Author'sNote: This one-shot comes out of several things. First of all, I have to say thanks to Libero for sending me the audio drama "Perchance to Dream" by Paul McGillion. Listening to that today helped me write in a point-of-view that's not something I tend to write. This is a tag to "Perchance to Dream." If you haven't heard the drama, I highly recommend it. And, if any of this confuses you, please let me know. I don't think there's much in the way of confusion, but you never know. Secondly, theicemenace mentioned a line in "The Hive" that has always intrigued me. When Rodney's detoxing from the Wraith enzyme, Carson says he has "an inkling." This isn't the first time I've played with this idea, but it's definitely the more detailed version. As always, I am not a medical doctor, nor do I have personal experience. I've used what I could pull from the internet and a bit of research. This contains spoilers for "Instinct," "Conversion," and everything from "The Hive" through "Misbegotten," as well as the natural spoilers for "Perchance to Dream." Enjoy! ~lg

oOo

I'm not even sure why I took the pills. My leg wasn't hurting as badly, the break having been expertly set by Dr. Cole. I had recovered from my ordeal with Dr. Gilbert, returned to my duties, did physical therapy, and moved on with my life. Or so everyone thought. None of them knew I still woke at night, sweating and paralyzed. Once the nausea tapered off a wee bit, I would get up and move about. Maybe stare out my window just to remind myself that I was alive. That I had not been lost while a Wraith queen, masquerading as the kind Dr. Gilbert, tried in vain to possess my body.

Those three days haunted me as I went about my business. The very idea that Dr. Gilbert existed as a part of me was constantly pushed to the back of my mind. I didn't think about her or the horror that she'd tried to impose on me. Until one day several months later.

I had been taking Lortab for my leg, and I still had a refill left. No one would think it odd that I simply asked for the prescribed dosage. But I knew better. My leg had not been paining me for some time, the break healing quickly. As I reached to throw away the empty medication bottle in the trash can, a voice whispered in the back of my mind, sounding an awful lot like Dr. Gilbert. You can forget.

"Aye, but at what cost?" I asked myself. Even in that moment, I knew the dangerous slope I was on. I had been down it before. Still, instead of getting rid of the bottle, I set it on the edge of the bathroom sink and headed for the infirmary. It was time for my duty shift.

That wee orange bottle taunted me for a week, promising relief from the nightmares and memories. I often sat awake at night, staring at that cursed thing as the nightmares faded. I'm a doctor. I recognized the signs of Post-Traumatic Stress. I had done what everyone expected and spoken with Dr. Heightmeyer about it. She knew of the dreams, the memories, and everything except for the voice of my past calling to me. You can forget.

In a fit of rage, I stomped into the bathroom and snatched up the bottle. To do what, I'm still not certain. It definitely wasn't my intention to give in. But, that night, as I glared at that bottle, I made a decision.

Marching to the infirmary with my hair in disarray, I startled Marie when I appeared. She half-stood from her spot at a work bench. "Oh, Dr. Beckett, I wasn't expecting to see you here."

I smiled at her. "I'm sorry to startle ye, love. My leg's just painin' me a wee bit, an' I'm here to fill my last script." The lie slipped easily off my tongue.

Marie nodded. "I'll make a note in your record."

"Thank you," I said gratefully. Taking the pills back to my quarters, I opened them with trembling hands and swallowed one. Then, I lay back on my bed and waited for the medication to take effect.

oOo

At first, the pills seemed like a God-send. I slept well that night and every night to follow. I told myself that I just needed to get over this latest batch of dreams, that I'd be okay as soon as the latest crisis over. The ZPM of Atlantis being sabotaged definitely gave a few of us nightmares, and I decided that I was still too stressed. My prescription contained thirty pills, and I was coming to the end of them. Then, Rodney was trapped in a submerged Jumper, creating enough stress for anyone who knew the cranky physicist. I hovered in the background, waiting until he'd been returned to Atlantis to treat his wounds. That night, I definitely needed that wee pill to help me relax.

