Wrong Turn
by
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Disclaimers:Stargate SG-1 and its characters are properties of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions and Gekko Productions. Much to my sorrow, I think that precludes me claiming any of the characters. Original characters, situations and story are the property of the author and are not to be appropriated without the permission of the author. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only; no money will be made with it. Trust me. No money.
Wrong Turn
Crossover: SG-1/Profiler
How long? Must be at least a day. They'd fed him twice, and his stomach was growling irritably at him. He'd slept uneasily for some indeterminate time. And the bristly growth on his chin seemed consistent with missing one morning's shave.
Angrily, John tugged against the chain. The objections from his scoured palms attested to his ineffectual earlier attempts. The damned thing remained firmly attached, both to the wall and to the shackle on his ankle, fraying and staining the fine fabric of his expensive slacks with the dirty red of iron rust. Double damn. At least the chain was long enough to allow pacing.
The worst of this stupid situation was, he still had no idea what it was all about. He'd walked out of his apartment building into the fine sunshine of an Atlanta morning, felt an insect bite, a bit of dizziness… and then he'd been here. No one responded to his questions. They just fed him and left.
Fed him. He chuckled grimly. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Couldn't even spring for Chinese.
He jerked himself to his feet at the racket outside the locked room. Abruptly, the door slammed open and a man he hadn't seen before shoved a gun barrel through the opening.
"Back, Fibbie. Against the wall. You twitch, and you'll spend what's left of your life with only one workable knee."
John backed slowly until he felt the wall against his shoulders. His brows arched as the two grunts he'd already met staggered into the room, carrying a limp body between them. His eyes widened further as he noted the heavies' states of health. Both looked more than a bit battered. Blond Grunt had a beautiful shiner in development. He was definitely favoring his right leg. Bald Grunt had an egg on the side of his head that looked ready to hatch, and the fingers of his left hand were braced and wrapped.
Unfortunately, the man they dropped unceremoniously to the floor looked worse. He was barely conscious, face bruised, left arm obviously broken. And despite his lack of true awareness, he moaned slightly as his body hit the floor, and curled reflexively onto his side, shaking. He'd obviously been thoroughly beaten.
Blond Grunt and Bald Grunt stood panting, staring resentfully down at the limp body between their feet. Snarling, Blond Grunt drew back a booted foot, obviously intending to deliver one final assault.
"Evers!" The sharp voice of a fourth man arrested Blond Grunt as his foot began its swing. Grudgingly, he aborted the kick, moving away from the battered body on the floor.
"What the hell did you two think you were doing! I sent you on a simple pickup! A scientist, for God's sake. A fuckin' archaeologist!"
"Yeah, well this guy don't behave like any science geek I ever heard of! Shoulda let us use the tranque gun."
"Damnit, you knew this was a special order. The buyer wanted him in good shape. I know this concept is a bit beyond you two, but he wants this kid for his brain, you idiots. So why the hell did you do your best to beat it to a pulp?"
"Hey, he fought back, Campbell! Broke my fingers. ‘Bout shoved Bobby's eye right through his head. You said this was gonna be an easy collection. We're gonna expect a bit of extra for hazard!"
"Extra! You'll be lucky if I pay you for this one at all! The buyer will be here early this afternoon. He is not going to be happy!"
He gestured sharply, ushering the Grunt twins out the door ahead of him. Gun Man backed out and slammed the door behind him.
John moved swiftly to the prone man, dropping to his knees and carefully turning the shaking body onto its back.
"Hey! Morons! This kid needs a doctor!" No response. "Hey! You want him to die?"
The door slammed open again, and Gun Man tossed an assortment of medical supplies on top of the new prisoner's body.
"You fibbies know this stuff. You worried about him, do what you can. But don't get attached. We got a nibble for you; you'll probably be out of here soon."
Shit, he was beginning to get a handle on what was going on around here. There were probably plenty of folks out there who'd like to get their hands on a member of an elite FBI task force. But who was in the market for an archaeologist, for heaven's sake?
