Welcome back. In this one, Jim tries to take care of Spock. Spock is being his usual bad example of a patient. Suddenly confronted with the implications of his affliction, he might need to get used to accepting the help and care of his friends.

To answer an anonymous question I got: In my head, all my stories are continuous, but you are absolutely welcome to read them as standalones. Whatever suits you best. I will specify if a story builds on the events of another one. :)

After being dismissed from sickbay, Spock accompanied Jim back to his cabin. As words of parting, McCoy had stressed the importance of not leaving Spock unattended. And when given the choice between staying with Jim and spending his days in sickbay, Spock had, of course, happily chosen Jim. They had stopped by his cabin to collect a couple of necessities, and Spock had followed Jim to his quarters, clutching his small bundle of belongings. A couple of times, Jim had thought about saying something, to reassure Spock, or to ask him how he was doing, or to distract him from the matter at hand. But he had ultimately decided to stay silent, to give Spock at least some privacy.

In Jim's quarters, Spock proceeded to silently sort his belongings away, and Jim left him to his own devices. He decided to ignore for now how the Vulcan's hands were quivering as he put the small stack of clothing in his closet, or how he sighed and blinked into the bright light as he brought his hygiene products into the bathroom.

When it approached dinner time, Jim decided to peruse his food synthesizer for once. He couldn't leave Spock alone and didn't want to force him to tag along somewhere just because his superior officer had worked up an appetite. But he did prepare dinner for Spock as well, deciding that asking him if he was hungry would lead nowhere.

As they had sat down to eat at the desk and had spent some moments eating in silence, Spock paused and regarded Jim with a thoughtful gaze.

"It is kind of you to share your time and your quarters with me. However, I do not want to keep you from your usual activities."

"You are one of my usual activities," Jim said, deflecting the implied question.

"But not this prolonged, usually," Spock protested, and continued quietly, "I know you would pursue other activities right now if I was not here. Surely you can leave me alone for a short while."

"But I won't," Jim replied. "Doctor's orders."

And, additionally to Spock being forbidden to be alone for health reasons, there was the matter of possible poisoning. And if there was the slightest chance anyone had it out for Spock and had tried to poison him, or worse, there was no way Jim would leave him to himself in this state.

After they had finished eating, Spock said he would try to meditate, and Jim sat down at his desk to tend to the work that had collected during the day. For a long while, he was busy filing reports, approving requests, and signing proposals, while behind him on his bed, Spock mediated quietly. Or so he thought.

In truth, Spock had soon abandoned his attempt at meditating. It was not the noise Jim made while working that distracted him, it was the way his own mind refused to quiet down and succumb to the calming techniques. When he closed his eyes and started to concentrate on his breathing, his mind wandered, and he found himself unusually preoccupied with the implications of his ailment. It didn't help that he had no way to explain what was happening to him, and no one else could. He had seen it in the way the two doctors had treated him that neither McCoy nor Chapel could tell him how far-reaching the consequences of whatever was happening to him could be to both his biology and psyche.

Spock opened his eyes as a disquieting notion arose from within him. His heartbeat was increased, and his breathing faster again. The analytical part of him recognised it as signs of fear. He was afraid. But was he feeling this way as a direct symptom of his affliction, or was he afraid as a natural reaction to being in a frightening situation? He knew there would be no way to answer this question. If there was, he would be as close to solving the age-old question of nature and nurture as any scientist before him. Dismissing these thoughts on the origin of his emotions, he returned to more acute matters, namely how to deal with them.

Realising that he had spent a considerable amount of time staring at the back of Jim's head, he stood up and started pacing.

The physical discomfort was almost negligible. He had suffered worse. The emotional aspect was the bigger problem, in itself and how it made him unable to deal with the physical aspect of his illness. The whole connectedness of his separate issues was unsettling, to say the least.

Distracted by the steps behind him, Jim turned around and noticed Spock wasn't meditating quietly, but pacing back and forth.

"Spock."

The Vulcan didn't react, apparently deeply immersed in some inner conflict.

"Spock!" Jim tried again.

This time, Spock reacted. He looked up at Jim, and shook his head in one quick motion, and continued his pacing. "I am a Vulcan. I am in control," he murmured.

Jim stood up and approached him, reaching out with one arm. "Spock…"

"Don't touch me!" Spock hissed and dodged his hand.

"Spock, it's ok," Jim murmured, in a desperate attempt to calm him down. If Spock had no idea what was happening, neither had he.

