A/N: Okay, folks! Here's the chapter where our team makes their first appearance. :) Sorry if the previous chapter seemed a little rushed, but it was my intention to present just a few of the more important snippets of his life in order to give you guys a proper chance to see what kind of a person he is before I start writing about him. This chapter is a little sad, but don't worry. It gets lighter. I hope you are all enjoying this so far!
Tick… tick… tick… tick…
Dr. Carson Beckett leaned heavily against the doorway of the small bedroom and sighed heavily, his gaze rising slowly from his hands to a small and austere window set high into the opposite wall. He removed a pair of protective gloves, stepped forward, and looked out. Suddenly craving distraction, he felt the return of some semblance of order to his mind at seeing people moving back and forth on the streets below attending to their own business with nary a care for what went on in the houses they passed. He listened to the clock ticking behind him near the banister, trying to will his mind into a state of serene calm and tranquil impassiveness.
It didn't work. Sometimes it was just too hard. No matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the image of the young man from his mind. Carson knew the young man in the room he had just left, and knew that he was crying. At least, that's what he thought was happening. If it had been his own mother sick and dying, he knew that he himself would be crying. That was why he'd left the young man alone with her for a while.
He sympathized deeply, but always managed to feel like a failure when trying to shake that feeling of helplessness and despair that came when good, kind people were dying under his care. It was part of what made him the person he was, and as objective and unattached as doctors are supposed to remain with their patients, he'd never had the ability to remain completely unaffected by things like this. He liked to think that it made him a better doctor, but sometimes it was too hard. After three days of constant care and attentiveness, even the best of doctors would be hard-pressed not to be fatigued and weary.
And his fatigue was great today, so great that he did not notice the soft footsteps padding across the carpeted floor behind him, nor did he expect to feel a hand fall onto his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. Carson jerked around, his heart racing in a nervous frenzy. He willed himself to attempt to physically relax even if he was still mentally incapable of it.
"Colonel," he greeted his team's leader hesitantly with a deep Scottish brogue that had thickened with his fatigue. "I dinna expect ye back until tomorrow."
"I was in the neighborhood, so I just thought I'd just check in and see how you were doing." Colonel John Sheppard asked worriedly, getting right to the point. "How's Mrs. Mulley doing?"
Carson frowned, and then let out an audible sigh before giving his report. "Not well, I'm afraid. It looks like she's contracted some local variant of Yellow Fever. She's displayin' signs o' jaundice an' has taken a turn for the worse."
John frowned now too, his gaze shifting downward. "Henry must be taking it pretty hard."
'Henry' was the nickname that they'd given to Henril Mulley, the small and stout young man in his late teens who'd greeted them excitedly when they had first come to his world through the Stargate and landed their Puddle-Jumper. He'd been kind and understanding and had been more than happy to introduce them to all the local offices in authority on the island port. His mother had even invited them for dinner, and so he had felt obligated to come back to this world himself with the doctor sooner than he'd originally been scheduled. Another expedition team's report had informed him that Mrs. Mulley had become ill, and he'd felt that he owed the young man something for all the trouble he and his mother had gone through to help them.
"Aye," Carson confirmed softly, his gaze returning to the window. "He is."
"Maybe I should talk to him," John said uncomfortably, lips pursed and feet shifting slightly underneath him.
"No," Carson urged quietly, shaking his head. "I think he just needs some time."
Carson padded away softly down the steps and took it upon himself to go into the kitchen, fill a kettle with water, and place it on the fire to boil. He wasn't sure that the tea he'd brought with him would make anyone else feel better, but it did make the quiet peace of the house seem more homely for him, at least. John had silently followed, but did not immediately speak again.
"Tea?" Carson asked, holding up a cup in John's direction.
John shook his head and watched Carson return to the kettle for a moment, then sat down in a cushy chair and picked up a book from a shelf, paging through it absently and studying its hand-drawn illustrations.