After that, I wound up going off world to a society that served members of the Tower. That I was one of said nobles didn't bother me. I could have cared less who my patients were, so long as they survived. But the Lord Protector died anyway, and it stung. Especially the realization that I could do nothing for him. When we arrived home, I submitted to a complete physical. The pills didn't show up in my lab work because Dr. Cole knew I'd been given them for pain. Just to be safe, I faked a slight limp, telling her that being shoved into the cell by Otho had twisted my knee a bit wrong.

Then, Colonel Sheppard's team found the life pods in orbit over a planet. In fact, I was still quite drowsy from my dosage the night before when the first pod—containing Phebus—was brought to Atlantis. Perhaps that's why I was so easily duped.

That entire situation lasted through the night. I remember standing in the control room, listening to Colonel Caldwell argue with Rodney while wondering when I could slip away to my quarters. I needed that dose. While I only had three pills left, I knew I'd need them to get through the night. The injured Marines and Ronon's gut shot only highlighted what I didn't want to admit: I was dependent. Sneaking a few pills into my pocket, I stopped long enough to down a bottle of water and take one without Marie being any wiser. They had just begun to take effect as I scrubbed in to perform surgery on Ronon. After the power came back on, I made sure Ronon was going to be okay and collapsed into a chair in my office. The Lortab made me drowsy, but it was easily passed off as weariness from a night that never seemed to end.

Recovering from that night and the ensuing days left me without the pills. I had finished the prescription and could get no more without some sort of excuse. My own withdrawals gave me a reason, the phantom pain in my leg roaring into focus in the middle of the day. Dr. Cole insisted on a full physical, but she didn't catch the medication in my blood stream. Again, I'd just finished a legitimate bottle. It made sense for the chemicals to be in my system. Her concern for me was obvious, though she willingly gave me another prescription—a lower dosage. After all, I was the Chief of Medicine. I had never had a history of drug addiction that they knew about, and I had never given them a reason to doubt my word. With orders to take it easy for the rest of the day, I scurried back to my quarters and immediately took twice the prescribed dosage.

The relief those pills brought was incredible. I dropped onto my couch and simply stared out the window until I fell asleep. The next day, Major Lorne and his team were "killed" by the Genii, and I spent hours in the infirmary trying to identify the burned bodies of the people found in our men's places. Those days were difficult at best, and I kept my little orange bottle safely hidden in my pocket. As the hours passed and we were no closer to figuring out who had done such a thing, I slipped a pill here and there. I managed a soothing, gentle tone for Dr. Weir when she stood over the bodies, and I also showed that I was still capable of functioning in my capacity as CMO. I was okay, just experiencing pain on a regular basis.

I wonder now if the pills had anything to do with my desire to take my research on the retrovirus from lab tests to live tests. I'd not allowed Dr. Cole to treat me again, knowing she would grow suspicious. Instead, I found more creative ways of getting my pills. I stopped short of falsifying records, but I figured out how to get around anything that would endanger my position on Atlantis. You see, I knew I had a problem and that I needed to quit, but I was unable to control the urges. As a result, I withdrew from team dinners, claiming to be too tired in the evenings. I worked late in the lab, obsessively going over my research on what happened with Ellia and Colonel Sheppard. And I ordered a generic version of Lortab so that I could get the relief my body craved without using the valuable brand name on myself. It was cheap—relatively speaking—and could be easily covered. And it didn't compromise my position.

The day Elizabeth agreed to take my research to a live subject, I realized that my goal of staying trusted had been realized. Colonel Sheppard and his team returned with a live Wraith that I coldly strapped to a bed. In the past, I might have been a wee bit squeamish about injecting a living being with an experimental treatment, but I was too drugged and too angry to care. One of these creatures had trapped me in an alternate plane of existence, tried to possess my body, and had resulted in the torture of an entire galaxy. I could not feel sympathy for Michael, even though I managed to portray it at the right times. Once the conversion was complete, I took some time to myself. Obviously, it wasn't enough because Teyla realized something was wrong. You need to rest. Even now, her words and concerned tone echoe in my head. And, because I took the medication my body craved, I slept through Michael's excursion into the infirmary where he stole the video documentation on his conversion. I awoke some time later, horrified that my secret might have been discovered.

