to sip the liquid, then lay back. “Why…hot?”

“You’re running a high fever, Sir. You were wounded…”

He seemed to remember then, because the eyes widened suddenly, the shoulders lifting off the bed as if he were trying to get help. “Trapped… natives… planet… team… Daniel… Carter… Teal’c,” each word was struggle.

“Sir, we’re okay. We’re all home. You got help for us.”

“Help…”

“Yes, Sir, you were wounded and you walked back to the gate, called in back-up. You don’t need to worry about us.” Sam was hoping he understood her words. “We made it back because of you, Sir, we’re fine…”

“Fine…” the word drifted away into a harsh fit of coughing as he slipped into oblivion once more.

Sam turned a troubled frown to the doctor. “Janet?”

The physician bustled back to the Colonel’s bedside, checking her patient. “He’s lost consciousness again…”

Just then the phone in Janet’s nearby office rang. “Stay with him?” she asked, and waited while Sam nodded. Fraiser hurried to her desk, grabbing the phone. “Dr. Fraiser here.”

“This is Captain Deshoya in the lab, doctor. I think we’ve got something!”

“I’ll be right there!” Feeling hopeful for the first time in days, Janet rushed out. She sent a nurse in to stay with the Colonel, then hurried toward the lab, Sam following close on her heels.

The lab tech, a tiny Asian woman, was waiting for them, a big grin on her face. “Doctor, look. I just checked the latest batch of samples and found this.” She pointed to a small dish sitting under the microscope. Janet knew it was one of the many samples of the bacteria from Colonel O’Neill’s blood. They’d been growing for over 48 hours now, each small sample treated with a different antibiotic in hopes that one of them would stem the alien growth and thus, be the cure for the Colonel.

So far, they’d seen nothing.

Janet leaned over the microscope, peering into the eyepiece, and smiled at what she saw. “This looks like our answer,” she stated, looking up at the others and smiling.

Sam moved over and looked as well, nodding in satisfaction.

“There were no changes in the samples as of two hours ago, and I really thought we weren’t going to get anything with this batch,” the captain was beaming as well. “But I checked one last time before leaving for the day. None of the others have changed but there’s a definite, strong effect in this one. It’s the streptomycin.”

“Thanks, Shannon. Streptomycin it is,” the doctor grinned in thanks at the lab tech.

*********

Less than five minutes later, Janet Fraiser was back at O’Neill’s bedside, a vial and tubing in her hands. “Colonel, we’ve found an antibiotic that words on the bacteria that’s causing your fever. I’m adding it to your IV now.”

She wasn’t sure if O’Neill gripped her hand in answer to her words, or if the movement was only random, but she was willing to take it as an affirmative answer.

“So?” asked Sam. “When will he start to show improvement?”

“It will take several doses, and up to 24 hours before we can expect to see any changes, Sam. I’m afraid we’re in for more waiting in the meantime.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” the Major was still worried.

Janet grinned wearily. “You know what the Colonel would say. Don’t even think that, Sam.”

***********

O’Neill’s condition showed no change for the next 22 hours. As the time passed, his teammates were in and out of his room constantly, though he was still unaware.

It was Daniel who first noticed the change. “He’s been quiet for the past hour, Janet, sleeping soundly,” he reported to the doctor as she checked the Colonel’s vitals. “No coughing, and no chills.”

She raised her eyes to meet Daniel’s worried look. “That’s good, Daniel. His fever *is* down slightly, and though his temperature is still fluctuating, it *has* stayed below 105 since this morning. There also seems to be less drainage from his wound. Those are all very positive signs.”

All through the day he improved slowly but steadily, his temp dropping bit by bit. Finally, just as Teal’c was taking over the evening vigil from an exhausted Daniel, the Colonel’s brown eyes opened. For the first time in days, O’Neill’s gaze focused on his teammates, then swung slowly around the room.

“Jack?”

“Yeah,” the answer was soft, the voice rough.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” O’Neill mumbled. “Hope you got the number… of the bus that ran me down.”

A tiny smile played across Daniel’s lips. “No bus. Actually, it was a big alien with a throwing spear."

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the memory. It was there, sort of, hazy, but intact. “Big caveman guy, right?” the voice was still slow but sounded a little stronger. He waved a hand at his face, surprised at how heavy his arm felt. “Green painted faces?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Daniel’s smile grew wider.

“Good… Wouldn’t want to forget a pleasant place like…” This time, he only managed to wave the fingers on his right hand, having decide that the whole hand was just too heavy to raise.

“P3G-659.”

“Uh huh. Knew that.”

“Riiiiigght,” Daniel smirked.

The brown eyes were closed once more. “Did.”

“You didn’t.”

“Did.”

“Didn’t.”

The eyes slide open. “Didn’t we have this conversation once before?’ he managed the finger wave again, wondering why he was so damnably tired. “Long time ago?”

“Yes, we did, Jack.”

The gray haired head nodded a fraction. “So….”

“What?” Daniel asked.

“Just, it’s good to be back,” O’Neill mumbled.

Just then, Dr. Fraiser walked in. Looking from patient to visitor, she fought back the smile that threatened to cover her entire face. O’Neill was awake at last, and though obviously tired, he was alert, and on the road to recovery.

“How are you feeling, Colonel?” she asked. A hand on his forehead proved what the monitors were telling her, that his fever was way down and his vitals were on the way up.

A dark look crossed his face so quickly Fraiser wasn’t sure she’d actually seen it.

“Alive, Doc.”

She patted his arm. “It was a tough fight, Colonel, but you’ve made it. Rest now.”

He sighed and let his weary eyes fall shut. He could hear her bustling about, checking the monitors and the IVs, the subtle scratching as she wrote notes on his chart, the familiar noises of this place, soft and soothing.

“Doc,” his voice was so soft she almost missed his question. He didn’t look at her, studying his hands. “While I was sick, did I… talk much? Ramble, or…or anything?”

She looked into the dark eyes and knew the words he needed to hear, the lie coming easily to her lips. “Quiet as a baby, Colonel. Not a peep out of you.”

He looked up at her then, his gaze meeting hers momentarily, and she knew that he knew, but it was all right. His secrets were safe, with her and with his team.

This time when he slept, he slept without dreams and without nightmares, comfortable and secure in knowing his team was safe, and he was home. He couldn’t change his past, couldn’t wipe away the ugly memories, but he could replace them with the good memories, the satisfaction of doing his job and keeping his team and his world safe for another day.