Time Immemorial

Chapter 38: Reunion

July 20th
1615 Hours

"Come on, Doc, I'm going stir crazy in here. Tell me I'm free to go."

Carson ignored his patient's complaints. "Quiet, now," he scolded, "an' breathe deeply."

Major Sheppard did as instructed, allowing Beckett to listen to his heart and lungs through his stethoscope. He opened wide for a tongue depressor, and squinted as a penlight was shined in his eyes. Beckett had allowed him his first shower in days earlier that afternoon, so he supposed he owed the man some patience.

Beckett breathed deeply and clicked off the light. "You continue to bewilder me, Major. Even over the course of a single night, you've improved exponentially more than I could have predicted. How are you feelin'?"

Shrugging, John answered, "I don't think any marathons are in my near future, but I feel pretty good. A little tender in some spots, a little weak."

"To be expected after an ordeal like that. Well, I canna believe I'm goin' to say this a mere three days after emergency surgery, but I see no reason to keep you. You're free to go—"

John stood immediately and began to change out of his hospital gown.

"—on one condition. You must report back here twice daily for checkups until I'm satisfied you're fully back to normal, startin' tonight at 1800 hours. I'll have your latest blood panel results and I'll deliver you my final report."

"Sir, you are a gentleman and a scholar."

"Quite," Carson said drolly. He grasped John's shoulder, stopping the major as he tugged his standard-issue black t-shirt over his torso. "Just promise me you'll take things slowly."

Smilingly reassuringly, Sheppard pulled on his gray BDU pants. "Don't worry, Doc. I don't plan on going on missions anytime soon." He made for the exit before Beckett could change his mind. "See you in a few hours," he called back.

Beckett watched him leave, concerned. "I wasn't talkin' about missions," he muttered under his breath.

Taking a left from the infirmary, John began his journey through Atlantis' corridors. His pace was a sluggish one, his atrophied legs unaccustomed to the strain. By the time he reached the staircase at the hallway's end, he'd broken out into a sweat. He eyed the two flights of ascending stairs. They looked as tall as the Empire State Building. "Maybe next time," he mumbled, heading for the nearest transporter.

As the doors began to close, an arm reached in, causing the doors to part for the new arrival. Corporal Galen Rogers hurried in, mumbling an apologetic "sorry, sir" and offering a sheepish smile. He stepped to the far side of the transporter and faced forward in silence — that awkward silence for which elevator music was surely invented.

John appraised the young man from the corner of his eye. Like the rest of his team, he was a top performer, a hard worker, and eager. Rogers was one of his quieter marines, shy, an introvert, often keeping to himself. He looked like he'd taken a good licking during the battle.

A bright flash signaled that they had been taken to their destination. The doors parted. John held back one with an arm, offering the exit to the corporal.

Rogers took a step forward before pausing. He cleared his throat timidly. "Sir, can I just say… it's good to have you back." He snapped a crisp salute to his CO.

Momentarily taken aback, John floundered to reply. "I… thank you, Corporal," he answered genuinely. John returned the salute with a rare heartfelt one of his one. Though never one to enforce the formalities of command, he owed Rogers this — and so much more. He owed all of them so much more.

Pleased, the corporal dashed out of the transporter.

John watched the bashful marine depart. He couldn't think of the last time Rogers had said more than five words to him.

Stepping out of the transporter, the major hooked left, his destination now only a few bends away. As he neared, he encountered more and more expedition members, civilian and military alike. Each busied themselves with some assigned task, none interested in respite even with the trauma so near in their past. Still, they stood as he passed. Respectful "sir"s and "good to see you, Major"s were offered in greeting. He nodded at each, too humiliated to speak. If only they realized how close they all came to dying because of me, Sheppard thought. I don't deserve their respect.

Their salutations assaulted him like a hailstorm. With each barrage he quickened his pace, shying away as if each of his teammate's gaze was a spotlight laser-focused on him. He needed to escape. Legs churning as fast as he could push them, John burst from the tunnel of noise into open space. He ducked right and pressed himself flat against the wall. Eyes closed, he took a full minute to catch his breath—

"Major! Bloody good to see you on your feet, mate!"

Sheppard jumped at the noise. His eyes shot open to see the friendly face of Corporal Liam Kirkland, the Australian sharpshooter, standing in front of him. He held out his hand as a hello. John clung to it tightly.

