17. Pariah

John was surprised to wake up.

He wasn’t surprised to find himself locked to the bed with wrist and ankle restraints.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of those anytime soon,” McKay said from where he was sitting in one of the chairs next to John’s hospital bed. John opened his mouth to answer, but his throat hurt. He coughed instead.

McKay didn’t move, just kept looking at him with his ice-cold blue eyes.

“Fuck you,” John finally spit out. He managed to tap the bed control with his pinky in order to incline himself up to a sitting position. There was no way he was facing off with McKay laying down, literally or figuratively.

McKay relaxed, sitting back in the chair. “So what was it? Your brother’s obituary? Anne’s autopsy? The psychological profile that pegged you as marginally sociopathic? I could probably recreate the exact path you took through the system…if we had the power. Thanks to you, though, we barely have enough to keep life support going. Your fuckup cost us three months’ time off the ZedPM, and if there was one way to make an enemy of Weir, that was it. So I really want to know: what put you over the edge?”

John closed his eyes and willed the bastard to leave him alone.

“Your little stunt put six people in the infirmary. One with severe burns.”

That shocked John enough to look over at his tormentor. “What?“

McKay ignored the question now that he had John’s attention, and John felt like an idiot falling for the bait. McKay folded his hands over his stomach and stretched out. “I should thank you. I’m not big on social niceties so most people hate me, which I’ve kind of grown used to. But now? Now they really have someone to hate. If this were a prison film you’d get shanked the minute I left the room. It’s not often anyone outscores me on the hate-o-meter. Seriously, thanks.”

“Leave me alone, McKay,” John croaked out.

“Too late for that.” McKay tilted his head, studying John as if he were an annoying insect on his arm. “Anne. You didn’t know she was pregnant, did you? Hm.”

John’s rage flared up again but this time it had nowhere to go but his heart rate. Dr. Beckett stomped in.

“Y’not helpin’.” He snapped at McKay, his brogue almost incomprehensible. He did not even look at John as he checked the machines next to the bed.

“As with most things in his life, he did it to himself,” McKay wobbled his head, pleased with himself.

“Shut up you fucking—” John started but ended with Beckett’s hand over his mouth.

“Not. A. Word.” Beckett’s face was grim. John nodded, and after a moment the hand was removed. Beckett shot something into his IV silently before walking out.

“You even pissed Carson off. I thought that was impossible.” McKay grinned.

John closed his eyes again. “So what are the charges?”

“What? Oh, yes: treason, mostly. Lorne is pushing for terrorism but I think that’s a reach.”

John nodded. Perfect. They would probably shoot him and throw him off a pier; he was already officially dead, there wasn’t much they needed to do to make it true in fact.

“Sheppard.”

John tried again to will the son of a bitch to go away.

“Sheppard.”

John snapped. “Fine. Treason. Why bother with the medical treatment? Waste of resources. We both know where this is going.”

“John.”

John looked over. McKay had sat up and was leaning towards him, his expression shuttered but intense. John gave a fleeting thought to the question of if that was how McKay looked when he fucked someone, but viciously pushed it aside. Wrong time, wrong universe, wrong life. He shook his head. “What?”

“I don’t think you planned on that happening. I’ve been arguing it, and Heightmeyer is willing to state that you are suffering PTSD from Anne’s death, your discharge, and the whole near-death experience thing. It’s pretty clear the Atlantis AI let you in, which it would not have done if you were a genuine threat. Believe me, we’ve experienced a city-wide quarantine, and I have no concerns for the city’s ability to protect itself. It did everything but kill you. Hell, you didn’t actually die until we dragged you out of the chair.”

John licked his chapped lips. He hated hospitals, they were dry as deserts. “So?”

McKay looked at him for a long time before standing up. “You’ve got more lives than a damn cat. When are you going to stop throwing them away?” He turned and was nearly out the door before John responded.

“McKay!”

“Yes?” He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“The people who got hurt. They going to be okay?”

“Is that the only question you have for me?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re fine. Sander’s burns are bad but he didn’t need grafts, just lots of morphine.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay then, what?” McKay turned around.

“I’m okay with the charges. Whatever they decide. I got people hurt. I—“

“You stupid fucker, pay attention. Do I just talk to myself all day? I got the charges dropped. You’re under surveillance 24/7, even when, and especially when, you are with me or any other command staff. Weir doesn’t want to see you, which means the rest of the expedition will follow her lead and treat you like dead fish. You’re out of the poker game. Your laptop has been revoked.” McKay walked over and tossed a brand new deck of cards on the tray by John’s bed. “I hope you enjoy solitaire.”

John stared at the card deck for a long time after McKay left, although he wouldn’t have touched it even if anyone had bothered to unbuckle the wrist restraints.

#