I apologize for leaving this story untouched for so long—life got in the way, but it's always been in the back of my mind. Warning: if you're looking for a feel-good story, you'll have to look elsewhere. I don't do happy when it's about McCoy, because he's clearly not a happy man.
He made the mistake of leaving his comm unit on after his shuttle touched down in Atlanta. It didn't take long for the first message to appear.
SFvirtualmail /origUSSEntNCC1701/rec Earth, NA/Personal/Encrypt: YES/Priority: MED/SFComm protocol: NO/vid: NO/Receipt: YES
FROM: Kirk, James T. Captain, USS Enterprise
SENT: SD 2734.3
TO: McCoy, Leonard
SUBJECT: Status
Just wanted to see how you're doing.
He deleted that one.
SFvirtualmail /origUSSEntNCC1701/rec Earth, NA/Personal/Encrypt: YES/Priority: HIGH/SFComm protocol: NO/vid: NO/Receipt: YES
FROM: Kirk, James T. Captain, USS Enterprise
SENT: SD 2736.5
TO: McCoy, Leonard
SUBJECT: Read your damn mail
McCoy—
I swear I have more important things to worry about than your sorry ass, so send me a message already.
He deleted this one, too. He should have turned it off right then. He was on leave, for chrissakes.
SFvirtualmail /origUSSEntNCC1701/rec Earth, NA/Personal/Encrypt: YES/Priority: HIGH/SFComm protocol: NO/vid: NO/Receipt: YES
FROM: Kirk, James T. Captain, USS Enterprise
SENT: SD 2740.1
TO: McCoy, Leonard
SUBJECT: Ignoring a superior officer will get you in trouble
I know your comm is on because Uhura says you're using it. I didn't ask her to check; she did it on her own, so don't rip her a new one. She's still mad at you, in case you were wondering.
We're scheduled for maintenance at Earth Spacedock in a few weeks. I want to talk to you before then, and I don't want to pull rank to make it happen.
He decided to respond to this one.
SFvirtualmail /origEarth, NA/recUSSEntNCC1701/ /Personal/Encrypt: YES/Priority: HIGH/SFComm protocol: NO/vid: NO/Receipt: YES
FROM: McCoy, Leonard
SENT: SD 2741.9
TO: Kirk, James T. Captain, USS Enterprise
SUBJECT: RE: Ignoring a superior officer will get you in trouble
The funeral is tomorrow. I have 21 days of bereavement leave. I am turning my comm off now so kindly leave me the fuck alone. Sir.
There is no such thing as a good day for a funeral, he thought. It was January, the coldest month of the year around here, and though technically not the darkest month, it was the gloomiest. The holiday decorations had been packed away, the air was blurry with a persistent chilly gray drizzle, and it felt like the entire city had a psychic hangover. Today the drizzle was turning heavier, and he wondered why he hadn't brought an umbrella.
Judging by the size of the crowd at the memorial service and the many tearful eulogies, there was no question that Dr. David McCoy had been loved by his patients and respected by his colleagues. Not that his son had ever doubted as much; he'd long secretly envied his father's easy way with even the most difficult patients and his ability to charm his way out of notoriously-vicious hospital politics. He could never measure up to his father, but he'd long ago accepted that this was every son's lot in life, in one way or another.
A much smaller group was gathered here, under the cover of an old maple tree near the edges of a small cemetery on the outskirts of the city. His father was old-fashioned in many ways, and had insisted upon a real burial, in the ground, with an officiant presiding, none of which was easy to arrange. Cremation was by far the prevalent method these days, but the elder McCoy was nothing if not stubborn—at least he came by it honestly, he thought—and so here they were, standing in the rain around a hole in the ground.
Jocelyn had declined to attend, and she was even civil about it. She'd kept Joanna away, too, for which he was grateful. He knew from the confusion in her eyes that she was too young to fully grasp the idea that her grandfather was completely and irrevocably gone. Hell, he was having trouble with it. It would take time, and he told himself that there was no point in upsetting her now, before she was ready.
The first shovelful of dirt hit the top of the coffin with a wet thunk and he looked across at his mother. She stood apart, with her head held high and her face an expressionless mask that he knew from experience would quietly crack apart later. She might let him hold her then, but she had always found it easier to give comfort than receive it, and that was something he had learned to respect in her.
"For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." The ancient words broke through his thoughts and he looked at the speaker, recognizing her as the chaplain at his father's hospital. The dirt rained down steadily now, and he heard a soft, strangled sob coming from his left. He was flanked by his aunt and uncle, his father's sister and her husband, and he thought he should do or say something to her, but he found that he was overcome with apathy. So he stood watching his mother again, and wondered if they were more or less alike than he'd thought.
He had not cried. Not since that day—and that memory was too sharp, too fresh for him to linger over it. His mind flitted around it like a moth to a flame: he was drawn to those final moments with his father, but the pain drove him away before he could settle on it. It would be there; he knew it was patiently waiting for him. But for now, he was uninterested in forcing his way through the cocoon of numbness that surrounded him.
His aunt collapsed to the ground beside him, and he watched as from a distance as his uncle rushed to her side and gathered her in his arms, rocking her gently. This sensation of being outside of himself, of watching himself and those around him, didn't worry him. He welcomed it, knowing it would pass soon enough, and then he might miss it.
The chaplain closed the book she was holding and they watched as the top of the coffin disappeared beneath the clumps of dirt. After this, there would be the wake, a houseful of well-meaning friends and family, too much food, and, he feared, not enough alcohol. But this was how it was done in the South, an inviolable tradition that must be endured. And then there would be silence, and the staleness of a house too little used, and he would have plenty of time to contemplate the events of the last few days. Events that he had set into motion, he reminded himself, and the moth bumped up against the flame.
"Let me go, son. You have to do this for me. Now, while I can still ask." He was not surprised by the request, and his father wasn't the first person to ask it of him. But this was different, of course, and he agonized before finally agreeing, although every instinct in him protested. Going through the formal processes, acquiring the necessary drugs and completing the endless forms, made it feel like any other clinical procedure up until the final moment, and he was glad for that. Now he told himself, a litany he repeated over and over, that he was only preserving free will and dignity. And maybe he was, and maybe he would someday accept his action for what it was. But not yet.
That night, after his mother had finally walked the last guest to the door, he pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniel's hidden in the back of his father's liquor cabinet—not the first time, but maybe the last—and turned his comm back on. As he expected, a message from Kirk sat at the top of his inbox, and his finger hovered over it for a moment as he debated whether to open it. "What the hell," he mumbled, and stabbed at the touch screen.
SFvirtualmail /origUSSEntNCC1701/rec Earth, NA/Personal/Encrypt: YES/Priority: HIGH/SFComm protocol: NO/vid: NO/Receipt: YES
FROM: Kirk, James T. Captain, USS Enterprise
SENT: SD 2742.9
TO: McCoy, Leonard
SUBJECT: (None)
I'm sorry, Bones.
He stared at the words glowing on the screen for a long while before deleting it and pouring another drink.