The funny thing was John Crichton didn't remember nodding off. Being on the run meant this love-hate affair with insomnia and while that meant when he crashed, he crashed, this just wasn't one of those days. Didn't feel tired. John would swear up and down that he was wired and raring to go, batting a 100, firing on all cylinders.

Apparently his body had other ideas.

He woke up face down in a puddle of I don't even want to know what the frell that is, coughing and snorting as he tried to flounder his way back to dry land (Or as dry as you could get on this damn ship) before he drowned in two inches of water that smelled depressingly like piss no matter how you looked at it. He splashed his way across a bunch of wilted, soggy flower pedals. Still smelled like piss. While he could say he'd gotten used to way, way, way more than any human should, shoving his head into anything smelling like that was where he drew the line. He crawled his way out of the puddle, his eyes stinging and smelling an awful lot like the stairwell in a parking lot did.

"God!" John pawed at his face, wiping water from his eyes as he coughed and sniffled. The pressure in his head felt excruciating, like maybe --

He didn't know it, but he was about to find out why in two microts.