SGA GEN FIC: Fault (4/?)
SUMMARY: And even though Colonel Sheppard had made the call, he knew it was
still all his fault. Tag for Misbegotten. Carson + team fic.
SEASON/SPOILERS: Season 3. Tag for Misbegotten.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not a doctor, but medical stuff is researched with some dramatic licensing, but nothing worse than what we'd see on the show, really.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis or anything associated with it. I'm simply borrowing, but I promise to return all in one piece. Eventually.
Carson barely remembered the second scan. Harper had piled him with more Compazine and a whopping dose of morphine before hand, probably hoping it make would his boss easier to deal with. Normally Carson would have argued with him, but frankly, he felt too poorly to protest and the morphine hadn't settled his immense migraine a tad.
The results of said scan, however, weren't good. Harper only shoved the digital pictures in his sightline for a brief moment before yanking them away.
"There's an epidural hematoma," Harper said, before turning away. "How the hell did it not come up on the first scan here? Did it develop that rapidly? Someone prep OR 1."
OR 1? Carson blinked through the morphine haze to grab Biro's arm as she passed by his bed. "Carol?"
She tried to give him a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "Don't worry, Carson. You know we'll take good care of you."
Take good care of him? What was going on? He wanted to ask more questions, but Biro was already hurrying off by the time he could even try to open his mouth again. An epidural hematoma. Neurosurgery. Bloody brain surgery.
What had Michael done? Or more importantly, what he had let Michael done? He had tried to resist the probe, that fact he was certain of. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing past the headache, the dizziness, and the nausea. There had to be something to remember; something that might help his retain some of his dignity and more importantly, his sanity.
A searing pain ran through his forehead, sending his heart rate soaring and the monitors behind him whined in protest. There was the scurrying of feet around him, Biro's voice in the distance, along with a nurse's voice he knew he should have recognized. He forced his eyes back open, the room swirling in a vast array of colors.
Pain. Physical and emotional. That was what he could remember. And it didn't let him see past it.
"Dr. Beckett?"
He blinked to try and clear his vision past the dizziness, finally succeeding on the fourth attempt. Another member of his staff stood at the foot of his bed, dressed in scrubs. He knew her and searched a moment for her name. Gayle. That was it. Gayle O'Brien. She was an anesthesiologist. His long-term memory was still intact.
She was holding his chart and what he gauged was equipment for a blood draw. Hadn't they done that already? He reached a hand towards a taped down piece of gauze on his right forearm. O'Brien smiled.
"I want a blood gas. I figured when it's for the boss, I should do it myself."
Crap. He'd done that procedure enough in his career to know it wasn't extremely pleasant. "I'd rather if we could skip it all together, really," he joked weakly.
"No dice," O'Brien replied. "But I'm pretty good at it, you know." And sure enough, she was. Either that or a needle directly into the artery in his wrist paled in comparison to his headache and the rest of his current symptoms. She asked him all the necessary pre-operative questions, most which were thankfully simple to answer as he could remember he'd never had a general anesthetic before. He'd always been the healthiest out of the seven Beckett children and still had his tonsils and appendix. The fact that this was all happening so fast and was so new was disconcerting.
But when he thought of the sheer terror he'd felt after finding himself tied to a gurney in a tent alone with Michael on a plant with no Stargate, surgery, even brain surgery, seemed tame.
/"But with the ship gone, what's the point? You've no hope of escape," he'd told Michael as the Wraith hybrid marched his through the forest, hands tied behind his back.
"That's where you are wrong," Michael answered and raised a hand to the four converted Wraith behind him. The camp was in view./
"Carson? What is going on? I try to get that scalpel-happy pathologist of yours to finally tell us what is taking so long and she tells to me to stay put and that you're going into surgery?"
Rodney's frantic voice appeared out of nowhere and Carson blinked again to find O'Brien had left and Rodney was now in her place. When had that happened? He'd establish that his long-term memory was still present, but he was loosing small chunks of time in the present.
/"How am I bloody wrong?" he shot back. "There's no Stargate on this planet and you can't possibly believe a passing hive would welcome you again." He had no idea where the boldness in his words came from, as bravery certainly wasn't something he'd thought he had much of on reserve. But Michael had him. Michael would probably kill him.
"I don't need them to welcome me, Doctor. You are forgetting that there are plenty of others that can connect to a hive as well."/
"Dr. McKay, I told you to wait outside with Teyla, Ronon, and Dr. Weir. What are you doing back here?"
The memory faded, leaving behind a headache that pushed past the morphine fog. He saw that Biro was heading towards them, now dressed in scrubs, with an undone surgical mask tied around her neck. She peered through her glasses to glare at Rodney.
"What I am doing back here?" Rodney repeated, hands flying as he talked. "I'm not sitting out there while you and that pathetic excuse for a surgeon-"
"Dr. Harper and I will take good care of Dr. Beckett," Carol interrupted. "But you'll only be in the way back here."