"No, it is not 'ok'," Spock grumbled, still pacing furiously. "Do you have any idea? I am a Vulcan, I mustn't…"

"Spock, you're not thinking straight. Sit down!" Jim interrupted him.

Spock continued pacing frantically, and Jim reached out to him again. This time, he took him by the shoulders, jerked him around, and shook him.

"Pull yourself together!"

He had expected Spock to fight him or pull away, but he didn't. Instead, he flinched and looked at him with an expression of shocked confusion.

Jim immediately loosened his grip on his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Spock, I'm sorry!" he mumbled, shamefaced.

Spock nodded slowly and looked at Jim. "I've worked so hard to be a Vulcan, I've controlled my emotions, embraced logic. And now…Do you have any idea how it feels to have that carefully constructed control stripped away?"

"Not nearly, Spock," Jim muttered. "But I can imagine how it is for you. They always let you feel that you were not enough, that you were too human. You've been fighting that prejudice all your life."

Spock averted his eyes and said, quietly, "Maybe they were right. This is not the Vulcan way, this is…"

"Human?" Jim asked.

Spock pursed his lips in an all too familiar gesture. "Yes…human," he whispered, and looked back up at Jim with a forlorn shimmer in his eyes. "I don't know who I am."

Touched by Spock's admission, Jim tightened his grip on his shoulders. "You're Spock," he said. "You are my best friend, you're an integral part of this crew." He paused and added softly, "And we love you the way you are."

Spock scoffed and freed himself from Jim's touch. "Love?" he snapped and turned away. "What does love mean to me?"

"More than you'd care to admit," Jim said gently and smiled at Spock's downturned head. He remained silent but Jim didn't miss the small nod. "Tell you what," he continued, "you go take a nice, warm shower, and after you've gotten out of your uniform and into something comfortable, the world will look a whole lot better. There's an extra pair of pyjamas in the bathroom."

Spock turned around. "That is illogical," he said. "The world does not change because I do."

Grinning widely, Jim replied, "But it does, Spock. It always does."

Spock only raised an eyebrow and vanished into the bathroom. Moments later, Jim could hear the sound of running water.

Sighing deeply, he slumped down on his bed. There was no question that he'd do anything to help Spock get better but he had to wonder if he was even qualified enough. But if not he, who would be? The sickbay personnel? No, while strictly speaking a medical issue, the emotional duress of this situation could not be treated by being kept in a biobed all day. If anything, it would make matters worse. For an instant, he entertained the notion of contacting Spock's mother for advice, but while Amanda would have something to say, he doubted Spock would appreciate it. He would have to look out for his friend as best as he could, even if he had no idea how.

Deciding that he wouldn't go anywhere this evening, he got into his pyjamas, drew back the covers on his bed, and sat against the headboard with a book. After some minutes, the sound of running water stopped, and moments later, Spock came back into the cabin.

Jim almost laughed. Spock looked oddly human, clothed in the fluffy blue pyjamas he had set aside for him, his hair still damp.

"This sleepwear is not my usual style," he said, tugging at the hem of the shirt.

"As long as it fits," Jim said, glancing over the rim of his reading glasses, trying not to look too amused.

"It is slightly shorter and wider than my usual fit," Spock said, glancing down at his naked ankles protruding from the trousers. "But it will suffice."

Jim chose not to mention that it seemed to more than suffice, judging by how Spock hugged the soft garment against himself.

"Are you feeling better, then?" he asked instead.

Spock nodded.

"See?" Jim said and patted the bed next to him. "Come one then. Don't be shy."

Spock slowly walked over, slipped his legs under the blanket and leant back into the pillow with a sigh.

Jim flashed him a quick smile and continued reading.

After a while, he felt something against his side, and when he looked down, he noticed that Spock had fallen asleep, with his head resting on Jim's upper arm.

For a moment, he could only stare at the unexpected sight. Then, careful not to disrupt the Vulcan's fragile sleep, he pulled the blanket over them both, put his book and his glasses to the side, turned off the lights, and slowly slid under the covers next to Spock.

He should probably erect a camp bed for future use, if only for propriety. Spock might not be up to sharing a bed if his ban on living alone persisted. And depending on how or if he recovered, he might never be able to live alone again. But right now, listening to Spock's calm breathing in the dark, feeling his presence close to him, Jim could not help but think that maybe everything would be alright.

