Just to let you know that I've almost finished writing this, and it looks like there will be 17 chapters. As I'll be without my computer from Wednesday, for a couple of weeks, I plan to finish posting this story over the next few days to save you having to hang on for another fortnight. Enjoy!

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He watched, and waited. He knew the perfect moment would arrive. The moment when his revenge would be complete. His target would be destroyed, and he could continue living without the gnawing pain that ate away at his soul.

He knew what he was going to do. He had it planned to the last detail. All he needed now was the opportunity to put it into action. They were playing into his hands. Now the good doctor, Beckett, was back in his cell, and the other doctor, McKay, was still in the Infirmary.

The marines wouldn't be a problem. He knew how they thought, and how limited those thought processes were. Even Colonel Sheppard was co-operating. He wondered how the 'illustrious' military leader of Atlantis would feel once he realized he was playing right into his hands.

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Carson was half asleep when he heard the noise. Sleep was elusive. When he slept, the nightmares arrived, and he couldn't face them just at the moment. He thought the noise was part of his dream at first, until he realized he wasn't asleep.

There was a thud, followed by a tapping sound, then another thud, then more tapping. He got up to his feet, and carefully approached the door, tensed, ready for whatever might happen. He half expected the door to burst open, and more accusations to be thrown at him.

As he reached the door, he realized there was a slight gap between the door and the doorframe. Someone had opened it, just slightly. Frowning, Carson carefully reached out and opened it slowly so he could see out of the crack.

The sight that met his eyes, made his heart sink. Slumped against the wall, eyes staring out lifelessly, were the two marines. Instinct took over, and he checked their pulses, even though it was obvious they were both dead. It took a moment for him to realize that he, too, might be in danger. But a quick inspection of the corridors around the cell told him they were empty of either a threat or assistance.

Carson wasn't sure what he should do next. The obvious thing was to go for help; to call on security to sort out the problem. But if he did that, then he was likely to become the number one suspect in another two murders. He sighed. But if he didn't call security, the case against him would be even stronger. He was caught between a rock and a hard place.

He had made up his mind to go in search of Colonel Sheppard. These poor lads needed to be treated with respect, and not left slumped in a cold corridor surrounded by the life's blood. But before he could put his plan into action, another thought struck him. It was a scary thought, a thought that made his nightmares seem insignificant.

The last time a marine had been killed, it had been accompanied by an attempt on Rodney's life. What if that was what was happening again. Whoever was doing this, seemed determined to kill Rodney and to make it seem like it was Carson who was doing it. What better way of doing that, than to kill the marines and free Carson, so he could be roaming the city at the time Rodney was being killed.

Fear lent his weary body speed, and he found himself racing through the corridors of Atlantis to the Infirmary. It was strange, but he didn't meet anyone on the way. No matter the time of day and night, Atlantis always had a buzz about it. But at that moment, the buzz must be elsewhere, because the part of the city he was racing through was very quiet.

He glanced at his watch, more out of habit than curiosity, but that gave him the reason the corridors were quiet. It was time for Feast Night. He usually looked forward to these monthly events, when the chefs on Atlantis prepared special meals for everyone. He and Rodney often ate them together, with Rodney usually missing all the nuances of the food because he was too busy explaining some experiment he was conducting.

Carson's smile of remembrance was quickly replaced by a frown, when he thought that Rodney might not get another opportunity to eat one of those meals. The thought made him move even faster, breaking into a run as he approached the Infirmary.

It was quiet, as he would expect on Feast Night. They tended to have a skeleton staff on so that as many as possible could enjoy the food. It boosted morale and generally helped the atmosphere in the city.

Carson slowed to a walk and then halted at the door, peering in before he actually entered. All was quiet. There was usually one doctor and a couple of nurses left on duty, but he couldn't see anyone. For a moment, he dreaded the thought that he might find more bodies in his own Infirmary. But as he pushed the door open, he realized that he could hear voices coming from one of the other rooms. It didn't look like the killer had got there yet.

His relief disappeared, however, when another sound reached his ears. It was the rasping, laboured breathing coming from the cubicle where Rodney had been resting. Carson hurried over there, drawing back the curtain carefully, with his good hand, just in case the attacker was still there. But the only person in the cubicle was Rodney. He was lying on his bed, gasping for air, clutching his throat. Beside the bed was a syringe. As Carson approached, he could smell the aroma of lemons. He picked up the syringe and sniffed. Yes, that was definitely where the smell was coming from. The attacker had found a different way of trying to kill Rodney.

Carson sprung into action, trying to save his friend. He dashed over to the supply area, where he always kept a supply of epi-pens. He grabbed one and ran over to Rodney, and quickly administered it. He waited for a moment, hoping that the ragged breathing would ease, but if anything it got worse.

Rodney was turning blue, his body starved of oxygen. Carson quickly grabbed what he needed to do an emergency tracheotomy, made clumsy by the cast on his right arm. The pain he felt seemed to disappear into the outer reaches of his mind, as he focused solely on saving his friend's life. For a moment, before he made the first incision, he felt his hand shake. It didn't help that he was having to do most of the work with his left hand, his weaker hand. But he took a deep breath. Rodney's life depended on him. He had to get rid of the nerves, the tension, and ignore the pain. He took another deep breath, and with a much steadier hand, cut into his friend's throat.

The procedure didn't take long, and a few minutes later, he took a step back, his hand dripping with blood. He listened desperately; waiting to hear if Rodney's breathing was easier. It seemed to be less laboured, more normal. He took a step forward, ready to check Rodney's pulse, to see if he needed to treat him further. But before he could do anything, the door of the Infirmary burst open.

Several marines filled the quiet of the Infirmary, their boots making a harsh sound on the uncarpeted floor. They had their guns raised, and they were aiming at Carson. Carson realized just how bad this looked. He was standing there, a scapel in his hand, Rodney's blood dripping from him, and Rodney lying there fighting for breath.

"It's not what you think," he said, taking a step towards the marines, trying to defend himself. "He was having trouble breathing, and I was easing his airways."

His words were having no affect on the military men. They advanced towards him, steadily and surely, their weapons not wavering in their aim. Carson's heart was in his mouth. He was scared that if he made one wrong move they would shoot. But if he didn't do or say something, he would end up being tried for murder.

"Look," he tried again. "I'm no' trying to kill the man. Please believe me. He needs urgent medical help. At least call the doctor."

Before he could go any further, two more armed men came hurtling into the Infirmary.

"He's killed two marines!" the first man cried out, swinging his gun in Carson's direction, and firing without warning.

Carson felt an excruciating pain in his shoulder. The world started to go blurry, and for a moment he thought he would faint. But then instinct took over. Without conscious thought, he turned and fled. He knew if he waited, more shots would follow that first one, and a dead man can't give any explanations.

He forced his battered body to run towards the emergency exit in the Infirmary. He'd always supposed it was to help escape in the event of the Wraith attacking the City, but now it proved useful to escape human hunters. The door could only be activated by those with the gene. And as Carson approached it, it opened helpfully for him. The men following, however, found it shut in their faces, and there was no means for them to open it. Carson could hear the door shudder as one of the marines hide it with his fist, in frustration.

Carson hurried down the corridors into the darkest parts of the City, where light never reached the dark corners. He was like a wounded animal, acting on instinct, and the need to hide. He just needed to escape from the accusations and any more dead bodies that might turn up. He fled from the part of the city he had called home, to hide in darkness of the unexplored regions.

As Carson ran, he didn't notice the eyes watching him. They were full of joy and anticipation. The plan had worked even better than he'd hoped. Now the stage was set for the ultimate act of revenge.