Kirkland took notice as they shook hands. "Everything all right, Major? You look a little pale."

"Oh," John answered, steadying his breathing, "just having a minor panic attack, that's all."

Kirkland couldn't tell if his CO was kidding. "Right…. Is there something I can help you with?"

John forced himself to take in his surroundings. He'd made it to his destination. From Atlantis' Control Room he could see Elizabeth's office across the bridge. It laid in the same wrecked state as when he'd accidentally blown it up four days prior. It was clear no attempt had yet been made to restore it. And it was empty.

"Any chance you'd know where Dr. Weir is, Corporal?"

"No, sir. No one has seen much of her in the last few days."

Frowning, John simply said, "I see." He walked forward several paces and peered over the balcony at the Gate Room below. Expedition members carried pillows and blankets into the great space, while others carried in cots. They each staked claim to their own four square yards of floor space, though they all clustered together, desperate for the safety and comfort of human proximity. John couldn't blame them.

"What's going on down there?" he asked.

"Most of the City's living quarters were damaged in the attack," Kirkland explained. "Until they can be repaired, Dr. Weir thought it best to keep everyone together. If you haven't checked out your room yet, sir, I suggest doing so — best to grab anything important before the combat engineers have their way with the place."

"I think I'll do just that. Thanks, Kirkland."

"No worries." The Aussie moved to leave before thinking the better of it. "Are you sure you're good, sir?"

"I'd say pretty good for a dead guy, yeah," John jested.

Kirkland remained unconvinced, but departed out of courtesy. As soon as the man slipped out of sight, John slumped back against one of the consoles. "Just a few seconds of rest," he muttered to himself. Raising a hand in front of his face, he watched it quiver. He shoved it angrily in his pocket. He pushed off the workstation and made for a transporter — and not the one from which he had arrived. He couldn't face that crowd again.

Ten minutes later he stood in the hallway facing his quarters. A large 'X' of yellow caution tape stretched across the open entrance. To his left, piles of rubble littered the corridor's floor. Large portions of the ceiling had given way under the intense Wraith assault and had crashed to the tile below. To his right, the ceiling was missing entirely. Black scorch marks from plasma fire stretched from the gaping hole above down the corridor, ending at what used to be a rec room. It, too, was now a pile of rubble, lit by the sunlight above.

With a deep breath, John stepped through the tape and into his room — or rather, what remained of his room. What laid before him was carnage.

The outside wall of his quarters, once a single pane of stunning Atlantean glass, now laid strewn at his feet in thousands of tiny shards, blown in by Wraith mortar. The glass crunched under his boots as he took a step toward the unobstructed view of the ocean. His bed had been completely upended. It leaned, perched on its side, driven against the wall with such force that a sizable hole marked where the frame had impacted. The frame itself had splintered into three pieces, destroyed, though the mattress had somehow survived. His couch had been split in two; one half sat upside down in its allocated spot, while the other had been thrown clear across the room. A table and matching chairs were now no more than a collection of splintered wood and mangled metal. A lamp and his laptop were nearly unrecognizable.

The most astonishing sight, though, laid in the center of the space. The forward-most five feet of a Wraith Dart's nose had impaled itself into John's floor. It stood erect at a near 90 degree angle, like a wayward javelin cast from the battle above. A matching two foot diameter hole was sliced neatly in the ceiling above, exposing the blue sky beyond.

"Not exactly my idea of an accent piece," the pilot muttered to himself.

A combat engineer turned at the sound of his voice. "Major Sheppard," she beckoned. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"That's okay, Sergeant. Just surveying the damage."

"Right. Sorry about all this, sir."

"I was thinking it was time to remodel, anyway. Mind if I take a look around? There are some things I'd like to save, assuming I can find them."

"No problem, sir. But I'm afraid I can't let you sleep here until we've done a full structural survey. After that, your name will be at the top of the list to get this place fixed up—"

"Oh, no, Sergeant, that won't be necessary," he protested. "I'm sure there are plenty of other people who'd like to sleep in their own beds. You can save my quarters for last. Until then, I'll join the slumber party in the Gate Room."

The sergeant nodded appreciatively. "Very well, sir. Just be careful poking around. I haven't had the chance to put up any caution tape by the window, so don't get too close to the edge. Now if it's all the same to you, Major, I'm needed down the hall."

"Of course. Keep up the good work."