Jim awoke suddenly. The chronometer showed 0300 hours. Blinking sleepily at the glowing numbers, he wondered what had woken him up. He felt for Spock in the darkness and realised he wasn't there. The blanket was thrown back on that side, the bedsheets still warm, but deserted.

Suddenly panicking, he sat up in bed. Where was Spock? What if something had happened to him? What if he had left the cabin in a bout of disorientation?

Then he heard the unmistakable noises coming from the bathroom.

Jim grimaced sympathetically and got up, grabbed one of the hypos from his table, and slowly made his way over to the other room. The door slid open, revealing Spock hunched over the toilet bowl.

He looked up as Jim entered, managing a pitiable whimper before another spasm shook him and he threw up again.

Jim crouched down next to him and touched his shoulder in a hesitant gesture of sympathy.

Spock shook his head and sat back on his heels, subconsciously leaning into Jim.

"Is this what being human feels like?" he groaned.

Jim laughed. "Not always, no. And you're not really turning human, you're just very ill." He knew he was probably simplifying the issue, but so was Spock.

He pressed the hypospray with the antinauseant against the Vulcan's neck. Spock flinched at the hissing sound but soon relaxed imperceptibly.

"You'll soon feel better, Spock," Jim said, still holding on to him. "Next time take the medicine earlier."

Spock looked up at him, his raised eyebrow a shadow of his trademark gesture. "I would have, but I was asleep."

"And you woke up only when you had to throw up?"

"No, I woke up because…"

"Because…? Are you in pain? Talk to me, Spock. Why did you wake up?" If Spock had been woken up by acute medical issues, they might need to visit sickbay again. But for that, Jim had to know what the matter was.
"I woke up because I had a nightmare," Spock mumbled.

No medical issue then.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jim asked.

Spock shook his head. The details of his dream were still too fresh in his mind, and he was still too shaken by how much of an impact the nightmare had had on him. He was not usually this affected.

He sighed and pushed off from the floor to stand up shakily. He went over to the washbasin to get rid of the bitter taste. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jim leave the bathroom. He would undoubtedly be waiting in his cabin to 'talk it out'.

After washing his face and rinsing his mouth, he re-entered the main room and slid back under the covers. He could sense Jim's concerned look on him as he lay down, facing away from him.

After a long while of feeling his eyes boring into him, he sighed and turned on his back.

"It was the same amount absurd and disturbing," he said, "and highly illogical to get so affected by."

Jim waited patiently for him to continue. If Spock felt the inclination to talk about it, he would need to do so at his own pace.

Still looking at the ceiling, Spock continued in a hushed tone, "Starfleet command revoked my commission because I'm not fit for duty anymore. I had to leave the Enterprise, and all of you behind. I returned to Vulcan, alone. Then, I was called before the Vulcan High Command. They voted unanimously that I would have no right to rest in the Hall of Ancient thought, and I was banished. They said I wasn't a real Vulcan, that I couldn't control my emotions, just as they had always thought. They called me a V'tosh ka'tur."

"V'tosh ka'tur?" Jim asked. He was sure he had never heard that word before, but it sounded like an insult.

"It means 'Vulcan without logic'," Spock explained. "The elders used it to refer to those disagreeing with ancestral teachings, especially during the high time of the movement in the 22nd century. The truth, as always, was more complicated." Spock sighed and paused. Jim was sure this was something the Vulcans rarely talked about. "The V'tosh ka'tur claimed to have found a way to embrace our emotions without having to abandon logic," Spock murmured. "The majority of Vulcans regarded them as rebels, outsiders, and the movement never caught on with the majority."

"Ah." Jim lay down next to him, facing the ceiling as well, taking all this in. Then, he turned to look at Spock. "Spock, you know we won't let that happen, right? You're not going to have to leave, and you won't be alone in this."

"It was nonsensical," Spock said, "and illogical to be affected by it."

"It's going to be alright Spock," Jim said, as he felt him withdraw again. "We'll see to that."

Spock only nodded and turned away, and, to Jim's great relief, was soon fast asleep.

Spock awoke slowly. It was colder than his quarters usually were and smelled unmistakeably human. He opened his eyes to the familiar environment of Jim's quarters and sighed as the recent events came back to him.

As he sat up in bed, Jim emerged from the bathroom, greeting him with a cheery "Morning, Spock" and began to prepare for his shift.

