Title: Labor of Love

by black_alnair

A/N: Written for witblogi over at LJ for the S/U Secret Santa Ficathon 2009. It starts off angsty and stays that way for a while but if you persevere till the end of Part 2, you may find this is actually an uplifting story - as it is meant to be.

Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from Star Trek. All characters belong to their respective parent companies.

***

Prologue

Five years is both a lifetime and a fading memory. Leonard McCoy does not recognize it for what it is until he is lifting his little girl high in the air, the blue sky a too-perfect backdrop to her floating reddish-blonde curls, and she is asking, "When do I get to see you next, Daddy? When do I get to see you next?"

His eyes meet Jocelyn's. In five years of marriage, her eyes have flashed with love and anger in equal parts. But never pity. Until now.

"Whenever I can, Jobo. Whenever I can."

He holds his daughter close, knowing that it will be a lifetime before he can hold her this close again.

***

Part 1 – World Enough

McCoy's arms are elbow-deep in Spock's chest when the ship shakes again. "Goddamnit!" he curses as he loses his footing and fumbles with the laser scalpel. "What the hell are they doing?" His eyes flicker up for a moment and meet Christine Chapel's. He sees fear and worry. He knows she sees the same thing in his own eyes.

The moment the ship stabilizes, he returns to his delicate work. He is working fast, the adrenaline pumping through his veins so rapidly he can hear it in his ears. He needs to finish, he needs to…and then, the ship is tilting, tilting so much, so fast, he does not realize it immediately and he is still holding onto the laser scalpel when his arm plunges deep into the First Officer.

***

He is working against time, time and probability, but it's time that worries him the most. Of course, of all the organs that were accidentally butchered by his mishap, it's Spock's heart that has suffered the most damage. The Vulcan's life source stopped beating seven minutes ago and the longer it takes him to fix this, the less likely he will get Spock's heart to beat again. McCoy doesn't think he even likes the emotionally suppressed green-blooded hobgoblin and damn it, he's a doctor and of course, every loss hurts, but somehow, somehow he feels that things will never be the same on the Enterprise if he loses Spock.

"There!" he exclaims when he fixes the damage. But there is no triumph in his voice. He doesn't feel any. Spock is still dead on the biobed.

Christine is right there – she is always right there – with the electrodes to attach to Spock's unresponsive organ.

Okay, okay, it will be okay, McCoy thinks a bit madly as he takes a step back and nods at the technician. The first jolt does nothing. The flatline seems to mock him. They turn up the frequency. Second. Nothing. Third. Nothing.

"Turn it up!" he growls at the poor kid.

Christine steps in. "But, Doctor –"

"Just do it!" he says, ignoring his faithful nurse. He knows the danger but it's been at least twelve minutes by now. "Do it!"

And the ship shakes again.

***

"Bridge to Sickbay. Bridge to Sickbay."

It's Chekov but McCoy does not really register it's the young, vulnerable Russian whizkid. All he hears is the interruption. He hits the receiver with an angry elbow. "WHAT?"

"We need you on the bridge" is the timid response.

"Well, you know what I need? I need your damn pilot to fly the ship like it's not some joyride simulation because the first officer has flatlined three times already. Did you hear that? Three times. If he ever wakes up, he'll probably be as functional as plomeek."

Christine pulls his elbow away from the receiver. "Go. They need you up there. There's nothing more you can do here."

And she's right, McCoy thinks as he looks at Spock's stiff form, his grayish-green skin taut over his finely structured features. The damage to Spock's side has been repaired, McCoy wielding the autosuture with as much care as he can give in the middle of a battle in space. The Vulcan's heart is pumping now – if somewhat feebly – but the beat is there, registering on the biofunction monitor. What is not registering are any brain waves. They haven't tried the cortical stimulator yet – after what Spock's body has gone through, McCoy fears another electric shock too soon would stress out even a Vulcan's system. But he can't sit here and worry when he is needed elsewhere so after some brief instructions – even though Christine does not need them – he is on his way, the grip on his medikit so tight his knuckles are probably bone-white.

***

The bridge is a mess. Smoke is curling up into the air like a devil's claw, obstructing sight and breath. He hears the crackling of live wires and his eyes drift in that direction – Uhura's station. He looks for the lieutenant and finds her standing a good distance away. She looks okay. Except the tight draw of her mouth. He waves the tricorder over her. "You alright, darling?"

She gives him a tight smile that does not reach her eyes. "I'm fine. No damage."

