I emerged from my healing trance to the sound of snoring.

That, in itself, should have been alarming as I could not recall having fallen asleep with anyone present in the room.

Instead, I more or less dismissed the noise, too contented to bother trying to discern where and from whom the sound was being emitted. Somehow, when paired with the scent of whiskey and sunshine, the snoring seemed to just, fit. Ignoring the illogicality of the statement—a sound cannot logically be connected to the smell of alcohol and the rays of radiation emitted by the sun—I contently pulled the blanket closer and burrowed back into the leather couch. I relished the warmth. It was a welcomed relief to the constant cold that plagued me since I had boarded the starship.

A quick check indicated that the healing trance had fortified the defenses of my mind and healed the physical aches and pains. I reasoned: Time heals all wounds and so does sleep. Therefore, it is logical that I continue my respite.

The sense of familiarity, warmth, and comfort easily drew me back into sleep. Even the snoring was soothing as it broke up the silence I never knew I disliked falling asleep to.

A familiar beeping started up, interrupting the serenity of the room.

I was out of the couch on my feet before my mind fully awoke. It was a sound every Doctor learned to respond to immediately, automatically, and without thought.

A patient had woken up.

My eyes darted around the darken room as my mind scrambled to wake up and react as fast as my body had.

The office was sparsely illuminated by light filtering through the window facing the Sickbay. In the dark, I could just make out the slumped figure of Doctor McCoy in the oversized leather armchair that had apparently been pulled close to the coach. He sat, fast asleep, within arms reach of the coach where I'd been sleeping. I didn't know what to make of that.

It took longer for the beeping to register for him, but within seconds he too was roughly drawn back to consciousness.

Even in the dark, I could plainly see the fatigue and eye bags below his eyes. My internal clock informed me that I had been in my healing trance for no more than 3 hours, yet the Doctor looked run haggard already. Sulu and the other crewmember had already been on the mend when I had retreated to the office. What could have happened?

Before he could stand up and make for the door, I gently pushed him back into the armchair.

He narrowed his eyes, "And what do you think you're doing?"

"Sit," I ordered, "I will see to the patient."

"Now, wait just a minute," he started, sputtering. "You're concussed. Don't think—."

Before he could continue his protests, I swiftly exited the room and sharply closed the door behind me.

A small victorious smile play on my lips as I crossed the Sickbay towards the beeping machine.

The sterile and cool air of Sickbay chased away any lingering warmth that I had enjoyed in the office. Even under three layers of clothing, the chill settled into my bones and bloodstream. I wonder how Spock dealt with such temperatures or if he too was somewhere on the ship piling on layers of clothes.

Grabbing the chart PADDs in passing, I noted that there were three, rather than the two I had expected. Frowning at the extra addition, I noted that three curtains were drawn around biobed stations indicating their use. Another patient must have come in during my healing trance, probably in critical condition as it would explain the Doctor's haggard appearance. I felt poorly for leaving the Doctor to deal with it on his own. It was illogical to feel guilt. Circumstances being as they were, it had been logical to rest rather than attempt to heal patients in such a state. Yet, logic didn't soothe the guilt at abandoning McCoy.

The Sickbay was quiet. Free of the panic and bustle that had plagued it just hours earlier. The other nurses had taken their leave or were off duty. For a Head Nurse and the Doctor, such luxuries could not be afforded. Only five days in to my career at Starfleet aboard the Enterprise and already I was realizing that respites in my room would be rare.

Silencing the beeping from the patient's PADD, I moved towards the third biobed.

The patient name: Spock.

I fought the urge to run back to the office and wake the Doctor.

I was hardly keen to test how well I could pass as a human and deceive my brother. Especially, not so soon after having our bond reopen and then, once more closed. Makeup and changes to my hair could only go so far. Furthermore, as Vulcan's age slower than humans, my physical appearance had changed little from when he had last seen me on Vulcan.

Taking a deep breath, I did a cursory scan through his charts to familiarize myself with the case and the patient.

The charts and patient information were extremely thorough. For all the Doctor's grumbling about charts and patients, it was obvious the care he put into filing away information and making sure all procedures and events were documented. From the charts alone, it was possible for any doctor to know exactly what a patient had been through and what level of risk would be involved with a surgery or medication.