"You're not telling me something, I know it. Carson's dying, isn't he?"
"I'll be fine, Rodney," he told him, hoping he sounded convincing. Truth was the fact that he'd developed a hematoma was most definitely alarming, probably more so since he could list each of every complication that could arise from such an ailment, including death. He was surprised he was even this coherent, but a period of lucidity was often a symptom of an epidural hematoma, and without surgical intervention, it was only a matter of time before he started rapidly declining. Perhaps the diagnosis should not have been such a shock as there was no telling what the real physical effects of long-term Wraith mind probing actually were. Colonel Sheppard had some experience with it, which he'd studied, but Sheppard hadn't be subjected to the process nearly as long as Michael had-
Carson stopped himself mid-thought. He had no way of truly knowing how long Michael had probed his mind, really.
Biro managed to push Rodney away from his bed and back towards the rear of the infirmary which held a small waiting area he'd set up the during his second week on Atlantis. It was really just a corner, flanked by an a few Ancient exam beds, but it was tucked away in such a way that those waiting were shielded from any activity in the main infirmary areas.
And it was rarely used, as he found himself hard pressed to keep team members out of the main infirmary when someone on their team was injured. Still, Carol Biro, for all her rambling tendencies, was a battle-ax and Rodney soon disappeared from his view.
/"Others?" They reached the edge of the camp and he found himself herded into the very tent he'd set up his own lab. Michael pushed him harshly towards the gurney. What was his plan? To tie him to it? To do so, Michael would need to untie his current bindings and retie them. He might have a chance to run for it.
But run where? He'd just pointed out to Michael that there was no Stargate on this planet. There was no way out. Still, what could Michael possibly hope to gain from him?
He got part of his answer in the form of Merrik, entering the tent with a syringe. He'd trained Merrik well, too well, and tried to turn away, but it was no use. He felt the bit of the needle and the drug hit his system quickly.
"Get him on the gurney." Those were the last word he heard as he faded into the darkness./
Another stabbing pain shot through his skull and Carson tensed a bit, forced again to let the flashback fade. Bits and pieces were returning, right up until the probe and then, blank.
Only pain.
He felt weak at the idea of never knowing what was taken, or rather, what he'd given up. But he had little time to contemplate any further as O'Brien popped back into view brandishing a syringe. A few moments later, he found himself drifting on a sea of pre-op sedation.
/"Now let's...begin."/
Part 5
still all his fault. Tag for Misbegotten. Carson + team fic.
SEASON/SPOILERS: Season 3. Tag for Misbegotten.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not a doctor, but medical stuff is researched with some dramatic licensing, but nothing worse than what we'd see on the show, really.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis or anything associated with it. I'm simply borrowing, but I promise to return all in one piece. Eventually.
Carson barely remembered the second scan. Harper had piled him with more Compazine and a whopping dose of morphine before hand, probably hoping it make would his boss easier to deal with. Normally Carson would have argued with him, but frankly, he felt too poorly to protest and the morphine hadn't settled his immense migraine a tad.
The results of said scan, however, weren't good. Harper only shoved the digital pictures in his sightline for a brief moment before yanking them away.
"There's an epidural hematoma," Harper said, before turning away. "How the hell did it not come up on the first scan here? Did it develop that rapidly? Someone prep OR 1."
OR 1? Carson blinked through the morphine haze to grab Biro's arm as she passed by his bed. "Carol?"
She tried to give him a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "Don't worry, Carson. You know we'll take good care of you."
Take good care of him? What was going on? He wanted to ask more questions, but Biro was already hurrying off by the time he could even try to open his mouth again. An epidural hematoma. Neurosurgery. Bloody brain surgery.
What had Michael done? Or more importantly, what he had let Michael done? He had tried to resist the probe, that fact he was certain of. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing past the headache, the dizziness, and the nausea. There had to be something to remember; something that might help his retain some of his dignity and more importantly, his sanity.
A searing pain ran through his forehead, sending his heart rate soaring and the monitors behind him whined in protest. There was the scurrying of feet around him, Biro's voice in the distance, along with a nurse's voice he knew he should have recognized. He forced his eyes back open, the room swirling in a vast array of colors.
Pain. Physical and emotional. That was what he could remember. And it didn't let him see past it.
"Dr. Beckett?"
He blinked to try and clear his vision past the dizziness, finally succeeding on the fourth attempt. Another member of his staff stood at the foot of his bed, dressed in scrubs. He knew her and searched a moment for her name. Gayle. That was it. Gayle O'Brien. She was an anesthesiologist. His long-term memory was still intact.
She was holding his chart and what he gauged was equipment for a blood draw. Hadn't they done that already? He reached a hand towards a taped down piece of gauze on his right forearm. O'Brien smiled.
