A/N: Firstly, thanks to everyone who followed and/or favourite this story! Seriously, I love each and every one of you.

Really not sure about this one, writer's block hit me pretty hard when I was trying to write it. It got to the point where I could scarcely bear to look at it anymore, so please excuse any errors. Hope you guys enjoy it, and please leave a review (constructive criticism is very welcome, flames less so)

Rated T for a minor bit of swearing.

Jim returned to consciousness slowly, blinking his eyes open bit by bit. He shivered slightly. Wherever he was, it was cold. And dark. It was most definitely not the desert he and the exploration team with him had been trekking through.

Speaking of team…..he did another sweep of the room he was in, the thought of members of his crew being trapped down here with him making his gut twist uncomfortably. Capture, and the torture that usually accompanied it, was something that he was unfortunately accustomed to, and he prided himself on being able to withstand a lot without giving his torturers the answers they wanted (in that sense, he supposed that for all his homicidal-dictator tendencies, Kodos had to an extent taught him something useful). But the crew sent to the planet to observe the 'primitive' civilisation that lived on its surface were less hardened. Summers had only just graduated from Starfleet Academy, for god's sake. Once reassured that he seemed to be alone in the cell, Jim allowed himself to breathe a small sigh of relief. Whoever (or whatever- you never quite knew) had taken him seemed to have left the rest of his team alone. Of course, it was possible that they'd simply been put into a separate cell, but he preferred to believe that they were safely away from the planet by now, hopefully telling Bones and Spock what had happened. They'd be on their way soon. He just had to wait. Not that I'm going anywhere soon, he thought wryly.

Something trickled down his face and towards his mouth, and he attempted to wipe it away, only to find that his wrists were restricted. Twisting his head to look behind him, he saw that they were chained to a ring lodged in the stone wall. He huffed in frustration, resting his head back on the wall. The liquid had made its way into his mouth, tasting salty and slightly metallic. He grimaced. Blood. He must have been hit on the head when he was kidnapped- that would explain why his vision was remaining stubbornly blurred. Just his luck to not only be in a tiny, dark cell on an extremely primitive planet with natives who were going to do god-knows-what to him, but to also be trapped in said cell on said planet with a concussion. Sometimes, he wanted to send his thrice damned 'Kirk-luck' straight into deep space.

The cut on his forehead throbbed painfully, and he groaned.

Bones was going to murder him.

'Chapman to Enterprise, we have a critical casualty. Request immediate transportation and medical team on arrival.'

'Enterprise to Chapman, message received. Stand by for teleportation'

'Scotty to Sickbay. Doctor McCoy, you're needed in the transporter room, with an emergency crew. The captain's landing party is reporting a critical casualty.'

Doctor Leonard McCoy cursed. He could guess exactly who the 'critical casualty' was, namely a certain blond-haired idiot who seemed to get a kick out of near death experiences. Running a hand over his face, he breathed out to steady himself- only Jim could make him feel this much panic, and he hated him for it.

'M'Benga, I need you to stay here and prepare for the arrival of a critical patient. You know the drill. Chapel, Pritchard, you're coming with me. Bring one of the emergency beds.'

When they'd all confirmed that they understood his orders, McCoy grabbed his Medkit. Checking that the nurses were ready, he strode out of Sickbay, forcing himself not to run.

One of these days, James Kirk, I'm going to kill you myself.

The medical team arrived at the transporter room just in time to see the swirling lights that accompanied every teleportation. Seeing only three figures when there ought to have been five, McCoy scowled. If Jim had lost two members of his team, he was going to need a lot more than just medical help to recover; losing crewmembers always hit him hard.

The lights finally cleared, and McCoy was able to clearly see the people who had just boarded the ship. He stared in horror at the three crew members standing on the transportation pad. They were a mess; Chapman had a nasty cut on her right arm, Sheppard seemed to be favouring his left leg, and they were both supporting the barely conscious form of Summers, who had a hand feebly pressed against a dark red patch spreading across his side. His heart dropped to his stomach- there was no sign of Jim. He moved forward and grabbed Summers, helping Chapel manoeuvre him onto the emergency bed. Lifting the red shirt, which was beginning to stick to the messy wound in his side, the doctor assessed the damage. Deep stab wound, made by something with a serrated blade, going by those torn edges. In same region as liver- possible internal organ damage.