And it was. Oh, not right away, of course. But that incident precipitated the eventual admission made in a moment of sheer emotionalism. I'd always hated my propensity for crying, and I managed to control it when Elizabeth assured me that the dead Marine that Michael killed wasn't my fault. But I knew better. And, when Michael kidnapped Teyla, I worried that I'd caused the death of a good friend. Once Teyla had been recovered and we'd returned to Atlantis, I knew I couldn't hold on to my secret any longer. Atlantis might not be safe from the Wraith, and they'd need their Chief of Medicine in the coming fight. Even though I'd hidden this addiction for months, I was still a doctor. I could not risk the lives of those around me simply for a tiny, little pill.

And, so, I told someone. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done, and I sat in Dr. Heightmeyer's office knowing that she could help me. But, when the time came, I couldn't say the words. I admitted to having nightmares, made up some story about still dealing with dreams of my encounter with that Wraith ghost, and then left her office. I wandered for a bit before I found myself in front of Colonel Sheppard's quarters.

He answered the door with War and Peace in his hands. "Hey, Doc."

"Colonel." I swallowed the nausea in the back of my throat. "Do you have a minute?"

"Sure." Sheppard stepped back and let me into his quarters. As the door closed behind me, he reached for a bookmark. "What's on your mind?" he asked as he motioned me into a chair.

Now, most people assumed that Colonel Sheppard was a typical flyboy, but his quarters showed obsessive neatness and odd touches of class. He had a skateboard propped in one corner, a guitar on a stand, and a Johnny Cash poster on the wall. But his belongings were of quality, and he seemed perfectly at home with the dichotomy. The relative peace of the place didn't help as I perched on the edge of the chair he indicated. Wiping my sweaty palms on the legs of my pants, I let out a deep breath. "I'm. . . ."

He waited. When I said nothing else, he stood up and motioned to a mini-fridge. "Would you like something to drink, Carson?"

"Aye," I said gratefully.

"Beer?" He held out a cold can.

I blinked. "No, I can't."

Sheppard shrugged and handed me a bottle of water. I cracked the seal and took a long swallow, wondering why I was here. I ironically thought this would have been easier to tell Teyla or Ronon, who would understand my needs. But I'd chosen to go to the military leader of the entire base. Well, there's nothin' for it, I thought. Staring into Sheppard's face, I couldn't stop the tears that welled up in my eyes. They didn't fall—thankfully—but I did nothing to hide them. "I need help."

Concerned, Sheppard dropped into his chair. "What is it, Doc?" The intense worry in his voice only made the shame even stronger. When I didn't say anything, he leaned forward. "Listen, Carson, if you don't tell me what's going on, I can't help you."

"I know." I sucked in great breaths of air, surprised at how panicked I felt. If I did this, I wouldn't be able to pretend anymore. Suddenly, pretending seemed like a good idea. But my morals—those wonderfully horrible things my mum had instilled in me—refused to let me be discovered like last time. Looking down at the water bottle in my hands, I crinkled the wrapper before my anger at myself got the better of me. I should have been stronger. If I wasn't so weak, I wouldn't have needed the pills in the first place. That anger and irritation at myself now did what I wasn't able to do before. I reached into my pocket and pulled out that dreaded yet loved orange bottle and tossed it to Sheppard.

He caught it by pure reflex alone. Not taking his eyes off of my face, he turned the bottle over and over in his hand. I saw when the realization dawned, and I lowered my head. My face burned, and I suddenly regretted guzzling the water he'd given me.

"Doc?" The low surprise in his voice made me peek at his face. He held up the bottle. "What's this?"

Now that he had the power over that precious medicine bottle, I could deny it no longer. I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, "My demons."

oOo

Admitting to addiction is one thing. Actually going through the detox process is another. There are methods of detoxing from opioid dependency that allow a person to sleep through the worst of it. I could have done a rapid detox method, where I was sedated and slept through the worst of the withdrawal. It would have been easy—too easy. I knew that opioids created a psychological dependency in me, and I wanted to remember every ounce of suffering I went through so that it would help me resist the temptation next time. And I knew there would be a next time when it came to temptation.

