A single drop of red hit the thin carpet below, soaking into the fabric and creating a tiny, crimson spot. Leonard glared at the mark on the floor, jaw hanging limp, eyes squinted as he struggled to stop the room from spinning. Somehow, through the fog of alcohol and self-hatred, the medical part of his brain kicked in. He needed to stop the bleeding. Another drip. Another. There was a puddle forming on his Starfleet order, muck-brown carpet. He blinked wearily. Was that his blood? He nearly jumped out of his seat as his frost blue eyes made their way over to his arm. The sight was enough to nearly shock the alcohol out of his brain.
His left hand was loosely balled into a fist facing the ceiling and the underside of his arm was exposed to the sweltering air, glistening with the smooth, red substance. It was his blood. He had cut his arm. How had he forgotten? Suddenly, his right hand loosened and he dropped the knife he hadn't known he was holding. He cut himself. He had cut himself. He…
Leonard choked a moment, just barely stopping the bile in his throat. The room was spinning a million miles a second and he took hold of the wounded arm tightly to stop the bleeding. He was a doctor, damn it, he knew what to do. Blue eyes frantically scanned the room for a towel, but all he could see was an empty bottle of Romulan Ale and a glass that seemed to be mocking him from the table. He tightened his grip.
Jim had told him not to drink so much. Made him promise. Leonard had given his word, as always, then locked himself away in his quarters for the night. He'd felt so numb. Wound up so tight he thought he would burst. And no number of stolen anti-depressants were going to make him feel any better. But the alcohol…it helped him relax. But it couldn't help him feel. All he wanted was to feel alive and to know that he was still in there under the layers of disgust and nothingness. He wanted to feel something, anything. So he had taken his grandaddy's knife and just-
What was he, a melodramatic teenager? He was cutting himself? If he had cut just the wrong place he could have died and then where would he be? Leonard lowered his face to his arm, catching his shoulder on the table to keep from toppling to the ground. He needed to find that artery. He needed to know that he was not going to bleed to death.
He couldn't see straight enough. He couldn't remember which one it was or where it was and, after a few minutes, he couldn't even remember what he was looking for. The puddle was growing and now his pants and shirt were covered in the hot liquid as well. The room continued to spin and he shoved up three times before he was able to stand, stumbling in his place. Liquid dripped down his face and he wondered vaguely if it was sweat or blood as he noticed for the first time how hot it was. So hot. Hot as Vulcan. Hot as…
No. That green-blooded computer was the reason he was like this. Part of the reason anyhow. There was nothing logical about him drinking, as he was so often reminded. There was nothing logical about his human temper or his southern speech or his scattered thought-process or his unorthodox medical work and nothing he ever did was logical enough for that damn, inhuman, ungrateful…
Suddenly Leonard faltered. His shoulder hit the wall with a crack! and his body shot forward just as the vomit escaped his throat. The bile and alcohol hit the floor and Leonard used his last bit of strength to stumble over it and land on his knees below the comm. Still clutching his arm, he forced one eye open to examine the damage. Through the dim lights he could see that his skin was pale and translucent. His breath was no longer normal and he was losing energy fast. "Sp…Spock…" he stuttered as his head hung down to his chest.
Leonard pulled together his last bit of strength and stretched a hand above his head until his finger slipped over the white button on the communicator. His head hit the wall just as the chime sounded and he slid to the floor croaking one word. "Spock."