SPOILERS: for 3.17 - Sunday
Cockcrow, Thrice
What happened here, Radek?
The acrid stench of burned wall is mixed with a faint meaty smell that's somehow even worse than the bitter chemical tang in the air. Visibility's lower than usual, but it's enough to make out shapes and faces, the shadowy people crouching down by burned and bruised lumps on the floor.
As the medics take Teyla away, John doesn't think about how Carson didn't answer his question, or the way the doc focused entirely on Teyla in those few moments.
He doesn't think about how much blood it takes to stain a pad of bandages that big and how small she looks on the stretcher.
Death and loss are a part of life. Hell, they're a part of John's job. And they always - always - hurt.
He fights back when he can; better do something than nothing.
But sometimes, sometimes he has to stand aside, because there's nothing he can do.
--
Is she gonna be okay, doc? Is she gonna be alright?
He stares into space as the operative aide's words replay through his mind. In the background, Rodney's telling Carson about the tumour-bombs, urgency staining his voice.
The exchange with Carson's aide was brief - they had James Watson in pre-op, and Carson was about to start working on him after finishing with Teyla.
The shrapnel nicked an artery, but she's stable. She's in post-op now.
John's seen men bleed out before. Inadequate medical help, not enough time or resources, or even medical help and bad luck.
He tries not to think about how close it was. Bruised and burned witnesses said the woman who exploded had been walking with Teyla only moments before.
She turned down golf with him and nearly died.
--
Besides, there isn't really anyone here that I...well, you know...
John doesn't have to be here, sitting by Teyla's infirmary bed. In fact, there are a lot of other places he probably could be. Should be.
But Ronon's gone to head off Rodney's trip to Guiltsville - as if nobody else in the city is trying to hitch a lift there. And Elizabeth's shut herself up in her office. She took the paperwork from this latest situation and dismissed John, her eyes red-rimmed.
The infirmary staff haven't kicked him out yet.
In the rooms that smell largely of disinfectant and faintly of the sea, John listens to the burbling murmur of the aides as they move back and forth about their tasks. More than a few voices are thick, and more than once he's heard someone begin to say, "Dr. Beckett will..." before they remember that Carson Beckett won't.
He listens to Teyla breathe and wonders how he's going to tell her that Carson's dead.
--
It hasn't hit me yet. I'm not looking forward to when it does.
John remembers going to church as a boy.
The Sunday morning sunlight would filter through the patterned glass of the tall windows, staining Susan Robson's white dress in shades of pink and blue as the priest droned on and the incense smoked thick enough to make coloured clouds in the crisp, spring air.
The window behind the Stargate is wrong for sunlight, morning or otherwise; but the bagpipes drone and guilt lies thickly in the room.
John's parents died when he was ten, and he was told that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and there wasn't anything John could do about it.
He's learned otherwise in the years since.
When the time comes, he glances at the men who'll help carry the casket back to Earth - Carson's last journey home - and lets his gaze fall on her, just briefly. She begins to look his way and he looks past before he lets himself think how easily the casket might have been hers.
At ten years of age, John didn't think much of a God who'd take away people John loved.
Thirty years later, he still doesn't.
- fin -