Aftermath

By Ann3

Writer's Note: Aaaaah, so we're in the mood for whumpage, are we...? Well, since I'm such a generous soul, I'm going to share it around a bit in this chapter. Poor Shep looked so horrified when he saw Carson strapped onto that bed that the plot bunnies went on the rampage, and... well, here's my idea as to what may have caused it... ;o)

Chapter Five

Prisoners And Pawns

For the next thirty hours, Carson Beckett drifted somewhere between consciousness and merciful sleep. Each time he woke, he'd hear various voices reassuring him, promising him that he was safe now. Soft, soothing, vaguely familiar voices, telling him that nobody else, nothing more, was going to hurt him.

Still too traumatised to understand what they'd meant, he'd drift back to sleep believing them – fragments of memory, horrific images that refused to fully connect, following him into its sanctuary.

It couldn't last, of course. However much they wanted it to last, those voices' owners knew that it couldn't. It was only a matter of time, they knew, before those calm and peaceful dreams exploded into horror.

More than any of them, John Sheppard had his own, privately shattering cause to dread its coming – something more than fate decreeing that he should share that moment when it finally, brutally, came.

Perched, in brotherly watchfulness, at Carson's shoulder, he'd tried, in vain, to settle with his book – suddenly fretful shifting beside him making already distracted attempts to read it close to impossible.

All too familiar with these telltale signs of waking terror, John was already moving too in response – one hand tossing the dog-eared novel aside while the other settled, very gently, on Carson's shoulder.

"Easy, Carson, it's alright… easy now, Carson, you're safe now… it's okay, you're safe now…"

He'd offered those assurances for the last two days now, quietly hating their hollow falseness – part of him almost grateful that Carson's tortured subconscious no longer allowed him to believe them. He was tossing in its possession now, whimpering cries slowly rising into the inevitable scream.

"N – No… no, please, d – don't… stop… God, please, stop… no… no, please… no… noooooo…!"

Mirroring the horrors of his mind, Carson's body arched in its agony, propelling him upright – a headlong flight stopped only by the solid strength of two arms wrapping themselves around him

Consumed by total terror, Carson flailed wildly against those arms, fighting with everything he had – strength that he barely had to start with rapidly deserting him as he collapsed, sobbing, against them.

Too exhausted to struggle further, he then slumped in panting defeat, waiting for brutal punishment – its failure to arrive, a soft voice, gradually coaxing him from hellish terror into merciful comfort.

"Easy, Carson, it's alright… easy now, Carson, I've got you… I've got you… easy now… easy…"

As recognition of that voice finally dawned, Carson stopped struggling and gingerly opened his eyes – tears of lingering pain, uncomprehending panic, veiling the hope that fought to gain ground beyond.

"J – John…?"

In sheer relief, John Sheppard released a long held breath, one he'd not even known he'd been holding, as he forced a far from convincing smile onto his face.

"Yes, Carson, it's me… it's okay, you're safe now… back on Atlantis... yeah, you see...? You're safe now, it's all over…"

It wasn't, of course. It wasn't over. Another muffled sob, fresh trembling against him, told him that. Tempered as they were by sedatives, his own exhaustion, those memories still reached a mind torn apart by their brutality.

Carson Beckett had remembered more this time. He'd remembered everything.

"Oh – Oh, my God…" he finally whispered, stricken blue eyes re-meeting grimly sympathetic green. "I – I jus' couldn't stop him, John… jus' – jus' couldn't stop him… couldn't stop him, c – couldn't…"

And suddenly, as the horrific realization of what had been done to him sunk in, it was all too much – one last, muffled sob escaping from him as Carson broke down, all but collapsing into John's arms.

Wrapping him back into the tightest embrace that he dared, John Sheppard again cursed his suffering. No-one knew more than he did how devastating it was to have your mind so savagely invaded. How devastating it was, in every sense, to have its knowledge pawned to the use of a brutal enemy.

For Carson Beckett, that inhuman violation had come, alone, on a distant planet - countless miles from comforting, yearned for home. For John Sheppard, it had come in the stifling, filthily stinking confinement of an Afghanistan prison.

It was too soon, of course, still completely out of the question, to explain that horrific connection yet. Haunted by his own demons, Carson Beckett was in no state to help him through his private, re-wakened hell.

All that John could do was hold onto his friend, seeking comfort just as much as he tried to offer it. As Carson fell emotionally apart in his arms, all he could do was hold onto him, cry alongside him – letting his own tears of bitter pain, helpless fury, dampen the shoulder that shook and shook against his.

"I know, Carson… yeah, buddy, I know… I know…"