Part 2
The colonel sighed and grimaced. His ribs ached, reminding him never to sigh again or at least for as long as deep muscle bruising swelled and spasmed his intercostals muscles.
Sheppard watched as Biro turned her attention back to her patient and to assisting Dr. Mitchell, DDS oral surgeon with an ego bigger than McKay himself. Sheppard never thought he'd ever be able to say it. But after meeting Mitchell he realized that McKay's gigantic sized ego paled in comparison to the arrogant Everest sized ego of one Tod Mitchell, DDS.
McKay earned his ego, the man was rarely wrong, and was quite pleased to remind everyone of that fact. When he did make mistakes, even they were grandiose and beyond what a normal person would be capable. McKay was spectacular in his brilliance, his confidence and universal, diffuse disdain of all those not as intelligent as himself. McKay played favorites with no one and insulted everyone equally and with the same scathing intelligent wit. No one was spared his sharp sarcasm or brutal intelligence. The man had saved Atlantis multiple times. He orchestrated the teams, assigned the people and controlled the teaming masses of type A personalities with the efficiency of Genghis Kahn. He went unmatched with success in the sciences at Atlantis. He conducted the people below him with cool and apparently detached efficiency.
Only those closest to him realized that McKay protected his people rabidly. Their very presence on Atlantis put them in danger. Their wild schemes to defeat menacing foes threatened their lives and McKay and his people did the impossible time and time again with their backs exposed to the dangers that rushed down upon them all. McKay was raw brilliance, all sharp edges, cold retorts and unfriendly grimaces, but he was also brilliantly aware that lives depended on him. He felt every loss of every scientist as a personal blow; a personal failure; as a flaw in himself.
Sheppard feared that maybe one day, one too many scientists would die and McKay would stop functioning with his wild abandon; that he would become overtly cautious thus hesitant. And hesitancy would kill more lives than steadfast commitments.
Mitchell on the other hand was bluster and noise and had nothing concrete to show for it. At least not yet. Tonight was his chance to prove to the rest of Atlantis that he was as good as he bragged.
Sheppard counted his blessings that Biro had the foresight to sedate Beckett somewhat to avoid having the Scot take offense to anything the Northern Californian might do or say. The last thing anyone needed was Beckett going all Braveheart on them again especially in Atlantis. Once an evening was enough. Hell once ever, was plenty.
The damnable Scot had his limits and when his buttons were pushed in the right sequence he became a force to be reckoned with. Hell, Scotsmen with tooth aches should come with warning sirens; maybe something akin to what was used on some coasts for tsunamis or in the Midwest for Tornadoes or even Nuclear Power plants.
Sheppard shook his head and closed his eyes as his collar bone sent fierce lancing spikes of pain up and down his neck, shoulder and torso. He really hated collar bones. Beckett assured him at some point in this early evening that his collar bones, if capable, probably hated him right back.
Sheppard had to admit Carson could get surly if pushed.
And he had been pushed. All of them at some point in their stay in Atlantis had been pushed beyond what they thought they could handle. In the end, they had handled and dealt with the burdens and hardships that had befallen their shoulders and stung their consciences and tested their morals and ethics and survived. They had been pushed physically, mentally and emotionally. Not a single member of the original Atlantis teams had escaped the burden of being an expedition member, an explorer, a friend and a survivor.
Sometimes being the survivor was the hardest part to bear.
But they all bore it, all who had lived to see another day, to bury a friend, grieve for a missing comrade, they had all trudged on and faced one more day. Every last survivor had at some point reached what they perceived to be their limit, reacted to it, handled it and came to the realization that they could handle more one way or another; not because they wanted too, not because it proved they were strong and steadfast, but because they had too.
In order to survive, to continue to face another morning, another crisis, they had to deal with their burdens, whether physical, mental or emotional and put one foot in front of the other and make it through another day.
Burying the dead, Sheppard had come to realize, was a lot tougher than being buried.
He had known Beckett had a fiery temper.
The tooth was comical. The fact Kavanaugh had snapped it made it funnier, the idea of the Doc trying to pull it out himself and dancing around after hitting the nerve with metal was all good and humorous. They had had their fun at Beckett's expense for the last 18 days.
Sheppard had watched the good doctor grow increasingly more tired, more run down due to the constant irritation and unrelenting ache but the Colonel had not seen any hint of the fury that rarely sparked when the Scotsman was truly at the end of his rope.
Tonight had been only a taste of what lay buried beneath the surface.
Sheppard had only seen the fury which rarely burst only months ago. It had flared to life, as Carson stood in the surgery room staring at the empty blood stained gurney that had one time held a good friend who was too mortal. Lieutenant Thomas Finnegan, good friend of Dr. Beckett had died on his surgical table within his reach but out of his skill range.
It hadn't mattered that part of Finny's grey matter rested in his ball cap back in the triage area, or a pint or two of his blood puddled and congealed on the gate room floor.
None of it mattered. Dead was dead. Failure, no matter how excusable was still failure.
There had been no do-overs, no magical ancient devices that would bring back the dead, no last ditch, heroic brain storming that would save a life.
Beckett had lost a patient but worse he had lost a good friend under his fallible hands.
Death had a way of becoming more permanent, excruciatingly more painful when the face had a name and personal attachments.
Outside the surgery suite window Sheppard had watched Beckett. It was at that time he had seen the vibrant flash of anger and fury in the doctor's eyes. He had watched through the glass as the surgical team left, taking the physical remnants of Lieutenant Thomas Finnegan with them. Sheppard caught a glimpse of the unadulterated anger that lay under the CMO's normally playful exterior. Alone in the surgical room with the empty blood stained gurney, Sheppard watched from outside as Beckett picked up an instrument in blood stained gloved hands and held it. Sheppard had witnessed as Beckett rolled it over and over in his hands until suddenly in an explosive movement and with a guttural growl he hurled it forcibly against the far wall.
