A Habit of Turning Up

A Beckett/Sheppard romance
by WesleysGirl

Carson Beckett's hands shook now when he was weary, and he'd been weary for far too long by the time he set foot in Scotland again. Four years gone, and almost a year since his mum died. The smell of the air as he moved up the metal staircase from the lower deck of the Oban Ferry was both a shock and a relief; thick with the salt and the sea, it came close to making him weak in the knees, and he tripped on the top step and stumbled. A man walking past him glanced at him, but didn't comment when it seemed he was all right. Heart beating a bit too quickly, Carson walked outside and stood at the railing, feeling the rumble as the engines shuddered into gear and the ferry began to pull away from the dock.

He wasn't even certain where he was going. Two days spent in his mother's tiny house in Glasgow, the house he'd grown up in, had proven that staying there wasn't an option. Not now, at least. The place was haunted with memories, ghosts lurking around every corner, and the loss of his mother was too fresh, too painful. He needed to be home, but couldn't stay.

In confusion, Carson had taken his rented car and driven to Oban, where the ferry would carry him across the Sound of Mull to the island itself. They'd gone on holiday to Mull once when he'd been a child -- the north of Mull, Tobermory -- and he'd never forgotten it. A holiday for a boy and his widowed mum had been a rare enough thing that he could still picture the village where they'd stayed in his mind, still remember the way the his mum had smiled with pleasure and pride at the fish he'd caught at Loch Tor.

By the time the ferry had docked, he'd decided that he wouldn't go back there. Time would have changed things irrevocably, as it always did, and what he was looking for was a bit of peace. He drove the car off the ferry and headed southwest on the A849, not particularly caring where he ended up.

Carson drove until there wasn't anywhere else to go.

Fionnphort had plenty of guest houses. He chose the one that looked least like his childhood home, signed in, and was shown his room.

"Is there anything you'll be needing?" the young woman asked. He'd already forgotten her name.

"No, thank you." Carson wondered if his face gave him away, because she made no further attempt at conversation and left him on his own, closing the door behind her on her way out.

He took off his shoes, lay down on one of the two beds, and was instantly asleep. He spent most of the next three days sleeping, and most of the following three walking. It didn't matter where; through the village, down to the sea where the much smaller ferry went across to Iona.

Some people walked to think. Carson walked to forget.

The next morning, he told himself firmly, would be his last. He'd spend one more day in this quiet village, then return to the house where he'd grown up and get on with his life, whatever that would entail.

And he would have, if he hadn't returned from an afternoon of walking in the hills beside the sea to find Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard sitting on the steps of the guest house, a small duffle bag beside him.

Carson stopped where he stood, unable to do anything but gape at the man, who looked as out of place on a remote island in Scotland than anyone he'd ever seen.

"Hi, Doc," the Colonel said. His voice sounded far different than it had in Atlantis; smaller, as if a strong wind could blow it away. As if in Atlantis he'd been larger than life, and now... he was his own size again.

"How did ye... it's..." Carson looked around them. "I'm in the middle of bloody nowhere!"

"Tell me about it. You know how hard it was to track you down?" Colonel Sheppard got up awkwardly, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"I'm surprised you managed it at all," Carson said. "I didn't think anyone knew where I was."

"You used your credit card to pay for your ferry ticket," Colonel Sheppard said.

"Trust the government," Carson muttered darkly, then noted the strained lines around the Colonel's eyes and lips. "What is it, lad?"

Sheppard's mouth turned down, shoulders slumping. "I don't know." Before Carson could point out how daft that sounded, he continued, "I know how stupid that sounds, believe me. I had a lot of time to think about it while I was coming here."

"You look as if you haven't slept for days. Come upstairs; there's an extra bed in my room. We can talk when you're rested." Carson took the man by the elbow and guided him through the doorway and toward the staircase, noting that he was still limping.

"I don't know what I thought was going to happen," Sheppard said as they went into Carson's room and he sat down on the bed that Carson gestured to. He sounded lost, utterly shattered. "When we came back. When I got here." He made no move to lie down, so Carson went and knelt at his feet, untying his trainers. It was something he'd done an unusual number of times during his career, he thought, unlacing someone else's shoes.

"It'll all be clear once you've slept," Carson told him reassuringly, patting his socked foot. "Go on and lie down, now."

Sheppard did, but he didn't close his eyes. "Did you think it was gonna end like this?" he asked. "When we went?"

Carson didn't have an answer to that, and by the time he thought of something to say and looked up, the Colonel's eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling slowly and steadily underneath his hand. "I'd certainly hoped it wouldn't," Carson whispered, and put his face down into his hands.

Colonel Sheppard slept for a solid three hours without so much as twitching. Carson went downstairs after the first hour and spoke to the woman who ran the guest house, explaining that his friend had suffered a great tragedy and that they'd likely be staying another day or two at least. She didn't ask for more explanation than that, nor did he offer. He doubted very much that he'd have been able to speak of it in any sort of detail without breaking down.

He'd just settled down to nap, himself, when the Colonel stirred, gasped, then sat up.

"It's all right," Carson said in a low voice.

"Tell that to my leg." Sheppard sat up, wincing, one hand splayed across his thigh where he'd been wounded.

"Is it still giving you trouble?" Carson asked. He'd already known the answer from the way the man had been limping before. "Here, let's have a look."

