Six weeks since he'd last held Beverly the way that his body even now still ached to hold her; her back snuggled against his chest, her hands resting upon his as they navigated the expanse of her belly, feeling their son move within her; so close now to realising all her hopes and all his dreams.
Five weeks exactly since they'd last made love - urgent and hot and hard in spite of or because of her pregnant state - their shared desperation for sexual release overcoming his concern to protect both her and their treasure; though he'd still been careful enough to ensure that his body had not pressed upon her, except exactly where she had wanted it to.
Four weeks and four days since Beverly had succumbed to the illness she'd identified twelve days earlier as the killer virus ravaging the refugees of Eloncia.
Three weeks since Enterprise's acting CMO Dr Tropp first described Beverly's condition to his captain as"dangerously ill" - a diagnosis that subsequently was amended up and down almost in time with earth's tides, but which never again improved upon "critical but stable."
Two weeks and six days since she'd first been intubated, extubated and then intubated again, before they'd finally determined upon the tracheotomy and the special bed, and the cathiters and the injections of blood sugar to replace that which her body wasn't capable of producing any more for itself, and then the dialysis and the lines that scarred her upper chest and her hands and the giant needle into her lungs to release the fluid that kept gathering there and the failing of one organ after another
Over and over and over again.
Two weeks and four days since Jean-Luc felt the momentary joy that came with a "critical-but-stable" Beverly which produced a woman lucid enough to understand his words, her left eye winking at him one moment and then both eyes rolling back before meeting his squarely again with a quirky smile that somehow managed to convey itself about the twisted tubes marring her mouth.
Ten days since she'd last visibly calmed in direct response to the sound of his voice.
Nine days since she'd gripped his hand in a grasp of total panic, eyes dilated, crying out his name - or so he'd imagined - in a voice that could not have spoken, given the intubation.
Four days since Beverly had displayed the most minimal signs of recognition - of him or of anything else.
Three days since Dr Tropp told him that their unborn son was thriving, his heart strong.
Two days since Tropp had gently urged him to make the decision between his wife and his child, subtly conveying the news that while the baby now had an excellent chance of survival, Beverly's was...
...something that made Tropp trail off into silence.
Two days since Captain Picard had knocked his acting CMO out cold with a left handed sucker punch from a sitting position; his right hand still holding on for dear life to Beverly's resting limply on the bed.
Twenty-four hours since Deanna Troi arrived from the Titan, forcing him to face the unbearable - as she had so many times before.
Three hours during which Jean-Luc's former and current first officers provided him with whatever comfort they could; trading Fleet business and Fleet gossip until he thought he couldn't take another word without screaming until his lungs burst; shocking them both - and himself - by a sobbing that once started he couldn't stop, as Worf gripped him by the shoulders in pain-inducing solidarity and Will proffered and discarded tissues.
Five minutes since Jean-Luc Picard first held their son, Rene, in his arms.
Four minutes since he eased the little fellow onto Beverly's chest.
Three minutes since the child cried out for the third time, little feet kicking and his small but perfect hands formed into fists that beat against her.
Two minutes and five seconds since Picard prayed that Beverly might – despite everything he'd been told and all that he'd witnessed - respond.
Shooing away the hovering ICU nurses, he repositioned Rene and raised Beverly's hand until the boy's tiny hand firmly found purchase with her thumb.
A further half minute passed before the monitors above and about her bed sprung into life.