'Get him to Doctor M'Benga. Tell him I suspect potential organ damage, specifically of the liver; he needs immediate surgery.'

With a nod from Chapel, the bed carrying Summers was whisked down the corridor and towards Sickbay. McCoy watched it go, before rounding on the remaining two members of the party. Sheppard had sat down on the edge of the teleportation pad, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Chapman was still standing, her left hand clamped over the freely bleeding cut. Both of them were deathly pale and looked in need of some strong painkillers and about 15 hours of sleep. If Jim was on board and safe, like he should've been, then McCoy would have sent them straight down to Sickbay. But right now, Jim was god-knows-where, and he could barely concentrate through the constant stream of where is he what happened why isn't he here running through his brain. As CMO, he knew that his priority should have been treating the patients he had first, and worrying about absent potential patients second. As a best friend, he wanted answers.

'What the hell happened down there?' he growled.

Chapman swallowed. She'd seen him shoot people who had threatened to harm Captain Kirk, and that same thunderous glint was in his eyes now as he glared at her.

'W-we…' she coughed, clearing her voice, 'we were attacked. Some members of the tribe we were observing- they jumped us while we walking through the desert back to our pick-up point. We tried to fight them off, but we were outnumbered- Dubois was killed in the struggle-'

'And what about Jim?' McCoy interrupted, forcing his voice not to waver even though his stomach felt like it was lined with ice.

Chapman's eyes dropped to the ground.

Oh god. God no. Please, don't let him be dead. Please no. He's not dead he's not allowed to be dead he's not dead he's not he's not he's not.

'Lieutenant, answer the question. What happened to the captain?' He allowed his fear to add weight to the last five words, infusing them with urgency. When the woman in front of him raised her head, he was shocked to see tears forming in her eyes.

No.

'Two of our attackers grabbed him from behind, and I think one of them hit him on the head with something. He dropped like a rock, and the locals carried him away. I-I wanted to help him, to go back for him, but Summers was hurt, and Sheppard couldn't defend himself and Summers, and he was yelling at me to get moving otherwise we'd all be killed- I didn't want to leave him, Doctor McCoy, I know he'd never leave any of us, but with Summers the way he was, we had to get back to the ship as soon as possible-'

McCoy wrestled with the anger threatening to bubble up inside him- how dare they just give up on Jim, he was their captain, he wouldn't have given up on them if their roles had been reversed- what on earth made them think that they'd done the right thing? Jim was missing, his best friend was gone and it was all their fault.

Don't blame them, Leonard, he reprimanded himself. You know Jim's code has always been to take care of casualties. He'd never forgive himself if they'd gone after him and let Summers die. He sighed. Damn your honour, Jim.

'It's ok, Chapman. You did well to get the three of you back. Go down to Sickbay and get one of the nurses to check you over and give you something for the pain. You too, Sheppard.'

They nodded, and stood, Sheppard leaning on Chapman's shoulder. McCoy knew that he should've accompanied them and carried out the examinations himself, but he also knew that his team would handle it well. Their injuries were fairly minor, or as minor as an apparently broken tibia could be, and he had more pressing matters on his mind.

According to Chapman's account, Jim was most likely still alive, but captured.

And when Jim Kirk was involved, being kidnapped usually meant that something much worse was going to happen.

Memories of previous situations in which Jim had been captured came to mind, and each ended the same way- with a bruised, bloodied and, once, barely alive captain.

He shoved the images back, squared his shoulders, and set out for the Bridge.

This time, they wouldn't be late.

It didn't take Jim long to realise that he hadn't been given any water by his captors. He was beginning to regret not drinking more when he'd had the chance- the landing party had had several bottles of water with them, at Bones' insistence.

'It's a dry planet, Jim. Trust me, you're going to want all that water. I don't want any of those bottles to have even a few drops in them when you come back. I will not treat your scrawny ass for dehydration simply because you 'forgot' to have a drink at least once an hour, you hear me?'