Sheppard hesitated, then nodded and stood up stiffly, undoing his jeans and pushing them down over his hips. Carson didn't realize until he'd knelt in front of him and was peeling back the bandage how awkward a position they were in, but it didn't matter. He was still a doctor.

The wound looked inflamed along the inside edge, the forming scar tissue reddened and hot to the touch. "Are you still taking the antibiotic?" Carson asked. He prodded at the healthy tissue around the injury but felt nothing that would indicate an abscess, so he smoothed the bandage back into place.

"No; I finished it up a couple of days ago." Sheppard sounded rough with sleep, his voice a slow drawl that Carson found strangely appealing.

"It's likely you'd fight off any lingering infection on your own, but we'll start you on another drug just to be on the safe side." Carson got up and helped the Colonel with his jeans, then lay a professional hand across his forehead and clucked. "I think you've a bit of a fever."

"I've been traveling for almost two days," Sheppard pointed out.

Carson nodded. "Aye. Well, back to bed with you; I'll walk down to the chemist's and see what they have in stock that might be of use."

The chemist's shop, which was a tiny hole in the wall sort of place, had more than one antibiotic to choose from. Carson requested the broadest-spectrum one available and slipped the small bottle of pills into his pocket before walking back to the guest house, where the Colonel was asleep again.

"Here, lad, wake up and take this." Carson handed the groggy Sheppard a glass of water and one of the pills, then let him go back to sleep. He kept an eye on him for the rest of the afternoon, decided not to wake him for dinner, and went to bed himself as soon as it grew dark.

It was after midnight when he woke, confused for a moment as to why even as he sat up, squinting at the black.

"Sorry," Sheppard's voice said from four feet away. "I never knew Scotland was so warm. Or is it just me?"

Concerned, Carson stood and crossed to the edge of Sheppard's bed, then sat down, reaching for him. "I'd say it's you," he said, touching the Colonel's hot, dry forehead. "I'll get you some paracetamol."

"No," Sheppard said. He stopped Carson by grabbing onto the edge of his shirt. "Don't."

"I wasna going to go far," Carson protested, but he stayed. "You'll be all right, Colonel."

"John," Sheppard said.

"Aye, John." Carson would have agreed with nearly anything at that point, just wanting to comfort the man. "It's a bit of an infection, nothing more."

"And when I'm better again, everything'll be fine?" Sheppard laughed, the bed shaking with it. "It's never going to be fine, Carson. Is it. It's always going to be like this, knowing - "

Carson pressed two fingers to Sheppard's lips, silencing him. "No. Don't." He couldn't bear to hear it said out loud. "Please."

When he went to move his hand away, Sheppard caught at it, held it to his hot cheek. "I keep waiting for it to get easier," he said hoarsely. "It's not going to, is it."

"It hasn't been long," Carson soothed. "Give it time."

Sheppard sighed and brushed his lips over Carson's palm so fleetingly that Carson wondered a second later if he'd imagined it. "It already feels like forever."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


In the morning, the Colonel was still feverish, cheeks flushed as he lay dozing on the bed, the covers in a tangle around his feet. Carson woke him long enough to take another antibiotic tablet and a gram of Panadol, then sat on his own bed, propped on pillows, and half-read a book. He wasn't very interested in it -- it was some current bestseller he'd picked up at the airport, looking for something to distract him -- but it was better than sitting there staring at the Colonel. It wasn't until late morning that Sheppard sighed and relaxed, falling into a deeper sleep; when Carson went over and touched his forehead, it was cool. Carson went and had a quick lunch; it was nearly an hour after he'd returned when Sheppard opened his eyes and blinked over at Carson tiredly.

"Hey," Sheppard said. He yawned and stretched, wincing. "What time is it?"

"Nearly two," Carson said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I just slept for a couple of days." Sheppard grinned ruefully and pushed himself to a sitting position. "After running a marathon."

"You've been feverish, but with any luck you're over the worst of it."

"Luck? McKay was right about that whole voodoo thing." Sheppard's face went from open to closed down after he mentioned Rodney. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Fionnphort. Not much more than a village, and only that because of the tourists," Carson told him. "Are you hungry at all? I could go down and get something for you." It was well past lunch time, but he knew the kindness of the guest house's proprietress would extend to a meal for an ill man.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

When Carson came back upstairs with a tray of soup and bread, Sheppard had stripped off his jeans and was sitting on the side of the bed looking at his thigh, the bandage peeled back. "I feel like shit," he said.

"I can't say I'm surprised." Carson set the tray down at the foot of the bed and gestured at Sheppard's thigh. "How is it looking?"

"I don't know. I mean, I know what my leg's supposed to look like, but I can't say I know how this should look." Sheppard leaned back to make it easier for Carson to see.

The wound looked much the same as it had the night before, but it was cool to the touch when Carson lay his fingers on it gently. He couldn't help but notice that the Colonel's cock stirred beneath his boxers at the contact; it certainly wasn't the first time that sort of thing had happened with a patient, and professionalism required that it be ignored. Briskly, Carson said, "It's no worse, and the heat's gone out of it, at least. Don't worry, you're on the mend." He patted the man on the shoulder and turned to get the tray, giving the Colonel a moment or two to get himself together.

"Thanks," Sheppard said ten minutes later, when the soup and bread were gone. "Guess I didn't realize how hungry I was."