"Oh, and sir?" the sergeant called from the doorway. "I'm glad you pulled through."

John cleared his throat. "Me, too," he heard himself say. But he didn't believe it. He wasn't glad he had pulled through. He was furious. He was ashamed, mortified, unworthy.

"Pull it together, John," he muttered. "You're an officer, and the commander of this base. Act like it."

The sound of papers rustling in the early evening breeze caught his ear. John turned to find the source of the sound. On the floor sat three torn pieces of what appeared to be a larger black and white image. He retrieved them and held them roughly in their relative positions. Johnny Cash stared woefully back at him. One of the poster's tears ran straight through the singer's guitar. Ruefully, Sheppard wadded up the remains of the poster and tossed it over his shoulder.

His eyes found his skateboard next. Like the couch, it had been split in two. Three of its four wheels had sheered off. He kicked one absentmindedly out the window, sending it to the ocean below.

He then wandered into the adjacent bathroom. The space was largely untouched. The shower, toilet, vanity — all intact. The sink, however….

John let out a small chuckle at the sight of the obliterated sink. Though he knew it was likely just collateral damage from the devastation next door, it appeared as though the sink had been targeted specifically by a very deliberate and very surgical attack. The precision was comical.

Kneeling, he picked out the leaky faucet from the debris, remembering how its incessant drip-drip-drip had driven him mad only several nights ago. "I guess there is such a thing as divine intervention," he mused at the fixture. "If the Wraith hadn't taken you out, I was going to plant a grenade down your drain."

Suddenly remembering his appointment with Beckett, the major glanced at his watch. 1748 hours, just less than 15 minutes to get back to the infirmary.

Making for the exit, John stopped short of the doorway. On the floor was a pile of clothes, folded neatly. Clearly they had been placed there after the attack. John examined them. They were his. They were also caked in blood.

This was the uniform I died in, he realized. One of the nurses must have had it transferred to his quarters after the surgery. A ragged hole pierced the black shirt where the Lacedami blade had plunged into John's side. Instinctively he touched his own abdomen. He cast the shirt aside and the memory with it.

Next, he rummaged through the gray BDU pants. "Come on, come on, tell me you're still here," he pleaded. His fingers found what he was looking for in the back pocket: a crumpled piece of paper. Elizabeth's gift. Thank God. He transferred it to his current uniform.

His mission accomplished, Sheppard made his way back to the infirmary. He arrived with two minutes to spare.

"Hello," Carson called genially as the major entered. "How were your first few hours back amongst the living?" He patted a hospital bed, indicating that the major should sit.

Sheppard obliged, collapsing against the backrest. "If it's all the same to you, I might want to check back in here for a few nights."

"You're kiddin', right?"

"Only partly. It was a little overwhelming, physically and.…"

"Emotionally?"

"I was going to say 'mentally.'"

"Hidin' in here winna solve that, lad," Carson encouraged. "I always say: you've got to face your troubles head on. Just remember what I told you: take it slow—"

"Carson?" came a query from the entrance.

John sat up at the sound of her voice. "Elizabeth," he breathed. Oh, she was a sight to see, a picture of grace and fortitude. Alive. Alive. His eyes drank in the sight of her.

"Elizabeth, have a seat," Beckett welcomed warmly, motioning to the cot next to Sheppard's.

John noticed her feet remained rooted to the floor. Her eyes darted mistrustfully between him, the empty bed, and Beckett.

"I thought my appointment was at 1800 hours," she contended.

Carson made a show of looking at his watch. "Oh dear, I must have double booked you two. Oh well, you're both here now. Let me just grab both your results an' I'll be back in a jiffy."

"But—"

"In a jiffy!" the Scot called mischievously as he disappeared around a corner.

Looking around, John noticed for the first time that this part of the infirmary was devoid of all other patients. He got the distinct feeling they had just been set up.

A pregnant silence filled the space between them. It was only ten yards but it might as well have been ten miles.

He cleared his throat. "Hi," he began.

"Hi."

"Small city, huh?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," Elizabeth answered, finally locking eyes with him.

He couldn't help but break into a relieved smile. "You are a sight for sore eyes, believe me."

She offered him a polite smile in return, but remained fixed in place, uncertain.

"I tried catching up with you today after Beckett released me," he continued. "You're a hard woman to find."

