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Rodney sat up with a start, sheer terror snapping him upright before he could think. John's arm slid from off his chest and fell heavily into his lap, and Rodney began to wish he hadn't moved at all. The inside of his head was pounding like a pneumatic drill, every inch of him aching and sore. John was in bed with him, so hot that Rodney thought he could almost see the heat radiating from his back in waves. It was uncomfortable where they touched, but he lacked the energy to move.
He closed his eyes, swaying slightly in an imaginary breeze. The scratching in his head wasn't going away. He gingerly leaned over, placing the back of his hand against John's forehead, though he didn't know precisely what good that would do.
He felt like hell. No, he felt worse. And John wasn't even in any fit state to care for him, nor him the Major. There was one thing for it; he was... going to have to call for help.
Only, Carson didn't answer. He called and called, but Carson didn't answer. It wasn't like him to ignore someone at all. Rodney began to panic: what if it was something contagious? Or what if they'd not screened the planet they'd visited quite well enough.
He flicked the radio and called Elizabeth, not even knowing what time it was. "Elizabeth?" he managed, on the third attempt. "I think we have a problem..."