Carson smiled at him. "I'd say a few more meals like that will go a long way toward aiding your recovery."

"Yeah, well, you know. Airplane food." Sheppard rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking up at Carson from underneath his furrowed brow. "Look, I don't even know why I came all the way out here. If this is too weird..."

"I suspect you'd have been able to find a doctor to look at your leg in the states," Carson agreed. He looked down at his hands, then up at John, head tilted to the side, wondering if he'd be able to see into the man any better that way. "So why are ye here?"

"I don't know," Sheppard insisted again. "I guess... maybe I just wanted to be with someone who got it. So I didn't have to pretend nothing happened, and I didn't have to explain it." He was looking down at his hands, too, Carson noted. "I don't think I could."

"Aye." Carson's voice trembled when he spoke. "I've felt the same way."

"So maybe I could just, I don't know, hang out with you for a while?" Sheppard didn't say how long 'a while' might be, and Carson didn't ask.

The tension in Carson's chest -- the feeling that he was being slowly strangled from the inside -- he'd felt for so long that it had become part of his daily life, for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to be without it, eased. His hands were shaking again, a physical reminder of memories so upsetting that he'd pushed them down, refused to acknowledge them.

Sheppard was looking at him with a hopeful little smile on his face, still waiting. Carson nodded. "I'd thought about going back to Glasgow," he said slowly, realizing only as he spoke how little the idea appealed to him. What he wanted was miles of beach somewhere quiet. He wasn't ready to go back to harried life of a doctor, but he didn't want to stay here at the guest house, either. "But... we could rent a cottage for a few weeks, maybe? Have a bit of a holiday?" He flushed. "You probably think I've already been on holiday."

But the Colonel seemed to understand. "This was decompression -- I get that. Renting a place sounds great. As long as you don't mind the company."

"No," Carson said, already thinking about who to phone to organize a self-catering cottage, and where they might want to go. "I don't mind at all."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


Colonel Sheppard was happy enough to let Carson make the arrangements for their rented cottage. Carson was momentarily tempted by restored farmhouse on Skye but in the end settled on a modern, one-floor cottage without stairs in a neighboring village -- walks would do Sheppard's leg some good, but there was no point in tempting fate by renting a place that required one to go up steep steps to get to the bedrooms. The cottage was very near the local pub but otherwise fairly private, not to mention just beside the sea.

It took some organizing, but finances weren't an issue for either of them, and before forty eight hours had passed they were driving up to the cottage, map tucked beneath Carson's leg and John -- he needed to remember to start using the man's first name -- pale and quiet beside him in the passenger seat.

"I'll come around," Carson said, shutting off the car. He had the keys to the cottage in hand, having stopped to pick them up not ten minutes before, but John was already opening his door and getting out painfully, limping. "For God's sake, man, will you listen for once?" Exasperated, Carson hovered at John's elbow as he insisted on taking his bag from the car and carrying it inside.

Truth be told, John's leg was looking better, and he'd gone nearly a whole day without running any fever that Carson could detect without a thermometer. The damage done to the adductor muscles would take time to heal; it wasn't the sort of thing that could be rushed. Once John was settled in a chair, Carson went back to the car for his own things, such as they were, then stood tiredly in the entryway. "I think I'd best walk down to the shop and get some food," he said. "We can have supper at the pub, but there won't be anything for breakfast if I don't do something about it now."

"I could go," John offered.

Carson eyed him thoughtfully. "We could both go, if you thought your leg was up to it."

"It's not gonna get any better if I don't push it a little," John said. "Plus I've been sitting in the car most of the day. I could use the fresh air."

They went together, watching as a yellow dog chased sticks on the beach for its owner, an older man wearing a hat. The shop had a surprising stock considering its small size, and in the end they had to limit what they bought to what they could reasonably carry; the woman behind the till seemed used to tourists and didn't pay them any more attention than it required to total up their purchases and take their money. There was something about handing over the familiar twenty-pound notes that made Carson feel at home.

"Do people do much surfing in Scotland?" John asked as they were walking back, the sea off to their right.

"Aye, some," Carson said. "To the east of Edinburgh, mostly. I'd think it would be a bit too cold and rocky, myself, although I had a friend who..." He trailed off, remembering the details of that particular friendship. "Liked to surf," he finished rather lamely, and left it there.

John didn't seem to have noticed, but then he seemed to be needing to concentrate on his walking a bit more. He did glance toward the waves with a wistful expression on his face more than once before they reached the cottage. The rental car looked strangely out of place there, Carson thought, like it had crept up from the shore, an odd, metallic beetle from an old movie about gigantic creatures.

Dinner at the pub was fish and chips, with vinegar for Carson, who'd never grown used to the American penchant for tomato ketchup. John ordered a pint and Carson didn't comment; he would have if the man had asked for a second, but he seemed content with the one. They walked back to the cottage in companionable silence.

"You can take the bedroom with the double bed," John said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the options.

Carson shook his head. "That's all right. You take it."

"Nah; it'd be wasted on me. You know how long it's been since I slept in a bed that wasn't military issue?" It wasn't a complaint. "See you in the morning." John went into the other bedroom, the one that had two single beds, and shut the door.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


Carson woke with his heart pounding, aware that something was terribly wrong but uncertain what it was until he heard it again -- Colonel Sheppard's voice, hoarse with terror, in the room next door. He didn't knock, just shoved the door open and went in, reaching blindly for John in the darkness and finding his upper arm and shoulder. "Colonel!" Carson said, trying to get through to him. "Colonel Sheppard! John!"

