Notes on Leadership
By Lark
Dr. Rodney McKay sat at his desk, looking dismally at the page lying in front of him. He picked up the pen near his hand and put it to the paper. His hand held still, almost as if it was refusing to bend to his will. McKay made a face at it, thinking of words-any words that happened to be nearby. If he could manage to capture them and then force them to arrange themselves into a coherent sentence...then he'd have his first sentence. Unfortunately, the only word that came to mind was ternia, a word that he had found on an Ancient tablet. The closest translation he could come up with was "swimming without a flotation device." This, obviously, was perfectly useless to him. He knew he should be cataloging some of the other artifacts that they had brought back from ruins on one of the planets they had visited earlier in the week. He had to get this started. In a fit of temper, he slammed the pen down and folded his arms across his chest. He twisted in his chair. Nothing happened.
He seized the pen and threw it like a long pass for a touchdown. The disturbance it created- the cascading papers and the metallic crash of paperclips hitting the floor- was quite satisfactory. He returned to his seat and resumed his furious brainstorm. Why wouldn't the words come! He shifted again...
Suddenly, something clicked on in his mind. His eyes lit up and he grabbed for the pen, but his fingers found only air. Where did it get off to? McKay could feel the inspiration slipping away. He had to write it down! His hands madly tossed the fallen papers aside. Where was it? His fingers caught hold of the pen and silently, he was congratulating himself. The thought was almost gone, but if he could just write it down...He set the pen down to the page and-
"Hey, McKay!"
It was gone. With a face covered with despair, shoulders slumped, he turned to face the man standing in the doorway. He let the pen fall from his limp fingers.
"What?" He let all the angst seep through every pore in the word.
Dr. Carson Beckett was taken aback by the unexpected reception his greeting had received. He blinked uncertainly, then asked, "Do ye just want me to com' back later, then?"
McKay lifted his head and straightened his posture, suddenly embarrassed about his friend seeing him in such a state. He cleared his throat.
"No, no. It's fine. What do you want, Carson?"
Still a little uneasy, Beckett shifted on his feet.
"I was just wonderin' if you had those repairs finished on the computer in infirmary."
"Yes, they're finished." McKay plopped into his chair dejectedly. "Anything else?"
Beckett recognized the same page that he had seen many times before. Even in the times before, only the word "leadership" blazoned the page.
"Ah, you're not workin' on that again?"
McKay nodded sadly.
"But last time, I just couldn't find the spark."
"Last time, you nearly took off a man's head with that pad of paper!"
"That technician was asking for it with those sloppy calculations..."McKay muttered to an empty coffee cup he pulled from his desk. He caught himself and looked up at Carson. "Yeah, that was pretty bad," he added quickly, replacing the mug back on his desk apologetically.
"Aye. Well, I'll leave you to it. Good luck." With those words, he turned from the doorway and disappeared. McKay picked up the pen again. He couldn't force a smile at it, not even a friendly grimace.
"Come on," he told himself. "People write memoirs all the time. Just pull yourself togeth-"
"Oh, Rodney."
He was back.
Couldn't he tell when a man had to concentrate on important matter at hand- without having a Scot run in and completely derail his train of thought?
"What?" He was frustrated now. Didn't he know that he needed peace and quiet?
"Oh, there was somethin' I was goin' to tell you..." The doctor's words were drawn out.
McKay felt a twinge of annoyance. He saw that spark of mirth in his friend's eyes. Yes, though not an outspoken man, that Beckett sure enjoyed bothering him sometimes. A little too much, he thought.
"Oh, Elizabeth's wantin' to see you as soon as you're ready."
"Fine," McKay retreated. He dropped the pen on the desk as Carson vanished again, oblivious to the chaos he had caused. Before he turned to go and find Elizabeth, he glared at the page and pointed a threatening finger.
"I'm not letting you off so easy. I'll be back."
--
Carson, still walking back to the infirmary, was smiling to himself. It was a peaceful morning. He stopped in a pool of light that cascaded through a large window. The warmth enveloped him softly and he paused, savoring the moment. It reminded him of a fresh summer day in Glencoe, fishing with his father on a shining loch. Surrounded by shimmering water, he was often reminded of home. He snapped back to reality as he saw a shadow pass over as a cloud obscured the sun. For an instant, there was a small chill from the sudden darkness. However, the sunlight returned and he continued on, feeling a little disconcerted. He hoped that the sun would continue to shine on their intrepid back of explorers and not be caught under a shadow.
--
Sheppard sat at his own desk, trying to write up an anonymous ransom note for McKay's computer mouse. So far, he had successfully managed to convince the scientist that he had nothing to do with the disappearance. He had even offered condolences, saying that it had probably just scurried off looking for some cheese and would most likely return in its own good time. He chuckled to himself, enjoying his own game. McKay was too wound up to appreciate the joke of it all. He was always too uptight. Like the time when Sheppard and Zalenka had moved several ripe specimens of citrus to McKay's room and into several drawers. Well, the imminent Wraith attack may have had something to do with the flying book of quantum physics that barely missed his head, but he could have taken the joke with at least a teaspoon of humor. He settled back into his chair, trying to think of a way to make his handwriting look better. There would be no way for the scientist to catch on that it was him if the handwriting was legible. At least it would buy him time to run and hide before McKay recovered from the shock of learning that Sheppard's handwriting could, in fact, look better than his own. He put the pen to the paper, but failed to produce any marking on the page. Frustrated, he dropped the pen and rifled his hair with his hands.
"Hey, Sheppard."
Great. Just what he needed. He subtly slipped the page under a mission file that had only a few lines written on it. He turned around, trying to erase any sign of guilt that may have been found there.
"What, McKay?"
"Hey, um, I'm on my way to see Elizabeth and I think you're supposed to be there, too." He paused for a breath and his eyes found the pen in the major's hand. "Trying to write something?"
"Uh," John cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm a little behind on paperwork. I'm just...having trouble getting started."
"That's weird. I've been trying to write my memoir and I'm stuck."
"Your memoir?" Sheppard asked incredulously. Then again, he thought to himself, Why should I be surprised?
"Yeah, so my knowledge will be preserved for all posterity."
It was amazing how he could say that without the slightest sense of how egotistical that sounded.
"Right. I better get back to this."
"Don't forget- Weir wants to see you."
"Got it."
--
Rodney McKay turned and left the room, feeling chipper. He walked a few steps and then remembered that he had to tell Sheppard that he was also needed in the jumper bay. He turned on his heels, ducking his head back into the room.
"And Zalenka-" he cut off. His eye darted around the room and he felt a chill crawl down his spine. The room was completely empty and strangely cold. He took a tentative step into the room.
"Sheppard?"
There was no answer to his question. The reason for this was because there was no one there. A pen lay, unused, on top of a stack of papers. There was no writing on the page.