"I want a blood gas. I figured when it's for the boss, I should do it myself."
Crap. He'd done that procedure enough in his career to know it wasn't extremely pleasant. "I'd rather if we could skip it all together, really," he joked weakly.
"No dice," O'Brien replied. "But I'm pretty good at it, you know." And sure enough, she was. Either that or a needle directly into the artery in his wrist paled in comparison to his headache and the rest of his current symptoms. She asked him all the necessary pre-operative questions, most which were thankfully simple to answer as he could remember he'd never had a general anesthetic before. He'd always been the healthiest out of the seven Beckett children and still had his tonsils and appendix. The fact that this was all happening so fast and was so new was disconcerting.
But when he thought of the sheer terror he'd felt after finding himself tied to a gurney in a tent alone with Michael on a plant with no Stargate, surgery, even brain surgery, seemed tame.
/"But with the ship gone, what's the point? You've no hope of escape," he'd told Michael as the Wraith hybrid marched his through the forest, hands tied behind his back.
"That's where you are wrong," Michael answered and raised a hand to the four converted Wraith behind him. The camp was in view./
"Carson? What is going on? I try to get that scalpel-happy pathologist of yours to finally tell us what is taking so long and she tells to me to stay put and that you're going into surgery?"
Rodney's frantic voice appeared out of nowhere and Carson blinked again to find O'Brien had left and Rodney was now in her place. When had that happened? He'd establish that his long-term memory was still present, but he was loosing small chunks of time in the present.
/"How am I bloody wrong?" he shot back. "There's no Stargate on this planet and you can't possibly believe a passing hive would welcome you again." He had no idea where the boldness in his words came from, as bravery certainly wasn't something he'd thought he had much of on reserve. But Michael had him. Michael would probably kill him.
"I don't need them to welcome me, Doctor. You are forgetting that there are plenty of others that can connect to a hive as well."/
"Dr. McKay, I told you to wait outside with Teyla, Ronon, and Dr. Weir. What are you doing back here?"
The memory faded, leaving behind a headache that pushed past the morphine fog. He saw that Biro was heading towards them, now dressed in scrubs, with an undone surgical mask tied around her neck. She peered through her glasses to glare at Rodney.
"What I am doing back here?" Rodney repeated, hands flying as he talked. "I'm not sitting out there while you and that pathetic excuse for a surgeon-"
"Dr. Harper and I will take good care of Dr. Beckett," Carol interrupted. "But you'll only be in the way back here."
"You're not telling me something, I know it. Carson's dying, isn't he?"
"I'll be fine, Rodney," he told him, hoping he sounded convincing. Truth was the fact that he'd developed a hematoma was most definitely alarming, probably more so since he could list each of every complication that could arise from such an ailment, including death. He was surprised he was even this coherent, but a period of lucidity was often a symptom of an epidural hematoma, and without surgical intervention, it was only a matter of time before he started rapidly declining. Perhaps the diagnosis should not have been such a shock as there was no telling what the real physical effects of long-term Wraith mind probing actually were. Colonel Sheppard had some experience with it, which he'd studied, but Sheppard hadn't be subjected to the process nearly as long as Michael had-
Carson stopped himself mid-thought. He had no way of truly knowing how long Michael had probed his mind, really.
Biro managed to push Rodney away from his bed and back towards the rear of the infirmary which held a small waiting area he'd set up the during his second week on Atlantis. It was really just a corner, flanked by an a few Ancient exam beds, but it was tucked away in such a way that those waiting were shielded from any activity in the main infirmary areas.
And it was rarely used, as he found himself hard pressed to keep team members out of the main infirmary when someone on their team was injured. Still, Carol Biro, for all her rambling tendencies, was a battle-ax and Rodney soon disappeared from his view.
/"Others?" They reached the edge of the camp and he found himself herded into the very tent he'd set up his own lab. Michael pushed him harshly towards the gurney. What was his plan? To tie him to it? To do so, Michael would need to untie his current bindings and retie them. He might have a chance to run for it.
But run where? He'd just pointed out to Michael that there was no Stargate on this planet. There was no way out. Still, what could Michael possibly hope to gain from him?
He got part of his answer in the form of Merrik, entering the tent with a syringe. He'd trained Merrik well, too well, and tried to turn away, but it was no use. He felt the bit of the needle and the drug hit his system quickly.
"Get him on the gurney." Those were the last word he heard as he faded into the darkness./
Another stabbing pain shot through his skull and Carson tensed a bit, forced again to let the flashback fade. Bits and pieces were returning, right up until the probe and then, blank.
Only pain.
He felt weak at the idea of never knowing what was taken, or rather, what he'd given up. But he had little time to contemplate any further as O'Brien popped back into view brandishing a syringe. A few moments later, he found himself drifting on a sea of pre-op sedation.
/"Now let's...begin."/
Part 5