"Aughhhh!" John clutched at him and Carson pulled the man to his chest and held him tightly. John's breathing was harsh and desperate; he trembled in Carson's arms. "Carson?" he said a moment later, voice uncharacteristically small.

"It's all right. Hush now. I've got you." Carson ran a soothing hand up and down along John's spine, continuing to murmur reassuring nonsense until John relaxed a bit.

"Jesus," John said. "That was... pretty bad." It sounded like one hell of an understatement.

"It's not unusual, given the circumstances." Classic post traumatic stress syndrome, Carson thought. "If it keeps up, there are things we can try, but at this point it's to be expected."

"You haven't been waking up screaming," John pointed out.

"No, but we didn't experience the same things." Carson had read the reports, but he still wasn't convinced he had an accurate picture of what had happened to the Colonel, and it wasn't as if there was anyone else to ask.

John pulled back and rubbed at his face; Carson expected some dismissal then, but instead John said, "I can't stop thinking about it. I want to... I just can't."

"I know. It's a terrible, terrible thing to have been through." Carson hesitated, then reached out and pulled John in for another hug. John tensed for the first few seconds before sighing and putting his arms around Carson in return. Their cheeks were close together, nearly touching; the hair at the back of John's neck was soft against Carson's hand.

"I just want it to stop," John whispered.

"I know. It will." Neither of them moved. The cottage was so still that Carson thought he could hear the faint sound of the waves against the rocks.

John must have heard it, too. "Let's go down to the beach in the morning," he said softly. "I miss it. I miss --"

"I know," Carson said, thinking of Elizabeth and Teyla and Aiden. "So do I."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


The sun shone brightly down onto the rocks, warming the back of Carson's neck. They'd been sitting on the shore for at least half an hour, just watching the waves rolls in. The walk down had been a challenge -- the beach wasn't sand, mostly fist-sized stones, and they shifted underfoot, straining John's slowly healing leg -- but now that they were settled it was calming. Carson had forgotten how relaxing it could be.

Something touched the back of his arm unexpectedly, cold and wet, and he yelped and jumped to his feet.

"Logan!" a man's voice called, sharp and commanding, and Carson turned to see the same yellow dog from the day before bolting away from him towards its owner. "Sorry, lads. He's a bit friendlier than he ought to be, sometimes. I should have had him on his lead." Even as he spoke, the older gentleman bent to clip the lead to the dog's collar, the way he moved a clear indication of arthritis to Carson's trained eye.

"I was just startled," Carson explained. "He won't bother us." He turned to look at John, who was shading his eyes with a hand and watching the dog and man.

"Behave, there's a good dog," the man said, looking down at Logan; the dog's tail was lashing back and forth, its lips pulled away from its teeth in an ingratiating grin. "You're staying at Mairead's cottage, then? I'm Ross McArdle." He moved closer and offered his hand, and Carson shook it.

"Carson Beckett, and this is John Sheppard -- you'll forgive him for not getting up," Carson said, glaring at John to stay put. "He's hurt his leg. We're here for a few weeks."

"Sorry to hear that," Mr. McArdle said, bending to shake John's hand. John looked as if he weren't sure how to feel about this exchange. "The leg, I mean. It's a good place for a holiday, although I'd think you'd do well to avoid this beach if you're none too steady on your pins."

"It's not that bad," John told him.

"Ach, you're American!" Mr. McArdle looked surprised. "I suppose I should have guessed by the fancy trainers." John looked confused, and the older man gestured at his footwear. "Have ye been to Scotland before, then?"

"No," John said. "First time."

"Well, I hope you'll be leaving with a good impression." Mr. McArdle turned and pointed up the road they'd driven on to reach the cottage. "I'm the next house up, if you find yourselves needing anything. And I'm in the pub a few nights a week. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other." He tipped his hat, bent to give Logan a slap on the side, and continued on his path along the beach.

"He was pretty friendly," John said, still shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up at Carson.

"Aye. I suppose it's good to know the locals." Carson sat down to spare John's neck and eyes, then turned to watch as Mr. McArdle threw a stick toward the water, and the dog, released from its lead again, ran to fetch it.

It seemed like such a simple life, and yet Carson found that part of him yearned for it, or at the very least for the peace he imagined must accompany it.

John picked up a small rock and tossed it toward the water. "What's with the face?" he asked.

"What?" Carson realized what he'd meant. "Oh. It's nothing."

After eyeing him for a long moment, John reached out and patted Carson's knee. "Come on," he said, and struggled to his feet, most of his weight on his good leg.

"Come where?" Carson asked, getting up as well, staying close to John in case the man lost his balance.

"I don't care. Anywhere." John stubbornly started toward the cottage. "There have to be a hundred tourist type things on this island to see. If this is a vacation, we should see them."

"Surely not all of them?" Carson followed, trying not to notice how attractively John's jeans hugged his arse.

"Half," John capitulated. He threw a grin over his shoulder at Carson, and it was impossible not to smile in return.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


"Okay, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all," John admitted, gasping and bracing himself with an outstretched hand against the nearest ruined castle wall.

