Title: The Drugs Don't Work
Author: kbk
Rating: R, I guess
Notes: Not much sex and not much rock'n'roll, but plenty and plenty of drugs. Information on sodium thiopental (also known as Sodium Pentothal (TM)) comes from wikipedia. Some info from www.erowid.org on various drug experiences.
Summary: Day by day and dose by dose, John Sheppard resists.

Day One is something similar to sodium thiopental, that slows his heart and makes him feel generally fuzzed, but it doesn't give him as much of a headache, and it makes it hard for him not to talk, which is odd for someone as generally laconic as John is. He tells them a lot about Elvis, everything he can remember from documentaries and listening to the albums over and over again on the road with his father. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; it's too soon after his capture.

Day Two is a stimulant that leaves John bouncing on his toes and talking twice as fast as normal with his brain going in seven different directions at once and one of those is that suddenly he feels like he understands what it's like to be Rodney (so many thoughts, so little time) and really, he's going to be a little more sympathetic from now on. He'd tell them about it, but there are too many things connected to Rodney that are things he isn't supposed to be telling, so he talks about his first girlfriend and his first car and the memories he has of the two of them combined. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; probably Elizabeth is still trying the diplomatic route and also it's not like they're really hurting him and in times of need Atlantis has done worse to their own, done worse to themselves, and it always seems to be Rodney and John doesn't understand why but his brain's running hot today so maybe he can work it out.

Day Three is something that leaches out every good feeling John has ever had. He tells them his name, nothing more. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; he isn't worth it.

Day Four doesn't feel like anything until they throw a woman into the cell; she skids across the floor and winds up at John's feet, gazing up at him trustingly, and that gets him hard more quickly than anything he remembers since he was a teenager. He talks to her all day without really telling her anything, and pretends to fall asleep after he fucks her. He expects a rescue attempt; it would be typically embarrassing to get caught with his pants down.

Day Five is a muscle relaxant that isn't analgesic in the slightest, because John feels every second (every inch) of the unnecessarily invasive medical procedures. He doesn't scream for them, but that's less to do with his pride than the fact that he can't move. He expects a rescue attempt; he doesn't know what's taking them so long.

Day Six is an intoxicant, probably simple ethanol, and John winds up sitting on the floor alternately giggling, crying, trying to scratch out a chessboard in the hard material of the floor and singing bits and pieces of all the old songs he can remember. He talks a lot, mostly reminiscing about college and the Academy. He expects a rescue attempt; they'll give him shit for being drunk on duty.

Day Seven is a day of rest, during which John has two minor fits, sleeps a lot, and hopes that the cocktail of drugs they're giving him isn't going to do any permanent damage. He doesn't say a word, and nobody says a word to him, which is pretty damn restful. He hopes for a rescue attempt; things will probably get worse tomorrow.

Day Eight is a hallucinogen, that puts penguins in his room, then changes his room to Antarctica, then changes the penguins into all the scientists from Atlantis (even the dead ones), who've got together to organise a rescue attempt because the military don't want him back but McKay's even more of a tyrant without John around, so really, the science department would be grateful if the Lieutenant Colonel could stop messing around offworld and come back. He tells them he'd love to, but he can't remember the address. He gets a rescue attempt; it just doesn't actually get him anywhere.

Day Nine is a depressant that leaves him sitting in a corner for most of the day contemplating all the mistakes he has ever made (and there are many) and all the ways his life has gone wrong (and there are many) and writing very bad poetry in his head. He recites a litany of pain but cuts it off at Antarctica and moves on to the quasi-sonnets. He expects a rescue attempt; if only so the ones he has wronged can punish him in person.

Day Ten is the truth drug again. He tells them that the only thing he cares about is the safety of his men, and he knows he's their only hostage (he saw his team tumble through the stargate, saw the look on Ronon's face as he realised his team leader had fallen just short) so there's nothing they can threaten him with. He expects a rescue attempt; they never leave a man behind.

Day Eleven is something that enhances physical sensation, so that the needles pushed slowly through the layers of his skin are spikes of pure agony. He tries not to scream, tries to lock his moans behind gritted teeth, but that doesn't work for long. He expects a rescue attempt; they have to get him out of here.

Day Twelve is a euphoric that makes John love everything and everybody, but most especially the woman they throw in with him again, because he remembers how she moaned at his touch and feels infinitely tender towards her. He shouts and screams and pleads when they hurt her, but he doesn't tell them what they want to know, because he knows that would cause a hell of a lot more pain to people he loves more. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; it doesn't even occur to him.

Day Thirteen is another rest day, during which John sleeps a lot, throws up once, and fantasizes about escaping and/or killing as many of the guards as he possibly can. He doesn't say a word, and nobody says a word to him. He expects a rescue attempt; they have to come for him sooner or later.

Day Fourteen is a combination of the truth drug, the sensation enhancer and a razor blade in the hands of the interrogator causing nicks smaller than the ones John does by accident on hungover mornings. He screams, a lot, and answers their questions with incoherent moans. He expects a rescue attempt; they'll hear his screaming and make it stop.

Day Fifteen is another rest day, which he's grateful for until it occurs to him, when they bring his lunch, to wonder what they're fattening him up for. He asks, but nobody answers. He expects a rescue attempt; any time now, he thinks.

Day Sixteen is the first day of something which feels like he's heard heroin does, a cushioning haze of good feeling that makes John think (what little he can think) that he wouldn't mind just staying here forever where even his itching feels nice. He doesn't talk much. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; too much effort.

Day Seventeen is the same as the day before, but he pukes five or six times. He doesn't talk much. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; he smells terrible.

Day Eighteen is the same again until late afternoon, when John's legs and back begin to ache and he pukes a few more times. He doesn't talk much. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; he doesn't want to move.

Day Nineteen is withdrawal, puking more than he thought possible and itching and aching all over. He begs for more of the drug, but is too stubborn to answer their questions. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; why would they bother?

Day Twenty is the drug again, just enough to make him feel better, get him functioning and happy again, and they hold out the promise of more if he cooperates. He tells them things that are true but won't help them. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; he doesn't, he can't.

Day Twenty-One is more of the drug, more of the haze, more of sitting on his bed with his hands in his head (or is that the other way around?) and so relaxed he'd fall over if someone nudged him but they don't, they just ask questions. He talks to them, but not much, because it's too much effort. He doesn't expect a rescue attempt; none of it matters anyway.

Day Twenty-Two is more of the drug, which makes him happy until there's noise outside, a lot of it, followed by men coming in and grabbing his arms and hustling him outside. He doesn't talk much, just stares at the men and the places they take him. He has his rescue attempt; it succeeds.

Day Twenty-Three is a slowly growing ache alleviated by good old Earth painkillers. John tells them about all the drugs he's been given, all the questions he's been asked and all the answers he gave. He doesn't need a rescue attempt; he's home.

Day Twenty-Four is further withdrawal. It's also the day John stops counting.