Miko, without fail, was always the first on Atlantis to catch a cold. It would start with a slight ache in her throat, which she would ignore, then progress to a sneeze, which she would deny, and on the third day at the latest Dr. McKay would panic and throw her out of his lab and Colette would find her huddled underneath a blanket in her room, cold and miserable.
Colette was a doctor. She was not a grown-up child prodigy like Jennifer, but she’d still earned her doctorate two full years ahead of the handful of aspiring pediatricians and surgeons she’d gone to high school with. Actual patients had never really been her cup of tea, but if departmental boundaries had been somewhat blurry when she’d still been on Earth under Janet’s reign, then by necessity they had all but vanished under Carson and Jennifer.
So Colette could set bones, fight infections and viruses, treat burns, sew up knife wounds, soothe concussions, and frequently spent sleepless nights in the lab playing whose idea was it to run back to this madhouse of a galaxy, again?
If she had neither the naquada in her blood to handle a Goa’uld healing device nor the gene to achieve precision with New Carson's favorite Ancient instruments, she had gained other skills aplenty and knew ATA positive volunteers she could ‘ask’. She had colleagues she respected, a staff that respected her, access to stock rooms full of cutting edge pharmaceutics, and chemists and biologists a transporter ride away who had no trouble following her lines of thought. She had at her disposal all the resources she should need to cure feeding damage and cancer and the damn common cold.
And still - still - every time Miko was sick, at some point Colette would give in and hit up the kitchen staff for a handful of sugar and two onions, suffer through the ten-hour wait, and serve Miko the foul-smelling juice like her mother had taught her.