- Chapter 14 -

When Carson opened his eyes again, night time had already come. His own light by the bed was on, but had been dimmed to a comfortable glow. The rest of the infirmary was still brightly lit, and, though conversations were kept low, the noise level and the number of people told him it couldn't be late.

Carefully, he ran a hand over his aching stomach, settling it on the blanket right on top of the thick bandages underneath. He felt hot and uncomfortable, his arms and back were itching from lying in one position for too long. The stitches seemed to pull with every little movement, even keeping his breathing shallow only helped so much.

The pain had woken him prematurely from a much needed rest and all Carson wanted was to close his eyes and disappear into the mattress, but the pounding ache coming from all over his body wouldn't let him, and he knew it.

Still, he felt guilty adding to the workload of his already overworked staff.

Hoping it was already time for his next shot, Carson lifted his right hand slowly to press the little call-button next to his head, watching in rapt fascination when the IV- and pulse-lines trailed sluggishly behind, like snakes caught on a cold autumn night. The brief movement was already exhausting him and he dozed off, arm still bent backwards, chin coming to rest on the heel of his hand.

"You're awake." Biro's observation startled him back to reality.

"I am", Carson rasped, his voice rough from lack of use.

With a gentleness no-one would expect from the small but energetic doctor, she untangled his arm, watchful of lines, clips and fingers, and laid it back down onto the bed, checking his pulse manually while she was doing it.

"Lucid, even! Are you going to stay that way for a couple of minutes?"

"Not if I can help it." His brows were furrowed and he groaned, shifting his upper body to escape the pain that seemed to be coming from his back now. The woman by his side stopped his movement by putting her right hand onto his side, trapping him where he was with pitifully little effort.

"I know you're in pain, Carson, but try to stay still." She accepted a syringe from a nurse, whose presence he hadn't even noticed so far, and pressed a little of the honey-coloured liquid into his IV.

Watching her movements carefully, Carson's next attempt for a shallow breath turned into a breathless, desperate laugh. "Thank you for thinking…that highly…of my…bravery, but I… don't think that'll be quite…enough,…lass!"

"Shhhh, Carson, it's okay. It'll take the edge off, just give it a moment." Reaching behind him, she produced an oxygen mask and pressed it over his mouth and nose. "Try to breathe normally. Slow and steady."

And true to her word after a couple of minutes of trying to concentrate on getting his breathing back under control, the ache in his stomach subsided a little to a more manageable level. He allowed himself to relax slightly and opened his tightly closed eyes again.

"Better?" Carol Biro hung the mask back over the hook on the wall before she focussed on her charge, putting a hand on his forehead to check his temperature in a very old-fashioned way.

Carson just nodded, afraid anything more might cancel the momentary respite.

"I will give you more, so you can sleep, in a minute", Carol continued, "but first, I'd like to talk to you a bit if you feel up to it. Alright?"

"Uhmm." She hadn't given him much of the pain-meds, but he could already feel the lethargy that came with them; everything seemed to be moving a notch slower than before.

"You've never been awake for long, so do you remember what happened?"

Pictures of Rodney's lab and snap-shots of the times when he had woken up flashed in his mind; a feeling of intense loneliness accompanied it all. Clearest and loudest of all though, was Sheppard's voice, telling him he'd never walk again.

Yes, he remembered.

"Aye." He was fighting with his emotions; he tried to keep them in check by staring at the grey-white of the partially drawn curtain; anywhere but at people. "At least… some", he finally conceded, needing her to fill in the blanks, which he so desperately wanted to stay in the dark. The heat he was feeling now wasn't only due to his still high fever.

"You were shot some time last night." Carol wasn't one for obfuscating or glossing things over. One of many traits she had in common with Rodney McKay, even though he'd never tell either person that.

"Dr McKay found you in the morning and we rushed you into surgery. You've lost a lot of blood, but we managed to bring your pressure up to a reasonable level again. No major arteries or organs were hit, or you'd be dead now; so remember to burn a candle or drink a toast to your lucky stars. Still", she grew deathly serious again, "the bullet did some damage."

"Can't move my legs." There. He'd said it. And the big, black cloud over his head seemed to finally swallow him.

Dr Biro looked at him briefly and nodded. There was no pity in her face, only her usual professional expression. "The projectile logged itself near your lower spine, and the reflexes in your upper body seem to be mostly unaffected. So much for the good part. It caused, however, partial paralysis of your lower extremities. We don't know the extent or the kind of damage yet, but, Carson, your legs are responding to some stimuli."