"I did make it a point to tell you about the walking," Carson said. He probably should have known better than to let himself be convinced when John had argued that he'd be fine, that it wasn't that much walking and anyway it would probably be good for his leg, he'd been spending too much time sitting around. But John had been very, very convincing, what with his hazel eyes and his straight white teeth and that little drawl in his voice, and Carson had melted. "We're in no hurry. Sit down."

"No; I can do it." Stubborn until the end, John straightened up and looked around. "Are they sure this used to be a castle?"

"That's what the guidebook says," Carson told him. "There certainly isn't much of it left now."

The rocky cliffs of the hillside overlooked the water, which was far below them. The ground was grassy, but the rubble of castle walls long disassembled lay scattered across the grass, in some places nearly hidden. Carson had already stubbed his toes once.

"And it's how old?" John asked.

Carson had to take the guidebook from the inside pocket of his jacket to check. "It says it was abandoned in the 1730s," he read.

They stood there on the lonely hillside, the wind blowing past them. A moment later, John began to walk again, moving closer to the few walls that were still ten feet high or so. His hands were in his pockets. He stopped when he came to what had been a window and was now little more than a crumbling hole; he remained motionless, staring out at the sea beyond. Carson watched John instead of the looking at the scenery, wondering what was going through his head. Wondering if he was thinking about the city left behind in the Pegasus galaxy.

"Let's get out of here, okay?" John said finally, turning back toward Carson, eyes on the ground. He'd not gone more than three steps when he stumbled; Carson reached out and steadied him, one hand gripping an upper arm and the other at John's waist.

"Easy," he murmured. "All right?"

"No," John said, voice tight. He grabbed onto Carson's arm and slid his other hand around to the back of Carson's neck, pulled him closer roughly, and kissed him.

It was more the method that surprised Carson than anything else -- there'd been no warning, and there was very little tenderness. It was more a desperate sort of kiss, he thought, even as John's mouth opened his, tasting him. Just as Carson was beginning to respond, it was over; John pulled back, hand lingering, thumb rubbing the base of Carson's skull with what might have been affection.

"Sorry," John said.

"You needn't be," Carson told him. "Unless you didn't mean it."

"I don't know what I meant," John said, thin and dispirited, but he didn't move any further away. "I don't know what I'm doing."

He sounded so confused that Carson let go of his arm and touched his face, looking for fever. John was warm, but not hot. "It's all right," Carson said, as John closed his eyes and drew a shivering breath. "Come back to the car."

John was quiet as they drove back to the cottage, but he gradually regained his good mood and by the time they started to prepare dinner he was smiling and joking again, although there were moments Carson thought it was somewhat less than genuine. Small touches reassured him; a brief brush of fingers over his shoulder when he was crouched down in front of the small refrigerator, the momentary almost-caress of a hand at his waist as John sidled past behind him in the close quarters.

"You should probably be sitting down," Carson told him.

"If you tell me that one more time, I'm going to scream," John drawled. "Probably like a girl."

"We wouldn't want that." Carson gestured at a chair with a stern look, and John sighed and moved to sit down. "Your color's better, at least."

"All this fresh air," John said. The window was open and a pleasant sea breeze was coming in, although it was a bit cooler than Carson would have liked. "Am I allowed to get up to get the salad dressing?"

"No." Carson went and got it himself, handing it to John before deciding that the chicken was done and turning off the burner. He carried the pan to the table and served them both, then sat and they began to eat.

John had barely eaten half the food on his plate before he yawned. "All this fresh air," he said again, looking slightly embarrassed.

"And you haven't been sleeping well." Carson hesitated before offering, unsure how John might react. "There are things you could take for that, you know."

"I tried," John said. He kept his eyes down and played idly with his fork. "I think they just made things worse."

"Worse how?"

"It was harder to wake up, when..." John trailed off and shrugged. "So, yeah, I don't think that's such a good idea." He pushed his plate away.

Carson nodded; he ate another bite of food, but found that his own appetite was suddenly less than hearty. "I'd like to help," he said softly, watching John until the other man looked up at him.

"I know," John said. He made a face, lips stretched into something between a smile and a grimace. "I'd like to let you."

With a sigh, Carson said, "Why don't you go get ready for bed? You might as well try to get some sleep. I'll clean up here."

John was either more tired than he'd been letting on or he'd learned not to argue -- he nodded and went into the bathroom. Carson was just washing the last few dishes when John reappeared and hugged him from behind, hooking his chin over Carson's shoulder. Surprised, Carson stilled and waited. John's hand slid slowly from his waist up to his chest; his breath was minty when he kissed Carson's ear and whispered, "Night."

It took him so long to respond that John was already stepping into his bedroom -- but not closing the door -- before Carson could move. It hadn't been an invitation; that much was clear. But it had been... something.

Carson only wished he knew what.

He lay in his own bed later that night, unable to sleep. Remembering each small incident -- the brush of lips over his palm. The embrace in the darkness, cheek against his. The kiss on the hillside beside the ruins of Duntulm Castle, which he surely could have waved away as a moment of desperate emotion had it not been for all the other moments.

