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Things had been chaotic since the expedition’s arrival at Atlantis. If Elizabeth was honest with herself, chaotic was more than an understatement, but to be able to think things through that seriously she would have to have a few uninterrupted hours alone, something which even now wasn’t in her immediate future.
She’d like to think that the stabilisation of power–both in terms of ZPMs and the civilian-military… disagreements–would allow them all that moment to breathe, but somehow it only meant more meetings and more paperwork.
The SGC were… not demanding exactly, but strongly requesting regular check-ins from all the department heads, which meant regular meetings with all the department heads, which meant herding them around the city and forcing them to work slightly more consistently with slightly more oversight.
It was in one of these meetings, while doing her best to appear attentive without losing precious time which could be spent filling out some form or other, that an alert popped up at the top of her screen.
CONFIDENTIAL, it read. And: RE: RE: RE: MEDICAL HISTORIES.
It was the latest in a chain of correspondence between Elizabeth and the SGC’s records department back on Earth, regarding, as the email suggested, the medical records of her team.
She hadn’t been able to turn down Dr Beckett’s request. Not when he made it over Colonel Sheppard’s semi-conscious body, hands coated in his blood, not when it might mean the difference between life and death for the people most vital to the success of this mission.
And it wasn’t as if she could ask him to wade through the red tape himself. Free time was something only the doctor had in shorter supply than herself.
Red tape was one thing the military never seemed to run out of. It had taken a real-time conversation with one of the records clerks to confirm that she did, in fact, want the entirety of Colonel Sheppard’s medical history, yes, all of the sealed sections needed to be unsealed. And–did she want all of them, or only the relevant sections? Yes, she did want all of them, surely the whole file is relevant, and no, it did not matter how many strings had to be pulled to get some sections unsealed. The conversation had somehow taken five minutes, wormhole open, and Elizabeth had been very aware–thank you, Rodney–of exactly how much power it had drained.
It was something she would do for any member of the expedition, of course, but… She couldn’t exactly be blamed for caring about these people, could she?
Either way, Cavanaugh’s report to McKay had lost all grip in her mind as soon as the alert popped up. She pulled up the attachments, mindlessly starting to open them to check she’d been sent the right documents before sending them on to Dr Beckett.
Then stopped. These were confidential for a reason, even those without any classified sections. She waited until she could return to her office and shut the door before opening the files.
Lorne’s read exactly how she’d expected, physically fit his whole life with the exception of the usual consequences of military and/or adolescent risk taking.
McKay’s allergy list was both extensive and heavily annotated. His most recent doctor before Beckett had made it abundantly clear that most of the entries were listed at Rodney’s own insistence, and should be taken as mild intolerances at most. There were a few psychologists’ notes from throughout Rodney’s lifetime attached, which Elizabeth skipped past partially for the sake of Rodney’s privacy and partially because she couldn’t face knowing exactly how long Rodney had been… well. Rodney.
The other high level scientists’ and military personnel’s files were in order, and she sent each to Beckett as she cleared them.
She opened John’s file last.
It was the largest file, easily twice the size of even Rodney’s not insignificant medical history. Neither that nor the high number of flags marking previously sealed or classified sections surprised her; John didn’t speak much of his time in the military before that fateful day in the arctic, but what she had heard suggested that many of the orders he received were kept far away from public knowledge.
That wasn’t to say nothing in the file surprised her. In fact, with the document ordered chronologically, the first shock came only a few pages in.
John’s file started like all the others: a brief summary of his occupational health check pre-Atlantis. It was followed by notes about his birth–John Sheppard arrived early into the world; his doctors expressed concern over his chances of survival, then, after a few weeks touch-and-go, almost smug relief at the pace by which he improved.
There were vaccination records, a case of chickenpox. A chest infection at the age of three, the hospital visit, which had been logged a few days after Christmas, coming a few days later than it should have, according to his doctor.
The first shock came with the first note in the margins that read: PREVIOUSLY SEALED.
According to the file clerk’s message, this note meant the information contained had been sealed by someone outside of the military, and not through official channels. The message made it clear that these sections–marked SEALED not CLASSIFIED or REDACTED–were what had required such extensive string-pulling to access, and that it had taken extensive overtime on the clerk’s part for which they had not been reimbursed.
Elizabeth, eying the stack of papers on her desk wearily, could sympathise, to an extent.
An extent that disappeared entirely once she had read the previously sealed sections in question.
The doctor’s notes about John’s broken arm hadn’t been sealed, nor the copy of the x-ray or the prescription for painkillers. In fact, it took her a few minutes to find the two small sections which had been.
The first noted simply that the prescription had never been filled. The second were two sentences from the doctor’s notes, which stated that, along with a broken arm, a five-year-old John Sheppard had shown up with finger-shaped bruising on his wrist, and that a flag had been put in the system to advise that if the patient show up again, he should be checked for signs of abuse.
This flag, the margin of the document told her, had been removed from the system mere days later.
The next entry was similarly pruned, a boisterous young boy with a black eye and bruised ribs seeming innocuous compared to the now unsealed x-rays showing a history of repeated rib fractures that had never been treated at any hospital, compared to the doctor’s note expressing concerns about “the parents’ controlling and punitive behaviour towards the patient, including verbal abuse criticising the patient’s pain responses during the physical examination and ensuring he was never alone with hospital staff”.
By this entry, John Sheppard had been seven years old. By the next, it was his abnormal lack of response to pain that the doctor noted as unusual. He was apparently a “surprisingly polite young boy considering the problem behaviour that clearly resulted in his injuries”.
Elizabeth snapped her head up from the screen to her door. Someone had knocked. She slammed the laptop shut. Teyla. It was Teyla.
