Carson Beckett was trying to remember the color of the curtains his mum had put in the kitchen. He thought they were blue with pink flowers, or were those the curtains in the guest bath?

Breathe in, breathe out.

McCartney, that was his name. He hadn't met the new dentist that had arrived last week on the Daedalus, but he could remember the man's name.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Beckett closed his eyes though that only seemed to magnify the sound. His mum had mentioned Father Andrew's lumbago in the last letter from home. He couldn't believe the old priest was still alive.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He was curled up in a corner of the hut, leaning his head against a thin, rough wall. On the other side, he could hear Sheppard, but it was so dark. All he could see was dapples of light.. He felt the splinters pricking his scalp, catching on the fabric of his shirt where his shoulders rested against the flimsy wood. It was sticky-hot and he could smell the reek of his own, unwashed body, rank with fear sweat and pain, but he wasn't sweating anymore. The heat stroke had seen to that. Through the cracks, he could see nothing, though he imagined watching the fabric rising and falling on the colonel's chest and found himself breathing in time with the gasps.

He most certainly needed to up the supply request for the allergy kits; God only knew what Rodney did with all of them; he'd be dead if he had as many allergy attacks as he claimed.

Breathe…there was the tiniest whisper of a groan as the rasping breath caught and Beckett jerked stiffly upright until it evened out once more.

It had all seemed so simple. One of the teams had reported back that the indigenous people of P3S-752 had a medical technique for treating asthma and breathing disorders that Beckett might find interesting. The villagers, Clan as they called themselves, had been excessively culled and were on the edge of starvation. It had seemed like a chance to help out; simple, uncomplicated assistance, aid and research... Things were never simple here. Sighing, Beckett leaned close to the small crack and called.

"Colonel."

There was no response. The wood scratched his jaw as he pressed his face against the panel, trying to see through the crack into the dim space on the other side.

"John." The breathing hitched unevenly, then resumed. "I'm goin' ta do it, Colonel. There's no point in holdin' out and lettin' this continue." He closed his mind to the images conjured up by just saying the words. Beckett raised up on his knees, both hands now on the wall, the floor of the hut slick with mud from the rainy season. There was a stillness on the other side. "John," he repeated urgently. "Can ye hear me, lad?"

"Y'cant… do't." Sheppard's voice was barely recognizable, the words slurred. "Th'll …come."

Beckett closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the rough splintery wood. "John." He'd learned the hard way not to try to get to Sheppard, no matter how inviting the feeble panel was. His attempt had earned the colonel several broken ribs. After that he hadn't tried again. He ran his fingers over his face, ignoring the stubble from his beard and the gumminess of sweat, tracing the bones and trying to remember from the quick glance he'd gotten at the colonel, if his cheekbone could be broken. He knew he hadn't gotten enough water to compensate for the amount he'd sweated out, and he knew the colonel's treatment had been much worse.

Two large-bore IV's with fluids running wide open; oh God, but he had to be severely dehydrated. Don't think there's any internal bleeding, but best to have a unit or two of O-neg blood ready just in case. Get the poor man some analgesics before trying to put his shoulder back in joint; his shoulders no doubt hurt like a bugger. Even if there was a concussion they could intubate if needed..

Beckett's mind spun on, trying unsuccessfully to ignore his own rank smell, he continued to silently recite what his instructions to his staff would be as soon as they got back to Atlantis. Then, some semblance of calm restored, he tried again, chills from the heatstroke making his voice shake.

"Lad, they're goin' to kill ye if I don't do this." His hands twitched and he rubbed his palms on his thighs. The material was filthy, damp with old perspiration and his hands came away clammy and cold. "John," he tried again. He swallowed, tasting blood in his own mouth. "The child will be killed no matter wha' I do."

"M'not…"

breathe in, breathe out,

"…talkin' bout it," the words were indistinct. The thin wall between them shuddered against Beckett's hands as something scraped along the divider and the colonel groaned again. "Th'll…"

breathe in, breathe out,

"…come," he repeated, voice distorted even more, and to Beckett it sounded like a prayer.