Part 3: It Begins…

The infirmary staff had had their hands full when Ronon awoke. Vitals, feeding, watering, assessing how much of Ronon was returning to normal and how much still needed work.

Two additional patients had arrived, one on foot, the other via gurney. Beckett had treated and released the first after putting a couple of stitches in his hand. The other, a woman with a severe headache, was sent over for a CT scan and then given a bed in a private area where the lights could be dimmed. Carson decided to run a CBC and hematocrit on her before crashing for a few hours' rest.

So, 0245 hours. Dead of night. So quiet and still that Beckett could hear Ronon's resonant breathing on the other side of the room. The large man's opiate stupor was keeping him comfortable enough for the moment.

The centrifuge spun round and round, blurring and ticking and making its comforting white noise. When Beckett closed his eyes for a moment, the noise became everything. There were no walls, no shelves containing boxes of kling and trauma dressings, no splints, no morphine ampoules, no Cardizem, no Lidocaine, no laryngoscopes, no non-rebreathers or nasal cannulae. If he closed his eyes for just a moment, he wasn't there anymore and didn't have to face up to what he had done.

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be so heartless."

How had a simple, rather sweet and touching situation turned into a gigantic cluster fuck before his eyes? Phoebus. Thalan. Carson wasn't a stupid person, certainly, just one who had forgotten exactly where he was. He had let it happen, encouraged it, actually, because he wanted to believe in the enduring qualities of love and fealty, which were so precious and so rare in this galaxy.

Before Beckett had had a chance to truly regret his lack of foresight, Caldwell lay stunned on the floor and, in a moment, Beckett had joined him. He thought about this, about everything that happened that day.

Rather than depressed or exhausted, the doctor felt responsible. Nothing he said to Heightmeyer would change his mind and nothing she said to him would help.

This is when it began…

…Responsible and the ticking centrifuge and the darkened operating room and Ronon, gut-shot and shocky, and a half-dozen Marines beat up by Elizabeth Weir, of all people. He was so tired, so worn out from trying to right his wrongs, from trying to put all of the toothpaste back into the tube.

For a second Beckett thought he was on his way to the floor in a faint. He reached out to the lab table in front of him to catch himself, only to find himself grasping at air. His feet were no longer planted on the infirmary floor, but instead stretched out into dead space, and his eyes flew open to see only darkness. Half panicked, he wrapped his arms around his head and shut his eyes against the unknown.

I must be dying.

But that sort of talk ended then his back slammed to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.

Count of three.

His chest hitched spasmodically, not sure whether it wanted to inhale or exhale.

One…take a deep breath.

He forced himself to exhale, emitting a tiny, airless squeak in the process. It did the trick, though, rebooted the system so that he could expand his chest again.

His arms and legs twitched, nerves crackling irritably.

Two…feel for fingers and toes.

Carson bent his ankles a bit; he pushed a big toe around inside his shoe, touched thumb to pinky.

Three…open eyes…

Gone were the trappings of civilization, the clean lines and constant temperature of Atlantis. Someone had kidnapped him, perhaps, using Asgard beaming technology. Abducted and brought him…here?

The forest was denser than any he had ever seen. Trees, mostly pine, stood only a few meters apart, allowing only the smallest amount of sunlight to touch the mossy ground. Pine needles littered the forest floor, along with thin, starving shrubs and pathetically tiny seedlings. A rich, fertile scent permeated the air, free of rot. Beckett stared about him, amazed that he had not landed on a treetop when he had fallen. For he had obviously fallen. Hadn't he? From the sky? From a ship? Never mind, he was bloody well here, so now what?

A nearby groan alerted him to the presence of another. In the darkly shaded forest, a slowly moving bulk on the ground several feet away unwound and finally stood erect, showing itself to be Ronon Dex. He blinked as if the sun had slapped him in the face and let his hands roam over his belly, frowning in puzzlement.

"I'm not hurting any more," he said calmly.