Rodney had wanted to go to the mission briefing, but Carson said he was still contagious. When he heard the far-off wail that signaled a team coming in hot, he'd leapt out of bed, only to find his door ceiled.

He paced. He organized his scant possessions. He bit his nails raw.

But it was only five minutes before the door slide open.

"Carson, shouldn't you be doing the post . . ."

It wasn't Carson.

John was silhouetted in the doorway, but he could still see the dark stains on his face, on his hands. Rodney didn't even waste a heartbeat before he rushed to steady John's swaying form.

Reaching up, Rodney left bloody fingerprints on John’s cheek - smears of blood.

"John . . . are you all right? Shouldn't you be . . ."

Then there was a strangled sob and John collapsed into his arms. There was so much blood it squelched, crushed between them.

"I killed them, Rodney. I killed them all."