The second pon farr came on hard and fast. All his calm rationality did not prepare him for the flood of hormones that overwhelmed him within two years. Without warning he awoke in the middle of ship's night with the fever rushing through his veins. With shaking hands he had overridden the door's response to the room's occupant; a cage, to keep him from wreaking havoc on those about him. Soon, all reason evaporated in the flame. He collapsed in on himself, and out, and he knew not what he knew. He needed, but he couldn't, he couldn't. He couldn't.
He didn't know.
It wasn't until consciousness sliced at him, like the hangovers he'd become aware of via melds, that he realized logic had failed to appear when most necessary. He had locked the door to keep himself in.
But he hadn't locked it to keep others out.