Carefully, he did his best to determine how badly the young man was hurt. And he was young. Under the bruises, his features had the soft, gentle look of youth. And damn, but they'd beaten the shit out of him. His eyes were unfocussed, expression vague other than the tension due to pain.
They'd tossed John some towels, a bottle of water, and a pile of gauze and tape. No drugs. Bastards. Gently, he cleaned and bandaged scrapes and cuts, restraining the man's periodic attempts to push him away.
When he was finished, he sat back with a sigh, gazing down at the sweat-sheened face and clenched eyes. The kid had collected several clouts to the head—probably explaining why, other than a few moans and whimpers and the sporadic escape attempts, he was still pretty out of it. John hoped none of them was really serious, though that right eye was going to be a prize winner. He had nothing to splint the broken arm; he'd done his best to immobilize it against the man's chest. And that was another problem. He was pretty sure he'd detected some rib damage. Broken, he thought. The young man wasn't going to be feeling more comfortable for quite a while.
Best if the kid just passed out and stayed unconscious. Especially since, unless John's team got busy and got them out of this, the future didn't look too bright for either of them.
Soft sounds from the other man distracted him from his depressing thoughts.
"Hey, kid. Easy… easy." He kept his voice low and gentle.
"Mnn. Uh…" Bruised, twitching eyelids lifted, revealing dazed blue eyes. "… jack…?"
A dart of apprehension tickled John's gut. He leaned close to the man's face, trying to force a connection with unfocussed eyes. "Jack? What about Jack?"
The battered face crumpled into a distressed, confused expression. Blue eyes squinted at John's face. Abruptly, they widened, and the boy jerked his body away from John. He emitted a high, sharp cry as he twisted his damaged ribs and jarred his arm, then his body relaxed as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Damn. Okay, no need to jump to any conclusions, here. There were a lot of Jacks in the world. And they weren't all crazy, obsessed serial killers.
But… damn.
*****
John's head snapped up as footsteps once again echoed outside their door. Carefully, he slid his leg out from under his injured cell-mate's head, stroking the man's cheek to still his moan of pain. The kid had only been out for a few minutes, but John still hadn't gotten any sensible words out of him.
Once again, Gun Man was the first through the door, playing the same role.
"Back, Fibbie. All the way to the wall."
Reluctantly, John obeyed. His spine was twanging with tension. He was sure they'd come for the kid, and the supposed archaeologist was in no shape for more mistreatment.
The fourth man—the Boss—ushered a new player into the room.
"We picked him up as he walked out of the hotel this morning. He was a bit… difficult."
The new man stood in the doorway, keeping his back to the light in the hall and his face in shadow. He was thin, medium height, with close cropped hair and an expensive suit. That was about all John could really see.
"What the hell is this, Campbell?" The fury in his low voice was almost palpable. "I told you I was purchasing the man for what was in his head! It looks to me like you haven't left much of that intact!"
"You also told us he was a goddam professor! We had no idea he'd fight back like that. He damaged two of my collection staff!"
"This is not my concern. You were given an explicit order; you've obviously failed to deliver what you promised." For fifteen frustrated seconds, the man stared down at the battered prisoner. "I have no use for him in this condition."
"He… well… all he needs is a bit of time to recover."
John risked speaking up. "He needs a damned doctor!"
"Shut up, Grant!" Boss's voice was shrill with anger. He drew a deep breath and ran his hand through his thinning hair. Then, with studied calm, he addressed the buyer. "He can still give you what you want."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's very possible that you've damaged what I want beyond repair."
"But…"
"But, I'm willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself. I will return in three days. Get him medical help. Show me that his mind is fully capable, and I will complete the transaction… for one half of the originally agreed upon price."
"Half! He's already cost us more than we'd planned! And we'll have to take care of him for three extra days! And medical… who pays for that? We should up the charge!"
"Oh, I don't think so. If you had done your jobs competently in the first place, you wouldn't have accrued extra expense. Half the original price. Take it or leave it."
Pivoting on his heel, the buyer swept out of the dingy room. The still objecting Boss trailed after, hands flailing ineffectually as he whined. Gun Man backed out and pulled the door shut. The snick of the lock was loud in the stillness of their cage.