'Yes, Bones. Now stop worrying, you'll only give yourself even more grey hairs and Joanna will barely be able to recognise you when you get home.'

'Kid, if anyone's turning me grey, it's you and this flying tin-can.'

'No one made you join Starfleet, and you can always resign, you know.'

'And what, leave you to die because whichever inept imbecile replaces me doesn't know about the list of '5001 things that could potentially kill James Kirk?' Like that's going to happen.'

He'd laughed at that.

'Buck up, Bones, I don't need you going all soft on me now. I'd miss the sarcasm and mild abuse.'

'If you don't shut up I might accidentally sedate you with one of the many things you're allergic to. Then we'll see who's laughing.'

'Threatening your senior officer like that is insubordination. I could have you court-martialled.'

'I'm serious though, Jim. Come back in one piece.'

'When do I not?'

Yeah, Bones was probably going to hypo him into oblivion, and then insist that he never be allowed on another on-world mission for the rest of his Starfleet career when he got back on board. He knew he should have had more to drink when he'd had the chance. At least then he might have been decently hydrated before getting thrown into a cell without any water for the foreseeable future.

Voices outside of his cell made him jump. A small grille in the door pulled back, and he caught a glimpse of a tattooed face looking in on him before it turned away. Through the bars, he could see a flickering light and the tattooed face talking to someone else. He figured that now was as good a chance as any to get a drink.

'Hey, guys, can I talk to you real quick?'

The voices outside stopped when they heard his words, and then the local was staring at him through the grille. Jim got the distinct impression that on this planet, prisoners weren't meant to talk to their guards. He ploughed on anyway.

'Can I have some water? I'm dying for a drink.'

The tattooed face looked at him blankly. He decided to try saying it a little slower.

'Uhh- water? Wa-ter?'

The guard began laughing, turning to say something to his companion. The sound of both guards' laughter echoed around the cell, before it stopped abruptly and the tattooed guard appeared at the grille again.

'No water for blue eyed demons,' he growled in stumbling Basic.

Jim just stared at him.

'I'm- I'm not a demon! I swear it. I'm James T. Kirk, Captain of the USS Enterprise, and a Starfleet Officer. There's nothing demonic about me, I swear. Just-please give me some water.'

His guard looked at him coldly, his eyes narrowed.

'No water for blue eyed demons. You must be purified.'

'Purif- wait, hold on! What does that even mean? What are you going to do to me, you tattooed bastards?'

The guards laughed again, and the grille slid shut, forcing Jim back into darkness.

'Well,' he muttered to himself, 'room service- 0 out of 10.'

'So the Captain has been taken by possibly hostile life forms?'

McCoy ground his teeth in frustration. For someone who was supposedly one of Jim's closest friends on the Enterprise, Spock sure was taking his sweet time in reacting to the situation.

'Yes, Mr Spock. That's the long and short of it, but the point is we don't know exactly how hostile this civilisation is, so we don't know what they're going to do to Jim.'

One of Spock's meticulously maintained eyebrows rose, and McCoy resisted the urge to smash his head on the work-station in front of him. Taking blood from a goddamn stone would be easier than trying to get the hobgoblin in front of him to show emotion. He knew that the news of Jim's kidnap had shaken the Vulcan; the man was half-human of course, and that human side had shown itself in the brief flash of concern and anger that McCoy had spotted in his eyes, before the emotionless mask slid back in place.

'Then we must act before any harm comes to him. After all, as Captain of the ship, he will be hard to replace.'

McCoy's head snapped up at that, and he stared in disbelief at Spock. All that time spent trying to get him to react, to show that he did actually care what happened to Jim, and he had condensed everything-everything that Jim was, all that life, too much life to be crammed into one man- down to 'Captain'. As though that was all the Enterprise stood to lose if it lost Jim.

Jim was so much more than that.

He was a friend, a brother, a leader. He was encouragement, trust, security, love.

He was the Enterprise's heart.

Without him, the ship would be pretty much dead in the water. Yes, the crew was one of Starfleet's best. How could they not be, having gone through what they had? How many crews could say they'd faced a deranged Romulan warlord from the future, when they were barely out of the Academy, and survived? They all knew how to do their jobs, they would get the ship home if Jim didn't come back.

