"You should be fine, Ms Habersburg. Continue to administer the medication I gave you each morning, in 15ml doses, and book an appointment to see me during next Tuesday's surgery."
The Doctor smiled as he clicked off his screen, and eased back in his chair, basking in the last rays of the day's sun that were streaming into his office. Clara Habersburg was a sweet woman, and it was good to see her finally recovering from that Rigallian flu. A nice way to finish his working day.
There were so many illnesses called flus now. Most of them weren't remotely genetically related. Starfleet Medical or some other authority of the Federation's really should work out a more precise way of naming them.
Of course, he mused as he got up and crossed to his cabinet, ready to start dispensing for the next day's patients. If I was more inclined to take an active role in improving things, that consultancy post is probably still open.
It had been five years since they returned from the delta quadrant, and though Starfleet was still shying away from officially declaring him an independent lifeform, they had given into Admiral Janeway's insistence that he at least be treated like one. And they were certainly still keen to get him on board and take advantage of his unusual experiences and expertise.
Not to mention, they'd probably find it useful to have a consultant who never slept.
But after a brief stint in a pointlessly classified, overly officious research outpost a few months after their return, he'd realised he was more or less happy to stay away from the inner workings of Starfleet. Too many politics, too many egos interfering with the simple duty of making people well. So he'd returned to Earth and taken a post as a GP in a quiet community just outside San Francisco. His cases tended towards the stuffy-nose-and-tennis-elbow variety, but it was something of a relief to just administer hyposprays, offer reassurance, and bribe nervous children with sweets when their parents bought them in for vaccinations. No more friends' lives hanging in the balance. No more being surrounded by the cloying stench of blood and—
The Doctor took a deep breath. He didn't suffer from anxiety or PTSD being a hologram. And breathing was technically unnecessary. But his memory subroutines did seem to focus unduly on unpleasant recollections some days. The sensation of breathing, however manufactured, was a good way to circumvent them and return to the present.
He opened the cabinet. Fifteen in-surgery appts tomorrow, and eight of those would require further medication. Now where had he put his niplotrozine—
A familiar whine sounded, right behind him.
He spun, hand grasping for a phaser that wasn't there, that had rarely been there, even on Voyager. Instead he grabbed his tricorder, ready—insanely—to throw it at the now-solid intruder.
But they flinched and raised their hands, or one of them anyway. The right arm hung slack at their side.
"Doctor?"
He blinked, and a dozen memory subroutines fired in unison as he said, "Seven?"