Rodney was angry that I hadn't come to him first. "We're supposed to be best friends!" he said as he found me in my quarters.

"Aye," I replied, not at all sure of what I was really doing. "An' that's exactly why I dinnae come to ye."

He frowned at me for a moment, and then I saw the light go off in his head. "Oh my God! When I was detoxing from the Wraith enzyme, you said you had 'an inkling.' This is what you were talking about!"

"Aye," I said again. "But I wasnae usin' then. Just. . .had in the past."

I watched while he cycled through the thoughts. Rodney might not have been the most sensitive person on the base, but he'd learned loyalty to his friends. And, amazingly, I was one of those friends. Finally, his face screwed up in a determined mask. "We're gonna get you through this, Carson." He stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder. "I'll be right there with you, the whole way. Just like you were for me. You're. . .You are going to be okay, right?"

I couldn't stop the smile at the uncertainty in his question. "I'll be fine," I assured him.

"So, what are we doing?" He motioned with his hand. "I mean, how are we doing this? Surely there are easier ways to go through detox than what I did."

"Aye, there are." I shrugged. "But I'm not."

"Why not?" he asked as if it were the most obvious question he could ask. "I mean, you're going to be in all this pain, right? Why not take the edge off?"

"Because, Rodney, I want to remember." And it was true. This was the second time in my life that I'd go through this ordeal, and I wanted the memories as vivid as possible. Although I would deal with nightmares and such, I wanted to prove I was strong enough to get through anything. I knew my friends didn't see me as weak, but I thought of myself as weak.

Colonel Sheppard arranged everything. After my little confession, he sent me back to my quarters to pack for ten days on the mainland. I quickly filled a small bag with a few changes of clothes, knowing I'd be wearing scrubs for most of the time. Detox wasn't a pretty process, and I saw no need to take unnecessary items.

To this day, I still don't know what Colonel Sheppard told Elizabeth to get her permission for her Chief of Medicine and frontline team to spend ten days on the mainland. For all I know, he may have told her the truth. Elizabeth is the soul of discretion, and she wouldnae want me to be more ashamed or embarrassed than I already was. After that, it was just a matter of me choosin' a doctor to oversee the process. Ironically, the only one I trusted was Amanda Cole.

Sheppard flew Rodney, Ronon, Teyla, and myself to the mainland first. I'd already gone overnight without the pills, and I could feel the pain setting in. Still, I kicked my three guardians out of the prefabricated building we'd chosen to use as a makeshift infirmary and changed into scrubs while Sheppard headed back to Atlantis. I later found out that he invited Dr. Cole to join him on the mainland. The poor lass agreed because she and the colonel had an unspoken attraction to one another. I know she wasn't happy to find out that he had lied to her, but she set that aside for a time. I was sitting on the hospital bed, in white scrubs and bare feet, when she walked in.

"Amanda, I am so sorry," I said immediately. Looking her directly in the eye, I made certain she knew how sincere I was. "I lied to ye, an' I'm. . . .I'm very, very sorry."

She put a hand on my knee in a comforting manner. "It's alright, Carson. I understand."

And she did. I couldn't understand why she believed me, but I appreciated it just the same. Lying back on the bed, I meekly submitted to her ministrations, allowing her to insert an IV for fluids. "No medications," I said as I lay there. "Only what you have to give to get me through this."

"Carson."

"I'm serious." I met her eyes. "I know this could be deadly, and I'll allow medications to prevent that. But don't try an incremental withdrawal. I've done that once already, and I didn't stay away."

She nodded and put a hand on my shoulder.

Within hours, the symptoms of withdrawal worsened. I could not believe how reliant my body had become on the Lortab always being in my system. I tried to sleep, to get some rest. But the memories of that euphoric sleep kept coming to the fore, tempting me to get up and ask for something. At first, I was able to refuse, but it was a good thing Colonel Sheppard insisted I not be left alone. When the withdrawal became worse, it was Sheppard who restrained me and managed to talk me out of backing out. Once I was tied to that bed, I lost all sense of time.