John shook his head. What the hell could they want this kid for? Want him enough to be willing to renegotiate on the chance that his mind was undamaged by the battering he'd received. Surely there were plenty of archaeologists out there just waiting to be kidnapped. What was so special about this one?
He sank back to his knees, brushing sweaty hair back from his nameless companion's hot forehead. He'd saved a cup of water from his last meal. After doing his best to scrub off two fingers on his shirttail, he dipped them into the tepid water and slicked it across the other man's cracked lips.
"Hey, kid. How you doing?"
To his surprise, he felt movement under his fingers. A tongue tip tickled his skin. Flickering lashes revealed slits of blue, gazing fuzzily at his own face.
"Wh…who? I…" The voice was scratchy and weak. Gently, John lifted the man's head onto his own leg, and carefully tilted the paper cup to dribble a few drops of water into the other man's mouth. An eager tongue slid over full lips, savoring the moisture. "Wh… Jack?"
"Ah, kid… We've got to talk a bit about that… "
The sharp sound of gunfire interrupted. John stiffened his back, listening desperately. He eased the other man's head back to the floor, and lurched to his feet.
"Damn. Bailey, that better be you!"
John's gaze flicked around the room, looking for anything he could use for defense. Nothing. And things were getting immediate. The abrupt increase in volume signaled the eruption of the conflict into the region of their cell.
The door crashed open as John flung his body down over his helpless cellmate, trying to ignore the cry of pain from beneath him.
"John?"
For just a moment, he couldn't move a muscle. Then he carefully rolled off the once-again-unconscious body, letting the sight of his commander wash relief through his body.
"Bailey. About damn time! I can't tell you how sick I am of this ankle bracelet."
Bailey smiled grimly down at him, gesturing the man behind him toward the manacle.
"I think we can take care of that." The older man stepped into the bare room. "Who's your friend?"
"Hell if I know. They dumped him in here a few hours ago. Let me guess… the Morons who grabbed me are in the ‘sale' business. We have definitely been treated as merchandise, right from the start. The kid was apparently a special order."
"From whom?"
"No idea, though the buyer was here shortly before you moved in. There was a bit of a hot time when he discovered how much the Morons had damaged his ‘goods.'"
"Hmm." Bailey's rough skinned hands were carefully examining the damage. "It does seem that they've been a bit thorough with someone they considered valuable."
John smiled, feeling a whisper of vicarious smugness. "Apparently they had more on their hands than they anticipated. You check out Blond Grunt and Bald Grunt… I didn't do that damage. They took me down meek as a kitten. Helpless Mr. Nameless Pushover here apparently objected to being kidnapped."
"Oh, yeah?" Bailey's brows rose in surprise. "He doesn't look very dangerous. No clue as to who he is or why they wanted him?"
"No idea. He's been conscious, but pretty out of touch with the real world--drifted in and out a couple of times, but… well, he's really only said one thing I could figure out."
"And that was…?"
"'Jack.' He said it twice. Just ‘Jack.'"
Bailey's face darkened. "Any reason to believe he's talking about…"
"None. And I can't see how… The Moron company out there said he was an archaeologist, for God's sake. What would an archaeologist have to do with… our… Jack?"
Bailey shook his head. "Let's see if we can get him out of here. He's been handled pretty roughly. Whatever connection he does or doesn't have to Jack of all Trades, his first stop is the hospital."
Movement at the door brought both their heads up. Dr. Samantha Waters stood for a moment, the back-lighting turning her blond hair into a halo. Then she moved quickly to John's side. Dropping to her knees, she hugged him tightly.
"You okay?" The characteristic breathless quality of her voice was a bit more exaggerated than usual. "Not hurt?"
He wrapped an arm around her waist, squeezing tightly. "Fine. Really, really tired of Kentucky Fried Chicken, but otherwise just fine."
"Sam…?"
Startled, they all dropped their gazes to the man on the floor. His eyes were open again, squinting to focus on Sam's face. His expression was puzzled. Weakly, his right hand lifted to reach toward her.