The retractor ricocheted off the wall, leaving a divot, and careened into the far corner clattering to the floor.
Sheppard had made a move to enter the room, not sure what to do, but figured he should do something. He watched Beckett fight a flashing, inferno of anger, frustration and a devastating sense of utter failure. He lost a friend under his hands. McKay had stopped Sheppard by simply shaking his head.
They stood side by side and waited as Beckett leaned stiff armed, head bowed, gowned head to toe in surgical scrubs stained with a friend's blood and quietly struggled to gather his composure. And after just a few seconds he straightened, removed his blue cap, his mask, gloves and pulled his gown from around his neck and torso. He took a few deep breaths, ground his teeth against one another, working jaw muscles, skirted the table and picked up the retractor. He had placed it delicately back on the stand and then left the surgical suite to face the friends and comrades of the man he just failed to save.
It was then that Sheppard realized just how controlled and how near explosive Beckett was capable of becoming. He marveled at the CMOs self discipline, and feared when Carson would finally let go with his anger and strike out.
The same concern Sheppard had had for McKay suddenly leached over to encompass Beckett. How many more people could they stand to lose before they ran the risk of losing the edge that made them practical, gifted geniuses?
Tonight's tavern fight was another stopcock release valve that unloaded building pressures.
Sheppard cringed at the sound of the whirling dental drill and sucked in a pained breath when his bruised and fractured bones and muscles cried in protest.
The Colonel watched as Biro reached for another instrument, the stainless steel catching and reflecting the surgical light in Ronon's direction on the other side of the doorway. The Runner simply turned his head with ease to avoid the stunning glare.
Sheppard curled his lip at the effortlessness in which Ronon had moved and wished that the Runner had snapped a bone or two in this evening's fray. No luck at all. Bruised, not even battered, and a few simple stitches was all Dex had to show for the evenings festivities. Of course, not many people were prone to throwing punches at a man that towered heads above them with hair that seemed as wild as any creature spawned of nightmares. Who in their right mind would take a swing at a monster of man with some archaic, but horribly handy sword strapped to his back?
A surly Scot with a frightfully painful tooth, that's who.
Sheppard turned his attention back Biro, Mitchell and more importantly Beckett.
Earlier this evening, Carson had taken that leap off the narrow shelf of common sense and threw a solid punch at a runner nearly six inches taller than himself. It was Beckett who split Ronon's skin just above the eyebrow. It had been a mistake, a simple reaction to being grabbed by the shoulder from behind during an all out brawl. Dex understood it and Sheppard liked to think that was what kept the Runner from dismantling the doctor. Though at that exact moment in time, Sheppard feared Ronon would have had a bad time of it. He probably would have succeeded but stood a good chance of sustaining damage in the process. Beckett was on a roll and people were falling or staggering back, left and right from his solid hits.
The tavern inhabitants of MX-492-P were no shrinking violets either. They were simple hard working folks making the best living they could working day to day off the land, tending to their small farms and tiny herds of domestic animals. They worked long days tilling fields, clearing forests and tending to their herds. They worked and lived by the very ability and power of their hands and backs. At the end of a painfully long day of drudgery and toil with one day looking like the next day after day, week after week, they found solace and relief in visiting their local watering hole. The hardworking male population lightened their steps when they entered their private oasis. One by one they paused when they lay jaundice eyes on the five strangers already seated at a table near the central fire pit.
With strangers suddenly within their midst, they became suspicious but relished the potential for great entertainment at the expense of the visitors. They unfortunately picked the wrong person for their source of fun and foolery. They left the sharp tongued man with the mouth full of food alone. They eyed the woman in their midst but realized she eyed them back just as steadily but with perhaps a bit more fight in her gaze than they were used too. The dark haired one with the quick smile moved with the grace and dexterity of someone that was best left alone. The tall one with the long tangle of hair and prominent sword appeared as if he wanted something to happen and would welcome it with great zeal. That left the quiet, soft middled one, who had a slight flush to his cheeks and a tired expression on his face. His hands weren't calloused, he was not as tall or quick moving as the others and his eyes did not hold the solid stare of a fighter.
Sheppard remained seated at the table and had seen the patrons size them up; he was aware how their eyes gazed over each of them and then settle on Beckett. He had hoped, erroneously, that the mere presence of himself, Ronon and Teyla and even McKay would keep trouble from erupting.
He had even hoped that Beckett realized he had just been singled out as the target and would act with some common sense and stick close to the team. If the Scotsman had spotted the measuring looks then he hid it well. Carson had left their table to go stand at the bar to facilitate the appearance of their ales. Rodney was making short work of his meal and eying Ronon's. Beckett, though questionably hungry, did not relish invoking the wrath of his tooth any more than currently normal. He hoped to dull it, perhaps even deaden it, with an overdose of alien hops.
Sheppard had shaken his head, not sure if he truly believed the Doc didn't understand the danger he waltzed into when he left the table or if the Doc simply didn't care at the moment. The way Beckett had been growing increasingly more and more silent, Sheppard concluded that Carson really didn't care.
The Colonel, however, did care, with the Daedalus only a few hours from Atlantis and Beckett's tooth only a few hours from being fixed, Sheppard did not want to risk not having all the dominoes fall into place that would eventually lead to Beckett becoming his normal easy going jovial self and Atlantis not on pins and needles trying to avoid invoking the man's frightfully short temper. So with a simple nod of his head, he sent Dex up to the bar with Beckett.
Ronon would keep things calm and Beckett out of trouble and the locals away from his team.
It was like sending the wolf in to watch the coyote in the hen house.
What Sheppard hadn't counted on was someone blatantly challenging Beckett.