There are bright spots in my memory of those days. It took nearly seventy-two hours for the Lortab to break down in my system. I clearly remember the agonizing pain, the anxiety, photophobia, phonophobia, sweating, and a host of other symptoms. The tremors increased to actual convulsions, making me glad that I'd been restrained to the bed.

Amid that chaos, there are moments that will stay in my memory forever. Amanda rarely left my side except when Colonel Sheppard urged her to get some sleep. She was forever bathing my sweaty face with cool water and speaking softly to me. I'm sorry to say that I yelled at her more than once for shouting at me when she'd barely whispered. To her credit, she never became angry and merely administered benzodiazepine when I needed it.

Teyla came often, though she spent as much time among her people. I didn't feel abandoned by her but rather looked forward to her visits. She arrived late at night, when the physical exhaustion left me unable to sleep but craving rest of any kind. In her gentle way, she would bathe my face and sing softly. I remembered her song from Charin's Ring Ceremony, and I turned my face gratefully toward her every time I heard her voice. It was instinctive, really. And I will always appreciate everything she did.

But it was Rodney who did the most good for me, though I was angry with him at the time. About midway through the entire ordeal, he came to the building where I suffered and relieved Ronon. The big Satedan had sat at my side, telling me I was strong enough to get through this. Rodney took his place, nervously asking how I was doing before launching into an overly-technical explanation of his latest experiment. I knew even then that he really didn't know what to say to me, and I had been none too kind to him when he'd last appeared. Quite frankly, I wasn't too kind to any of them. Though this was my choice, I held them responsible for my suffering.

That day was the worst. I pulled against my restraints, angry at myself and the world for putting me in this situation. Rodney had been ignoring my rant, waving me off with his characteristic "Yeah, yeah, yeah" attitude. It angered me. "Don't just bloody ignore me, Rodney!"

He blinked at me. "I'm not ignoring you, Carson," he said softly. "I'm doing exactly what you wanted me to do."

"And what is that?"

"Getting you through this." He set aside his computer to come stand at my bedside. "Look, I know you don't get it right now, but this is for your own good."

"Don't tell me what's for my own good!" I glared. "I'm a bloody doctor! I know what's for my own good!"

"Yeah, and that's why you've decided to go through this."

"Well, I'm done!" I looked around. "Where's Dr. Cole?"

"She's resting."

"Then get her in here!"

"No."

"What?"

"You heard me." Rodney folded his arms. "I'm not getting in trouble with Sheppard just for waking her up."

I looked around the room, frantic. I couldn't take it anymore! The nightmares had become waking dreams, and I couldn't get away from them. The nausea made it all worse, and there were several times I couldn't hold down the bile. Someone was thankfully there to hold a basin under my chin, but the chill from my sweat-soaked clothing made me shake even more. I tugged on the restraints again, squirming in my skin as my body cramped. "Please!" I whispered. "Just a nip. One dose. It's all I'm askin'! I swear that's all I want! Just enough. . ."

"To take the edge off?" Rodney asked gently. He reached for the wet rag again and wiped the sweat and tears away from my face. "I can't do that, Carson."

"Why not?" I demanded. "I'm a doctor! I'll walk you through the process!"

"Because you wouldn't do it for me." His simple answer made me angry, and I dissolved into a childish tantrum right then, yelling at him so loudly that Amanda came running. She demanded to know what was happening, and I turned my ire on her. At that point, she found a prepared syringe and injected it into my IV. The sedative took effect almost immediately, and I don't remember much after that.

Then, it was over. I know it seems simple to say it that way, but you have to understand that I suffered in silent agony. My body continued to break down the hydrocodone, but I was kept sedated through most of it. Ronon later told me I accused him of trying to kill me, but I don't recall much of it. The big man was sitting with me when I woke, coherent and exhausted. My muscles ached from the tremors, and I knew my body had a long ways to go before I could truly say I'd recovered from the ordeal. But the worst of it had passed.

Amanda came into the room and smiled at me, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. "Good to see you awake, Carson."

"Aye," I said softly. "I'm so sorry, love."

She put a hand on my shoulder. "Like I told you before, I understand."

"You do?"

"Yes." She shook her head. "Alcohol, drugs, medications. . .they're all an easy escape for what we go through in life. And it's easy to take that escape route when we feel we don't have another one."