Her throat was thick when she tried to speak, so she cleared it.
“Come in,” she said.
“Please excuse the interruption, Dr Weir, but I was on my way to find Dr McKay and I couldn’t help noticing your distress when I walked past your office. Is everything alright?”
“My distress?” Elizabeth blinked, confused.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
Teyla looked at it, pointedly but with kindness in her eyes, “Something has clearly upset you.” Elizabeth started to speak, but Teyla continued before she could do more than open her mouth. “I’m sure it is none of my business, I simply wish to remind you that, should you so desire, my ear is always open. Your position here in Atlantis is no reason to carry every burden alone.”
At this, another tear betrayed her and followed the first down her face. She choked down a breath that ended up halfway to a sob, hand coming up to cover her mouth briefly before she regained at least some semblance of composure.
She breathed in and out slowly, once, before responding, her tone as professional as she could manage with the words she had just read swimming behind her eyes.
“Thank you, Teyla, for the offer, sincerely, but I’m alright. I think all these long days are just starting to catch up with me.”
Teyla didn’t look convinced, but Elizabeth was counting on her being far too polite to push just yet.
“That is good to hear, Elizabeth.” First name. Teyla was onto her. “My offer remains as long as I am here in Atlantis. Should there be anything you wish to discuss-”
“This isn’t something I can discuss with you, Teyla.” A look of hurt crossed Teyla’s face, as if Elizabeth had somehow revealed a lack of trust. “It’s nothing to do with you, I swear, it’s just… it involves private information about another member of this expedition, and I should really speak to them directly.”
Teyla nodded, “Of course. I shall let you continue, then.”
Elizabeth nodded. As soon as Teyla had gone, she scrambled for something to dry her eyes, settling on her sleeve.
She sighed, and tried not not to cry.
“” “” “” “” “” “”
A knock at the door.
“Elizabeth?”
With any luck, her cringe at his voice remained internal. She wasn’t the one all of this happened to; this conversation was about him, about his feelings, not about her.
“John. Come in,” she said, aiming for neutral if not positive, and falling far short of either.
“Is everything okay?” he said, his tone suggesting he clearly thought everything wasn’t.
Hell, he wasn’t an idiot. She wouldn’t have called him in if it was nothing.
“Take a seat, John.”
“Oh, so this is one of those conversations.” He sat on the other side of her desk. “Alright then; hit me with it.”
Usually, for a conversation like this, Elizabeth would sit with him, closer, more personal, more… confidential seeming. But-
No.
She couldn’t explain her reasons as anything other than selfish. If she didn’t maintain some kind of professional separation for this conversation, she was afraid she’d likely break down.
John didn’t deserve that.
“I received your medical records,” she began. “They-”
“Ah, this is about that.” He laughed. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry? John, this is serious-”
“I’m being serious, Elizabeth! There’s nothing important in any of the classified sections anyway, but if there was, I’d let Beckett know. I know how important accurate medical history is. It’s fine.”
He leaned forward as if to stand up.
“John.”
Something in her tone stopped him. The heartbreak, most likely. The fear.
She really had to pull herself together. If John could live through all of that, then she could very well have an adult conversation about it.
She closed her eyes.
“I received your full, unredacted medical records.”
“Oh, so this is about… that, then.” His posture went from relaxed to rigid over the course of a few seconds, and his face looked like it couldn’t decide which fake expression to make.
He settled on something terrifyingly vulnerable.
“I don’t want to force you to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with, John. And this doesn’t need to impact your role here in Atlantis, unless you want it to-”
“I don’t.”
“That’s okay-”
“I don’t mind talking about it. If you want. I- It was all a long time ago. For me. I know it’s new for you.” He scratched at the back of his head. “I’ve done the whole repression thing, didn’t really like it, but therapy wasn’t great either, so.”
He paused. She didn’t interrupt.
“I am talking about it, though. Have talked about it. With, er, with Beckett. After he noticed some stuff on my scans. It’s- I’m okay.” He did a double take. “Wait, are you okay?”
“I’m so sorry, John. I hate that I found out without you wanting me to. I- I’m sorry that it all happened to you. I’m sorry no one was there, and I’m really glad people are there for you now. I’m here for you, if you need me.”
“I’m seriously fine, Elizabeth. Are. You. Okay?”
“I-” She stopped. This wasn’t about her, this was about…
The photos flashed through her mind. Bruising on a young John Sheppard weaving with scarring and swollen sutures on a John Sheppard from only months before he flew to the Arctic.
“Elizabeth?”
Was that John? He sounded concerned, but that couldn’t be right. He was…
He was…
“Elizabeth!” His voice was loud and sharp enough to startle her.
“Yes?”
He sighed in relief.
“Breathe. Alright?”
“Yes. John-”
“No. Shut up. You’re not okay about this. That’s normal. Please talk to someone about it, Beckett, or Heightmeyer, or- Just, talk to someone who isn’t me. Okay? If- Shit, if you’ve got any questions you’re sure you want answers to, come find me, but this isn’t something you can work through with me here.”
“But, I-”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“Talk to Beckett.”
“Alright.”
“Good.”
“You’re certain you’re alright, with everything that happened, and with me knowing?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and leaned forwards resting his elbows on his knees.
“It’s not something I’ll ever be alright with, but it’s not- I don’t think about it, not anymore. What they did to me doesn’t get to be part of who I am anymore. And Elizabeth?” She hummed. “I trust you. You’re my boss, sure, but you’re my friend. As long as you’re okay knowing, I’m okay with it.”
“Shit, John, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be having to comfort me about this, I-”
“Elizabeth.”
She stopped.
“Yes?”
He laughed.
“Talk to Beckett.”