But what would they be without him? What would the ship be without him?

It would barely be the Enterprise anymore.

She'd be lost without the idiot from Iowa.

Hell, he'd be lost without the idiot from Iowa.

McCoy hardened his gaze as he glared at the Vulcan who had dared suggest that Jim was simply a Captain, and growled his next sentences.

'Starfleet will give us another Captain if we screw up so badly that we lose ours. Captains aren't irreplaceable. Jim is.'

For a moment, he could've sworn that he saw something flicker in Spock's dark eyes, emotions battling to rise to the surface and shatter the porcelain mask that was always so carefully laid in place. The Science Officer held the doctor's gaze for a few moments more, the same waves of anxiety rolling off them both, strong and palpable from one, more subdued from the other. A barely perceptible nod from Spock, and then he turned to look at Lieutenant Uhura, who was standing at his right shoulder.

'Lieutenant, locate the Captain's comm signal. When you do, I expect you to report to me immediately.'

Uhura nodded, immediately moving to her station.

'Ensign Chekov,' the Russian spun at the mention of his name, 'help the Lieutenant in any way you can. The Captain must be found.'

'Right away, zir!'

McCoy watched the two crew members as they fervently began entering numbers and doing god-only-knows what else to find Jim, and frowned.

'I'm no expert in this, Mr Spock, but shouldn't they tell Scotty if they get a read? Seeing as he's the one who'll be able to beam him onto the ship?'

'Unfortunately, Dr McCoy, it is out of the question to beam the Captain aboard. The surface atmosphere interferes with the teleportation process, leaving an 89.74% chance of transport failing. To initiate teleportation of a living being would be too great a risk.'

The doctor resisted the urge to groan. Of course, of course, getting Jim back wouldn't be as simple as just finding his signal and getting the engineers to bring him back on board. No, he should have expected that they'd have to send a team down to him.

Dammit, kid.

It never could be easy where James Kirk was involved, could it?

Jim was woken by the unpleasant sensation of being much too hot. His shirt was plastered to his back, which had been pressed against the wall, and his hair lay damp and flat across his forehead. He could feel trickles of sweat making their way down his chest, soaking him. Some of the salty fluid dripped into the cut above his forehead, causing it to sting. He winced. At least his head didn't ache as much as it had before. That was one minor blessing, though he knew that if Bones knew he'd fallen asleep with a concussion, even a mild one, he'd have lost his ear to a few choice Georgian phrases. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes, and then slammed them shut almost immediately to block out the blinding white light that assaulted them.

Wha-?

Disorientated, he cast his mind back, trying to work out when he'd been moved from his dark cell to somewhere that was clearly outside and completely at the mercy of the desert sun. He couldn't remember being moved, so reasoned that his captors must have moved him when he was asleep.

If that was the case, he was very impressed- necessity had made him a light sleeper when he was young, and he'd never lost the habit.

He scowled at the familiar weight hanging around his wrists. Whoever had moved him clearly didn't feel as though wherever he was was secure enough to hold him without further restraints. Oh yeah, and they thought he was some supernatural being. The memory of the guard's words- no water for blue eyed demons- came back to him. If they believed he was a demon, no wonder they were keeping him chained up. They probably thought he had all sorts of powers up his sleeve.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes again, slowly, so that they were mere slits and he could observe his surroundings through his lashes, without being affected by the bright white light around him.

Instead of his cell, he was in what seemed to be a pit dug into the sand. The walls were approximately nine feet tall, he guessed, and made of smooth rock, the same colour as the sand that he'd spent a couple of days walking across with the exploration team-it still felt like he had half the desert in his shoes. He spotted the door in the wall across from him, with the grille through which he'd made his guards' charming acquaintance last night, and he could just about make out a tunnel beyond it. Letting his head fall back, he saw the planet's clear blue sky above him, so like the skies above the Sahara in those old documentaries. The edge of what appeared to be a large slab of stone was visible, and suddenly he realised how he had moved from a dark, cold cell to this oven; at night, the stone was slipped into place to conceal the pit, and during the day it was moved back to ensure prisoners experienced the full extent of the planet's heat.

