Well, here we are with the last chapter. Believe it or not, I have my next "whump type" story laid out in my head already. ;) It's been an idea I've been kicking around for a long time and have finally decided to write it. The downside is it's complicated and therefore I'm not certain I can write one chapter at a time and post it. I'll probably have to write at least a significant chunk of the story before I even consider starting to post it. Sorry 'bout that! ;) I hope the story will be worth the wait.

Thanks so much for sticking with me through some kind of long update delays on this story. I really hope you enjoyed it! Thanks so much to everyone for the kind and encouraging reviews. I remain completely flattered by your comments:) Hope this chapter has a little bit of what everyone is looking for, for the end of a whump story :)…

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It took everything Elizabeth had not to run, as she swiftly made her way down the long corridors towards the infirmary. Halfway there, she met up with the team escorting John's stretcher down the hallway, following behind Sergeant Harris and Ronon, who gruffly cleared a path through the onlookers. She caught up with Carson and kept pace with him as he walked briskly alongside John's stretcher.

Looking down, Elizabeth got her first look at John and a part of her wished she hadn't. Eyes closed, he was deathly white. Faint hints of moisture lined the oxygen mask over his face; the only indication that he was even alive. Elizabeth glanced up. "Carson?"

"He's not good, Elizabeth," Carson answered tersely. "That's all I know right now."

A quiet groan grabbed Elizabeth's attention and she looked back down, meeting John's glazed expression. Elizabeth pulled on all the strength she had and plastered a reassuring look on her face. "You're home, John. You're going to be fine now."

"Still suck… at bedside manner… Elizabeth."

John's words were slurred and quiet but Elizabeth still understood him. At a loss as to what to say, she settled for a small nod as she gently curled her fingers around his. "John I…" her voice trailed off as he tensed, his hand tightening around hers as a loud grunt and horse cry escaped him. She held tight to his hand as he writhed. "John!"

"For God's sake, can't you give him something?" Rodney demanded loudly as he shot an accusatory look at Carson.

"I did," Carson's voice was tight and his expression stony. "I can't risk any more until we know the full extent of his injuries."

Elizabeth returned John's grip with a firm one of her own as his pants turned into coughs. She inhaled sharply as his expression turned panicked and fixed on hers before his eyes rolled back in his head and his strong hand turned limp in hers. "Carson!"

"Bloody hell!" Carson all but ripped the oxygen mask off John's face and replaced it with an ambu bag as they rounded the last corner and burst into the infirmary.

Elizabeth forced herself to let go of his hand and step back out of the way, as a medical team swarmed the stretcher. Without looking, she felt Rodney, Lorne and Ronon close by, but she couldn't tear her gaze from the tight mass of bodies working feverishly to save John.

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Carson stared for a moment at the intubation tube he'd just placed to breathe for the colonel, before listening intently to his chest. In spite of the significant congestion he heard, the ventilation was as good as it could be. He nodded once, tersely, at the medic who was hand ventilating John. "Good. Hook him up." Carson turned his attention to his chief medic, Carolyn Lansing. "Carolyn," he pointed the bandaged thigh. "cut that away, clean it up and see how it looks." He glanced at Dr. Cole. "Let's get him on broad spectrum antibiotics. I want to start combating that pneumonia. Besides, it's a good proactive treatment for the wound, and for any complications from his leg."

Cole nodded in agreement and immediately set to the task.

Carson turned his attention to Dr. Peterson, who was closely examining John's broken bone and lower leg. "Tom?" Carson edged over next to the orthopedic surgeon.

Peterson sighed, his expression grim. "I've seen worse," he said quietly, "but it's still a mess." He gently pushed on the side of John's ankle. "There's a hell of a lot of tension here. I'm concerned about compartmental pressure. We're going to need to alleviate that and get that bone set. Then we'll see where we are." Peterson looked up at Carson. "The sooner the better."

"Aye," Carson agreed. "We'll monitor his condition as we prep him for surgery. I want to make sure he's stable before we do anything, but I agree. We need to get him into the OR as soon as possible." Carson glanced back at his team. "Dr. Peterson and I are going to scrub. Get him prepped for surgery."

As the team started cutting away the rest of John's clothes and started prepping him, Carson took a moment to look down at the colonel's unconscious face. "Hang in there, son," he said softly, hoping somehow his words would reach John. "We'll get ye fixed up… promise."

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She'd never realized, until today, just how intricate the artwork on each of Atlantis' doors was. But, as the door to the OR stayed closed from one hour to the next, she became more familiar with that artwork then she ever wanted to be.