Carson's voice wafted through from the kitchen. "So where are Rodney, Ronon, and Teyla? Are they still out and about in the market?"
"Yeah," John replied loudly so that Carson could hear him, still leafing through the book. "I wasn't feeling too well, but Teyla knows what we need. I decided to let her do this week's shopping."
"Not feelin' well?" Carson asked, taking a peek past the kitchen's dividing wall back at John. "Shall I take a look?"
"No, no, I'm fine," John insisted slyly with a faint hint of a smile. "You go ahead and have your tea. It was probably just last night's dinner disagreeing with me."
"But I cooked dinner last night," Carson said with mock dismay, giving John a stern look. And when John looked up at him innocently, saying nothing more, he begrudgingly returned to the kitchen, muttering under his breath. "Cheeky an' bloody ungrateful, I tell ye."
John grinned with amusement and returned to his book. The pictures had been awesome and grotesque at the same time, depicting scenes with ships, heroic-looking sailors, sea-monsters, and even sea-maidens. It didn't seem like the kind of pictures you'd see in a religious book, but there had been what looked like a few old maps within it. The book itself was old and worn, but the images were still vibrant and clear. John found himself wishing that he could read the fading alien print.
The water for his tea now ready, Carson finally emerged from the kitchen holding a steaming mug and sat in a chair across from John. He'd barely had a moment to sip it once before what sounded like a strange, faint buzzing sound seemed to emanate outside the relatively thin walls of the house in which they were settled. Both Carson and John looked around curiously, but saw nothing different.
"What is that?" Carson asked to no one in particular, and then turned his head toward the door when the latch on it jiggled.
"—but no, you only checked the prices with two other vendors. How could you possibly know that you got the best deal possible for all that grain? Look, all I'm saying is that—"
The door opened with a soft creak and Teyla Emmagan was the first to step through, carefully wiping her shoes on a mat outside the door before entering. "Rodney, if I had checked with all of the vendors in the market, we would have been there for a very long time. I felt that the price we are trading for it is fair."
Dr. Rodney McKay followed just after, not bothering to wipe his muddy, grungy feet before stepping through and soiling the carpet and wood-finished floor panels near the door. "Well, we'll never know now, will we?"
With a bemused but contented sigh, Ronon Dex was the last to silently pass through the entrance into the small house, and he too had been polite enough to wipe his boots on the mat. Carson scowled at Rodney, pushing himself up angrily out of his chair and nearly spilling his tea.
"Rodney, look what you're doin', ye bloody inconsiderate an'— I just helped Henry clean up this mornin'!"
"What?" Rodney whined, and when Carson pointed at his shoes, he looked down at them. "Oh."
Carson pursed his lips in annoyance and sat back down, taking another sip of his tea. His mother-hen instinct had been ingrained in him since he was a child, when his own mother would fret and worry about each scratch and bruise he'd receive at school from the bullies that would pick on him and his friends. 'I'm sure ye were in the right tae stand up for yer friend, Carson,' she'd tell him quietly. 'If only ye didn't get so banged up afterward!'
He could still hear his mum's voice or see her image in his head now and then, whispering comforts and shaking her head in bemused exasperation, but still smiling sweetly. He knew that he'd picked up some of her mannerisms over the years, too, and smiled himself at the thought that he had become just like his mother. An image of Mrs. Mulley then appeared in his mind, smiling with the same sweet and motherly expressiveness, and his smile faded. It was a smile that poor Henry would probably never see again.
Making a mental note to try to plan a trip home to Scotland sometime in the near future, Carson looked up from his tea cup and sighed. A set of slow, sullen footsteps were padding down the stairs, and everybody in the room turned their head to see. It was Henry, his shoulders slumped, and his face implacably blank. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and leaned woozily against the wall, and Carson rose quickly and moved to the young man's side, fearful that he might collapse in a dead faint from exhaustion.
"She's…" Henry tried to whisper hoarsely, but didn't have to say it. They knew it without him having to say anything.