I could tell from her voice that she'd endured something before coming to Atlantis that had sent her over the edge. In the way of a fellow addict, I nodded but didn't ask any further questions. There would be time enough for that later.

She did a few more checks and then smiled at me. "Well, as long as you're up to it, I'll get Dr. McKay or Colonel Sheppard in here to help you change into some clean clothes. How does that sound?"

I lay back on the bed with a smile. "It sounds fantastic." Exhaustion swept over me. "But tell whomever it is to hurry, love, or I won't be awake."

She chuckled at that and slipped out the door. Sheppard appeared a moment later, carrying a fresh set of scrubs. "How 'bout we get this over with, Doc?" he said uncomfortably.

"Aye," I agreed. As he undid my restraints, I met his eyes. "Thank you, John."

He shrugged. "What are friends for?"

oOo

It's been a month since that awful trip to the mainland. After the first seventy-two hours, I was allowed to get up and move around. Once I proved that I wasn't going to go insane and harm anyone, any and all medications disappeared. Dr. Cole confiscated my key to the dispensary on Atlantis, and I gratefully allowed her to handle all prescriptions. If anyone asked, we cited a recent restructuring of power in the infirmary. I had a lot of paperwork to get caught up on, and she was more than happy to keep the truth from unsuspecting crew members. I appreciated her discretion and hated putting her in that situation. But it was for the better.

I endured several tense moments when my mind turned back to the easy escape, as Amanda called it. While trapped in an Ancient ship inside of a soon-to-be-erupting super volcano, Rodney stopped his work long enough to glance at me. "You okay, Carson? 'Cause you're, you know, fidgeting."

And indeed I was. The psychological effects of opioid addiction were tougher to break. After my trip to the mainland, I'd gone to Dr. Heightmeyer and confessed. It wasn't easy, but I knew I needed the help. Having someone else know about how stress made me want to take a pill kept me honest. Rodney asking was just another safety net.

Then, the Wraith came to Atlantis. All through the time I worked with their scientists, I kept thinking about how much calmer I would have been if I'd had the opportunity. But I had friends who looked after me. When I was placed in the blasted control chair against my will, Elizabeth's "How are you doing?" had more meaning than anything. She must have known what I'd gone through and was ensuring my continued freedom in spite of the stress. Hearing Colonel Sheppard's voice brought a relief more intense than any pill could have produced. And, later, when Michael probed my memory, I knew I could get through it because I'd been strong enough to get through the detox process. My treatment for the severe headache was handled with paracetamol and rest. That time, I refused to take any medications even though Amanda assured me it was okay.

Now, I'm in the infirmary writing this down so that, hopefully, someone will understand that they're not alone. I clearly remember feeling so drawn and worn down after my ordeal with the Wraith queen, and not one of my friends seemed to understand. But they did. Even now, Colonel Sheppard is in the infirmary, gently irritating Dr. Cole as he follows her around. He looks like a lost puppy dog, if the truth were told.

Oh, wait. He's askin' her out! "C'mon, Amanda!" he said barely a moment ago. "Just a trip to the mainland. Nothing more."

She just turned around. "And who are we detoxing this time?"

I cannae help myself. The snicker escaped before I could suppress it. Now, the two of them are lookin' at me as if I've grown a second head. I stand to my feet and walk over to her. "Say yes, love. Otherwise, he'll be in here at all hours of the night until you do."

She grins. "Thanks, Carson."

"You're welcome." I watch them leave with a smile on my face. Now I know what Sheppard promised her to get her to the mainland.

And I'm truly grateful for all he did.

oOo

Author's Note II: Opioid dependency is, unfortunately, common in the United States. Many prescription pain killers contain hydrocodone and are addictive if taken too long. People who suffer from opioid dependency find that the psychological need for the drugs lasts far longer than the physical need for the medications. This is why a good support system is necessary. When I wrote this story, I had no intention of making any kind of statement other than tell a good story, but a message came through anyway. I can't help but feel that Someone wanted me to write this in such a personal fashion, and I pray that this story-and its moral-stays with you. God bless! ~lg