"Oh? Well, I've been working on a plan to get us — Atlantis, that is — on our feet again: surveying the City for damage, repairing the structure, making sure our power supply is adequate, replenishing our lost food supplies, not to mention keeping an eye out for a possible return of either the Lacedami or the Wraith."

"So a typical Tuesday."

She grinned at that, a genuine grin this time. John found it gratifying.

"A typical Tuesday," Elizabeth agreed. "Except that it's Wednesday, Sleeping Beauty."

"Wednesday, right," he conceded. He offered the corner of his cot for her to sit. Reluctantly, she took a step forward, followed by another, then another. Before she knew it, she found herself at the edge of the gurney. Warily, she sat at his feet, conscious of his proximity.

He sensed her apprehension. "So," John began, clearing his throat, "how are you doing?"

"Me?" Elizabeth asked incredulously. "I'm fine, but how's the man who just came back from the dead?"

"I don't think I'm the only one on this bed who can make that claim, Doctor," he parried playfully.

"No, I suppose not, Major." She smirked at their lighthearted use of each other's formal titles. But her expression faded as she fully realized the weight of her inquiry. "I never thought I'd live through my own murder."

"Yeah, me neither."

Sheppard noticed the tiny scratches under her eyes had nearly disappeared, though the bruise put on her right cheek by Antigonos had begun to turn a nasty yellow. His eyes found a mark on her left wrist, a darkened smudge he'd never seen before. It was the size of a dime and roughly the shape of a pear. Gently, he took her hand in his own, and rubbed his thumb over the spot. She didn't resist.

Elizabeth felt his hand cradle her delicate wrist, a current of warmth radiating from where his thumb grazed her skin. She swallowed, refocusing. "Carson says it's a birthmark."

"A birthmark," Sheppard repeated admiringly. "A birthmark after rebirth. Makes sense."

"Yes, well, my modeling career will be ruined now," Elizabeth quipped, absentmindedly scratching at the healing lambda-shaped scar on her shoulder.

The action didn't escape his notice. John felt his fists clench at the thought of Straton pinning Elizabeth to a table, crudely carving the symbol into her unblemished skin with his knife—

"Hey," she called softly, touching his knee. Her touch steadied him, as it usually did. How easily she could read into his thoughts. "It's over. They've paid for their crimes." He nodded, feeling himself relax. "Besides," Elizabeth continued with a shrug, "I kind of like it."

John arched is brow. "Like it? Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Lambda: the Stargate's symbol for Earth, our point of origin, the program's and this expedition's roots, or near enough to it. It seems fitting."

"Wow, I never pegged you for the ink type, but I think it's great the boss wants the team to have matching tattoos."

"Cute, Major. If I'm able to walk away from this little conflict with nothing nothing but this scar as a souvenir, I shouldn't complain. And what about you — what sort of symptoms are you having?"

John grinned sheepishly. "That's between me, Beckett, and my bottle of Pepto."

"Ah, of course," Elizabeth replied perceptively. "Your cuts and bruises seem to be healing nicely."

Tapping his left jaw, John ribbed, "Rumor has it this one here was given to me by the expedition leader herself."

Now it was Elizabeth's turn to redden. "I'm sorry, I got a little… overzealous. The sight of your dead body wasn't the easiest thing for me to process."

Appraising the woman before him, John noted how she didn't — couldn't — make eye contact with him. Instead she stared stoically forward, the only way she would be able to get the words out.

"I know what you mean," he agreed.

"Right. I guess you do." She had pieced together the mission reports of Zelenka and Beckett and had a pretty clear picture of the nightmare he had endured. She pictured her own frigid, drenched body lying half-naked and lifeless before John as he futilely administered CPR.

Elizabeth nodded, cleared her throat. "You went through some pretty great lengths just to get my shirt off."

At first, John wasn't entirely sure he had heard her correctly. He did a double take. Was she joking? Elizabeth still stared soberly onward. She wasn't. Then, the faintest hint of a smirk creased her mouth. She tossed him an impish look from the corner of her eye, half innocent humor, half apologetic for the off-color joke.

John shook his head in wonder. He tried to appear composed as his heart finally decided to beat again, and prayed his voice wouldn't crack like that of a pimpled teenager. "Okay, you got me," he acceded, trying but failing to suppress a broad grin. "Very funny."

Elizabeth watched the normally self-assured major blush. She was proud of herself. "Thank you, I thought so," she answered jovially, his smile contagious.