His cock was stiff inside his brushed cotton sleep pants; ignoring it for hours didn't result in it subsiding, and eventually Carson sighed and slid his hand under the waistband, gripping himself firmly. He began to stroke from base to tip, foreskin gliding back and forth with each movement, his balls tightening up almost immediately -- he'd been aroused far too long to be able to draw it out now. The tip of his cock was slick, fluid coating his fingers, and when release came he was picturing John Sheppard above him, face contorted with pleasure, lips parted. He felt more than a bit guilty as he cleaned himself off and rolled over.

Carson slept.

If he woke to muffled, frightened sounds, at least this time he knew where he was and what was happening. He slipped into John's room, reaching for him, and when John lifted the covers Carson lay down with him and held him. John smelled of sweat and fear; his hands clutched at Carson's t-shirt, pulling it tight across his back as he panted against Carson's chest.

"You can't go on like this," Carson said gently, touching John's hair. "You'll have to try taking something. You need the sleep."

John shuddered and nodded, then lifted his face. "Maybe -- " His voice was rough with exhaustion. "Maybe it's all a clever plan to get you into bed with me." It was obviously a joke, but even in the pale light streaming through the window Carson could see the hope in John's eyes.

It wasn't right to leave him wondering, Carson told himself, and bent to press his lips to John's in as open-ended a kiss as he could manage, leaving it up to John whether to make it into something more or let it be what it was -- an offer of comfort.

John didn't seem to need time in which to decide; he jerked Carson closer and kissed him with a fierceness that shouldn't have been surprising. "If you don't want to -- " John gasped, the fingers of one hand tangled in Carson's hair.

"How could anyone possibly not want you?" Carson murmured, and John gasped again and held him even more tightly, hips restless to the point where Carson slid a hand down and cupped his arse, slid a thigh forward and gave him something to thrust against. He was hard again, himself, even though he'd come only a few hours earlier. John's mouth still tasted faintly of toothpaste, and his hands were eager in a way Carson had never known.

He'd touched this man dozens of times; seen him with his clothes off, murmured soothing words when John had been hurting.

This wasn't much different.

John made a little sound that Carson recognized, one that meant This hurts but I've been taught not to complain if I can help it. A hand on John's hip pressing backward, putting a bit of distance between them, met with another sound, although this one sounded more like protest.

"You'll hurt yourself," Carson said, slipping his hand forward to press his palm over John's erection; John gave a choked off moan and trembled with the effort of staying still. "Here, let me."

With a careful, almost clinical touch, Carson undressed John. He checked the scar tissue on John's thigh -- his profession wasn't something he could set aside, even now -- and then bent to brush dry lips over the unmarked skin beside it, watching as John's cock twitched. He couldn't resist the urge to run his tongue along the length of John's erection, nor did he try, and once he had done that and heard John's blissful groan there was no choice but to continue.

It had been a long time since he'd been with another man, but Carson found that the technique wasn't easily forgotten. He licked the exposed head, then experimented with taking John in as deep as he could, managing to stay just on this side of his gag reflex. He fondled John's balls as he sucked him, listening to each gasp and wondering what it would take to make John whimper.

"Carson," John whispered his name, and Carson looked up. "Fuck me?"

"God, lad." Carson bent his head and nuzzled at the base of John's cock, nearly overcome with desire. "There's nothing I'd like more, believe me." He ran his hand lightly up the inside of John's thigh to the healing wound. "But you don't need that kind of strain."

"Maybe not," John agreed reluctantly. His voice was hoarse with something other than sleep and fear now; it was a relief to hear it. "I want it, though."

"I think we can manage quite well without it." Carson wet the tip of one finger with his mouth, then took John in again and brushed his thumb over John's perineum, heard the eager sound John made as the man realized what he intended. He teased at John's opening, already damp, and began to suck him firmly as he eased his finger inside. John cried out once, hips lifting, and came, warm fluid salty over Carson's tongue.

When he was done, Carson moved up, uncertain how things would be now that the man had experienced some much-needed release. To his relief, John pulled him close and kissed him. "What do you... what do you want?" John murmured. Then, before Carson could even answer, he was sliding down toward the foot of the bed, pulling Carson's pants out of the way and wrapping warm, wet lips around the head of Carson's erection.

Carson groaned and tilted his head back, wanting this to last more than the few seconds it was threatening. John clearly knew exactly what he was doing -- his tongue was like nothing Carson could recall, the hot suction of his mouth taking Carson to the edge in much less than a minute, then pulling the orgasm from him with a soundless gasp, Carson's eyes tightly shut as he came in long shudders.

"Was that okay?" John asked soon after, sounding a bit shy as he kissed Carson's ear and throat.

"Okay? It was more than okay." Carson took the other man's face between his hands and kissed him gently on the lips. "What about you? You didn't overdo it?"

John shook his head. "This was just what I needed." He began to snuggle close, then stopped. "You were going to stay, right?"

"Aye," Carson said, smiling and running a hand along John's bare back. "I'll stay."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


In the morning, the room was cold and John was burrowed in close against Carson's chest, the only thing sticking up above the duvet his ridiculously adorable hair. The bed was narrow enough that it wasn't possible to ease away and get up without falling onto the floor, which was a convenient excuse for Carson to remain where he was. John's slow, steady breathing would have been enough to soothe him back to sleep himself if he hadn't been in rather urgent need of a trip to the bathroom, and eventually he had to shove John back toward the wall with a careful nudge of his hips to create enough room so that he could roll over and get up.

John made a muffled sound of protest, but when Carson pulled the duvet back up over him he settled back down into sleep again.

