I Shouldn't Be Here

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It was almost peaceful in the OR — at least for those who enjoyed working there. The sound of surgical tools clanking together, the communication between surgeons, working as a team... and then there was John Carter, beyond exhausted and mumbling to himself.

Twenty minutes into the procedure, John began listing off various medical conditions, at least at the start. By this point, he was adding complete, indecipherable gibberish to the mix, which left everyone in the room confused and distressed. What they didn't know was that he was doing it on purpose, to keep himself awake.

"Doctor Carter, are you okay?" Hicks asked.

He moved his head in a way that no-one could decipher if it was a nod or a shake. "... Pneumothorax," he replied.

Peter stared at him, then at Hicks. "Should I take him outside?"

"Suction."

John caught himself falling asleep and snapped out of it long enough to get what she needed.

No-one could tell with the mask on, but a slight smile played at Hicks' mouth. "Well, he can understand us. I'd say there's no need to worry."

"Yeah, well, he's not closing."

"I agree," She glanced up at the clock above the door; almost an hour had passed. "Although, I think you two are pretty much done here. Why don't you scrub out and talk with the family."

"Alright, let's go."

He wasn't budging, too lost in whatever plane of existence he was in at the moment.

"Carter," A near imperceptible tilt of John's head told him he was somewhat responsive. "Carter, come on."

He peered around the room, at the many faces, just about forgetting they were there, or where he was. Finally, he landed his sights on Peter, who simply gazed into his glassy eyes. He nodded and staggered out like a zombie.

Peter followed close, in case he needed to catch him. He watched as John yanked off his gloves and plonked himself down in the nearest chair he could find. It wasn't until then, when they were in different lighting, that Peter noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

John moaned, not out of pain but out of anxiety. Though he didn't feel anxious, his body showed all the hallmarks; shaking, increased breathing. The only thing that was missing was the fast heart rate.

"'S... too slow," he said, his speech slurring. John slapped two fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse.

"Carter, what is going on?"

"Shhhhtshh, sh-sh! I need to concentrate," However, concentrated or not, he had troubles. "I can't find my pulse. That's not good," What started out as a giggle-snort eventually turned into a full-on guffaw.

"Have you been drinking?"

"No!" He sounded insulted, yet unsure. As out of it as he was, he could have done anything without remembering. He thought back and couldn't recall having liquor of any sort. "Well, water, but even then..." he chortled.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Wait, no, no, no. Shh! I got it, I got it."

"Answer me, Carter."

Ignoring him, John shut his eyes and counted, his mouth working soundlessly. Thirty seconds later, he had his number. Twenty-six times two... "Fifty-two. It seems slower than that," he said, finishing his thought out loud.

Peter eased himself down beside him. "Your heart?"

John inhaled sharply. "How did it go?"

"The surgery?" Responding to John's nod, he said, "It went well, considering–"

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