- Chapter 4 –
Carson was beginning to wish he would just pass out. Didn't the heroes in all those action movies always pass out into blissful unconsciousness after being tortured, stabbed, beaten up or, yes, shot?
Swallowing the saliva that his mouth appeared to be in no short supply of right now, the doctor studied the intricate detail of the ceiling's architecture with increasing fascination.
They didn't, he decided with some regret. He was pretty sure though, painting the 'Creation of Adam' to the small lab's ceiling would probably be overkill. Picasso maybe. Radek would like that. He'd probably say it described Rodney's state of mind.
One of his ex-girlfriends had liked Bruce Willis. She had made him watch the Die Hard millionology over and over again. And when the next part had come out she persuaded him to do the triple feature. He would have done anything for her, so he went along.
He wondered whether Bruce Willis or his alter ego Detective What'shisname wanted to pass out after being shot? (He certainly had after the credits of part II) But Bruce had kept going, even with an increasing number of injuries and loss of blood – and clothes, for that matter (he was now fairly certain that was the main reason Maddie liked these movies) – until the last of the bad guys was either dead or behind bars.
But he wasn't Bruce Willis, Stallone or even Schwarzenegger.
Pity; A body made out of some fancy metal alloy would have come in handy. But, instead of ricocheting harmlessly from Terminator Beckett's torso, the bullet had hit him full force, undoubtedly wreaking havoc on its way through his body.
Maddie had dumped him two days later. In the rain next to the club he hated, but went to anyway because he knew how much she loved going there. He remembered the scene clearly now. Lots of blinking lights had tried to attract attention to the large disco; just like they did around him now.
She'd said he was a nice enough guy, but incredibly boring. She told him to 'work on his attitude', 'get out more', 'be more…'. But she never found an appropriate adjective, just waved her arms around in a helpless gesture, said "…you know…! See you around" and left, before he had a chance to say anything at all.
He didn't know. All he did know was that he'd loved that girl. A lot.
His mom was sick with the flu at the time, so he went home that night, took care of her with a smile on his face and never told anyone just how much that had hurt.
He thought a lot about what Maddie had told him, but didn't know which part of 'his attitude' he should work on, so he kept to himself even more, got out less. It was safer that way.
The ceiling lost its fascination and the walls didn't have anything on them that would warrant closer inspection. But his left hand had potential. It lay low on his stomach and when he turned it towards his face, it came away bright red.
He remembered what had happened now. Understood it - not so much. His head was fuzzy and his eyes runny from staring at the bright lamps for too long.
One minute he'd finally found Rodney's laptop, the next a loud noise had shaken the room and something had hit him so hard that all the air was instantly forced from his lungs and his legs had given way under the strain of the percussion.
One of the Wraith must have eluded capture and came to feed on him now, he concluded, even though he couldn't remember hearing the doors opening. Maddie would have liked that. Action, blood; no superhero, though.
But when, after a couple of moments, still no-one had entered the room or moved within its walls, he dismissed the idea – not without a decent amount of relief. Even Bruce would have been relieved, he was sure about that.
But then the pain began and an increasing amount of red was starting to colour his white uniform shirt crimson. He could feel it running down his sides and dripping onto the back of his shirt. It tickled. The itch was somehow worse than the pain itself.
He had been shot. Not with a Wraith stunner, but an actual projectile weapon. But who had shot him and why? The wound was located right in the middle of his belly and he had been facing the wall before. No-one had been there. And yet there still was a hole with a decent amount of blood seeping out of it.
Chastising his brain for setting the oddest priorities in a time like that, he tried to concentrate his jumpy thoughts on what had to be done. In the end it didn't matter who had shot him and why. If the other person decided to come back to finish the job, there was nothing he could do about it but yell at Saint Peter that his timing sucked. After all, they had just managed to survive against virtually all odds.
"Should start to play the Lottery, really."
His own voice into the relative quiet of the room startled him. The subsequent groan was as much a response to the pain as to the absolutely daft things his brain came up with at a time like this.
"Lotto. I'm bleeding to death, but thinking about playing lotto. What's next? Contemplating who's going to be the next king of England?" Thinking about Maddie was better. At least she was pretty.
Alright. He could do it. He was a bloody doctor after all. No pun intended. – "Gawd, Carson..."