They shared the moment of mirth, the first either had had in days.

Suddenly she felt his lips pressed against her own. How inviting they felt. So unlike their last kiss was this one, the former full of sorrow, terror, and goodbyes. In this one she only felt from him relief, joy, and hope. Part of her wanted nothing more than to share in it. But she could not give him what he sought.

Sheppard felt her tense up. He pulled back immediately, seeing in her hazel eyes something that tore at his heart: fear. "Oh, I didn't — I'm sorry—"

"No, no, don't be," she assured.

"I feel like a jerk."

"Please, don't. It's my fault."

An uncomfortable stillness enveloped them. He wanted to explain himself, to apologize for misreading the situation, for being insensitive to her feelings, for rushing her. John knew, though, that there was more to it than that. At best, she'd been cagey around him since he'd awoken, at worst she'd been avoiding him. This was only the tip of some iceberg.

"Elizabeth, what's wrong—"

"We can't do this," she said quickly, anticipating the question.

John raised his eyebrow in surprise. "I don't understand—"

"All right, I've got here the latest test results for the both of you," Carson's voice announced. The doctor rounded the corner but stopped short, stumbling into the tense scene. Elizabeth turned at his arrival, wearing a face of culpability, while Sheppard simply continued to stare at her, looking confounded and off-balance.

Carson immediately regretted orchestrating the setup. Maybe arranging the meeting so soon hadn't been the best idea. Maybe neither of them had been ready for it yet. He thought it might be best to leave the two in privacy; his findings could wait. "I'll give you two some more time," he muttered, backing away delicately.

"No, please, come in," Elizabeth beckoned. "We were just…."

A very obvious and very painful silence followed.

"…hoping you'd come to tell us we both have superpowers," Sheppard covered, though the quip was half-hearted, flat.

Beckett caught the knowing look Sheppard had given Dr. Weir as he deflected the question on their behalf. But Elizabeth would not meet his gaze. She put on a brave face, willing to play the part of the diplomat once again. She looked to Beckett expectingly.

Their welcome interruption, Carson stepped cautiously into the infirmary. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid no superpowers, Major, but your results are quite interestin'."

"I hate it when doctors say that something is 'interesting'…."

"I'm pleased to say that all things considered, you're both doin' just fine. Remember, you still have some mendin' to do. Major, take it easy over the next few days or your sutures could tear. Overwork yourself and you'll end up right back in my infirmary."

"Copy that."

"Elizabeth, you're still just a wee bit dehydrated. Continue drinkin' those fluids."

"Still dehydrated?" Elizabeth mused. "I seem recall drinking a few gallons of ocean."

"If only it worked that way. Now here's the interestin' part," the Scot went on. "Each of you has symptoms typical of both a newborn and the geriatric. It's very interes— fascinatin'."

"Explain," Dr. Weir prompted.

"Both of you have or have had in the past few days thrush on the tongue, dry skin, rashes, a birthmark — traits not uncommonly exhibited by children aged zero to 12 months."

"Just promise me you won't be burping me, Doc," Sheppard said dryly.

"Aye, that much I can guarantee. Just be lucky you're not in diapers because I wouldn't be changin' those, either."

"And the symptoms of the elderly?" Elizabeth asked.

"More diapers," John offered, "not to mention grouchiness, poor driving skills, the sudden urge to hoard things…."

Carson ignored him. "For one, cellular necropsy — specifically cellular apoptosis. Your blood and tissue samples revealed increased levels of leukocytes and buildups of decomposin' tissue and cellular debris in nearly every major system. As the body ages, the cells naturally break down, leadin' to eventual organ failure and death. In fact, some of your samples showed just that: cells that were completely irreparable, well past the state of even the most elderly patients I've seen. They were more like some samples I've taken from corpses during an autopsies."

"Is it something we should be worried about?" Elizabeth wondered.

"To be honest, you two have the distinction of bein' the first two patients I've had to have successfully come back from the dead, so I'm afraid all three of us are in new territory here. The good news is: if you were headed for a bad place, you'd have been there by now. Your results have only improved over the past few days as the process is reversed. The agin' cells are repairin' themselves, and those too far gone are bein' replaced by new ones. It's damned incredible."

"Good," Elizabeth nodded. "What else?"

"Both of you have exhibited very minor instances of short-term memory loss."

