Survivor's Guilt
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

I don't normally traffic in h/c fics, but here's my shot at it.
Cathy, if I may borrow your disclaimers (to save me writing my own)?
This story is in response to Clotho's fanfiction challenge regarding the spoilers that have been posted regarding the Valentine's Day episode. Please be advised that this story will contain spoilers, even if I'm not sure what they all might be. The actual challenge was to write a Kerry Weaver/John Carter story centered around Kerry caring for John after he's injured.

"ER" and all its characters belong to Warner Bros. No infringement of their copyright is intended. This story was written for the enjoyment of "ER" fans everywhere, and may be downloaded for your own pleasure. However this story may not be used, distributed or archived without the permission of the author.

The last episode seen was "Abby Road".
Yeah, what she said.



It took Carter a few minutes to realize that the pounding in his head wasn't just from a hangover, but from someone knocking insistently on the door of his apartment. Running a hand through his hair, he dredged up the last fragments of wakefulness and called, "Who is it?"

"Carter, it's me," came the familiar voice. "Would you open the door, please? I want to talk to you."

Well, that makes one of us, Carter thought as he heaved himself upright. He groped on the floor for last night's pants, then realized he was still wearing them. He grabbed a wrinkled shirt from where he'd dropped it, and pulled it carefully on over the cast which immobilized his right hand. Ignoring shoes or socks, he staggered to the door and unlocked it. The thought of telling her to go away might have occurred to him if he were entirely clear-headed, but perhaps not. "Come in," he said, absently.

"Thanks." Kerry followed him into the tiny, furnished apartment, giving it only a cursory glance. It was enough to tell her that the space, though small and cheap, had been neat and organized until very recently. Just like the occupant. "You look like hell, John," she said without preamble.

"Oh, good," he replied. "I feel like hell, so at least everything's consistent." He waved at the near-empty bottle on his night stand. "Would you like a drink? You can finish that one, and I think I have another somewhere..."

"John, it's nearly one in the afternoon."

"I know what time it is, Kerry. What do you want?"

She sat on his small sofa, uninvited, and the thought penetrated his foggy brain that he wasn't being a very good host. Raised better than that, he thought. Should have offered her a seat. Even though Kerry Weaver didn't often stand on ceremony. "I wanted to see you," she said. "I want to know that you're all right."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm great," he said, convincing absolutely no one. "You want a drink or not?" He picked up the bottle by its neck and held it out to her.

She shook her head.

"Okay. Excuse me not using a glass. It's too much trouble when you're limited to one hand." He held up his injured right hand, the short cast clearly visible. He sat on the bed and took a swig from the neck, not really caring if it was rude or not.

"I understand you haven't spoken with anyone from Psych Services," Kerry said.

"That's right."

"Have you talked to anyone else? Perhaps to a private therapist?"

"You think I can afford one? Or that I'd let my family pay for one?" His words were an uncharacteristic growl.

"I think you're avoiding the question. You haven't seen anyone at all, have you?"

Damn her and her knack for cutting right to it. "No."

"Why not?"

"None of your business."

"Excuse me, Dr. Carter, but it becomes my business when something like this happens."

"Excuse yourself, Kerry. You're the one who put me on enforced sick leave, remember?"

"Yes, with the understanding that you would keep your appointment with Psych. You rescheduled the first one, canceled the second one, and just didn't show up when the third was assigned you." Kerry softened her tone. "John, I've given you as much leeway as I can. You haven't answered any of our calls, your grandmother tells me you haven't been in touch with your family-"

"You talked to Gamma?" He felt strangely defensive about that.

Kerry leaned forward. "The point is, John, we're all worried about you. Both on a personal and professional level. Look, I can't justify keeping you on if you're not willing to seek help for-"

"Fine. I quit."

It was one of the first times he'd ever seen Kerry Weaver completely speechless. "You what?"

"I quit," he repeated. "I won't be coming back to County."

Her jaw remained dropped for what seemed like an eternity before she could close it. "What about your residency?"

He began to raise his right hand to smooth back his hair, then thought better of it and used his left. "I'm giving it up. If my grandfather still wants me to help with the business, then I'll do that. But I can't be a doctor anymore, Kerry."

The words struck her like a blow. "John, for God's sake, please don't say that," she whispered.

"I just did."

"John, you're hung over and depressed. You don't know what you're saying!"

"The hell I don't!" Okay, yelling was a bad idea, according to the vibrations in his skull. "I don't want anyone else dying on account of me, Kerry. I can't live with that responsibility."

"Listen to me, John. You are not responsible for-"

"Dennis Gant," he recited, "Lars Audia, Lucy Knight... I'm not even thirty yet, and I've caused three people I cared about to die because I tried to play doctor." The lump formed in his throat again, and he washed it down with another slug of vodka. "More than one every ten years, on the average," he added bitterly.

Kerry didn't respond for a time, then she ventured, "What about all the people whose lives you've saved?"