Carson could see the endless depths of sadness in his eyes and sympathized. Losing a patient was never easy for him, but this young man's mother had shown them such kindness that he'd likened her to his own mother. Placing a comforting hand on Henry's shoulder, Carson helped him over to the couch to sit down. It wasn't long before Henry slipped into a troubled and restless nap of sheer exhaustion.
Colonel Sheppard and his team had stayed with him and waited patiently in respectful silence while the caretakers of the dead did their business for Henry. But by the time all was said and done, the sun had started to sink low in the sky, and it was all Carson could do not to begin pacing the room like a caged animal. His emotions were building up and needed an outlet.
"I'm very grateful for all the trouble you've gone through, Dr. Beckett," Henry said quietly after a while. "Thank you for trying to help."
"You're welcome," Carson replied softly, speaking with a faint hint of bitterness in his voice that he'd meant to hide. "I just wish I'd been able to do more."
A few minutes of uncomfortable silence passed, and then someone's stomach growled. Rodney looked down at his toes sheepishly.
"It's getting late," Henry said with a faint smile after glancing out at the window. "You all must be getting hungry by now. Please, allow me to treat you to a fine meal at the tavern tonight. They make a hearty and tasty stew this night of the week, and it's quite good. It's the least I can do to repay you for the kindness you've shown me."
Letting out a sigh of relief, Carson's interest was piqued by the idea. He clapped Henry on the back. "That's kind of ye, lad. I think I could use a stiff drink about now."
Henry retrieved his jacket from a small corner closet, offering his friends another weary smile. "You'll have to be careful what you order, Doctor. The sailor's grog and most varieties of ale are wonderful around here, but be warned that some of the finer spirits might be served watered down to strangers who don't immediately offer a generous tip."
A rush of cool autumn and salty-sweet sea air greeted them upon opening the door, and a stiff breeze drove through the tall grasses that grew in clumps at the street corners. Oil lamps were being lit, candles and lamps could be seen alighting in a few shop windows, and a fog bank was rolling in from over the water to the east, but it was broken by a bright and shining light from a lighthouse in the distance. It was eerily reminiscent of a simple 17th century seaport filled with all sorts of people. Sailors and fishermen were most common, of course, but there were countless shop-owners, dock workers, and even a few well-dressed groups of wandering nobles, who would frequent the finer establishments and shops in their long-clothes, which were ill-suited for sailing.
They strode along the cobblestone streets until Henry brought them to the door of what initially appeared to be an inn. The door opened and the hearty smells of smoking meats, hearty stews, and a warm, homely fire in the center permeated the room about them, making their mouths water with the anticipation of a fine meal. Soft, dainty music wafted from an unseen corner where a small group of pipers played.
After choosing a table in a corner not too far from the bar, Henry went to fetch the first round of ale, and Colonel Sheppard and his team eagerly seated themselves. When Henry returned with two large pitchers of ale, Ronon smiled heartily and was the first to reach for one as the barkeep passed out simple pewter cups. Generously portioned bowls of stew soon followed, and Rodney eyed his eagerly, but was somewhat confused when the barkeep hadn't brought any spoons. Upon seeing Henry lift the bowl to his mouth, Rodney decided not to ask; he was starving.
The mood was light-hearted but solemn, and they did not speak very frequently, always in hushed voices compared to the raucous cacophony of chuckling, arguing, and jeering going on around them from the other patrons of the tavern. After two more pitchers had been brought to the table, it had become obvious that Henry and Ronon were becoming quickly and thoroughly sloshed. Carson admitted with some dismay that the ale was the best he'd had in a long time, and Henry had even tried to teach his new friends an old sea chantey that he'd recently learned on the docks where he worked.
The fine atmosphere, fine food, and fine drinks of the evening worked their magic on the tired and downtrodden souls seated at the table. But little did they notice the hushed voices and sly glances of the swarthy men who sat a few tables away, and as the evening unfolded into night, they would have had no idea how much trouble they were about the be thrust into.