Plague by Constellation

Plague von Constellation

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"Doctor Weir!"

Dr. Elizabeth Weir shook herself out of he worried reverie and, turning her back to the beautiful scenery visible from the balcony, faced Beckett. "Carson. How's John?"

"That's why I was looking for you, Doctor. There's been a new development."

Weir's eyes widened. "Development? What kind of development?"

As Beckett explained Sheppard's dire situation, Weir grew more and more horrified. "Isn't there anything you can do for him?" she asked when he finished. "Radiation, or chemotherapy? Anything at all?"

Beckett shook his head. "That would be even worse. In his condition, he wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of surviving." He shrugged. "And besides, we don't have the resources. Everyone was given a thorough medical examination before we left Earth. If there was even the remotest possibility of something like this happening, Major Sheppard would have been ordered to stay home."

"So there's nothing you can do?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Weir."

Weir brushed a tear from her eye before it could spill over, then hid the gesture by smoothing her hair back. "Can I see him?"

"Sure. He'll need someone to keep his spirits up. Good luck."

--------------------------------------------------------

Weir's heart skipped a beat as she pulled the curtain aside. Major Sheppard lay with his head tilted back and his eyes squeezed shut, and he almost looked as if he was in pain. She was about to call for a nurse when she realized he was merely concentrating; he seemed to be counting something. "John?"

Sheppard's eyes snapped open, then focused on Weir. "Oh, hi, Elizabeth," he said, his voice incongruously cheerful.

She found the tone jarring. "Um, how are you doing?" she asked.

Sheppard laughed bitterly. "That's like looking down at someone who's been shot and asking, 'Are you okay?'" He coughed, a painful, rattling cough that seemed to come from deep in his chest. "Beckett says I've got twelve weeks at the outside."

Weir felt a lump form in her throat. "Oh, John. . ."

"It doesn't really seem that bad at first," he continued, his optimism definitely forced. It's three whole months, a quarter of a year. Plenty of time, right?"

Weir didn't know how to respond.

Sheppard went on matter-of-factly. "But it starts to get scary when you go the other way. It's only eighty-four days. Two thousand and sixteen hours." His voice went completely flat. "Well, two thousand and fifteen, now." He gave a deep sigh, which was interrupted by another fit of violent coughing. "I can't quite make myself believe it," he said when he regained control. "I've always known, intellectually, that I'm not invincible. But I've been under fire more times than I can can count, I've been shot out of the sky more than once, I've been chased by the Wraith, I even had a two-foot bug sucking the life out of me, and here I am still. It's hard not to believe I'm unbreakable, y'know? Eighty-four days . . . I can't really wrap my brain around it."

"We are not going to let you die, John," Weir insisted, choking back tears. "Dr. Beckett is doing everything he can-"

"Which is what? Hope and pray? Don't try to lie to me, Elizabeth. Beckett already told me he can't do a damn thing."

"Don't talk like that, please . . ."

"It's not exactly the romantic end I've always daydreamed about. I always thought I'd go out with a bang." He grinned, and for a moment, Weir could almost forget he was dying. "Literally."

They both laughed until Sheppard doubled over, coughing up blood.

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Plague von Constellation

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