"Sam?"
Bailey's body stiffened. "One coincidence I could buy."
John shook his head. "Bailey, I really don't think…"
Sam's face was also puzzled. "Who is this? How does he know my name?"
Bailey lifted his hand to silence them. He leaned over the confused young man.
"Son, I need you to tell me your name."
Blue eyes fixed on his face; confusion gave way to suspicion.
"Wh… who are you?"
"You first."
A weak shake of his head brought a flash of pain to the battered face. "No."
John slipped his hand under the man's rounded chin, gently urging that hardening gaze toward his own eyes.
"Come on, kid. We're friends here. Who are you?"
Full lips tightened; eyes closed stubbornly.
John met Bailey's gaze. He watched resolve harden as the ambulance personnel noisily erupted into the room.
"This man is in FBI custody." His implacable voice allowed no disagreement. "I'll be sending an agent with him; he is not to leave the patient's side. Understood?"
The two white-uniformed men exchanged a glance, shrugged, and moved to the battered man's side.
*****
"Anything, George?" Bailey Malone struggled to balance his cup of dreadful hospital coffee, hunching his shoulder to trap the cell phone against his ear.
"Well, kind of. I mean, what I haven't got is pretty interesting."
"So what haven't you got?"
"I started a search on his prints, and we touched somewhere. Set off all sorts of alarm bells and flashing warning notices. When the computer settled down, I got a blank screen, then a simple notice that I'd attempted to breach a high security fire wall."
"High security? Whose high security?"
"Well, it wasn't exactly advertising, but I've been able to figure out that it's probably military—maybe Air Force, though I'm not sure. And I can't get past it."
"What the hell does the Air Force have to do with an archaeologist, for God's sake?"
"Don't know. But you asked me to find out why your perps wanted him in the first place. I'd take a wild guess and suggest that we've just hit the other end of that same question. I can't find any way around this lockout… and there's something else…"
"Don't keep me hanging, Georgie. Something else?"
"Yeah. I'm almost certain that, while all the bells and whistles were getting all the security monitors around here in an uproar, we got hacked. I'm betting that someone, somewhere knows we were after info on this guy, and probably has a good notion who and where we are."
"Damn. I thought you didn't let that sort of thing happen, George."
"Man, whoever trapped us was really good. They nabbled us fast and direct. Don't be surprised if the Air Force comes calling."
*****
"Yes! Can you pin that down, Sergeant?"
"Got it, ma'am."
**click**"Sir? Our trap just caught a fly."**click**
**click**" Finally! Get me a location, Major!"**click
*****
"So, Doc, am I gonna live?"
Looking at John over the top of his glasses, the doctor calmly continued his notations.
"You're a bit dehydrated, and you'll need to follow my instructions on the care of the abrasions on that ankle, but I'd say your life isn't in imminent danger."
"So you won't be keeping him, then."
John smiled up at Malone as the other man stepped past the curtain into the examination cubicle.
"I'm just fine, like I told you. He's got no grounds to lock me up."
The doctor's lips quirked in amused agreement.
"Get him out of here. We need the space for sick folks."
John pulled his sock carefully up over the bandaging on his ankle, tied his shoe, and slid his feet to the floor.
"How's my roommate doing, Bailey?"
John allowed Malone to usher him out of the curtained alcove and down the hall toward the elevator. "Not so well. He's not being exactly cooperative. And George can't get an ID on him."
"Oh, I bet that hurts. Not everyone is actually filed into those databases he loves so much."
"That's not the problem. According to George, as soon as he got close someone somewhere—probably associated with the Air Force—shut him down. Apparently our mystery archaeologist isn't your every-day scientist."
John shook his head ruefully. "I guess that much was obvious. What the hell kind of archaeologist attracts the attention of people like this mob? And what could the Air Force want with an archaeologist? What about the little business operation you broke up?"
Malone smiled grimly. "Oh, I think we're going to get a lot of mileage out of that. The four men involved aren't talking yet, but they will. Sam's working on them. And their ‘business' records apparently make very interesting reading. Unfortunately, both the merchandise and the customers are recorded by code, rather than name. You're JGFBI, by the way. And your friend is DJSGC, whatever the hell that means. Assuming they used the same code for him as for you, the first two letters should be his initials. But I haven't a ghost of an idea what SGC might mean. But we'll get it."
