Rodney wasn’t good with words. He either seemed to use too many when only a few would do, or use too few when many were needed. And these words were important. Probably the most important words he’d ever written. Certainly more important than any thesis or paper he’d produced. These were words that could heal. They could heal not just the wonderful lady to whom they were addressed, but they could heal Rodney too.

Rodney had to admit that he’d fallen a little in love with Carson’s family when he’d accompanied his friend on his final, silent journey home. They were so different from his own dysfunctional family. They were full of love and caring, even laughter, despite the loss they had suffered. And at the heart of that family was their mother. Her warmth and humour had radiated out like a comforting blanket which had engulfed Rodney, broken and grief-stricken, in its folds.

In her, Rodney could see from where Carson had inherited all those things that had made him such a great healer. His compassion, his gentleness, his inherent goodness could all be seen in his mother. There again, so could his stubbornness. Rodney shook his head sadly when he thought of the final tragedy resulting from Carson’s brave, but stubborn refusal to leave his patient.

The scientist frowned down at the screen in front of him. So far, all he’d managed was “Dear Mrs Beckett”, and even that had taken half an hour of debate. It seemed so formal for such a warm-hearted woman. But he didn’t want to show any lack of respect. He was still in several minds about that opening, but in reality all he was trying to do was to avoid having to write more. He knew the words would be painful. They would heal, but only by cauterising the wounds caused by Carson’s death. It would not be a soothing form of healing.

He paused for a moment, looking at the photo that he’d found in Carson’s room. It was of the two of them together, just before he had been temporarily united with Cadman. Rodney found himself smiling. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he turned to look at the screen again, before his fingers started to race over the keys, almost as if they had a mind of their own.

“Your son was a very special man,” he wrote. “And I was proud that he considered me a friend. In the short few years that I knew him, he showed all of us who shared those years with him a level of compassion and understanding that we often didn’t deserve.

He reached out to those we considered enemies, and showed them compassion.”

As he wrote this, a frown crossed Rodney’s face. In his mind’s eye he saw the anguish on Carson’s face when Sheppard had ordered Rodney to fire on the humanised Wraith. The look the doctor had turned on his friend, still caused Rodney pain. He sometimes wished that he had Carson’s compassion, but at other times, he was glad that he didn’t.

Rodney also remembered John giving Carson a dressing down for not killing the Wraith in the crashed dart, the dart in which he and Cadman had been mingled together within the buffer.

That was not an experience Rodney wanted to remember. He felt as if his mind, and body for that matter, were being pulled apart. And he still shuddered when he remembered the Cadman-inspired kiss that he and Carson had shared. That was something he most definitely didn’t want to tell Carson’s Mum about.

Turning back to his screen, Rodney’s fingers reached for the keys to resume his letter.

“His greatest desire was to heal, but he cared not just for physical healing, he also healed the soul.”

Rodney stopped for a moment, wondering if he was allowing sorrow to overshadow reality. Was he making Carson out to be too much of a saint?

“He was certainly no saint,” Rodney thought with a smile. Rodney had enjoyed their arguments. He always enjoyed a heated discussion. After all, it gave him a chance to show his superiority. But with Carson there was always an added element of fun. The smile returned to Rodney’s face when he remembered them fighting over the gun when they both wanted to go to the rescue of Ronon on Sateda. The irony of the situation hit Rodney again, that he and Carson were going to the rescue of Ronon. That Ronon, with all his physical strength, needed to be rescued by the two doctors seemed the ultimate paradox.

“His persistence in fighting for his patients was only matched by his skill in dealing with the injuries and illnesses he was faced with,” Rodney continued. “And he would work himself into the ground before he gave up. But when he didn’t win, when he lost a patient, his pain was obvious for everyone to see.”

Rodney stopped again, and sighed. He remembered the devastation that Carson had felt when the Hoffan’s had gambled with their lives, and when Perna, his beautiful co-worker had died as a result. He could see the harsh lines of Carson’s face, harsh with grief, harsh with anger, as they left the planet, left them to the consequences of their actions.

“He would never give up,” Rodney continued typing. “He would fight for his patient’s to the very end.”

He stopped again. He only seemed to be able to type a sentence before his memories overtook his fingers. He saw Carson’s heartbroken face as he realised that Barroso had died while he had been treating another patient. Even the fact they had been under the influence of a mind-altering machine hadn’t been able to take away the pain Carson felt. He had left a man to die, when he could have saved him. That was Carson’s worst nightmare, and he would do anything within his power to stop that from happening. Even if it meant going through the exhaustion barrier, Carson would keep on fighting.

“Carson was also a brilliant scientist,” Rodney continued.

“I don’t believe I just typed that,” he said to himself. “I’ve just admitted that a voodoo doctor is a scientist. Carson would have a good laugh at that.”

But as Rodney thought about it, Carson had achieved many breakthroughs in medical science in his time on Atlantis, and the vast majority of them would never be acknowledged. After all, on Earth there wasn’t much call for reversing the effects of being slowly turned into a Wraith. And how would you explain the need to turn someone or something into a human to a planet that had never seen a Wraith?

“His research not only helped those of us here and now, but will help many in the future,” Rodney continued. “In ways that you can never imagine.”

“At least I hope she can never imagine,” Rodney muttered to himself.

“But most of all,” Rodney got back to the letter, “the thing I valued most about Carson was his friendship. If was the kind of friendship you could easily take for granted because Carson was always there, always supportive, always ready to give me a kick up the backside if I needed it.”

“Was it OK to say that?” Rodney asked himself. Then he remembered Carson’s down-to-earth language and guessed that his Mum wouldn’t mind him saying that.

“Yet, he was the closest thing to a best friend that I’ve ever had,” Rodney echoed the words he’d used to the comforting memory of Carson he had on his return to Atlantis. “He brought out the best in me, saw the best in me, part of me that few other people ever see, ever want to see. And I will miss him very much. I’m sure you will miss him too. Even though he wasn’t able to get home much, he always talked of you with great affection. I know he missed you too while you were apart.

“I hope it helps that he died a hero, doing what he loved doing best, saving lives. If Carson hadn’t done what he did, other lives would have been lost. But, being Carson, he put the needs of his patient above his own. He paid the ultimate price for his actions, but another man is alive today as a tribute to your son’s actions.”

Rodney felt the tears start to form his eyes again. He was not one for showing his emotions. He was a scientist who prided himself on his analytical approach to life. But since Carson’s death, Rodney found his emotions were nearer to the surface than they’d ever been during his entire lifetime. Tears came easily, even if they didn’t always fall.

“Another legacy from Carson,” Rodney thought. “He’s made me ‘feel’ again. I’m not sure I want to ‘feel’ – it’s too painful.”

Sniffing, Rodney re-read his previous paragraph, then pondered how to end his letter.

“I shall miss Carson, we all will. But while his legacy lives on, in the work that he did and the friends that he made, he will never truly die. I hope that is of some comfort to you.

“Yours truly

Rodney McKay”

Rodney paused for a moment – should he sign it “Dr Rodney McKay” or just “Rodney”? He studied the screen for a moment, and then decided to leave it as it was.

He glanced down at the photograph again. They had both looked happy, for a brief instant in time, at least. There were times now when Rodney wondered if he’d ever be happy again.

“Don’t be silly, you daft bugger,” a soft Scottish lilt sounded in his head. “Of course, you’ll be happy again. The next time you come up with one of your brilliant schemes to save Atlantis again – then you’ll be happy.”

“Carson?” Rodney said, turning around, as if his friend would appear to him, again. But the room was empty, empty of all but his memories.