Spock's list of previous injuries and surgeries were surprisingly extensive—ranging from burns to lacerations to gunshot wounds acquired on various mission to other planets and almost everything in between. Was there a weapon left in space that my brother hadn't been on the receiving end of?

I was decidedly unimpressed with the carelessness my brother exhibited when it came to his own safety. It made me wonder if my choice to submit his Starfleet application had actually further endangered him, rather than save him.

I took deep breaths in a poor attempt to calm down before facing him. At this point, I was less afraid of him realizing my identity and more frightened that I might hit him over the head with his charts and inadvertently give myself away.

Pulling open the curtain, I subtly tried to angle face away from his line of sight by turning towards the computers instead.

"It says here that you went into shock due to a disturbance in your mental links?" I queried in a quietly. 'Disturbance,' that was what he was calling it.

"Affirmative."

I turned away to needlessly fiddle with his patient charts and treatment plans to hide my distress. I had done this to him. In the charts, I could plainly read the neuro-scans the Doctor had taken upon his arrival. His pain receptors had surpassed their capacity and limitations. Thus, in a defensive attempt to save his mind from being overrun with pain, his body had simply shut down and forced him into a healing trance.

I had done this to him. Who knows what would have happened to Spock had I not broken off our link and taken on my pain for myself. I had done this to him.

"Was your healing trance successful in repairing the damages done to your mental shields and bonds?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't discern the tremble my voice had taken on.

"Affirmative. I, therefore, request to be released and approved for active duty. It would be illogical to remain in Sickbay when I am healed."

His request somehow sounded more like a demand and while he may look perfectly fine on the outside, his mind was a completely different matter and impossible to judge without observation.

"Unfortunately, that is not for you to decide."

At this point, my response was prompted by a mix of logic and spite. It never sat well with me when patients attempted to assert authority over doctors and nurses.

"Doctor McCoy wrote in your chart to hold you over night for observations. The mind takes longer to heal than the body and any complications that do occur are much more fatal. Therefore, I'd get comfortable, Commander."

My response border lines insubordination. Yet, considering how everyone on this ship seems to think of that as an optional formality, I didn't worry about being reprimanded.

Spock's lips twitched downward as if he hadn't been expecting my refusal of his 'request.' He'd only just suffered a major brain trauma and here he was, three hours later, hoping to get right back to work. Serves him right.

I bade him goodnight—poorly hiding how pleased I felt to finally have authority over him—before once more shutting the curtains to give him privacy.

The PADDs I held in my hand shook. It had been nerve wreaking to be in such close quarters with him alone.

Hopefully, if Spock mentioned my poor bedside manor to the Doctor, McCoy would just dismiss it as part of insubordination, as it seemed to be a thing around here anyway, or call it an inevitable result of having to deal with the "know it all hobgoblin" as he liked to put it. The first time he'd called Spock that, I hadn't known whether to be offended—as I too would be implicated a hobgoblin—or amused.

I breathed deeply, berating myself for reacting so poorly when it had been my choice after all to follow him onto this starship. It was bound to happen eventually.

Spock was the First Officer of the Enterprise. He went on away missions. He would get hurt eventually. I just never thought that I'd be the reason that landed him in Sickbay and so soon.

Breathe. I told myself firmly. Guilt does nothing.

Close your eyes and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

I hadn't known it was possible for Vulcans to have panic attack. Though, considering I am only half-Vulcan, I suppose the record stands unbroken.

A warm, heavy hand grasped my shoulder tight. My eyes flew open to meet a set of chocolate brown eyes. McCoy was leaned in close. His eyebrows were scrunched together and his frown, for once, was suspiciously absent.

"Feeling nauseous, Gray?" He asked, pulling out his ever handy tricorder.

I shook my head wordlessly, too shocked by the physical contact to shape a proper sentence. Even through the layers I wore, the warmth radiating from the touch chased away my bone cold chill—an inevitable hazard working aboard a starship. But what was even more shocking, was the emotions being transmitted through the contact.

It shouldn't be possible. Touch-telepathy required skin to skin contact. I haphazardly checked that my mental shields were in place. They were. Yet, even knowing this, I could still clearly feel his concern and worry.

Unaware of the shock I was going through, McCoy continued to run scans with his tricorder. Checking the results and then running some more.