Elizabeth finally tore her eyes from the door and walked across the infirmary, stopping next to a bed on the other side. She looked down and smiled at Teyla. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you," Teyla responded as she shifted slightly in her bed before wincing. "However," she admitted, "it will be a while longer before I am completely healed."

Elizabeth pressed her lips into a thin smile. "Take your time." Her smile faded as her gaze drifted back to the door to the OR.

"There is no word?"

Teyla's quiet voice grabbed Elizabeth's attention. "No. Not yet."

"His condition is grave, is it not?" Teyla asked quietly.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply and nodded. "Yes. Pneumonia, a severely broken leg… both could…" her voice trailed off.

"He is strong," Teyla reassured quietly. "He will come through this, and we will help him."

Elizabeth couldn't find it within herself to agree, so she settled for silence.

"Elizabeth," Teyla insisted gently. "Have faith in his strength and in Carson's skill. Neither will fail him."

Nodding silently, Elizabeth again looked back at Teyla. "I hope so."

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Carson pulled the scrub cap from his head and ran his fingers through his damp hair before his gaze settled on Sheppard's bed on the other side of the recovery room. Slowly, he walked over to stand next to Doctor Peterson. Carson looked down at John. Intubated, the colonel was still unconscious from anesthesia, but he also would soon be receiving drugs to keep him that way and paralyzed; both making the intubation forced breathing easier. Two IV bags hung over John's head, one straight IV fluids and the other fluids laced with antibiotics. Fever inspired sweat beaded on John's forehead, something Carson hoped the antibiotics would help. His gaze drifted down the colonel's body. Two broken ribs. Luckily, they hadn't inflicted any further damage and would heal without complication, although the colonel would be sore for quite a while. The gash on his thigh had been debrided as best as possible, but was too old for stitches. It'd heal, but John would carry a scar there for the rest of his life.

At last, Carson's gaze settled on the immobilized leg. A cast would come later; when the incisions they'd made to relive compartmental pressure had healed sufficiently. The fracture reduction had been tough, but they'd managed to align the bone to restore full blood flow to the colonel's lower leg and to allow for the bone to hopefully fuse and heal. The verdict was still out on that, as it was for the possibility of tissue damage from compromised blood flow. Carson glanced at Peterson. "What do you think, Tom?"

Peterson sighed deeply. "I don't know, Carson. Twenty hours is a long time to delay a reduction. We won't know if the bone is fusing for at least a week, probably longer. As for tissue damage, we'll have to wait for the anti-inflammatory drugs to kick in and for it to be safe to allow Colonel Sheppard to wake up. If he can move his foot sufficiently; given the fracture location I'd settle for him moving his toes, we'll have our answer."

Carson nodded in agreement. Tom Peterson was one of the world's foremost orthopedic surgeons. If Peterson was cautious, then there was a reason to be. "Aye. That'll be at least a few days. Until he starts responding to the antibiotics and his lung condition improves, I'm keeping him unconscious and intubated."

"Agreed," Peterson said quietly.

Carson looked towards the exit door. "I suspect there are a few people out there waiting for some answers. I best get to it."

"Need some help?" Peterson looked up at Carson.

"No, I'll do it. Thanks." Carson flashed a brief smile at the surgeon before turning and heading out of the OR wing.

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Being like this was wrong.

He pushed against the blackness and fought his way towards the light. Slowly, he became aware of the world around him. The quiet hum of machines, murmur of voices… the antiseptic smell that could only be the infirmary. There was no dirt under his hands. The hard cave wall was replaced by a soft, warm pillow…

He was warm.

He pulled in a sweet breath of air. A faint twinge from his ribs grabbed his attention for a moment, but faded almost immediately. Carefully, he opened his eyes, squinting at the light. His throat was sore but again, the pain was muted, dull… hardly worth noticing.

John slowly turned his head slightly, his gaze fixing on a tumble of dark brown and curly hair flowing over the blankets next to his leg.

Elizabeth… He knew the words had formed on his lips, but was also equally sure no sound ever escaped his mouth. His hand was warm and it was at that moment that he felt her limp fingers circling his. He blinked lazily and a hint of a smile played over his lips. He slowly turned his hand, the small movement monumental for his weak body, and gently squeezed her fingers. "lizabeth…" he whispered.

Elizabeth abruptly lifted her head and inhaled sharply, before she looked down at his hand, her eyes widening. Her gaze met his and she smiled tentatively, almost not believing. "John?"

He tried to find a matching smile, but knew the effort fell short. Still, he could see the relief in her eyes. "…here…" he managed. As her fingers again tightened around his, he finally managed a weak smile.