"Is it permanent — Carson, right?" Sheppard asked. For a moment, Beckett looked troubled. "Kidding," the pilot fessed up.

"Lovely," Carson muttered, displeased with the prank. "I dinna suspect so, no."

"When can we expect it to improve?"

"It's hard to say, really. Everyone's brain is wired differently." The doctor noted the looks of confusion on his patients' faces. "Look, you know when you're in the middle of typin' somethin', and your computer suddenly shuts down? And you reboot it, but it takes a few extra moments to start because it has to repair all the memory defects?"

Elizabeth nodded while John waited for the punch line.

"The human brain is a lot like that computer," Carson continued. "After yours suddenly shut down, they just need a bit of extra time to reboot."

"Is it permanent?" John asked again.

Elizabeth shot him a scathing look, not at all amused.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Kidding!"

"It's all really quite amazin'," Beckett concluded. "Two patients with indicators of both the very old and the very young. At the risk of soundin' like a broken record, I've never seen anythin' like it. It's like, well, like you've died and been reborn."

"That's a great segue, Carson," Elizabeth put. "Have you given any more thought to how I could have been revived without the aid of the ascension device?"

"Aye. I think the between major's testimony yesterday and the test results today, I may have figured it out. Major, when you awoke and saw your body in the morgue, do you remember uncoverin' the others?" Carson asked.

"Yeah," he answered, shifting uncomfortably on the gurney.

"Dr. Weir's included, correct?"

"Correct."

"Do you remember actually touchin' her corpse?"

The major cast an uneasy look in Elizabeth's direction. "Yeah, sure."

"Where, exactly?"

"Beckett, I don't see how—"

"Major, I promise you my inquiries are purely scientific. Whatever you say here stays here, under strict doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I could leave if you would like," Elizabeth offered tactfully.

"No, it's not like that, it's…." John blew out a lungful of air and cast a sidelong glance at Beckett, weighing his intentions. He's only trying to help. This is Carson we're talking about, stop being so defensive. But he wasn't particularly keen on baring all in front of Elizabeth, either. "It's just a, uh, particularly personal and painful memory."

"Take your time," the doctor reassured.

He breathed deeply to calm himself. Reluctantly, he brought himself back to the darkened morgue, after he had uncovered all the bodies but one. He remembered approaching Elizabeth's lifeless form, removing the sheet from atop her, seeing the gold coins placed over her eyes.

"I brushed a strand of her hair off her face. I untangled her necklace and straightened her collar. That's it."

Suddenly the unease was Elizabeth's to bear. To hear him talking about her — no, not her, her corpse — with such anguish unsettled her. Her death had clearly affected him, try as he did to conceal it. His armor was still on.

"Did you let your hand rest near her collar? Did it go anywhere near her heart?"

"What? I don't know. Maybe."

"This is important, Major—"

"Yes, yes, my hand would have crossed over her heart, why?"

"Keep in mind this is only speculation," Carson began, rubbing a day's worth of stubble on his chin, "but I think you were responsible for her resurrection."

Sheppard stared. "Come again?"

"Hear me out. When one ascends, one takes the form of pure energy. If that energy were applied directly to a still human heart, theoretically that heart could be jolted into beatin' again in the same manner as a defibrillator."

"You're assuming I did, in fact, ascend. I thought the jury was still out on that."

"Major, I think you did ascend," Carson insisted firmly. "You did ascend, you did revive Elizabeth, and you did wipe out those enemy forces. It all fits together, far too well to be mere coincidence."

"You know, I've had it up to here with ascension," the major declared, leaning forward. He grimaced with the discomfort. "It's horse shit, and the Ancients were a bunch of idiots for chasing it."

"John…" Elizabeth tried.

"No, seriously. There's no minimum moral threshold for ascending. There are no ethical standards so that only the most virtuous reach that higher plane of existence — otherwise Elizabeth would have gotten picked and I would have stayed on the bench. It's all just a game some more enlightened beings choose to play with their mortal playthings."

"I'm not sure we fully understand—"

"There were eight other people in that morgue. Eight good people. You're telling me that all I had to do was tap each of them on the chest and they'd still be here today?"

The question caught Beckett off guard. "No, that's not what I'm sayin' at all," Carson answered, maintaining a clinical calm.

"You're telling me I could have brought them all back?" John grew more agitated by the second. "Where's the virtue in that?"

