Chapter Seven: Treatment

Seeing how obviously sick and in pain he was, it was all Bashir could do to turn his back on his commander and not offer him a hand into the cushioned interior of the carriage. But he knew he couldn't risk being seen as too accommodating to a mere slave. He reminded himself to be thankful he had found Sisko at last; soon he would be alone with him in the privacy of his room and could set about tending his wounds.

He was grateful to see through the small window as the driver he had hired from the livery offered his aid, and only hoped Sisko could manage to stay on his seat during the short ride to the boardinghouse.

Once there, he exited the carriage and waited with an affected air of boredom as Sisko half fell from the high seat, lurching clumsily and steadying himself on the wheel. Only the clenching of the doctor's fists would have betrayed him to a careful observer. "This way," he ordered shortly, daring say nothing more lest his emotion creep into his voice.

Turning, he led Sisko toward the house, trusting he would be able to hear if the commander fell. His heart nearly broke at the halting, shuffling sound of his steps.

"Mrs Jeffries," Bashir called, pausing at the door to the kitchen, "would you bring some hot water and clean towels to my room, please?"

"Right away, sir," she responded.

"You don't intend to treat your slave, surely?" a fellow boarder asked, startled, looking up from the book he was lounged on the sofa reading.

"He'd hardly be any use to me as a driver fainting and sick from pain," Bashir pointed out. "And it's a complete waste of my money if he dies on me."

The man shrugged. "Should have spent your money on a healthier specimen, then," he remarked, returning to his reading as if the topic held little interest for him.

Bashir bit his lip hard and beckoned Sisko on, not trusting himself even to attempt to respond.

"Shut the door behind you," he directed when Sisko had at last made his laborious way up the stairs and stood in the entrance to the doctor's room. Bashir kept his back to him until the sound of the latch told him Sisko had obeyed; then at last he turned, his face softening into true friendship and concern.

And for the first time, Sisko was completely sure. "Julian," he whispered hoarsely, suddenly finding himself trembling.

"All right, Commander," Julian said gently, half extending his arms.

Sisko fell against him, clinging hard to his solid realness and letting himself believe this wasn't just a feverish dream. Considering the state of his back, Bashir didn't dare embrace him in return, but reached up and gripped the backs of his shoulders where the scourge had not touched. "It's all right now," he murmured soothingly. "I'm here; they won't touch you again."

For a moment silent sobs shuddered through Sisko's body, and then he regained control and took a step back, still keeping his hands on Bashir's arms as if expecting the doctor to disappear if he broke the contact. "Jake?" he whispered hoarsely.

"He's staying with the O'Briens; he's worried sick about you, but he's fine…which is more than I can say for you," Bashir added, touching the back of his hand to Sisko's forehead. "You're burning up!"

"My back's…on fire," Sisko admitted. "Julian, I don't think I was ever so glad to see you in my life…"

"I can imagine," Bashir said grimly. "Here; let's get you to bed before you fall." He led Sisko toward the bed with a hand on his arm, pausing to slit the back of the rough cotton shirt with a knife from his pocket and then tear it down the back, doing his best to keep the fabric from touching Sisko's wounds. He pulled the garment off and tossed it aside, then gently helped the commander to lie down on his stomach.

"Mm," Sisko moaned softly in relief. The straw-filled mattress rustled softly; it had been stuffed recently and smelled clean and sweet; a far cry from the hard, moldy pallet that had been his bed recently.

A knock came at the door, and Bashir gently touched Sisko's shoulder before going to answer it. "Just lie still," he murmured; "I'll be right here."

He crossed to the door and opened it to find Mrs Jeffries standing there with a basin of steaming water and a pile of clean towels. "Ah; thank you."

"Is there anything else you need, sir?" she questioned as he took them from her.

Bashir shook his head. "I don't think so, but I'll let you know." As he turned to set down the towels and water, Mrs Jeffries caught sight of Sisko on the bed behind him and gasped softly.

"Blacks may be just animals, sir, but I don't know any man would do that to a dog or horse!"

"Indeed," Bashir said coldly, hating hearing the commander referred to as an animal even knowing she spoke only as she had been taught and hearing the pity she was unable to keep from her voice. He inched the door shut with less than his usual chivalry; she took the hint and turned to leave.

Bashir paused long enough to lock the door behind her; it was unlikely anyone would walk in on him, but he preferred not to take the chance. His explanation of protecting his investment might cover simply cleaning and salving Sisko's wounds, but wouldn't likely justify in the Southerners' eyes the degree of surgical care Sisko's back would probably require.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said gently.

Sisko only groaned, and Bashir wondered if he had even heard the landlady's words. "All right, let's get you fixed up," he said with false cheerfulness, setting his bag on the stand beside the hot water and towels and snapping the catches open.