"Good to see," she said softly, before pushing back from the bed and standing. "Let me find Carson, I won't be long." Giving his hand one, last, squeeze, she let go and swiftly pulled back the privacy curtain.

John pulled in another breath, deeper this time, and coughed weakly. He wrinkled his nose, the feel of the nasal canula strange to him as his senses continued to awaken. He closed his eyes for a moment, the weakness in his body urging him to surrender to sleep, before a rustling around the privacy curtain forced him to open them again. He tried another small smile, this time succeeding the first time, as Carson walked up next to his bed, along with another doctor… Peterson, if John remembered correctly.

Carson's expression was warm. "How ye feeling, son?"

John swallowed. "Weak," he whispered.

"Aye," Carson nodded. "You didn't expect to jump out of bed as soon as you woke up, did ye?"

"Was hopin' so…" A part of John was surprised at how hoarse and feeble his voice sounded. "Elizabeth…?"

Carson's gaze narrowed slightly. "Trust me, none of them are that far away. The whole caboodle of them are waiting outside. I ordered them to stay out there so Dr. Peterson and I could evaluate your condition." He sighed. "Elizabeth wasn't supposed to be here anyway. I had sent her to bed." He shook his head.

John nodded. "How long?"

Carson sighed. "Five days. Three of which you were intubated and we kept you unconscious for that."

"Doesn't feel like five days," John commented absently.

"Felt like five hundred to the rest of us." Carson's rebuke was soft.

"Sorry," John managed, feeling a twinge of guilt as he noticed the weary lines around Carson's eyes.

The reflective, serious look on Carson's face disappeared behind a gentle, dimpled smile. "Don't be. Just glad to see you awake and on the mend."

Mend… John's mind centered on his leg. It felt constricted and suddenly, his memories were triggered. John's small smile faded. "Leg?" His gaze drifted past Carson to Peterson who walked around to the foot of his bed.

"We're about to find out, Colonel," Peterson answered with a thin smile. He pulled back the blanket covering John's feet.

John stared at his toes, and the immobilizing split that surrounded and supported his leg. "No cast?" he rasped before looking back at Carson.

"Not yet, no," Carson answered. "You had significant pressure build up from the trauma and swelling," he explained, "we had to make several incisions to relieve it. You'll get a cast when they've healed enough to stand it."

"Colonel," Peterson caught John's attention again. "I need you to move your toes. Move as much of your foot as you can without causing too much pain, but don't move your lower leg at all and don't flex your knee."

John pulled in an uneven breath and wriggled his toes before moving his ankle. A sharp jab of pain made him hiss, but as quickly as it hit him, it disappeared.

Peterson lifted his hand. "All right, that's enough. Don't push it." He smiled. "That's a good sign, Colonel. Very encouraging."

John coughed weakly and cleared his throat. "Pain's not bad," he muttered as he tried to turn away from the memories that found him. Unbearable pain stealing his breath…

Carson must've seen the shadow of memory in his face because the next thing John knew, a kind and reassuring grip tightened on his shoulder.

John forced the dark shadow to clear from his expression and smiled slightly at Carson. "Happy drugs…"

Carson returned the smile. "Aye, and a healthy dose at that."

John held his gaze. "Thanks, Carson." After a long moment, he shifted his gaze to Peterson, who was tucking the blanket back around John's feet. "You too, Doc."

Peterson paused. "We're not done yet, not by a long shot but… you're welcome." He nodded once at John and then quietly left.

John blinked hard before forcing his eyelids open again, but the effort wasn't lost on Carson.

"Don't fight it," Carson chastised lightly. "Get some sleep. They all can wait to bug you later."

Again, John blinked. Keeping his eyes open was rapidly turning into a significant fight… and one he suspected he was going to lose. His vision was blurry, but he still saw Carson look at his watch and then the medical charts, before walking over to the small table next to John's IV and pulling up a syringe full of medication. "Happy drugs…" John slurred.

Carson's smile widened slightly. "Aye," he answered with a quirk of his eyebrows. He nodded his head at John's increasingly drowsy expression. "You're going to lose that battle son, so stop fighting it." He looked down and injected the medication into the IV port on John's arm.

Warmth was the last thing John felt before he succumbed to unconsciousness.

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He felt as weak as… well… as a newborn kitten. That abruptly turned to irritation at himself first, for thinking of such a cliché and second because it aptly fit his condition… he decided the second reason was far more infuriating. His leg didn't want to support him, his arms didn't either. Hell, his whole body protested and he felt betrayed. "Damn it." He looked up and stared at Carson's expression; a weird cross between exasperation and understanding.