"You don't know that," Elizabeth stepped in. "No one could have possibly known that—"

"How many others?"

"Dinna do this to yourself, lad-"

"Don't think I haven't noticed that you've all been very careful keeping the number from me. How many others, Beckett?"

Carson weighed the question, reluctant to deliver the news to his friend. He suddenly regretted voicing his theory. He opened his mouth to answer, but Elizabeth held up her hand. It was her burden to deliver the news, not his.

"Eleven, by the end," she admitted regretfully. "Sergeant Sorensen succumbed to her injuries yesterday morning."

"Jesus Christ…." John got to his feet in dismay.

"Now I know you winna heed my words, but I'll say them anyway," Carson continued. "Dinna go beatin' yourself up like you always do. The toll could have easily been far greater. We have you to thank, not to blame."

"We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you," Elizabeth added. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you—"

"Are we done here?" John demanded, but it was clear he wasn't waiting on answer. He made for the exit, eyes dark with disgrace.

"Where are you goin'?" Beckett asked. But Sheppard left before the question could even reach his ears, leaving his two teammates to stare after his disappeared form.

With a heavy sigh, Carson turned to his remaining patient. "Elizabeth, I dinna think it would happen like that."

The expedition leader rounded on the doctor. "Next time you feel the need to interfere with our personal lives," she threatened, "don't." She stepped off the bed and turned to leave, too.

"And where are you goin' now?" an exasperated Carson asked. "I'm not done with you."

"I really don't care—"

"Dr. Weir," Beckett said forcefully, "your doctor has not cleared you to leave this infirmary. Now sit."

Elizabeth practically fell onto the cot, so shocked by Carson's brazenness was she.

"Like it or not, you were goin' to have to face him sooner or later," he explained attentively. "Unless you were plannin' on never comin' out of your room ever again. Now I'm sorry it wasn't the reunion either of you were probably hopin' for, but I winna apologize for makin' you face your feelings."

Huffing, Elizabeth retorted, "If you can figure out what either he or I is feeling, then please, let me know."

"Judgin' by the looks on your faces when I returned, I'm bettin' he feels like he just put his heart out on the line and got completely smacked down."

Elizabeth cast a doubtful look the doctor's way.

"Oh my God," he breathed, "you dinna even know, do you?"

Sighing, she asked, "Know what, Carson?"

"Oh boy, I dinna bloody know why I'm the one who always has to tell you these things," the Scot muttered. "Dinna tell me you haven't noticed how he is around you."

"Whatever you think is between us, you're blowing it far out of proportion—"

"Stop. It's bad enough seein' you lie to yourself, love, but dinna lie to me. I've seen it with my own eyes."

"Seen what?"

"What you do to him! You've got to be blind not to see it!"

Hanging her head in mortification, she didn't deny it. She regretted it.

"Now I know I've only known Major Sheppard for a year, but I'd like to think I've gotten to know him pretty well during that time," Carson went on. "Trust me when I say you are the only thing capable of crackin' that damn confident facade of his. You are the one force in his world that has kept him sane through some very tryin' times, that can pull him back from hells the rest of us can only imagine. When that was taken away from him….

"Did you hear the lad just now talkin' about your death, hear how much pain he was in? Do you even know what he was like when you were gone? I've never seen anythin' like it. He was so… hollow; I think it scared us all a little bit.

"Then through some bloody miracle he got you back. Anyone with a pulse could have felt the energy between you two in the morgue. That wasn't exactly a professional handshake between colleagues, was it? You dinna feel somethin' like that with just anyone. None of that's not the behavior of someone 'in like.' That's someone in love, plain and simple. It's about time you start seein' that, because if this isn't a second chance you both just got I dinna know what bloody well is."

Biting her lip, Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and fought against a complete breakdown. She never would have thought such fervent words would be said about her, ever. She never would have imagined hearing she had such a potent effect on another. Especially not him. It terrified her.

"Thank you for your counsel, Carson," Elizabeth said after finding her voice, "but what you just told me, what just happened these past few days, only reaffirmed why we can't take that chance." She rose and exited quickly, unwilling to give the doctor another opportunity to stop her.

Staring at the doorway, alone and in silence, Carson lamented the fact that for the first time in his life, he had broken his oath as a doctor to do no harm.

TBC


Author's note: Phew! Long one today. As always, hope you enjoyed. Comments and criticism welcome.