Once in the bathroom, the secondary need of a shower made itself known; Carson was just rinsing shampoo out of his hair when he heard the floor creak near the doorway. "There room in there for two?" John asked.

"Of course," Carson answered automatically, and John pushed the curtain aside and stepped in.

Truth be told, the space was rather small, but they made do. It was comforting to have a warm, wet, pliant John in his arms, reassuring him that the night before hadn't been an aberration. They didn't do more than bring each other to orgasm with slick, soapy hands, and yet when they stepped out from under the water and reached for towels, Carson felt absurdly pleased.

"So what do you want to do today?" John asked.

"What you ought to be doing is resting that leg," Carson said severely.

"Uh-huh. That's pretty convincing from a guy who just made me come so hard I almost fell down." John grinned and left the bathroom, towel slung low enough on his hips that Carson found himself eyeing the view appreciatively.

They were down at the beach, sitting and discussing the relative merits of dinner at the pub versus whatever restaurants might be nearby, when the dog from before turned up, tail wagging furiously and ears down. It barked when it saw them; John glanced automatically toward the road.

"Hey, boy. Where'd you come from?" There was no sign of Mr. McArdle; the dog circled them once, watching them anxiously, whining. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," John said.

"Do you think he ran off?" Carson asked.

"I think Timmy's down the well," John said, more seriously than Carson would have expected. "Come on, Carson."

The dog led the way, looking back frequently to see if they were still following. The front door of the cottage it headed toward was ajar, Carson saw, and that was enough to alarm him; he hurried on ahead of John, who was limping again, and pushed the door aside and went in.

"Mr. McArdle?" he called. The man was elderly and arthritic. He might have fallen, or worse.

To his relief, Mr. McArdle's voice came from the sitting room; he was in a chair there, and looked anxious until the dog rushed in to join him. "You're the lad from the beach yesterday. I see you brought my Logan back; he slipped out earlier and wouldn't come back when I called, naughty chap." His crooked fingers stroked the dog's ears lovingly, belying his tone. "I hoped he'd come back on his own."

"Everything okay?" John asked, appearing beside Carson.

"Aye," Carson said, then to Mr. McArdle, "Well, we'll be off."

"Come by the pub tonight and I'll buy you a pint to say thanks," the old man said.

"That'd be great." John grinned his easy grin and patted Carson's shoulder on the way out; they shut the door carefully and went back to the cottage.

An evening at the pub that started with a pint ended with several more, and Carson kept an eye on John as they walked back to the rented cottage. He'd surely had more than he should have, considering he was still on antibiotics, but he was a grown man and a few pints weren't likely to hurt him.

"You think we should just accept the inevitable and start out in the same bed?" John asked when they were home. He stripped off his shirt as he stepped into the bathroom, and Carson heard the sound of running water.

The idea didn't require much consideration. "Yes, I suppose so," he said. "My vote would be for the bigger one, though." He hadn't noticed until then that his head was aching; he went and got some Panadol, giving two tablets to John and taking another two himself. "Best to be on the safe side," he explained.

"Probably not a bad idea."

They both wore sleep trousers to bed; John was asleep before Carson could even turn out the light, snoring softly. Smiling, Carson shut off the lamp and was almost instantly asleep.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


Atlantis is in chaos. All around him there are screams, the sounds of gunfire and screams. His hands are covered with blood, and they're shaking; to his right, Elizabeth Weir lies dead, her eyes closed. Carson barks orders to the people around him who are trying to help -- he can barely keep track of who is alive and who is dead. The city shudders and groans as if it's in pain, and part of the ceiling above them collapses, raining debris onto Carson's shoulders as he bends over his patient, protecting the man.

There's another scream nearby, and Carson thinks he recognizes the voice, but he can't stop what he's doing. His hands are so slick with blood that he can't get a grip on the gaping wound in his patient's side.

Boots appear in his peripheral vision, and he looks up to see a Wraith standing over him.

Carson gave a strangled shout, the world spinning around him, and felt hands on his shoulders, grip punishingly hard, heard someone speaking to him urgently in words he couldn't understand. "I'm awake," he gasped, unsure that he really was.

"Jesus," John Sheppard said, close to Carson's ear, and Carson realized that he was cold and shivering and that John was holding him tightly. "Are you okay?"

"I... yes." Carson lifted his head; the air chilled his lungs as he inhaled. Why was the cottage so cold? He blinked, eyes focusing, and discovered that they were outside, standing on the loose stones at the top of the path that led down to the beach. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

"You were sleepwalking," John said. He sounded shaky, and even as Carson straightened up he didn't relinquish his hold. "I heard the front door open; I didn't catch up to you until we got here."

Carson tried to force his brain back into a more normal train of thought. "You're freezing," he said, noting that John was barefoot, as was he. "Let's get you back inside."

"Let's get you back inside," John retorted. He guided Carson toward the cottage, one arm around his waist; once they were inside he pushed Carson down into one of the kitchen chairs and knelt in front of him, picking up one foot and turning it so he could see. "Did you hurt your feet, Doc?" It was said with an affection that belied the use of Carson's title.

"No," Carson said. It was hard to tell, truthfully, but he didn't think he'd done himself any damage. "What about you? You weren't wearing shoes either."

"Yeah, but at least I was awake when I went running out there.'" John's hands were warm against the sole of Carson's foot. "You look okay."

