Author's note: This story was inspired by the line "Samantha, there's a letter in my quarters..." from Kindred II. I was watcing this episode a few days ago and thinking about amoe recent RL events and this is the result. This story has not been beta'd. All mistakes are mine alone. The beta job is open, if anyone is looking. And I pay in chocolate and caffeine...a writer's best friends.

The dark haired man sat slumped over the heavy cream colored paper on the desk. He looked around the room, barren of those things that turned assigned living quarters into a home. The few things he did have, his clothes, the blankets on his bed, the stationery on the desk, were borrowed from expedition members. His eyes burned and his shoulders ached from too many hours slouched over a microscope. He knew he was running out of time. The cellular degradation killing him was accelerating. He could feel his body getting weaker even as he worked at a frantic pace, searching for the formula that would halt the devastation that ravaged his body.

His hands trembled with fatigue and he waited for the tremors to pass. He wanted, needed, his hand to be strong and sure for his next self appointed task. He needed to get this right; second chances are hard to come by, and Carson Beckett wanted his words strong and sincere and steady. He knew he could use the tablet. Rodney gave it to him days ago and he did use it, for his research and his notes. But this was different. This was the most important letter he'd ever write. This would most likely be the last letter he'd ever write and he wanted to do it in his own hand. He wanted his words, in his distinctive script, written on paper that would stand up to the passage of time.

The past two years had given him a lot to think about. The past few days had given him even more food for thought. He thought about his life, about the illusions and the revelations and the bitter truths behind who and what he was. He realized the fragility of his life, even as he felt the vitality draining from his body like sand slipping through his fingers. He thought about second chances, and righting wrongs and all the things he wished he'd said and done. He thought about failure and regret. He thought about strength of character and joy and love. He thought of his mum.

Carson Beckett picked up his borrowed pen and began to write.



Dear Mum,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know I haven't been keeping up on the letters to you, not like I promised I would. It seems like there is always one crisis or another that needs my attention.

Today just hasn't been a very good day. I lost one of my own today. Its funny, I've watched the commanders of this base write letters home to loved ones left behind. I never thought I'd be writing one myself. You'd think as a doctor I would understand that I can't save them all. I tried. I did the best I could, but this time, it wasn't enough. I've fought the good fight and lost before. You think I would be used to it.

It doesn't get easier. Not with each loss and not with the passing of years. I've come to expect it but it doesn't get any easier to accept it. Some of the folks that pass through my infirmary, well they seem to have more lives than the proverbial cat. There's days I feel more like a magician than a medical doctor, that I've pulled off a miracle save.

I wonder sometimes, if the folks I've managed to save are living on borrowed time. I wonder sometimes if by cheating the Grim Reaper of this marked soul, has he evened the score somewhere else down the road? I wonder, sometimes when the nights are quiet and the moonlight chases the shadows into corners and I have the night rounds, if he's tallying the score against me?

And I wonder if the folks I've saved know they've been given a second chance. Do they appreciate life more, after having come so close to losing it? Do they make the most of those second chances or do they squander them away on petty quarrels and insignificant things? I've always wondered about that. About second chances. Is it possible to set right those things you've wronged the first time around?

I'd like to think that if I ever find myself in such a position, that I'd make a difference. That I'd use that second chance wisely. That I'd not waste it on my insecurities and fears. I'd like to think that I'd take more chances, not in reckless pursuits or ground breaking research, but in people. That I'd invest more of myself in other people. Touch more lives, be a better doctor, a better friend, a better man and a better son.

I know it hurt when I left and it hurts more that I can't tell you exactly what I'm doing. I want to and maybe someday, I'll be free of the oaths I've sworn and the secrets I hold and I can tell you about this grand adventure. I know you understand and I hate that there are these walls, these things I can't speak of that stand between us. Until that day comes, I keep working and building the mystery of my life, one puzzle piece at a time.

The last time I saw you, you said I've changed. You are right about that, more than you know. I've been thinking about that, about the changes in my life lately. I've grown harder, more guarded. I think it's mostly a defense against the doubt and the insecurity. We're a small group here and circumstance has pulled us much closer than we would otherwise be. You always said I wore my heart on my sleeve and I admit freely, I do. I've changed though. I've had too; otherwise the losses would be too much to bear.

Its not that I've wanted to build these walls around me. It's just that each loss hurts more than the last and without the walls to hold back the tide, I find myself drowning in doubt and grief and fear. Doubt in my abilities to heal, to find that little breakthrough that measures the difference between life and death. Grief that I failed, not just in my profession, but the very people I've been entrusted to help. Losing someone has always been hard for me. Its one of the reasons I went into research. The labs are clean and sterile and far removed from the messiness of living and dying. But here, there are no clear lines in black and white. Here its just smudges of grey as the lines bleed together.