"I can't remember any of their names, Kerry. I can't even picture their faces."

"Do you want me to get you a list of their names?"

"No, dammit, I don't want a list of their names, Kerry! I just want you to either get to the point or get out!"

Kerry shook her head slowly. "Look at yourself, John. You're being eaten alive by your own perceived guilt. This isn't going to get better unless you talk to someone. Psych Services, a bartender, a priest, your family, me, I don't care who. But you have to let it out. Please."

The bottle was empty. Carter tossed it aside, carelessly, and was childishly disappointed when it didn't shatter.

"I know this has affected you, more deeply than you're willing to admit," Kerry forged ahead. "What happened to Lucy was as horrible and tragic as anything I've seen. But it was not your fault!"

"What the hell do you care, Kerry?" he snarled.

"I care about you, John!"

"I told you, I'm quitting," he insisted. "That takes care of your professional responsibility, and the rest is none of your damn concern, all right?" He stood up and went to the small kitchenette, swiftly finding the second vodka bottle in a cabinet.

"Just like that?" Kerry said, disbelieving.

"Yeah. Just like that." Carter tried to open the bottle with his left hand, but couldn't quite manage it. He couldn't recall how he'd managed the first one, last night. He tried to steady the bottle with his right hand, but it just sent a flare of pain through his hand again. Bringing the bottle back to Kerry, he held it out and said, "Do me a favor and open this? You're still welcome to stay and have some."

The sympathy had left her eyes. "You pathetic, self-centered bastard," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he retorted.

She smiled, but there was no warmth or humor in it. "I should have seen it. You've slept in your clothes, your eyes are bloodshot, and you're halfway to growing that beard back. God, what a wretch." She looked him over. "If this is what your misery is doing to you, then maybe you shouldn't share it with anyone else, after all."

"I'm not feeling any misery, Kerry," Carter insisted.

"Okay, so what are you feeling?" The question came out like a challenge.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, you wish."

"Is that what you came here to tell me?!" Carter yelled. "To hell with you, Kerry! I don't need you to tell me what I'm feeling!" The words sounded familiar in his own ears, but he couldn't place them.

Apparently Kerry could, though. "Of all the things you learned from Peter Benton," she said, "I always hoped his callous front wasn't one of them. I thought you, of all people, would have escaped that trap."

Carter shoved back the anger building within him. "I take it back, Kerry, you're not welcome to stay. Please leave."

She stood up. "Fine," she said, flatly. "What do you want me to tell everyone at County?"

"Nothing. Tell 'em to leave me alone."

"Yeah, that'll solve all your problems, Carter," she sneered. "Anyone cares about you, push them away. Maybe they'll stop caring, and then you can stop caring, and then you won't have to worry about losing anyone, because they'll already be dead to you..."

"Get out, Kerry."

She didn't budge. "Good luck on your lifetime of solitude, Carter."

"I said GET OUT!"

"I'm sure Lucy would be touched at your method of mourning her."

Carter threw the bottle at her, in a fury. She flinched, but his left-handed pitching was wildly inaccurate, and it exploded against the far wall in a spray of glass shards and vodka. Carter stepped toward her, pulling his right hand back to make a fist, but the effort to clench his fingers sent white-hot knives of agony through his hand, and he nearly doubled over. A sharp cry of pain escaped him as he cradled his mangled hand.

"Do you want to hit me, John?" Kerry asked him softly.

He looked up at her. There was no more scorn or anger in her face, or even the fear he might have expected after his outburst. Seeing only a deep concern in her eyes sobered him somewhat, and he realized how she must see him: a drunken, raving lunatic. A far cry from the bright-eyed young doctor he'd always tried to be around her. "No," he said. "I...I'm sorry..."

"I know. I understand."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. Kerry Weaver had always been good to him, and it was important to make sure she knew he didn't mean her any harm. His shame at having lashed out at her made him say it again. "I'm sorry."

Kerry put a hand carefully on his injured one. "I know, John."

"I'm sorry." He couldn't stop saying it, or stop his voice from tightening a little more with each repetition. He could feel his eyes starting to fill. "I'm sorry..."

She stepped closer and put her arms around him. "I know," she repeated simply. No admonishment, only sympathy.

His self-control crumbled like a melting glacier at her touch, and he sank into her embrace, sobbing freely now. They ended up on the sofa, somehow, Kerry holding him tightly as he let it all out. The words kept coming, over and over again, and at one point Carter became aware he'd added one. "I'm sorry, Lucy..."

Kerry waited until after he'd quieted before speaking again. "I'm sorry too, John. But you had to let it out."

Carter nodded, still in her arms.

They stayed that way for a while, neither sure how long, and then she released him as he collected himself a little. "It's not your fault," she whispered, again.

"Whose fault is it, then?"

"No one's," she told him. "There's no one to be blamed for Lucy's death."

"There has to be," he insisted. "She can't have just died for nothing."

"Everyone dies for nothing. It's the one thing in life that's free."