It was ingenious.

It was also, Jim knew, a death trap.

No shade, no water, in 45°C heat.

'Blue eyed demons must be purified.'

The heat was already taking its toll, making his head spin slightly. He swore. Growing up in Iowa, with its warm summers, he was well aware of the dangers of heat exhaustion. He knew you had to be careful to drink enough, and to stay out of direct sunlight, both of which weren't exactly options here. The bastards really had thought this through well.

What was it they'd been taught in survival classes at the Academy?

Fourteen days without food, three days without water.

Without water, he'd be dead in three days. Probably less in these conditions.

He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to ignore how dry they already felt.

Anytime soon would be good, Bones.

They'd been going at this for nearly 8 hours, and McCoy was keenly aware of time slipping away from them. The same interference that made teleportation impossible was blocking signals from the planet, distorting the few that made it through to the ship. As Uhura had snapped at him when he'd ask what was taking so long, 'it's like trying to find the platinum one in a pile of steel needles.' Jim had already been gone for 10 hours, and the doctor tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk in front of him, resisting the urge to lean over Chekov's shoulder and scrutinise exactly what he was doing. He knew it wouldn't help to interfere- the boy wasn't the Navigator on a starship at the age of seventeen for nothing; he was a genius, and McCoy's brain couldn't hold a spark to the Russian's. It was better to stand back and let him and Uhura do their jobs.

That didn't mean he had to like waiting around and doing nothing. He wished he could have been down in Sick Bay, but by the time he'd informed Spock of the situation, M'Benga and the rest of the Medical staff had fixed up Jim's away team. When it came down to it, it was a case of either sitting in Sick Bay, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for news, or waiting on the Bridge.

In his mind, it was better to be on the Bridge and close to the centre of the search mission, and the hushed, tense atmosphere of concentration was oddly reassuring- they were going to find him, no matter what.

'I've got something!'

Uhura's voice rang out in the silence, and immediately all attention focused on her. Chekov scrambled out of his chair, nudging past McCoy to move to her station. He and Spock peered at the data on the screen, talking to each other in low voices. McCoy held his breath, and waited.

After a few minutes- which was much too long, in the doctor's opinion, for all they knew Jim didn't have minutes- Spock moved over to McCoy.

'Well?'

'It would indeed seem that Lieutenant Uhura has located the Captain. We have the coordinates of his signal, and a rescue team will be leaving in a shuttle shortly.'

'Please tell me I'm part of that team.'

'Doctor McCoy, I think it would be more logical to have members of the crew who are specialised in combat….'

'I'm going in that shuttle.'

'Doctor McCoy…'

'No, you listen to me, Mr Spock.' McCoy growled. 'Jim's down there, probably with injuries that we have no idea about. We know he at least has a concussion, if Chapman's story is accurate. Now, I don't know what the hell they've done to him in the past 10 hours but trust me, you're more than likely going to want a medical expert with you, or risk him bleeding out or going into shock or some other situation that you will not be able to handle alone. So I don't care what you say about security. I am going on that shuttle!'

The last sentence was almost a roar. The doctor stood, eyes fixed on the Vulcan in front of him, his jaw set and his shoulders tense. The other man looked at him coolly for a moment, and then dipped his head in acquiescence.

McCoy exhaled loudly, allowing his relief to show on his face.

There was no chance in hell that he was going to let someone else rescue his best friend.

Thirst. Throat like sandpaper, tongue heavy and feeling like a block of wood.

Dizziness. The world spinning slightly at every turn of the head. The sun swirling gracefully in the sky.

Fatigue. Eyelids as heavy as soaking wet denim. Eyes burning. The inexorable pull of sleep and oblivion.

Heat. Too much. Unrelenting. Merciless.

Bones, turn the heater off, would you?

I promise not to get a chill, I swear. Anyways, it's not my fault those idiots decided it would be funny to shove me in the lake.

Bones, please. At least take the blanket off.

I'm too hot. I need to cool down.

Turn the heat down.

I won't get ill again.

Bones?