Taking a deep breath he once again tried to focus.
Problem one: he was bleeding. Rather severely from a gunshot wound to his stomach, as far as he could see from his position flat on his back. A closer look by propping himself up on his elbows was deemed unwise, after the movement brought him close to his earlier wish to pass out.
Solving problem one: stop the bleeding.
Problem to solution to problem one: there wasn't anything to do it with besides his own bare hands, which were already pressing against the slick cloth of his shirt. And he really wanted to curl up to ease the pain if only a little. This led to problem number two.
His legs weren't responding the way he wanted them to. From the waist down it felt like he had sat cross-legged on concrete for hours and his butt and legs had fallen asleep and were now slowly waking up. Pins and needles all over.
Maybe this was what being stunned felt like. Did people feel like that on Star Trek, too, when they were hit by a phaser? He couldn't remember. In any case phasers seemed considerably easier to carry around then these ten-pound stunners the Wraith were so fond of using.
"Wonder how Captain Picard would have..." bringing his blood-stained hand up, he knocked himself slightly on his head. "Stop that, Beckett. What the hell has Captain Picard got to do with your current predicament? Start THINKING! You're hanging around Rodney too much, Carson. You're crazy AND arguing with yourself. Can't be good."
Okay, so there was something wrong with his legs. He could at least feel them, but something wasn't right. Maybe it was the blood loss, or the bullet had done more damage than he cared to admit.
Anyway, he sighed inwardly. Solution to problem two - Well that was actually even a solution to problem one: get help.
Radio.
Good thing to get help with when you need it. When you actually know where it is.
With his left hand, he felt for the headset behind his ear, no doubt leaving more bloody fingerprints. It wasn't there, but there was something odd with his partially closed hand. It even hurt a bit now that he thought about it.
Bringing the appendage into his line of sight, he uncurled his blood-encrusted fingers and closed his eyes in desperate disbelief.
The memory came back; he had unhooked the little device a couple of minutes ago and had held it in his hand.
The shock of the impact or the pain - or both - had obviously resulted in him clenching his hands into tight fists. The radio hadn't survived the abuse.
Suddenly the seriousness of the situation hit him full force. This wasn't just a dream or hallucination of his sleep-deprived mind. He was lying in a deserted area of the city in the middle of the night, behind closed doors with probably serious internal injuries.
Better yet, everyone expected him to be in bed, so no-one would come looking for him.
He could die here. On this rather random day. Alone.
He didn't want to die. Especially not like this, without even knowing who had shot him and why. He didn't want to die, because he wanted to see Maddie again to tell her that some people liked his attitude, boring or not. And he didn't want to die because he had seen the devastated looks on so many people's faces lately after being told their friends - a part of their family - had died.
John Sheppard had taken it particularly hard. The major felt responsible for all those lives in the city, as well as for all those marines from the Daedalus who had come to another galaxy only to be killed hours after their arrival.
When they lost Corporal Simpson after almost believing he would make it, Sheppard hadn't said anything, just looked at Carson, his face hard, void of emotion, before turning on his heels and walking straight out of the infirmary. But, even with the doors now closed behind the major, he had had no problems making out the sound of an outraged "49", followed by the dull sound of something hitting a wall.
Too many dead already. He didn't want to do that to Sheppard, Rodney, Elizabeth and all the others who had become his family. It would hit them too hard in a time where they had been through so much already.
He couldn't and wouldn't die.
Drawing in as deep a breath as he dared, Carson slowly rolled over onto his stomach, whimpering when the pain in his stomach blossomed. Something definitely wasn't right with his legs. He managed to twist them around a bit, but had to use his hand to push them the rest of the way over. And there was a very uncomfortable feeling of pressure on his back. Almost as if someone was continually pressing an elbow onto an area around his spine.
After taking a moment to get his breath back, he looked at the door. It seemed light-years away, and yet getting out of this room was just the first step. When he got there – when, not if – there would still be another 30 odd metres separating him from the only other human being in the vicinity.
He prayed that Rodney would really be in bed and not running around the city doing heaven only knew what.
Avoiding the longer route around the large bench, Carson took the shortcut and started crawling towards the exit through the openings between the supporting legs of the table.