John sneered slightly. "Oh, yeah. No way those grunts are going to be able to keep their mouths shut. They'll crack. I'd really like to know who the guy was who came to collect the kid. He was pretty spooky. Wish he hadn't stayed in the door—the light was behind him. I never got even a poor look at his face. I'd really like to spend some quality time with a man who's so cool about purchasing another human being!"
They exited the elevator on the sixth floor, heading automatically for the room with the guard at the door.
"Bizarre as this whole setup is, your roomy is still the strangest aspect of it. He's not local… we figured out enough from his entries in their books to realize that they kidnapped him from a hotel. I've got George looking for missing hotel guests, but you said they only brought him in earlier today, so his disappearance might not have been noted yet. And that's not the sort of thing hotels are generally happy to divulge anyway. We're going to have to convince our man to talk…"
Malone broke off as they became aware of the noises emanating from the room. They could hear a man's insistent voice, and frantic, shaky objections which could only come from John's archaeologist.
Frowning, Malone jerked the door open,. John peered over Bailey's shoulder, watching the unequal struggle going on in the stark little room. The injured man's adversary was apparently a doctor. He looked frustrated and annoyed, but not threatening.
"What's going on here?" The doctor looked up, arrested by the sharp command in the FBI director's voice. The young man in the bed took the opportunity to knock the syringe out of the man's hand, sending it flying across the bed and onto the floor.
"No!" His voice was high with strain. "No drugs! I don't want any drugs!"
"Hey, man. Easy does it." John slid past Malone and stepped up to the bedside. "Relax; we're the good guys."
Unfocussed blue eyes stared up at him from an ashen face. The pillowcase was hardly whiter than the unbruised skin on the kid's cheeks.
"I… Wh… who are you? I think… I remember you. But…" His eyes squeezed shut as a shudder of pain shook his body. "What is this p… place? I th… Wasn't J… Jack…?"
For a long moment, he wrestled with the pain. When he spoke again, his shaking voice was uncompromising. "I won't let you give me drugs. No drugs. And I want Jack!"
John exchanged a glance with the doctor. "Look, kid, you're pretty beat up. This ‘place' is a hospital. The doctor here just wants to fix you up—set that arm, for instance. You're not going to like it if he does that without giving you something for the pain."
"No drugs!" He lay motionless, breathing harsh and obviously painful. "No d…drugs." The repeated words were whispered. His eyes were fluttering, exhaustion warring with pain. "Wh…where's Jack?"
Bailey touched John's shoulder, motioning him aside. "Son, we'd appreciate it if you'd tell us your name. Who do we need to contact? This Jack, for instance…"
The kid forced his eyes open, gazing at Malone with obvious suspicion. "Not until I know who you are and why you brought me here."
John and Malone exchanged a surprised look. "We didn't bring you here." Malone pulled out his I.D. "Like John told you, we're the good guys."
Blue eyes squinted at the card. "FBI? I… You…" Tired eyes slid shut as relief swept over the battered features. "… good guys…" And he slid into sleep.
Malone straightened, mouth tight with irritation. "Still no name, dammit."
"And still no permission to medicate!" The doctor was clearly upset. "He's refused to sign anything, and he's competent enough that we can't give him anything as long as he's refusing. He really needs treatment!"
"Do what you can, doctor. If you can get him to agree, set the arm and take care of whatever else you can without permission. And John…" he glanced at his subordinate. "Get a damned name!" With an abrupt gesture in John's direction, Malone stalked out the door. Easily interpreting his instructions, John dragged the plastic chair out of the corner and settled down to watch his archaeologist sleep.
*****
"Got it, Major. Atlanta. Hoooleee shit! Check this!"
"What the…! Oh, Sir. We just found him. Guess who's got him…"
"Shit! What the hell is the FBI doing messing with my archaeologist!"