Carson was flying reasonably high on medication, but her emphasis on the last comment wasn't lost on him. Some stimuli. Only some, but there.

She must have read the glimmer of hope in his face and walked down to the end of the bed where she uncovered his feet. Running a tongue depressor along his left foot, both watched the limb react a little. Too slow and in an uncoordinated fashion, but there was definitely movement.

"It's still in there, Carson. The bullet, I mean." She covered his legs again and joined him at the head of the bed. "I had to stop surgery, before I could get it out, because your condition became just too unstable. Robinson thinks its position alone could result in the impairment you're experiencing and once we get it out and the swelling had a chance to go down around your spine you should be able to get movement back."

Carson knew this was probably one of the most important discussions in his life, but the pain was coming back and the dulling fog in his head was starting to clear up. He started to not care. He simply wanted her to make the decisions for him, fix things, make everything good again and most importantly drown him in a sea of potent pain-killers. But there was one thing his subconscious told him was important to know:

"You don't agree?" He got out, fingers once more starting to roll into a fist.

The woman noticed his distress. "There are too many ifs, and I don't want to get your hopes up. Chances are high that there is at least some damage to soft tissue, bone or both. We just don't know. You know yourself how tricky this can be. After some discussions we all agree that we're going to get the projectile out, as soon as your condition is stable enough and you've had some rest. We'll deal with whatever outcome once we've crossed that particular bridge."

He knew her tone. Carol was a pragmatist if he'd ever seen one. She hated to guess and she hated to sugar-coat. Carol Biro was an excellent surgeon and pathologist, but Carson hoped, should she ever go back to earth, she wouldn't go for private surgery; bedside manners weren't her forte.

He felt her take his forearm to untangle the lines leading to and into it. "Sleep now. You can ask questions and try to interfere in your own treatment later." With well rehearsed movements, she refilled the syringe, with Carson watching her every movement through half-lidded eyes.

She was about to inject the sedative into his IV-port, when urgent voices drifted in from outside the infirmary and got louder when the main doors opened. It was enough to draw Carson back from his stupor and he caught Biro's hand with one of his, his eyes showing the pain he was in, but also that he had to know what was going on first.

For a second the small doctor seemed to want to fight him, but, to his surprise, she relented. "Two minutes", she said, looking sternly at both Carson and the nearby nurse, then gave the needle back to the other woman and parted the curtains to rush outside.

Carson only had a couple of seconds before the curtains stopped moving to block his view once more, but it was enough to see John Sheppard coming stumbling and sweating from the direction of the front doors. He was carrying an unconscious Rodney McKay in his arms and seemed ready to drop his heavy burden, but the quick reaction from a nearby medic saved the physicist from tumbling completely out of Sheppard's grip.

The major was still fighting to get his breath back, hunched over slightly with both hands resting on his knees, but was, Carson assumed, already briefing the medical personnel around him about what happened to McKay. Unfortunately for Beckett, the general commotion drowned out whatever was being said and the physicist had quickly been placed on a bed and was out of sight.

What was wrong with Rodney? Had he missed something last time he'd checked on the man? The doctor and the friend in him had to know what was going on; needed to know that Rodney was alright, he really hadn't looked good.

The monitors next to Carson's bed recognised his growing frustration with not being able to help and started to whine. Someone needed to get this curtain out of his way, he couldn't see anything. And it kept air from getting inside, too; he already had problems providing his heaving lungs with enough oxygen. Damn them. He needed to get out there. Now.

He only vaguely noticed when someone finally pulled the curtain aside. By the time the person had emptied the syringe into his blood stream, unconsciousness had already claimed him.

oOo

Rodney was sleeping, buried beneath several thick blankets. His breathing slow and even. If it hadn't been for the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his sunken eyes, he would have looked peaceful.

John adjusted his position next to the bed for the third time in as many hours. Every time one of his limbs had gone to sleep from lying awkwardly on something hard, it forced him to move. This time it was his right arm that was now itching annoyingly. He had been resting it on the small nightstand next to the bed with his chin sitting on top of it.

Rodney hadn't moved at all during all that time.

After he'd brought McKay in, the hectic activity around the physicist had scared John; scared him into thinking that something was seriously wrong. But soon enough, people had calmed down and Biro had quietly told him something about a delayed shock-reaction, which obviously wasn't uncommon, and considering the circumstances…

But shock, for heaven's sake. Shock for John Sheppard was something that accompanied a severe physical or psychological trauma. The Wraith had left days ago, the danger had long been over. He'd already talked to Rodney, had had dinner with him. Things had been fine. Why hadn't he seen it coming?

