Warnings: Lots o' angst. And blood mentioned.
Spoilers: None!
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis is not mine, I am only borrowing.
Summary: An accident puts Carson in a position he hates. Heavy angst. Written from prompt #2 Amputation for 2dozenowies.

Author's notes: First off, I'm still alive! Yay! It's been a while since I've written any Atlantis, but I stumbled upon a great LJ community called 2dozenowies and realized it was just the kick in the behind I needed to write. There are 24 prompts, which means folks, you will be getting 24 Carson h/c fics from me. There is never enough Carson h/c...he always just does the comforting :).

No beta, just major spell-check and review by me, so if there are any errors, let me know.

The table is up at my LJ, to see the prompts and such: jennamajig dot livejournal dot com.
All stories will be posted there as well.

He knew it was serious the second he'd gotten his first glimpse. There was blood, so much blood. His view was being obstructed - on purpose, no doubt. He couldn't see the whole picture; there would be no visual self-diagnosing now.

So he turned to the pain, instead. The pain was excruciating, but at least it told him they were still attached.

Ten fingers. He'd had ten fingers.


Something brushed the injury and he shut his eyes, doing his best to suppress a groan of pain and failing miserably.

"Sorry, Carson," a voice said. Female, one he should know, his brain told him, but he couldn't focus. "We'll get you something for the pain in a minute."

No, he wanted to say. The pain was good. Told him more than the detached feeling drugs would bring. But he couldn't get the words out and stuck in his throat they remained.

An IV was started, a syringe handed off, an odd feeling trailing up his arm from the IV site. Morphine, he recognized and turned his head away from the bustle of the activity around him. The world burred, the pain dimmed, and he flirted with unconsciousness.

An accident. Nothing off world, nothing out of the ordinary.

"I need you to hold this, Carson." It had been a simple request from a friend. He'd had things to do and had protested, but the Ancient object had been in his hands before he had even been able to complete his argument.

And it had exploded seconds later.

In the distance, he heard voices. Worry. He should be flattered - after all having friends that care was a great thing - but he wasn't.

He was scared. Bloody awful scared about his future as a surgeon and his future on Atlantis.

Someone was talking to him. A man, one of his surgeons, he quickly realized. His best one. He was in trouble, no doubt. He squinted, trying to string together the words into a sentence that actually made sense.

Surgery. That was one word he understood. But it was the words that followed that chilled him.

"I'm optimistic, but there is chance we might need to amputate."

Amputate. His mouth was completely dry. The medication's fault, no doubt, but a new wave of fear crept over him so deep that he feared he'd drown.

He desperately wanted to rewind. To say no to Rodney and walk away and...

Rodney. That was one of the voices. The worry.

No. He didn't want to rewind. Rodney might have touched the blasted thing himself and it would have been Carson doing the patchwork.

He was sick of doing the patchwork. However, after this, his days of fixing anything could be long gone. It was the worst type of irony and he almost wanted to cry in frustration.

He was moving. When had that happened? He'd given morphine many, many times in his career, but this was the first time he'd been on the receiving end of it. He didn't like it one bit. He wanted to feel, to be more aware, to know what was going on. He wanted to ask a million questions, see the instruments, and to know the plan for the procedure.

But he was in the dark. Floating in a sea of painkillers, wondering what exactly was about to happen. Left with only a hope and a prayer.

It was when they moved him to the operating table that he finally got to see his hand and fingers in full view. There was wrapping everywhere and blood was still seeping through them slightly. Even through the veil of morphine, he noted his fingers felt cold.

He wanted to vomit.

What would he do if they needed to amputate? Losing a finger or two would mean little to a lot of people. They could move on, thrive even. He need all the coordination he could get, he...

His heart rate was rising and he heard a monitor behind relay that fact to the entire room. Emotions betrayed by a piece of equipment he used every day.

There were soothing tones. A nurse - Julie - by his head. Calm down, they were saying. He wanted to shout back at them. Calm down? He couldn't bloody calm down. He couldn't...

"We're going to put you under now, Carson."

An intense wave of drowsiness hit him and he turned to see that the anesthesiologist had begun the slow injection of diprivan before he'd even had a chance to respond. His eyes drooped and his head was tilted back, a mask hovering an inch above his mouth and nose. The metallic tang of oxygen hit his nostrils.

No, he needed to know. He needed to be in control. He needed...

Blackness descended.