The shuttle had landed a mile outside the settlement which Uhura and Chekov had traced Jim's comm signal to. On Spock's orders, the rescue team had stayed near the shuttle until evening- after all, there was no point in attempting to take Jim from under the noses of his guards in broad daylight. They had a higher chance of the mission going smoothly in the dark, when the locals' physiology rendered them almost blind. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, and McCoy couldn't help but pray that Jim's captors had at least at the sense to keep him somewhere underground and shaded, and to give him a supply of water. The indigenous species may be able to withstand high temperatures for long periods of time, but humans most definitely could not.

He wiped away the beads of sweat rolling down his face from his hairline, and took a swig from the water bottle he held at his side.

If the heat was having an effect on him after 10 minutes, he didn't even want to think about what condition Jim was in.

He'd been here for just over 12 hours. That was more than enough time for someone to get heat exhaustion.

Finally, darkness fell and they were able to make a move. They walked quickly through the desert, and McCoy tried to ignore the burn in his calves from walking on soft sand. Maybe, when this was over, he should consider joining Jim in his exercise regime. Half an hour doing weights or running on the treadmill every morning clearly wasn't enough.

A small number of buildings appeared between the dunes, and a small, determined smile lifted the corner of McCoy's mouth.

They were nearly there.

He mentally ran through the plan that had been explained to him on the shuttle- the security guys will get us safely through the settlement, I get to Jim, check him over, and then we get him out and we're home and dry.

The team moved forward a few more metres, stopping to crouch behind a dune just in front of the first building. McCoy was vaguely aware of Spock issuing instructions, but his mind was focused on the task ahead.

We're coming for ya, kid.

Then they were standing and moving into the town, two members of security in front and two tailing them, walking towards the point where Chekov swore they'd find Jim. Luck seemed to be on their side- no one apprehended them, and they travelled swiftly and silently between the buildings.

Suddenly, Chekov stopped, causing McCoy to almost walk into him. The doctor peered round the younger man's shoulder, spotting a large boulder where Chekov's tricorder was telling him Jim should be.

'I- I do not understand. Ze Keptin, he should be here, he's meant to be right here!'

McCoy swallowed hard, fighting back the Kraken that was beginning to squirm in his stomach.

'I am sure the Captain is in this area, Ensign. We will find him.'

Chekov nodded at Spock's words, clearly distressed that his calculations hadn't brought them to Jim immediately.

'Sir, over here!'

Spock and McCoy turned to see one of the security team standing by a small hut.

'There's a set of stairs here, sir. Should we go down?'

McCoy glanced at Spock. The Vulcan was frowning at the stairs, as though trying to decide whether it was a trap. After a few moments, he strode forwards and into the dark. The rest of the team followed, save for the crewman who had spotted the stairs; on his way past, Spock commanded him to stay on guard.

Setting his shoulders, McCoy stepped onto the first stair.

Hold on, Jim.

Voices in the corridor.

Jim tried to open his eyes, but found the effort overwhelming. He sat listlessly against the wall, his head falling forward slightly. He'd long given up trying to ignore the dull ache in his throat, the dryness of his mouth, the dizziness in his head. Everything ached, yet at the same time he felt as though he was floating. His limbs were heavy, yet he had discovered that lifting his head induced an odd form of vertigo that made them feel weightless, and which made his stomach turn unpleasantly.

The voices were drawing closer.

The light of a torch flickered on the corridor walls.

Then he heard the distinct sound of the grille being pushed back.

'Shit! Jim!'

Recognition briefly flickered in his mind.

Bones?

'Spock, I got him!'

A reply, too low for him to hear.

'No, I-I can't get the door open. There's no lock, but it's jammed….'

Definitely Bones.

Then there was a juddering crash, and he heard footsteps running over to him. Two figures dropped next to him, and one of them set to work on the restraints around his wrists.

'Jim? Jim, can you hear me?'

Two cool fingers on his throat.

'He's still with us.'

He fancied that he heard a collective sigh of relief echo round the room.

'Kid, I need you to wake up for me. Jim. Jim, listen to me. You need to wake up.'

He groaned.

'That's it, kid.'

He couldn't remember his eyelids being this hard to lift.