The tricorder beeps. Nothing except a few scrapes and bruises. That's a relief. "Glad you got away from that in time," he says, jerking his thumb behind him towards the mess that is her communications station.

"The Commander pushed me away in time."

"Ah," McCoy murmurs, looking at the ruined communications station and then, Spock's science station. The integrity of the latter has been retained. So Spock had been hurt saving a fellow officer. Typical Vulcan.

There's a hand on his arm, reminding him where he is and what he has to do. He nods at Uhura and is about to move away when she asks, "How is he?" Her eyes are wide with anxiety. Uhura is so damn good – she cares for everyone. But McCoy knows it is more than that. Though Spock remains aloof, he is a part of them, with them from the very beginning, from the moment they failed to save his home planet and his mother, from when he nearly sacrificed himself to save theirs.

"I don't know," he sighs. He has never been good at offering comfort. With a shake of his head, he moves on.

***

To say McCoy is pissed is the understatement of the holiday season. He is so angry one eye is twitching. "What do you mean we don't know what happened? I'll tell you what happened," he declares, standing up but swaying, "We were sent on a routine mission that I'm sure Starfleet Command knew was no f*cking routine mission. We got shot up. Some of our people died and then, they don't even give us an explanation. They give us the runaround instead about why we are really out there, risking our lives. And on top of all that, they have the audacity to send us a f*cking Christmas card. What the hell is that? A Christmas card – a happy f*cking holiday – who even celebrates Christmas anymore?"

"Admiral Murphy."

"An Irish un," Scotty observes. "Aye, isnae McCoy an Irish nam?"

McCoy glares at the engineer. "How can you make jokes?"

"A joke? Thes is Starfleet. Aye, thes is hoo Starfleet is, mah mukker."

"What the hell ire yah saying?" McCoy winces. His own accent always thickens in anger. He takes a deep breath but goddamit, he is pissed.

"Look, Bones, I know," Kirk says as he places a hand on McCoy's shoulder. McCoy immediately feels remorse. This is probably hardest for Kirk. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, McCoy knows that Kirk takes his responsibilities seriously. "I wish I could offer you more, I wish I could offer those poor Ensigns and their families more, but I've already talked to Pike – even he has no further information to offer. It's above him."

Kirk sighs and idly kicks one of the mounted chairs in the ready room. "At least Spock's alright."

McCoy freezes as Kirk goes on.

"How long do you think he'll be in Sickbay? You know how grouchy he gets," Kirk finishes with a smirk.

"When did I ever say he's alright?" McCoy asks slowly, cautiously.

"What do you mean? You told me you had him stabilized."

McCoy usually enjoys silence. He likes sitting all alone in his office with no windows and hearing nothing beyond the steady hum of his medical equipment, but this silence, here, now, is nothing like the silence he savors – it feels like all sound has been sucked from the room and his ears almost ring with it. "I did say that."

"So, what's wrong?"

"C'mon, Jim, it doesn't take a doctor to get this." He doesn't really want to say it aloud. He's usually the kind of guy that has too much to say but he doesn't want to say it aloud, not here, not now, not ever.

"Bones, for the love of—"

"Even in the twenty-third century, there is only so much we can do for the brain."

"The brain?"

"Spock's heart stopped beating for over twelve minutes."

"And how does his –" Kirk begins. But McCoy is right – Kirk didn't need to be a doctor to know that oxygen deprivation results in irreparable brain damage.

"What sort of damage has he suffered?" Sulu asks in the quiet that follows.

"We don't know. We can't know, until he wakes up, if he wakes up at all."

"But twelve minutes – that tells us something, doesn't it?" The pilot persists.

McCoy's throat tightens. Yeah, twelve minutes tells you something alright. But McCoy doesn't say anything and it's Chekov that finally speaks. "Brain death usually occurs between four to six minutes. Though…" Chekov looks over at McCoy with his wide puppy eyes. "Ambient temperature plays a non-insignificant role in metabolism and oxygen demand. The temperature of de ship is low – perhaps even uncomfortably so – for Commander Spock, da? He may have had a chance to survive a longer den average period of anoxia."

McCoy shakes his head. There is no use in giving hope where there is no hope to be found. Still, he looks at his PADD for updates from Christine before he says anything. She has tried the stimulator. Twice. But it is, indeed, a futile hope. "Since stabilization, we have been monitoring his brain waves. There are none."

He sets the PADD down, feeling weary, for himself, for the crew, but mostly, for his Vulcan patient who has already lost so much. There's not world enough for such tragedy.

***