"Well, it seems like your concussion was only a mild case. The tricorder isn't even picking up on it anymore. Your temperature and heart rate is abnormally high, though." He frowned at the results. "Are you feeling feverish, dizzy, or lightheaded?"

I shook my head, shifting nervously. Concussions shouldn't heal that fast. We both knew that.

"Hmmm, damn tricorder must be faulty." He scowled down at the instrument in his hand as if it had personally wronged him. "I'll see if I can get the Russian Wiz Kid to check it out."

I was thankful when he finally released his grip, even if it meant losing the temporary warmth that seemed to radiate from the contact.

"But either way," he continued, "You should get some rest. You must still be feeling the after effects because you're looking a bit green, Gray." He said, squinting at me in the sparse lighting of the dimmed Sickbay.

The protest I had planning to make, died at his last comment as I hastily stepped back and away from the doctor's keen eyes. I hadn't noticed how close we'd been standing.

"I am feeling a bit nauseous now that you mention it," I stammered hastily, stepping clumsily back, towards the exit and away from his scrutinizing gaze. The Vulcan grace I normally possessed deserted me whenever the Doctor was in close proximity.

As I made to turn away and make a hasty retreat from Sickbay, he called out once more.

"You know," he paused, stumbling over words, "it might not be a good idea to let you go right away, Gray."

McCoy was flipping through completed patient PADDs, adding notes it seemed. He hated filling out charts the first time. It's impossible to think he'd be willing to make updates for the fun of it.

The Doctor jerked his head towards our office without meeting gaze. "Bunk in there, I wanna keep you close," he cleared his throat—a nervous habit— "just to make sure that concussion didn't leave anymore side affects."

I blinked.

"Of course," I managed to choke out, nodding. Concussion patients were usually kept close for observation. It would be logical for me to remain in the vicinity. I was thankful that he hadn't tried to force me back onto a biobed.

I headed towards the office and stepped through the doorway, but hesitated as the door began to swing close. Humans required more sleep that Vulcans and yet here I was heading back to rest and leaving him alone to run Sickbay for a second time. He needed sleep—not that he'd admit it. The only way to get him to do anything for himself was through insults and mind games. It seemed to his only level of operation.

Before I could second guess myself I called out, "Rest would probably do you good too, Doctor. You look as if you're going to fall over." I grinned, this conversation reminded me of my first day and a similar argument we had had just previous to my sudden promotion. "You might start scaring patients again."

I shut the door.

I hypothesize—since betting is illogical—that the good Doctor would storm into the room within 15 minutes.

The room felt comfortably warm and reminiscent to temperatures on Vulcan. It would be too hot for a human though and if my wager was correct, the Doctor would soon be storming into the room to take a rest. Therefore, I ordered the computer to decrease the temperature back to what would be comfortable for the human. Then, settled for stealing the blanket to make up for the loss of warmth.

I settled onto the leather coach and closed my eyes. My body and mind still needed time to recalibrate. The healing trance may have repaired the damage, but the fatigue remained. Only time and rest would heal that damage.

The minutes passed and sleep evaded me. It was a familiar game by now. Even fatigued and tired as I was, my mind refused to quiet. In the utterly silence of the room, thoughts and worries seemed to resonate loudly.

The 15 minute mark approached.

I kept my eyes closed, feigning sleep.

The door opened and closed quietly, accompanied by whispered curses and grumbles about women and vanity and easily frightened patients. A smile tugged at my lips—a familiar act it seemed whenever I was around him.

He took careful, deliberate footsteps across the room to minimize the noise. I appreciated the needless gesture since I was not actually asleep and as a Vulcan, I would have woken anyway.

Still, I kept my eyes closed and leveled my breathing to that which was typical of a sleeping human.

I felt him pass the chair and pause next to coach.

He stood, silent for a moment. Then, felt the blanket shift as he settled it more firmly and snug around me. A stray hair that had been tickling my chin was gently tucked away, off to the side of my face.

A warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket and everything to do with the gesture flushed through me. I hoped that the room was dark enough to hide the green tinge I was sure my cheeks had taken on.

Then, after a moment that was simultaneously too long and too short, he moved away to settle into the armchair that was within arms reach of the coach.

The soft snoring soon started up again, breaking up the silence of the room.

I smiled. The sound should have been a disturbance and annoying to sensitive Vulcan hearing, yet I could not remember the last time I fell asleep so quickly and so contented.