They had told him Rodney was just sleeping now, just as Carson was. He had been placed next to Beckett, with John now sitting between the two beds. He wouldn't leave. Not again. And it didn't have anything to do with the chewing-out by one very angry Dr Biro.

She'd told him in no uncertain terms what she thought about his lack of appearance during the day and the amount of time it had taken him to get McKay down here after her earlier orders.

And didn't he feel guilty about that?

Finding his friend like that; alone in the dark, fighting demons he wasn't supposed to even have, needing someone… He'd messed up on so many levels, he couldn't even count floors anymore.

"He okay?"

In his surprise at hearing the soft voice, John almost knocked over the water pitcher near his elbow. Seeing Carson tiredly look up at him, he turned around once more to watch the physicist breathe for a few seconds. Two IVs were leading into the blanket-bundled form, but otherwise he was machine-free, much to the major's relief. Having one of his friends dependent on so many beeping and squiggling boxes was disturbing enough.

Facing Carson again, he nodded. "Biro says yes. Something about delayed shock?" He was putting the diagnosis into a question, hoping Carson would vehemently disagree that this really was the case. But he was disappointed.

"Oh." The doctor was clearly concerned. "Was 'ard on him. Awful days." A sad smile appeared on the haggard face.

The major couldn't agree more. "For all of us."

"How are you, Major? You alright?" Beckett's worried voice broke the thoughtful silence.

"Me? Why? I'm fine." What was it with Carson that he always worried more about everyone else? Hell, the man looked ready to fall apart, his skin whiter than Rodney's, with eyes glazed over, pupils dilated alarmingly with all the drugs they kept pumping into him. And John didn't miss the hand, fisted into the blanket by his side. That sight made him think of something. "You need anything? Should I get a doctor?"

"You're a very bad liar, Major. And no."

"Huh?" He didn't like where this was going. "I wasn't shot or passed out, Carson."

"No. You're just still alive… and there …to pick up the pieces." Beckett looked at him, eyes dark and full of compassion.

It made John uncomfortable. What was he supposed to say? "I, uh…"

"You feel responsible." Carson seemed determined to have this discussion now, even though his voice started to die down to a faint whisper.

"I am responsible." The major leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and met Carson's eyes straight-on. That was a fact and he didn't want Beckett, or anyone else, to ever question that.

"Yes. But even responsibility only runs so far." Carson was tiring fast, and John would have been glad to cut this conversation short, but the doctor wouldn't have it. "I've seen you, John. Know what you did. Don't be so…" he groaned slightly in pain, and instinctively, the major laid a concerned hand on his forearm. "…so bloody hard on yourself. Things happen, Major, people DIE. And we both have to live with it."

The doctor's eyes shimmered wetly with the last outburst and the major understood the emotions behind Carson's words. It just wasn't quite so easy.

"Be glad you're alive, John." Beckett's voice was very soft now, no more than a whisper and it was difficult to understand. "The people here certainly are. Be responsible … for the living. Can't help … the dead..."

Carson's eyes were still open, but downcast, fixed on a place far beyond the walls of the infirmary. His hands had finally stopped moving and seemed more relaxed.

Watching his friend's breathing even out, John wondered about the very one sided discussion he'd just had. Was he so easy to read? Usually people accused him of keeping his thoughts and emotions hidden behind a casual, sarcastic or charming façade; more than one of his relationships had broken up because of that. Or maybe he'd just witnessed the easy-going, soft-tempered Carson Beckett reveal something he'd never openly admit to without the help of pain and drugs.

Beckett probably hadn't meant his last statement as an accusation, but John Sheppard took it this way. It stung, but rightly so, in his opinion. He could no longer help all those who were dead, couldn't ask them for forgiveness for not doing a better job in protecting them. But he could still be there for the living, could still ask for their forgiveness and could still do a better job of protecting them.

He got up and let his right hand join the left on the doctor's forearm and both squeezed gently. "I'm sorry, Carson. I'm truly sorry." He wasn't sure whether Carson could hear him, but it felt good to say it anyway.

The major was so focussed on the doctor that he didn't feel another set of desperate eyes on his back. And when he finally did turn around they had already been closed again.

Waking up to all this wonderful feedback certainly makes getting up at 6 am a whole lot easier :-) Big thanks to all of you!