*****
The sleep hadn't lasted long. Once the doctor and his assistants started messing with his body, the mystery man came to wide-eyed attention. Rather noisy wide-eyed attention. John could see the impulse to refuse any treatment trembling on the man's lips, but in the end he acquiesced to setting the arm.
The proceeding activities left him shaking and sweat-drenched. And still stubbornly refusing any kind of pain medication. In response to persistent pressure from the doctor, he finally gave reluctant permission to an injection of antibiotics. But his suspicion as the nurse depressed the plunger on the syringe was palpable.
When the medics finally departed with the grisly remains of their activities, John sank gratefully back into his uncomfortable chair. Shit. Perspiring in sympathetic agony, he closed his eyes and puffed out a long breath. Deliberately, he relaxed his clenched fists and evened out his breathing.
Opening his eyes, he leaned close to the trembling man in the bed. "Hey, buddy."
Shocky blue eyes stared up at him. "I… I'm so con… confused." His voice was faint and uncertain. "What…? I… Where's Jack? And… and Sam."
John grimaced. "I really need you to tell me your name, Kid. D.J., right?"
Suspicion flared again in those brilliant eyes. The bruised face tightened, crumpled slightly. Then the man rolled his head away, pinning his gaze on the far wall. "I want Jack."
"Kid?"
Long lashes lowered obstinately as "D.J." tilted his head a fraction further. He didn't speak.
Damn.
*****
Malone yawned as he walked tiredly down the hall toward the hospital's arid waiting room. The day that had started with the relatively straightforward rescue of a kidnapped agent had developed into a long stretch of frustrating puzzles. Hopefully, his team would have some solutions for him.
Massaging the back of his neck with the fingers of his left hand, he flipped open his cell-phone and speed dialed George's station.
"Give me good news, Georgie."
"I don't know if this is good or not, but it is news. We've been contacted by the Air Force. Actually, I think I could say we've been kind of strong-armed by the Air Force. They know where you are, and where their man is. You can expect…"
Abruptly, Malone became aware of the snap of the lounge door as a man strode angrily into the room. He looked up to find a pair of fierce, glinting brown eyes fixed immovably in his direction.
"Hold on, George. I've got it."
Maintaining eye contact with the uniformed stranger, he disconnected and pocketed the phone.
"What the hell have you been doing to my archaeologist?"
Malone's brows arched in surprise. Direct.
"And who might you be?"
"O'Neill. Colonel, U.S. Air Force. And I want to know what's going on here. Now!"
"Well, Colonel O'Neill, we'll consider answering some of your questions when we get answers to a couple of ours."
"You get squat until I know where Doctor Jackson is, and we've assessed the state of his health. You Fibbies think a lot of yourselves, but you'll find my orders have it all over any muscle you may have. Now where's my man?"
Malone was peripherally aware of John slipping through the door behind the colonel, but he didn't abandon the stare-down. There were issues of power here, and he had no intention of backing down. No arrogant military grunt was going to push the FBI around.
"Colonel, we have reason to believe that, somehow, the man you're claiming as ‘yours' is mixed up in a long-running case involving a psychotic serial killer."
O'Neill's brows spiked upward. "How the hell do you figure…?"
"That's classified information." Malone smiled grimly at gaining an edge. "But until we know the extent of his involvement, he stays here."
"Involvement! Since when? He's only been in this goddam city for three days. And believe me, I can account for pretty much every minute of the last five years of his life up to those three days. You don't get to put him in the middle of any investigation; he belongs to me, and to the U.S. Air Force. So ditch this crap and take me to him. Right damned now!"
"Look O'Neill…" Malone broke off as a strong hand gripped his shoulder.
"Ah, Bailey… I don't think… I'm pretty sure we're jumping at shadows, here." John's soft voice murmured into his ear. "That kid's got nothing to do with Jack. I'm sure of it."
O'Neill scowled at John. "Ah… What about Jack?"
"John, you know how bizarre some of Jack's connections have been. We can't afford to pass up anything that looks like it ties to him. The coincidences are enough."
