"Hey!" Captain James Kirk slammed his hands against cold glass. "Let us out of here, you cowards!"

"Captain," Spock interjected, "That glass is reinforced. Even our combined efforts would not be able to break it. And I fail to see how antagonizing our captors is improving the situation."

Kirk sighed, coming to sit beside Spock. "Then what do you suggest?"

"We are unable to change our current position. Logically, our captors are detaining us for a purpose, so-"

"Guys?"

Their attention was drawn to the startling appearance of Doctor McCoy.

"Jesus Christ, Bones!"

McCoy's face was swelling before their eyes. He stumbled from where he had been surveying the room, and slid down a wall to sit on the ground, wheezing.

Kirk and Spock rushed over. Kirk asked McCoy frantic questions that he struggled to answer around a swollen tongue and lack of air. Spock steeled himself and pressed two fingers to McCoy's wrist, noting the rapid pulse.

"Captain, I believe he is suffering from a severe allergic reaction."

McCoy nodded desperately.

"Okay, so what? Adrenalin?" Kirk's eyes were wide.

"There is epinephrine in McCoy's medical kit that was confiscated."

Kirk's eyes hardened, and he stood, walking back over to the door. He resumed his banging and shouting with wild urgency.

"Can't you see he's ill, please!"

Spock spared him a glance, then set his full attention on McCoy, despite the knowledge that there was nothing he could do without supplies to relieve him. His breathing seemed to be getting worse, each inhale a brief and hard-fought scrape of air.

Spock's face was impassive but for a crease between his eyebrows, but his hands hovered uncertainly. He eventually settled on keeping his fingers on McCoy's pulse, pushing aside his wariness of physical contact.

"Keep breathing, Doctor," he tried clumsily, and McCoy managed somehow to shoot him a withering look even through swollen eyelids. It piqued an odd spark of amusement that Spock dismissed as inappropriate.

After minutes, Kirk's efforts yielded no response. They couldn't be certain anyone was watching or listening at all, and McCoy was fading fast. His lips were starting to turn blue. He was completely unresponsive to any of Spock's ministrations, and seemed to be barely conscious.

"Jim, I… believe Doctor McCoy is dying."

Kirk's hand clenched, and he slammed the fist into the wall. "No," he said darkly, his voice hoarse. He walked over to McCoy's prone form and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Not like this, Bones."

He was standing back up when, like a miracle, the door opened and a syringe rolled onto the floor. The door slammed shut.

Kirk dove for it as though he was the one who was dying. He fumbled it over to Spock, who drove it into McCoy's thigh.

And then they waited. Not a single person in the room breathed for ten, twenty seconds.

And then McCoy's chest rose and fell, inhale and exhale, and the blue started fading from his lips. The world started to turn again. Kirk eased himself to a sit, feeling weak with relief.

"His pulse is stronger," Spock said. "but he needs further medical attention."

"We have to get out of here," Kirk said.

They let silence overtake them. They settled on either side of McCoy, Spock's hand on his wrist and Kirk's hand on his chest, feeling the life beneath them.