Spock got dressed in silence, opting for dark trousers with short, blue robes. There was no sense in putting on his uniform. He was officially relieved from duty, and it would serve as an unwelcome reminder of his inability to perform the tasks it stood for.

Before Jim and Spock left the cabin, McCoy popped in to ask how Spock was feeling, a question he quickly deflected by asking if there was any progress regarding the search for a cause of his affliction. The Doctor shook his head, answered that Christine was working tirelessly in the lab, but without definite results so far, and quickly left again.

When the door had closed behind McCoy, Spock turned to Jim.

"What should I do?" he asked. "I can't be on the bridge."

"Just come with me, we'll think of something on the way," Jim said in a purposefully easy-going tone. In truth, he had no idea, but he couldn't - no, wouldn't – leave Spock to himself, even if that meant having him sit around on the bridge with nothing to do.

The solution came in the form of Pavel Chekov, who entered the turbolift with them.

"What are your plans for today, Mr Spock?" the young Russian asked.

Spock threw Jim an accusing glance. "We do not know," he said pointedly. "It seems, we will 'think of something on the way'."

"You can come with me," Pavel suggested. "I am going to recalibrate the guidance system and auxiliary fire control in the torpedo bay."

"That's great!" Jim explained. "Pavel can take care of you."

Spock raised a critical eyebrow at the two of them.

"I do not need a nanny, gentlemen," he murmured disgruntedly. But he did agree to spend the shift with Pavel in the torpedo bay.

Spock had to agree that Pavel's idea had been a most welcome one. They spent hours in silence, hunched over control panels, stuck in access hatches, rewiring and recalibrating here and there. Pavel Chekov was surprisingly pleasant company. His bubbly and boyish behaviour vanished when he was working, replaced by the confidence of a senior officer. Spock found himself regarding him with no small portion of pride.

Chekov's abilities were not too surprising. Spock himself had mentored him, after all, but he was seldomly in a position to profit from them. Now, he let himself be led by his former protégé, falling into the role of subordinate for the first time in their working relationship. It was easier this way, following his gentle commands once in a while, handing him a tool here and there, without the pressures of having to make any decisions. And Spock was grateful that Pavel never mentioned the irregularity of their switched roles.

But even with the situation as comfortable as it could be, Spock found himself compromised. When Chekov was busily immersed into the inner workings of a console, he walked along the launch track leading to the torpedo launch tube and stood next to the loading door. He was only a few metres away from the outer hull of the ship, only separated from it by the launch tubes leading to the two ejection points. Ejection points for photon torpedoes, which were only a little longer than he was tall. He'd fit into a photon torpedo. His friends would know. He braced himself against the bulkhead next to the loading door, fighting down the feeling of dizziness and anxiety.

He flinched as he was interrupted by a hand on his arm. He had not even heard Chekov approach.

"Are you alright, Mr Spock?"

"I need to sit down for a while," Spock murmured.

"Well, by all means, sit down then."

To Spock's mortification, Chekov took him by the arms, gently pulled him to the ground, and sat next to him with their backs turned towards the ominous door.

"Do you have medicine to take?"

Spock huffed and closed his eyes against the glaring lights. "In Jim's quarters, yes. I forgot to take it with me."

Chekov looked at his superior officer's pale face and thought if he should offer to fetch it for him, but decided on another route.

"Maybe you need a nanny after all," he teased. "Like in the Russian children's story of Mary Poppins."

"That story is set in England, Mr Chekov," Spock murmured without opening his eyes.

Pavel did not let loose and said, "No, but the author was not English, she was…"

"Australian," Spock said and turned to Pavel to frown at him. "P. L. Travers was Australian."

"Ah, well, if you say so." Chekov shrugged, feigning ignorance.

Spock had already taken the bait. "Maybe it is you who needs a nanny."

Pavel smiled fondly up at him, something he never would have dared to do while the Vulcan was on duty. "Not anymore, Mr Spock. You did your job well enough."

Spock raised an eyebrow at him and for a moment, Pavel thought he'd chastise him for his sentimentality. But he only inclined his head and patted Chekov on the shoulder in a rare show of friendship.

"Well, spit-spot, Mr Chekov," he said and stood up swiftly to return to work.

To be continued...

I am convinced Pavel knows that "Mary Poppins" is not Russian, but even if he does, his attempt at distracting Spock worked, right? 'Spit-spot' is also a "Mary Poppins" reference, as in something that she often says.