Two

The balcony was cold; salt spray didn't reach this high up, but the air was chilled from below, and the tang was on my tongue. I knew if I stuck it out, I'd taste eternity. At first, I stood at the railing, looking out at the whitecaps. There was a gusty breeze blowing over the waters and buffeting the city. After my legs began to ache from standing, I wandered to the edge of the wall that met with the railing, and slid down, sitting with my legs splayed loosely in front of me.

It wasn't as dark as it should've been. The lights of Atlantis let off a glow that bled into the water below, a painter's palette where the black mixed with yellow. The defining line between was vague and soft.

I let my head fall back against the wall, and closed my eyes. A gust of wind blew across my face, and I smiled. "I shouldn't be talking to you; people will think I'm nuts."

Truthfully, I couldn't remember exactly when I'd started, but I think it was after Beckett stopped the sedation. There was a part of me that knew I was turning into a wreck, just as they'd feared I would. But there was another part of me fighting it; clawing and shouting. I didn't want to be in this black place, this painful place.

It wasn't just that I missed McKay. He'd been my friend; that was expected. It was the way he'd died. It would always be the way he died.

"I'm going to stay out here until the sun rises," I murmured. Maybe it would light the empty pit growing inside of me. God, something needed to. I wanted to feel the warmth; see the light.

At some point, I must have dozed, but when I woke, the sun had already risen, and I was curled on my side trying to stay warm. I felt lousy, and the sunshine must have passed over me, because I couldn't feel it.

"John?"

I uncurled my body, and rolled into a sitting position, stretching protesting limbs. Knowing I probably looked as bad as I felt, I sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty. "I'm not late yet," I said. Judging from the position of the sun in the sky, it was still early, and the briefing wasn't scheduled till ten.

Her look was painful. She moved to my side, and slid down, the electronic notepad in her hands blinking 'send' on an email she'd drafted but I couldn't tell who the intended recipient was. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" Elizabeth asked. "Teyla and Ronon are worried. I'm worried."

The truth was there, on the tip of my tongue, and I almost took her open invitation… "It's only been two weeks," I deflected instead. "I'm just…having problems sleeping."

Two weeks. The first week had been in Beckett's care, the second week I'd spent on missions pushing myself to choose a replacement, despite everyone protesting. It was too soon, they'd said. Ronon had accused me with his silent stares, while Teyla had just seemed to collapse within herself.

"Problems?" she echoed. Elizabeth shook her head. "John, you look like you haven't slept in days."

Wasn't that normal? Wasn't grief supposed to throw off sleeping, eating – living patterns? Wasn't it wrong to expect life to carry on as normal when someone disappeared violently from your daily routine? I'd done that after Dex and Mitch died because I had to. I wish I knew how to do that again. I was doing my job, getting through the day, but there was a maniacal edge to me, and I knew it. And I knew it was also because of the secret I was holding.

I opened my mouth to spew any hundred of false assurances. If I couldn't tell the truth, maybe at least I could lie. But the roiling hot edge of grief surged, and I turned to the water. When a few moments passed, I knew I had control again, but I kept staring out; away. "It's only up from where I'm standing," I admitted. I wasn't denying I'd hit rock bottom. She wouldn't believe me anyway.

"I've sent Carson an email."

Her tone of voice made me frown at the water. I turned, and studied her before asking, "And?"

"I told him you're on your way to see him."

"I'm not."

She climbed to her feet, and her sadness was palpable. "Yes, you are."

I held her look, pleading without words for her not to do this, but she remained steady. I grimaced, "I just needed time." But I stood as well, surprised at how deep the pain in my legs went. Guess lying in the cold night without even a blanket had been stupid. I aborted a bitter chuckle. Stupid. He would've been the one to tell me that. The thickening in my throat was bad, and I needed to get away. "You shouldn't have done that," I got one last dig back. There was a reason I hadn't been to see Beckett since he'd released me. I always had my reasons.

Before she had a chance to reply, to tell me how this was for my own good, I strode around her, and left the balcony.