It was slow going and arduous, but his feet, though still tingly, proved able to help shove him forward centimetre by painful centimetre.
- Chapter 5 -
The trek took forever. When the laboratory door finally registered his presence and opened to let him through into the corridor, Carson was already so exhausted he doubted he could go on much further. Yet, the majority of the way was still lying ahead of him.
Unable to apply any sort of constant pressure to the wound except for his own bodyweight through lying on his stomach, blood was still flowing; but at least it seemed to be slowing down. Still, the dizziness associated with the fair amount of blood that Carson had already lost got worse with every passing minute.
Thinking had been weird before, now he had to fight even harder to focus his entire being on getting to this door around the corner. 'Why' couldn't be important any more; he just had to get there.
But not this way. Not by having to drag his entire weight with his hands and increasingly uncooperative legs. He had to get up.
As he lay over the threshold, the doors thankfully stayed open. But no matter how hard or how much he tried to get himself upright by clinging to the door frame, Carson just couldn't get his legs under him. Exhausted and frustrated he gave up, letting desperation wash over him like a tidal wave.
This couldn't be happening. He didn't want to die. Closing his eyes the faces of his friends and family swam into his consciousness. He could taste the cold spring air of his auntie's place on Skye, which he had visited every year when he was little. He could smell the exotic scent of Athosian spices that Teyla radiated whenever she came back from the Mainland. And he heard Rodney whining and moaning about a tiny cut in his finger, while glancing worriedly towards Sheppard lying unconscious on the gurney next to his.
The memories were so real, the emotions associated with them so tangible that Carson couldn't help the sob erupting from deep within him at having to lose all of this now.
Burying his face into the crook of his arm, more memories flooded his brain.
The last time he had seen his mother, crying to see her only son leaving. She had made him promise, PROMISE, to come back in one piece. Carson saw himself reviving the major in the jumper, felt Rodney's and Elizabeth's relief when he was finally successful.
The many late nights came back to his mind, the times he had come to drag Rodney out of his lab to eat and sleep and all the conversations with Teyla, during her first few months in the city, trying to make her feel more comfortable, more at home, alone with all those strangers from Earth.
He couldn't go. Too much to do. He was needed. Anger suddenly replaced the desperation from before. This wasn't fair. This just wasn't bloody hell FAIR.
Letting the anger work in his favour, Beckett got up on his elbows again and continued towards rescue.
oOo
And, after another lifetime, he finally passed the last corner, coming face to face with Rodney's door. Just two metres to go.
But the trek had taken its toll. The view in front of him wavered in and out of focus and his breath came in small, shallow gasps. He tried yelling for the physicist, but all that came out was a pitiful squeak that drove spikes of pain up and down his chest and stomach.
With one last effort, Carson arrived outside the entrance, just waiting for the sensors to pick up his presence and open the door.
It didn't happen.
Of course not. These weren't lab doors that opened for anyone. The sensor on his right had to be physically activated. The sensor that was at least one point five metres above him.
Collecting every ounce of strength left in his body, Beckett heaved himself up, until his entire weight settled on the palms of his hands. Forcing himself up onto one knee, he was almost close enough to reach the three blue lights.
Just a few more centimetres...
Blood had made his hands slippery and while inching forward bit by bit, he suddenly lost his balance and quickly tried to compensate by getting his hip fully under him.
A grating sensation in his back stopped all movement and, as if in slow motion, Carson felt himself crumple back onto the cold stone floor, with no chance whatsoever of preventing it from happening.
At least the pain had finally stopped.
In fact, every sensation from his stomach down had ceased. He couldn't feel his legs anymore.
So close.
So close.
The finality of the situation permeated Carson's exhausted being. He'd done what he could. But fate obviously had other ideas and somehow he felt at ease now, floating. There was no pain anymore, just a heavy tiredness that beckoned him to give in to it.
Settling his head on his arm, the doctor closed his eyes.
If the doors would just open up.
Registering the silent command, the door hissed open to reveal a large, dark room. Light, filtering in from outside, cast a twilight over the bed at the far end, where a pair of woollen socks peeked out from underneath a pile of dark blankets, before sluggishly disappearing back under them.
When no-one attempted to enter or leave and no other movement could be detected, the door closed again, unnoticed.