"I don't think they are, Bailey." John flicked his hand in front of Malone's face to catch his eye, then gestured vaguely toward O'Neill's chest.
Brow wrinkling in puzzlement, Bailey glanced over at the officer's uniform. And finally read the name badge on his pocket flap. ‘J. O'Neill.'
John moved between the other two men, facing O'Neill. He gestured toward the stitched name flash. "Jack?"
O'Neill stared at him a moment, then nodded his head sharply. "Yeah. So?"
"So, I think you've just explained away most of our coincidence." John turned back to Malone. The older man growled stubbornly, then yielded.
"All right, John. Looks like you're right."
O'Neill shook his head slightly, forced patience tightening his features. "So. Now that we've apparently…" he shook his hand in sarcastic cooperation, "… figured something out here, will you please get off your stuffy butts and give me back my archaeologist?"
Malone nodded to John. "Take him. Maybe the stupid kid will let them give him that medication, now."
<<<<<>>>>>
"Medication?" John winced at the hard anger in O'Neill's hard voice. "We've been standing here arguing while Daniel's hurting?"
"I think he'll be okay. Just pretty beat up."
"Who the hell beat him up? If I discover that your people laid a hand on him, I'm going to personally remove that hand!"
"No, no, no. Not us. Actually… well, I'll explain later. After you've seen him.
John quietly opened the guarded door and peeked in. The battered man was apparently sleeping. He touched his finger to pursed lips as he stood back for O'Neill to enter.
The colonel moved quickly into the room and to the bedside.
"Danny?" The name was whispered. John's eyes widened at the radical change in the man. This gentle, anxious attitude was at drastic odds with the hard man who'd stood toe to toe with Bailey Malone.
Eyelids fluttered. "J… jack?" Hope warred with uncertainty in the weak voice. "'s you?"
"Who else, Danny. Damn, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" The words were scolding, but the voice was soft and tender.
The relief and sudden happiness in the bruised face settled any residual slivers of doubt John might have felt.
"Colonel? You might try to convince him to let the doctors do their thing. He's been refusing medication."
O'Neill shook his head affectionately. "For a genius, you're a dope, Doctor Jackson. And the world's most goddam stubborn man."
Warm brown eyes still locked on hazy blue ones, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. "Carter? Got him. Sixth floor. Bring Frasier."
"More of your people?"
"Oh, yeah. And make sure none of your goons give them any grief. One of them's his doctor." He waved the phone at the man in the bed. "And the other… well, let's say you'd better not get in her way. Oh, and you better get one of the local docs in here; Frasier'll want to talk them, I'm sure."
John nodded and stepped out of the room, flagging a nurse to ask her to page the young doctor who'd been wrestling with their nameless victim. No, that wasn't right. Not nameless. D.J. Danny… Daniel Jackson. Doctor Daniel Jackson.
He rolled the name around on his tongue, then nodded. Felt right. He was smiling as the elevator chimed and opened to emit two determined, focused women, both in Air Force uniforms.
"Uh… Major?" John intercepted the taller of them. "You looking for Colonel O'Neill?"
Flint-hard blue eyes assessed him. "We're actually looking for Daniel Jackson."
He smiled. Damn. She was a looker. Both of them were lookers. "Same thing right now. You the doctor?"
"Actually, we're both doctors." The smaller woman stepped forward firmly. "But I'm the one you're looking for. Doctor Jackson has been my patient for several years. Now, where is he, and where is the physician in charge of his case?"
John stepped back and gestured toward Daniel Jackson's room. As the two women stepped past him, the tall major was momentarily backlit by the elevator light, blond hair turned into a glowing nimbus around her shapely head. With a shock of recognition, John slotted another piece of the Daniel Jackson puzzle into place.
As he reached out and caught her shoulder, she pivoted sharply to face him. His eyes zeroed in on her name flash, and he smiled smugly.
Looking up, he met her eyes. "Sam, right?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "Yes. Samantha. Have we met?"
"Ah, no. Just… just a coincidence."
With a puzzled smile, she stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and hurried eagerly after the small doctor.
He shook his head as he watched them nearly run into the dim room. Just a coincidence.