Grief does that, erases the marks that so clearly delineate us from each other. In a small close knit community like this, we become less like colleagues and more like extended family and we carry with us all the baggage that comes with family. I don't regret getting close to these people. I just regret that I can't keep them safe and heal them every time. So I do the best I can and when I lose, I grieve for the lost life and its friends and the family it left behind.

But Mum, the worst is the fear. The fear that next time I won't be able to pull that rabbit out of my hat. That I won't have the answers or even worse, I have the answers and they are the wrong ones. I hate delivering the bad news, that in spite of everything I know and every advance in modern medicine, there is nothing I can do. There comes a point in every doctor's career, I think, where his faith in medicine, in his skill, is shaken. I know mine has been, more than once. I've had that crisis of faith and I've come close to quitting. And then I think of what that would mean to all the people I'd leave behind and to those already gone. And no matter how hard it gets, I stay. It would be a disservice to those I've lost to give up on those who still have a chance.

So I build the walls a little stronger and a little higher and I fight the fear every day. And I go out and fight the good fight one more time. It helps, knowing you're there, waiting for me, on those rare trips home. I miss you terribly. You must know that, even if I don't say it. Those second chances I was on about; well they give us the chance to say those things we should have said a long time ago.

I should have told you a long time ago that I am proud of you. I'm proud to be your son. You always did your best with me, and I never really appreciated the sacrifices you made. Thank you for that. Thank you for believing in me, especially all those times I couldn't believe in myself. You always stood by me, no matter how much I screwed up and I never understood why, until now. You've always seen the best in me, even when I couldn't see it in myself. I'm a better man for it, because of you.

I wish things could be different. I wish I could come home more often, be there for you when you need me. I should have told you that you have always been a source of strength for me. I've always known I had a place to come back to, a safe haven from the storms of life. No matter how far flung we are, you've always been a center for me, a grounding force I could fall back on. I need that strength tonight. I can close my eyes and see you, sitting on the garden wall with the wind in your hair and the wildflowers at your feet, cup of tea in hand. I'd give almost anything to sit there beside you, just one more time.

There never seems to be enough time, these days, to think about what really matters. To think about the people and the places and the memories that play the biggest roles in our lives and shape us into the people we become. You'll never know how far your influence reaches. Every person I've ever healed, called a friend, touched in some small way, carries a part of me and through me, carries a part of you. The lessons you taught me about life, and love, carry forward in ways we have yet to be shown.

You always asked that I do my best, that I try to make the world a little better than I found it. I don't know if I've succeeded. But I try, every day, to be just a little better than I was yesterday. It's not always easy, but then anything worth doing isn't, I suppose. I know I haven't always been my best to you and I can't promise that I won't make mistakes and that I won't hurt you again. All I can do is promise that I'll do my best; that I'll try to be better than I am today.

I miss you, Mum, more than you can imagine. I don't know when I'll be home again, but until then, please forgive this melancholy mood. And Mum, always remember that I love you. I know I never said it enough, not when it mattered. I never said it for the little things, like the cup of tea waiting on the table after school on a cold day. I always saved it for the big things, like family gatherings for holidays. I've learned these last few years, that it's the little things that matter the most. It's the little things we remember and cherish and hold most dear. I have regrets; more than I can possibly recount. After all, I am a man, foolish and flawed, and men have regrets.

My biggest one is that I never said these things to you when I should have. I never told you my greatest hopes, my biggest dreams, my deepest fears. I never realized how short our time together would be when I took this job. I never realized how great the distance between us. I regret that time and distance have pulled us apart and that I never tried to do anything about that. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the pain and the disappointment and separation. One day, none of this will matter and I'll be free to tell you the secrets I'm sworn to keep. Maybe this letter explains some of it. I don't know. I hope so. Until then, know that I love you. I always have. I always will.

Your loving son,

Carson



He laid the pen on the desk and folded the letter. He slipped it carefully into the cream envelope and sealed it. He picked up the pen, wrote his mum's name and address on the envelope and ran his fingers over the thick packet. His vision blurred and he blinked away the heat in his eyes. He held the letter in his hands, pressed it to his lips and laid it on the desk.

He stood, surveyed the room he'd been assigned a few days ago. He sighed, and with a lightness in his heart, Carson Beckett turned off the lights, stepped out of the room and walked toward his destiny.

The End