Thank you for your reviews and comments. I'm glad that I've been able to keep you guessing, and interested in what happens next.
There's a tiny "squick" factor to this next chapter, thus the PG-13ish rating for the piece. Please be prepared.
As Trip might say, "Hang on to your hats!"
x-x
Something pulled, tugged, and Malcolm reached up, trying to push whatever it was away from his side.
"Shh..."
He opened his eyes, blinking against the dim light. Something was wrong. He tried to push again, and felt gentle hands on his arms.
"It's all right, lieutenant."
He stopped struggling and turned his head to the side to see Phlox there, medical dressing in hand. Sickbay, he realised. "What happened?" he asked, his voice raspy.
"It seems we may have been taking you off the drugs too quickly," Phlox said, his trademark grin missing. "We've made an adjustment in your dosage, and you should be feeling better soon." The doctor began to work at his side, and Malcolm felt pressure there. "We'll have to take a bit more time with it, hmm?" Phlox said, and Malcolm felt the world slide away.
x-x
He was...he was in sickbay, Malcolm thought slowly. That was the floor, sickbay's floor, below him, and he was sitting on a bed, staring down at the floor.
Rocking. He was rocking. He tried to stop.
Something was wrong.
He was rocking.
He gripped the edge of the bed, his arms rigid, and forced himself to stop rocking. He felt a tug at his side and let go of the bed, gasping against the sudden pain.
Was he hurt?
There was a voice.
He realised that someone was speaking, so he looked up. The captain was standing there, Trip beside him. Malcolm tried to concentrate. The captain was asking him something...something about a weapon.
"Where's the weapon?" the captain asked, and Malcolm jumped at the change, the sudden clarity.
"Weapon?" he asked.
The captain said something else, but he didn't understand it. He watched as the captain turned a frustrated look to Trip.
Trip took a step forward, and asked, "Did you do this to yourself?"
"Do what?"
"Hurt yourself."
Malcolm tried to think, and he started seeing flashes - a man, and blood, and lights, and sickbay, and...He started shaking his head vehemently. "No, no, no," he said, heart beating madly. He felt someone come up beside him, a pressure on his neck, a hand on his back, and he couldn't help it, he closed his eyes.
x-x
He remembered the attack.
Opening his eyes, Malcolm took in the lights along the ceiling; they seemed to hover over his bed in sickbay, casting their pale glow across the blanket that someone had pulled over him. The lights were dimmer than usual - Phlox must have lowered them while he was sleeping.
He remembered the attack, every detail.
Carefully, gingerly, he pushed himself to sitting, trying not to disturb the bandages on his side. He felt...not fine. Numb, he felt numb.
A thought came, unbidden: maybe he did this to himself.
No, no, that wasn't possible. He closed his eyes, thinking through the details - the attack, Malla there, then the questions from the captain, from Trip.
If Trip thought it possible, then...
No.
He sat there a moment, eyes still closed. He tried to stop thinking about it, but found it hard to control the path of his thoughts.
Maybe he did this to himself.
But how? He was better, so how had this happened?
No, it wasn't possible. The man was real. The attack was real. So that meant that this, here, now, wasn't.
He felt...drugged.
Phlox had probably upped his meds again, but he felt different this time from when he'd first gone on them. He felt flat now, distant, like he was looking at himself from the outside.
Numb.
Unreal.
Dead, he felt dead.
He'd almost liked it better when he was flicking between realities. At least then he could feel.
Opening his eyes and staring down at his hand, he pinched his arm to see if he could feel it. Then he raked his nails along the skin there, raising red welts.
This isn't working, he thought. He looked around sickbay for something sharper. Remembering Phlox's scalpels in a drawer, he slipped off the bed, bobbling a bit, then shuffled over to the drawer in question. Opening it, he reached inside and removed a knife. He returned to the bed and sat on top of the blankets, legs crossed, and he peeled back the protective packaging on the instrument, revealing the scalpel. Lifting it, he placed it against the skin of his inner arm. Then he applied a bit of pressure. Seeing blood well, he moved the knife away.
"Malcolm, what are you doing?"
His head shot up and he saw Trip frozen there in the doorway.
Malcolm nodded at his friend and said, "Testing."
Trip took a slow, careful step inside. "Malcolm, put down the knife."
Malcolm did so.
Trip moved faster now. Reaching the bed, he took the knife in hand. Keeping a wary eye on Malcolm, he yelled out, "Phlox?"
Malcolm heard bustling from across the room, in the direction of Phlox's living quarters. Then the doctor came out, all smiles. He turned serious as he took in the scene and Trip summarised what he'd seen.
Phlox took the knife from Trip and put it aside. Malcolm watched calmly as the doctor checked the wound and cleaned it, only looking away from the doctor's activities when he heard Trip's voice.
"What were you doing?"
Malcolm shrugged. "Checking."
Trip frowned, his brow wrinkling. "Checking what?"
"If I could feel it."
Phlox pulled Trip aside, and Malcolm stared down at the small bandage the doctor had applied. He could hear them talking. He began to pick at the edge of the dressing, trying to pull it away. He had almost raised one corner when he saw a hand cover his own, stopping its movement, and he looked up to see Trip there again.
"You're going to be okay," Trip said, his eyes showing his worry despite the calm of his voice. "Phlox needs to make another adjustment to your meds."
"Will that make all this real?" Malcolm asked.
Trip looked at him strangely, then nodded.
Malcolm smiled. "Good."
x-x
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