"That's not funny."

"I'm serious."

Carter studied the cast on his hand. "I have to blame someone, Kerry," he said.

"But not yourself, John. That won't help her."

"Well, who then?" he asked. "She wasn't murdered by some psycho, or gunned down by some gangbanger. I can't even blame that damn stupid woman. She didn't mean for the gun to go off..."

"Then who did?" Kerry asked the question even though she already knew the answer.

Carter lifted the injured hand. "If I hadn't been so careless..." His memory was already flying back to that day...

Ronald Adler, the drunk driver he'd worked on...

Lydia telling him Luka's patient - a young boy hit by Adler's car - had died...

Talking to Lucy about Adler's medication...

Seeing a middle-aged woman in front of them - Marlene Cooley, the boy's mother...

Mrs. Cooley's tremulous voice asking if Ronald Adler was the one who killed her boy Michael...

Her hand so obviously clutching something in her bag...

Carter asking her to hand over the cheap, pearl-handled pistol...

The terrible look of heartbreak on her face...

Carter reaching a hand to take the gun from her trembling hands...

The explosion against his palm...

The supernova of blood and heat as the bullet ripped through his hand...

Mrs. Cooley screaming in guilt and alarm...

Carter falling to the floor, trying instinctively to hold his mutilated hand together...

Fighting through the haze of agony...

The gun bouncing off the floor next to him, coming to rest by the foot of the bed...

Calling to Lucy to get help...

Hearing no response...

Lifting his head, looking for her through the haze of pain...

And seeing...

"She was dead for maybe five seconds before it even occurred to me that she might have been hit," Carter said. "It might as well have been five years."

"It wouldn't have made any difference, John," Kerry assured him, quietly. "She was struck in the head and killed instantly. It doesn't look like she even had time to realize she'd been hit."

He remembered the look on Lucy's face. There was no expression at all; just a vacant emptiness. She might have been a mannequin except for the bullet hole right where her right eyebrow met the bridge of her nose. All life, all sense of what makes a person a living entity, had vanished, as though it was never there. "God, Kerry, it's so unfair..."

"I know, John."

"Why her? She had her whole goddamn life ahead of her..."

"Would you rather someone else had died?"

"Yeah. Me," he replied, softly. "I wish the bullet had hit me instead."

She touched his cast gently. "It did hit you."

"You know what I mean. If someone had to die..."

"John, is your life worth less than Lucy's?"

"No, that's not what I mean!"

"What, then?"

Carter floundered for words. "I...I feel responsible for her, Kerry. She was my student, at least at one time, and I..."

"I thought you two didn't get along."

"We didn't, but still... Lucy was the only student I've had who showed real promise. I always wished we could have been...I don't know..."

"The teacher-student bond has always been important to you, hasn't it?" Kerry asked him.

He nodded silently.

"I know you were always frustrated because you couldn't become friends with Peter. And things didn't go any better with Lucy..."

"I just hoped that one day we could be friends, like you and Gabe Lawrence."

There was a bittersweet tang to Kerry's laugh. "You should have seen the two of us. We were worse than you and Lucy on your worst day."

"Yeah, but look how well the two of you turned out. That won't happen here."

Her smile faded again. "John, look at me."

He did.

"I don't believe in your heart you really want to give up medicine, though I can't stop you if I'm wrong," she said. "But either way, you have to deal with this and get better, and you can't do that alone."

Carter pulled away. "So, what, I'm supposed to soldier on for Lucy's sake?" he said, bitterly.

"No, for your own."

He snorted.

"And for the sake of all of us who love you."

Carter looked at her again, and for the first time became aware of the tears she was crying. Shamefully, he hung his head and tried to imagine himself walking back into County General. "I can't go back there, Kerry," he said. "Not after..."

"Please, John, I've already lost one dear friend to despair this year," she said, her voice thickening. "I couldn't stand to lose another."

He took her hand in his good one. "Kerry, what happened to Gabe wasn't his fault..."

"And this isn't yours!"

"No, but..."

"But he had no choice in the matter, and you do. You have to let us help you, John, but you can get better. I promise you, you can."

They sat silently for a long time.

Lucy is dead, Carter told himself. That won't change, no matter what. Ignoring it won't make it less true.

His own words to her on the roof of the hospital came back to him. You fought the good fight...tomorrow you'll fight another one.

He didn't know whether she had ever believed him, and maybe he didn't believe himself.

But he had to find out.

Seeing something in his face, Kerry took her cell phone from her coat pocket. "Will you let me call Psych Services, John?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said.

Her face fell.

But then he said, "I should do that myself."

She let him take the phone from her hands with a silent blessing.



(NOTE: As you've probably gathered, this was written before the actual two-parter, so the events described are radically different from what actually happened on the show.)

"I don't know how to thank you guys!"
--- Fozzie Bear, 'The Muppet Movie'
"I don't know WHY to thank you guys..."
--- Kermit the Frog, Ibid