OoO

When I entered the infirmary, he was waiting. The week away hadn't changed. Hadn't erased the haunted look on Beckett's face. I debated on turning around and leaving. If Elizabeth wanted to foist this on me, make her do the dirty work.

"Lad -" Carson breathed.

"I'm here because I was ordered to, not because I have any problems I need you to treat." I laid it out, right from the get-go. I didn't want to be here, I didn't want to look at Beckett and see his haggard face. Every time I looked at him, I saw the unspoken begging for why. There was no why – it'd happened to more people before McKay; the more appropriate question was 'why not'.

"One look at you, and I know you've got problems." The harsh accusation was out of character for the usually soft-spoken doctor.

I knew my forehead was crumpling; two weeks. It'd been only two weeks. "Help…" I stuttered it out even as my brain tried to tell my mouth no. But, God, I wanted help… "Take it away," I whispered.

Beckett's nostrils flared, and his face was on the verge of crumpling along with mine. "Nobody can take it away," he croaked.

He thought I was talking about the pain; the grief. I was talking about the memory. I didn't want to close my eyes and see McKay's life being drained anymore. To watch that rugged stubborn face twisted in horror, and begin to age years in seconds. An anger so primal rose up, and twisted inside me. I could feel my breaths coming in harsh, rapid pulls. I curled my hand into a fist, and spun, punching the wall. "That's not what I meant!" I raged – because I couldn't tell him what I meant. I couldn't…I kicked at a tray of instruments, the defibrillator.

"Colonel!" Carson swore and then shouted, "I need some help in here – bring me .04 Lorazepam."

The order stilled my body. I looked at my hand in numb surprise. It was bleeding; the knuckles split open, and I didn't feel a thing. The defibrillator lay in a broken pile on the floor, the table it'd been resting on now canted over the top right edge. I swallowed down the bile over what I'd done. "I don't need it," I protested. The rage had evaporated as quickly as it'd come.

A nurse handed the hypodermic to Beckett, staring sadly at the mess. I felt the rage whisper again. Those fucking sad looks – every where I turned. Why couldn't they stop? I was a big boy, had seen death, lived with death – why the hell was this one any different? Why was this one causing me to come undone…but the reason was one I didn't like to face. It was also not something I'd share. With anyone.

Beckett approached me warily. "I'm sorry, son, but I'm going to have to insist."

"Don't," I asked, my voice cracking. I couldn't strike out at him; not him. He was McKay's friend, as much as he'd been mine. Having to see the devastation I felt mirrored in Beckett's entire being…I just wanted to leave; escape.

"We can do this two ways; willingly, and you get to lay down first, or I tackle you, and call for help to haul you into a bed…that way involves restraints, by the way."

I searched his face for any sign of weakness; any sign that I could sway him from this course of action, but all I saw was the same pain, tempered by his lack of memory of the actual death. Damn it, damn it, damn it! Closing my eyes to shut out the sight, I murmured, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Beckett heard, and thought I meant him. "Bloody hell, Colonel – d'ye think I enjoy seeing you come undone? None of us does," he protested, angry.

I almost replied that I wasn't talking to him, and then realized that'd probably just mean I'd get to be his guest for even longer, and I didn't want that. It was time for damage control. I re-opened my eyes, surprised at how bright the infirmary was. "Where do you want me?" I asked, and a small part of me was eager for the shot. Eager to lose myself for a while in the drugged no-man's land, where Rodney's face wouldn't beg me to end it.

I forced my feet to go where Beckett pointed. The bed was in a corner, and after I got into the scrubs he'd handed over, not even letting me change alone, I climbed in. He took my arm in a firm grip, and swabbed it with alcohol. After he gave the injection, he breathed deep. "I'm sorry, Colonel," he said. "Sorry that we haven't been able to help you like we should've." The drug was fast acting, and the lethargy tugged at me, promising rest, finally. "But we will now…no more running; for any of us." As I drifted into the sweet embrace of darkness, I cringed at Carson's promise. I wanted to run.