'Bnes?'

'Yeah, I'm here. Now come on, let me see those pretty blues of yours.'

He cracked his eyes open a fraction to see a slightly fuzzy but definitely there best friend kneeling next to him.

'Hi, Bnes.'

The doctor gave a small smile.

'We're gonna get you out of here, Jim.'

'-know. Head-hurts. Thirsty.'

McCoy fumbled for the water bottle at his side, and then held it to Jim's lips. The younger man drank greedily- and God, if it wasn't the best thing he'd ever tasted- but after only a few sips McCoy pulled it back. He hated to do so- it was clear that Jim hadn't had a drink the whole time he'd been here, and that made him see red. If he ever got his hands on the devils who'd kidnapped Jim, there would be hell to pay.

'I'm sorry, I can't give you anymore just yet, Jim. It'd only make you sick.'

's'ok, Bones.

'You're gonna be fine, Jim. I promise.'

The doctor's hand rested on his throat a bit longer, before he heard the ruffle of uniform as Bones turned to address whoever was with him.

'His heart's racing like hell, and his temperature's higher than I'd like. He's definitely dehydrated, looks like a touch of heat stroke as well. We need to get him back to the ship as soon as possible.'

A quiet murmur of agreement, and then he was being lifted by two strong arms. He allowed himself to relax again, his eyes slipping shut.

The first thing he noticed as he fought to kick off the last dregs of unconsciousness was that wherever he was had a distinctly sterile scent, in stark contrast to the oddly musty smell of the pit he'd been kept in.

The second thing he noticed was the whirring of machines in the background, the various tones and beeps, each at a slightly different tempo. The one sounding nearest to him was keeping pace at a steady andante.

As he became more aware, he noticed that he was in a clean robe, and that he was lying on something soft. Even the sheets smelled sterile.

He knew that smell.

Sickbay.

Sliding his eyes open, he found himself looking at a bright white ceiling. He knew that ceiling. In fact, he knew it a little too well for his liking. How many times had he woken up to see it?

He lay like that for a while, too tired to do much else. A door opening drew his attention, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound. A familiar figure stood by the steriliser, running his hands under it to clean them. The doctor turned around, and then moved towards him.

'I see you've finally deigned to wake up, Jim. How are you feeling?'

'Tired,' he noted how dry his mouth still felt, 'and thirsty.'

McCoy nodded, and quickly walked to a cupboard. He took out a plastic cup, filled it with water, and handed it to Jim. The younger man drank it eagerly, savouring its sweetness as it slipped down his throat.

'To tell you the truth, that's how I expected you to feel. You were dehydrated, and had the start of a fairly nasty case of heatstroke. Sorry about the needle in your hand, by the way; we had to hook you up to an IV to get some fluids in you.'

McCoy smiled fondly.

'Only you would get heatstroke underground in a cold cell.'

Jim frowned.

'I wasn't underground, Bones.'

The doctor's expression quickly shifted to his concerned-medical-professional face. Jim knew that expression. McCoy usually only wore it when he'd said something concerning that hinted at some underlying issue.

'Jim, you were. We had to go underground to get you out. You're lucky Gates found the stairs, otherwise we probably wouldn't have found you.'

Confusion flashed in electric blue eyes.

'No, I-I was in a pit, it was too hot, there wasn't any shade, there was no water….'

McCoy looked at him in horror.

'What?'

Jim's eyes met McCoy's, and the doctor clearly saw the distress swimming just below the surface.

'They- they said I needed to be purified. They called me a 'blue eyed demon'. I think they thought that something inside me needed to be driven out.'

McCoy brought a hand up to his face, rubbing his temples. Even with huge amounts of research into the population's cultural beliefs, they'd still managed to miss something as essential as 'belief that blue eyes are a sign of demonic possession.' Just a day later, and the situation could have been very different.

A purification by fire; extreme heat, no water, no shade during the day.

No wonder Jim had been in such a state when they got to him. He knew only too well how dangerous deserts were, even if you were adequately prepared for it.

'I'm glad we got to you in time, kid.'

A small smile spread itself across Jim's face.

'Me too, Bones.'