"Let's go back to bed."

Wrapped around John, memory of the dream came back.

"Wraith, huh?" John asked sympathetically, rubbing Carson's shoulder.

"Aye." It was difficult to talk about, but Carson tried. "When I looked up and saw him standing over me, I thought that was it. I was certain I was dead." He was trembling even though he was warm enough now. The creature had reached for him, clawed fingers just brushing the front of his shirt, and then there had been more, louder gunfire and an almost soundless thump as the wraith had hit the floor, and there had been Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, covered with almost as much blood as Carson and with a wild look in his eyes.

"But you weren't," John said. "And we got out of there." Only a handful of them had escaped on the Daedalus, but it was something to be grateful for.

It felt odd, being the one comforted. "I suppose I thought I was over the worst of it," Carson said.

"Hey, weren't you the one that told me we needed to give it time?" John tilted his head back and kissed him slowly.

"Aye, and you're a lovely distraction." Carson ran his fingers through John's short, tousled hair as his body responded to the closeness; they kissed again and again. John pressed nearer, mouth open and eager, cock hardening against Carson's thigh, and after that everything became a bit blurry. They must have undressed at some point, because the next thing Carson knew he was poised over John, the slick tip of his cock pressing into John.

John's lips were thin, his knees fallen to the sides and his hands on Carson's back, urging him forward. "Please," he said, voice low.

They hadn't the proper lubricant, but Carson was very aroused and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd fucked a man with nothing but natural fluids. He knew neither of them had tested positive for any sexually transmitted diseases, and he trusted John to have told him if there were any reason for that to have changed, and John's hands were so eager, his eyes dark with need, and Carson couldn't have said no. His head spun as he thrust forward slowly, feeling John's body accept and welcome him in. John arched beneath him, forcing him deeper, and they both groaned. "Easy, lad," Carson warned, but his hips were already finding a rhythm.

"God." John clenched tightly around him. He raised his hands to the pillow under his head and grabbed onto it, shuddering. "God. I -- Carson, I can't -- "

He was close; Carson could feel that, and more than anything he wanted to give John that pleasure, to make it as perfect for him as he could. "Christ, you feel good," he murmured encouragingly, shifting his weight so he could wrap his hand around John's cock, warm and pulsing in his grip. John cried out beneath him, chin lifting, jaw tightening. He was trembling as Carson fucked him, thrusting carefully, staying in control because the last thing he wanted was to put further strain on the man's injury and because if he lost control he had no idea what might happen.

John gasped, writhed, and came, slicking Carson's hand and pulling Carson's own orgasm from him with startling speed. By the time they were both done Carson was shattered, heart pounding.

Strangely, his hands were completely steady as he eased out and lay down beside John, who threw an arm across his chest and sighed with what sounded like immense satisfaction.

"Mm," John murmured, half asleep already. "What'd'ya wanna do tomorrow?"

"I've an idea," Carson said softly, kissing John's temple.

"Yeah? What?"

"It's a surprise," Carson said. He just hoped he'd guessed right.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


John was frowning, his brow drawn down and his hands on his hips as they stood on the dock with a crowd of other people and watched the ship come toward them. "That's a boat."

"Aye," Carson said. "You've seen them before."

"Yeah, I know. I just... it's a boat." John let his hands fall to his sides, then put them back on his hips again. "I'm not really a boat kind of guy."

"I know flying's more to your liking," Carson agreed. "But this boat's rather unique." He was beginning to get nervous now; thankfully, the boat drew near the dock and the lettering on the side of it became clear.

John looked at it, then turned his head and looked at Carson, eyes narrowed. When he spoke, there was a lilt of wonder in his voice that Carson found immediately reassuring. "Atlantis?"

The Seaprobe Atlantis, despite the somewhat unfortunate first half of its name, was a handsome ship, Carson thought as it docked. "It's custom built," he explained. "Half of it's beneath the water, you see. Like a submarine."

"Cool." John bounced on his heels beside Carson for the next ten minutes until they were allowed to board. It wasn't until the boat had pulled away from the dock again, the murky, greenish water surrounding them, that he seemed to go quiet. The rumbling of the ship's engines were low and soothing below the sounds of children excitedly pointing out huge strands of kelp and the occasional fish as they passed.

Moving toward the stern, John pushed his hands into his pockets. Carson followed, giving the man some space but staying close enough that he'd be there if he were needed.

"You know, I wasn't even sure I wanted to go," John said quietly. He glanced at Carson. "To... the other Atlantis."

"No?" Carson said.

John crooked him a half smile. "But in the end it was pretty easy. I just flipped a coin, and... here I am."
Carson moved closer, beside John. No one was paying them any mind, so he let his hand settle at the small of John's back. He didn't say anything, because he'd no idea what might help. Finally, he offered the same words he had the night before. "I thought I was dead." John looked somewhat startled. "But then there you were. Both times. You seem to be making a habit of turning up when I need you."

"I was pretty glad to see you, too," John said. "Both times." And when Carson dropped his hand down, John reached for it, held it.

They looked out at the water as some sort of jellyfish floated by, and Carson knew they were both thinking of the Atlantis that had been theirs, the city submerged under the sea for all those years, alone.

Then John squeezed Carson's hand, which wasn't shaking at all, and that was enough to remind him that neither of them was alone anymore.


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