Spock sat in his quarters, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to stop his hands shaking. He couldn't stop seeing Jim's white, unconscious face as the two of them had beamed aboard, his body limp in Scotty's arms, McCoy screaming at him for letting this happen. As if he hadn't said it all to himself already.

He stood up, unable to keep sitting still. He'd been banned from the medical bay, although it had taken three security members to remove him from Jim's side and confine him to his quarters. He couldn't seem to calm his body down, despite his attempts at logical thinking. His breathing was difficult to control, the moment he thought he was able to breathe slowly and turned his attention to other things, he began to panic again.

It was his fault. He knew that, calmly and logically, somewhere in the depths of his mind. He had failed once again to keep his captain safe, this time despite it being his only duty, his only reason for being by his side. He had allowed himself to get distracted by his emotions and Jim's purring voice and his muscles beneath his skin and those cerulean eyes burning through him and his hands and his arms and shoulders and aaaaaaaaarrrrrgh.

Spock's fingers closed on the chair he was leaning against and he hurled it against the wall with an animalistic roar. It splintered on impact, dust and wood chips littering the floor as Spock stood breathing heavily. He could not save Jim. He was as helpless as he had been to save his mother but Jim, he had thought he could stay close. If he stayed close by then nothing could hurt him again, he could keep him safe. He gritted his teeth, spun around and began to pace. He could not be calm until he was sure that Jim was alive and alright. He had left instructions to be notified as soon as McCoy was free but it had been hours now and Spock could barely breathe for worry. He should never be parted from his captain for long, he could not stand to be away from him. His purpose was to be by Jim's side, he knew that now.

"Jim," he hissed out loud, trying to relieve some of the pressure built up in his chest. It didn't help. Instead his throat closed up and he felt like he was drowning in guilt and grief.

"Jim," he whispered again, bringing his hands up to his face. "I am in control of my emotions. I am in control." He took a deep breath and lowered his hands again.

"Interesting display, Mr Spock." Spock whirled around to see Bones standing in his quarters. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn't even noticed the doctor's arrival.

"McCoy. How is the captain?" Spock tried to keep his voice cool and detached but he could detect a note of urgency in his own speech, and he was sure McCoy would pick up on it too. McCoy raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on it.

"Jim's fine, he's sleeping." Spock's knees started to tremble and he grabbed a table to lean against so that he didn't collapse. "It's a good thing you got back when you did, he'd lost a lot of blood. But it was a relatively simple job to remove him from the spear in one piece, with some physiotherapy, he'll be as good as new. Spock, are you okay?" Spock had gone white, whiter than he was usually, and his hands were shaking with the effort of holding himself up.

"Quite well, thank you doctor," he said though his mouth was dry. "When will he be able to receive visitors?"

"Soon, I expect." Bones eyed Spock with concern, looking around him for the chair and finding only fragments. "What happened in here Spock?"

"Nothing of importance." Spock looked away pointedly.

"Look." McCoy paused and thought for a moment, running his tongue over his lips. "It wasn't your fault." Spock glanced up, then looked away again. "I know you were sent with him to protect him, but you were ambushed. You actually did well, considering the circumstances." Spock just stared at him, his jaw tightening like he was angry. Bones sighed and shook his head.

"I give up," he grumbled, throwing his hands in the air. "Do what you want Spock, I don't care. Green-blooded hobgoblin."