He removed a black bottle, pouring a small amount into a glass and adding water from the ewer on the washstand before stirring briskly. "I need you to drink this, sir," he said, kneeling at Sisko's side and holding the glass to his lips.

"What…is it?"

"Laudanum," Bashir said quietly.

Sisko pulled back. "Isn't that addictive?"

"No more so than some of the drugs you let me inject without question on the station," Bashir responded evenly. "In carefully controlled doses it should be fine, and if you need to go through detox treatment when we get back, so be it; right now you need something if I'm going to work on your back. Now drink." His voice was firm, and reassured, Sisko willingly swallowed the promised relief from pain, grimacing only slightly at the taste.

"I would have thought you would have brought something more effective from the station," he murmured, laying his cheek on his hand.

Bashir grinned ruefully. "I did. Unfortunately, I left the drugs in the hypospray vials; the portal let the drugs through but left the containers behind; my bag was a dripping mess."

Sisko gave a soft grunt of laughter before drifting into unconsciousness. Bashir pressed a finger for a moment to his pulse, then got up to scrub his hands as thoroughly clean as soap and water could get them.

He found himself wishing the bed were higher as he returned to Sisko's side; his own back was going to be aching after several hours of work bent over his patient. But that was his last thought of himself as he began wetting towels with hot water and applying them to Sisko's back, soaking away the crusted layers of dried blood, pus, and dirt.

Then at last he could clearly see the extent of the damage, and felt his stomach turn. Not at the wounds themselves; he had seen and treated worse. But the thought that one human could do this to another was nothing short of sickening. The man who had beaten Sisko was a hologram and so not responsible for his actions, but that didn't change the fact that slave owners had treated their "property" in such a fashion.

And whoever had created this program and determined that Sisko should be caught in it was just as responsible as if he had held the lash himself. The pattern of healing showed that Sisko had been badly beaten at least three times; even as Bashir recalled his own remark that a Starfleet commander did not a good slave make, he wondered if the programmer had purposely made sure Sisko would be punished as often and as harshly as possible.

Bashir sighed, shaking his head; none of that mattered now. The important thing was treating Sisko's ravaged back as best he could. He really needed an hour or two with the dermal regenerator, Bashir reflected; maybe even skin grafts. But even on the station, he would have had to spend some time cleaning it up first; you couldn't simply grow new skin over wounds that had been left neglected for so long. And while his instruments were admittedly more primitive, this at least was something he would have done little differently on the station.

After having practiced in this holoworld for several days now, the old-style metal scalpels felt right in his hands as he cut away dead skin and lanced and drained pockets of infection. Tweezers and forceps hadn't changed all that much, he reflected as he picked out bits of ground-in dirt from the raw flesh, squinting in concentration despite his near-perfect eyesight.

At last he straightened for a moment before minutely examining Sisko's back once more and determining he had indeed cleaned it up as much as he could.

He reached for a large bottle of whiskey, uncorking it and pouring a generous amount on a clean cloth. Folding the cloth, he began swabbing Sisko's back. Even unconscious, Sisko's raw flesh shuddered away from the harsh sting of the alcohol. "Sorry," Bashir murmured, forcing himself to continue even as Sisko moaned softly. "It's the only antiseptic I have…"

He worked as quickly and as gently as he could, pausing only to douse a fresh cloth from the bottle before continuing.

Sisko's breathing grew slightly faster and shallower, and Bashir regarded him with concern as he tossed the used cloths in the rubbish heap. Wiping his hands quickly, he checked Sisko's pulse once more. It was consistent with an increase in pain, but not indicative of any significant distress or danger, and Bashir relaxed slightly, knowing his supplies to treat shock were pitifully limited.

Once more he regarded Sisko's back, scrutinizing it closely and deciding grimly that there wasn't enough undamaged skin left to sew the wounds. But some of the deeper cuts would benefit from sutures in the muscle, and he turned to his bag for the supplies he needed.

The procedure took him another half hour, and then at last he reached for a pot of salve, liberally applying the thick, soothing ointment. He considered whether to bandage it or not, but settled for lightly pulling the bedsheet over the commander.

Bashir returned to the washstand to scrub his hands thoroughly once more, and then stood over his patient in a moment's consideration. He knew he should check Sisko's glands for signs of infection, yet if it had indeed spread further than the initial injury there was little he could do for it; perhaps it was better to remain unaware and continue in the belief that Sisko could eventually recover.

Yet in the end his medical instincts won out and he slipped his hand under the commander's jaw. To his relief, the glands were only slightly swollen; perhaps the infection was indeed confined to the area where he could get at it.

Seating himself beside the bed, he pressed his fingers to Sisko's pulse, then slid his hand down to rest for a moment in the commander's. Sisko's fingers curled around his, clinging to his comforting presence even in sleep, and Bashir smiled softly to himself and did not pull away.

Next chapter coming next week!

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