Watching the Vulcan Sleep
Leonard stood at the side of the bed, shaking his head over the readings displayed there. Its occupant was unconscious – If he had been awake, McCoy could have relieved some of his frustration with a savage remark. As it was, the doctor could only shake his head – and hope.
He hoped he had done the right thing. Hoped he had done enough. Hoped he had read things aright.
The first time Commander Spock had been brought to Sickbay unconscious, he had almost bled to death – while the staff attended to the wounds that, on a Human patient, would have been most urgent.
Before coming aboard, McCoy had never treated a Vulcan before, except one superficial wound, in clinic at the Academy. And in sims, of course, once he had received this assignment.
After Nero's attack, he had dealt, again, with shock and minor injuries.
In theory, he knew all the right facts: Blood pressure, pulse… And copper, of course. (That was a really rude awakening, never-the-less, the first time his hands got wet.) Oh, he knew all the anatomical types, knew where all the organs were… But sims were a far way from practical experience, and a helluva a long way from actual surgical experience.
And so, he also hoped that he could keep the Vulcan alive.
Leonard stood at the side of the bed, watching its occupant sleep: First Officer of the Enterprise, a full Commander before he turned 25: The first Vulcan to attend the Academy, and one of its most distinguished graduates.
McCoy's own superior, if it came to that – and member of an endangered species.
When Jim had told him about Spock's assessment of that circumstance, it had made him sick. Angry, too – mad as hell, actually - until Jim played the recording for him, and he could hear those eerie words in Spock's own voice. Then, McCoy was just sick.
He still was: Scared sick.
Leonard wondered when they would all figure out their Chief Medical Officer was a fraud. What the hell was he thinking? - Cruising around the galaxy on a freaking starship, for God's sake, acting like he was a doctor and could actually do something to help the people who were out here risking their lives every damned day.
Yeah, the humans were in good hands. He was top-notch with them. Mostly.
But the others? The ship's crew were more than 95% Human, from Earth or the Colonies. Other than that, there were several Neneri, a few Melvarans, two Tellurites (Thank God, down in Engineering), handfuls from a dozen other scattered worlds: Superficially different, sure, but all humanoid. He could manage with them, he supposed.
And one Vulcan.
Half-Vulcan, actually. Whatever that meant.
Once again, Leonard wished he had even a quarter-of-an-hour to talk with Puri. Before warping into the crisis, they had met on a few occasions, spent their time preparing for whatever – and talked about sailing. During the months pre-launch of the Enterprise, Puri had bought a boat: He had been looking forward to shore leaves on Earth, with the grandkids.
Wasted words, now - when Leonard could have asked - well, so many things. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then rubbed his eyes. The near-quiet of Sickbay, after the storm of activity, was having its effect.
"242 beats per minute? Are you fucking kidding me?" That would likely be on the list for Puri.
Well, he had done his best. He was just gonna have to hope that that was good enough.
He headed toward his office. He had some notes to make.
And he wanted to write a list of questions for Commander Spock. In the absence of Puri, Spock was their Vulcan Medical expert, and he figured he ought to pick those mighty brains - while he had the chance - so he'd be better prepared next time.
'Next time?'
Fuck, he was tired.