Carson's grip on his arm tightened. "Did ye expect this to be easy?"

"I expected to be able to at least stand on my one, mostly healed leg," John shot back more pissed at himself then Carson. He sighed. "Sorry."

"Aye, I know," Carson responded before placing a crutch under each of John's arms. "Know how to use these?"

"Unfortunately, yes," John answered as he grabbed onto the grips of each crutch.

"Good," Carson smiled. He took a step back but still kept a hand on John's arm. "You need to get up and move around not only to help clear your lungs but to keep some tone in your muscles. You're going to be a long time healing. The rest of your body needs the exercise."

"But I am going to heal?" John asked. He knew the answer but for some reason, needed to hear it again.

"Aye," Carson reassured. "The scan this morning proved it. Your bone is healing, Colonel and so is the rest of your leg. It's going to take a while and a lot of therapy, but you're going to be fine."

John nodded as he lifted the crutches and shifted his weight forward. The large cast on his left leg was cumbersome and heavy but he adapted fast enough. His right leg was stiff, especially his thigh where the arrow wound was still healing, but it was a good stiffness, one that hurt but still felt good to work through. Part of John turned cynical. He knew he'd beat himself up too many times when he started to be able to tell the difference between "good" pain and "bad" pain. He took another step and stopped, feeling more than seeing Carson nearby, hovering like some mother hen. John's brows quirked. Given how weak he felt, Carson's protectiveness might not be a bad thing.

John looked up, watching as the door opened to admit Ronon, Teyla and Rodney. "Hi guys," he smiled.

"Hi yourself," Rodney answered. "Should you be out of bed?"

"Considering Carson is right here with me, I'd say yes, I should," John replied in a deadpan voice, amusement creeping into him at Rodney's decidedly uncomfortable look.

"Yes, well… good point." Rodney shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Ronon walked up next to John and took a position opposite of Carson. "Good to see you up," he smiled slightly.

John returned the expression. "Good to be up," he inhaled sharply as he wobbled slightly before regaining his balance. "I think…" He looked down, arching an eyebrow at Ronon's hand which was wrapped firmly around his bicep.

"Only a little more, Colonel, then back to bed," Carson insisted.

John looked away from Ronon, spotting Teyla who stood a short distance away. His gaze narrowed. She had a stiffness about her normally graceful bearing; the product of her own ordeal and healing he suspected. Gone was the midriff shirt in favor of a waist length long sleeved one, presumably, hiding the light bandage she still wore over her healing wound. John slowly crutched his way over to her.

Stopping in front of Teyla he looked down at her and smiled. "Good to see you up and about too."

Teyla's lips parted into a broad grin. "Yes, it is good to be on my feet again. Carson has cleared me for light duty as long as I don't over exert myself."

"Aye, and I'm watching you closely, lass," Carson added, the warning tone in his voice still light.

John nodded. "Looks like we're both out of commission for a while yet."

"Yeah, well I think Teyla will be back to kicking alien ass before you are," Rodney interjected. "Unless you plan to club attacking Wraith with your crutches."

Never taking his gaze from Teyla, John arched a mischievous eyebrow before swinging his crutch and whacking Rodney in the shin. "Like that?"

"Ow!" Rodney jumped back and glared. "What the hell was that for?"

Not having the crutch right under him wrecked havoc on John's balance, but Ronon immediately steadied him. John turned his impish look to Rodney. "You're kidding right? After three years here, you had that coming in spades, McKay."

Rodney's annoyance intensified. "Fine. See if I come visit you again." He abruptly turned and stalked out of the infirmary.

John quirked his brows. "He'll be back."

"Aye and you'll be in bed," Carson pulled slightly on John's arm. "Come on, back to bed with ye."

John's protest died on his lips as he felt both Carson and Ronon pull carefully, but insistently on his arms helping him turn and crutch back to his bed. He'd never admit it, but he felt relieved and bone tired when he finally laid down and settled back against the pillows. He was tired, but it was a good tired; a healing tired. Each day he knew he'd get stronger. He'd come this far and he wouldn't give up now. "Enjoy the time off while you have it, you two," he said quietly as his eyelids grew heavy. "Before you know it, we'll be chasing the bad guys again." John let his eyes slowly close.

"We better be."

As sleep crept over John, he tried to decide if Ronon was agreeing or threatening him. But, as sleep finally took hold of him, he decided it really didn't matter. He was just content to hear it.

The End:)