AN: I start writing each chapter by working off a chapter summary. That being said, this chapter took on a life of its own, completely disregarding the summary I had written for it, which has me reworking how I'll proceed with the next couple of chapters. It is quite somber and, as such, is a reminder that all is not well in Harriet-Land. It also gives some insight on why she tries to fill her time with things that amuse her.

Warning: There may be some triggers (mentions of war and gore, death of children, poor coping). I cried while writing it.


Harriet was quiet – too quiet. She was sitting up straight, chair angled toward the window, slight bags under her eyes and hair slightly disarrayed. Her clothing was not coordinated and looked slightly wrinkled, her earrings were mix matched, and her flats had mud of some sort crusted on their bottoms. Harriet was never this distracted, never this poorly put together.

Even her cappuccino, most likely tepid (if not completely cooled), lay on the table between her hands, untouched. Harriet never let coffee go to waste. Never.

Mrs. Thurston was therefore worried, worried enough that she was considering calling that Spock fellow, or perhaps that other friend of hers – McCoy something or other. After much prodding, Harriet had left contact information for both, just in case. This might be one of those times… it had after all, been a solid two hours since she had come in to sit at her corner table, on a day she normally would have been working, and the somber air surrounding her had yet to lessen.

Something had happened and it had to have been something bad.


Harriet herself was lost in her own thoughts and memories. She'd had a rough night, one that had not lent itself to her having a restful sleep.

"His vitals are falling! I can't stop the bleeding! Where's the bloody dittany!"

She engaged in her 'side business' as an alternative healer for various reasons and it wasn't because she had a 'saving people' thing. No, she'd been disillusioned to the idea that the well being of others should be her top priority. The fact was, when you lived a life as unpredictable and morbid and disjointed and long, so long as hers, there were only so many constants and it was the constants that kept her sane.

"His arm! What the hell happened to his arm?! I can't summon all of the pieces!"

But that was not quite correct either. There was more than just the consistency that coffee and the healing profession provided. The root of the drive to heal was buried in a realization that she had come to long ago: that she was Death and Death was her and no one escaped Death, no one but her.

Gore. Death. Destruction. Bodies as far as the eye can see, blood drenching her hands, hair, clothing, everywhere.

So no, she didn't engage in healing to satisfy her now mostly dormant 'saving people' thing. She pursued the field mostly as a way of achieving balance for all the lives she had taken, had caused to be taken, had felt the loss of via her connection with Death, or had failed to save.

Diagnostic charm. Open the airway. Check for exit wounds. Slow the bleeding. Why the hell couldn't she conjure magical ingredients on this damn planet!

Battlefield trauma was what it was; there was no sugarcoating war and its costs, particularly when you paid a prominent role in assuring the other side's ruin, step by step, piece by piece. Life by life. It was what it was and, to some extent, Harriet had achieved a level of morbid peace with that reality that forced her to now carefully weigh both her physical and mental ability to weather conflicts before she engaged in the moral debate of whose side, if any, she would support.

Empty eyes, rubble, small bodies. A school? An orphanage? A children's ward? The sick she felt wouldn't stop, even after her stomach had emptied and her body had failed.

But children – children were the worst. In spite of her experience with both sides of the coin, the idea of child soldiers still made her sick. She'd never been able to reconcile her mind with that atrocity or the tragedy of collateral damage, regardless of whether it was intentional or accidental.

Slight smiles, tired but happy eyes. Peace with an end that came too soon. No medicine or spells or pleading to stall Death's embrace.

It was the children that always got to her. The children who died in her care during peacetime brought their own pain and turmoil and unrelenting heartache. No matter how prepared she thought she was, no matter the realistic expectations she offered the families, the support she tried to provide them when she had exhausted all of her options and her imagination, she herself was never truly prepared and never would be.

A brightly colored ball. Toys. Stuffed unicorns and bears. Incessant beeping.

She was never prepared. Still, she pursued the field and always fought her hardest for her clients who were always more than just clients or patients. Still, she continued on, in spite of the tiredness, because there was always a chance that this time, she would make a difference, would change a life.

Flat lines. The warm, welcoming embrace of Death. A new beginning, a new chance.

It was a hard, tough thing to weather but regardless of how heartless it seemed, she would take the time her mental health required, then she would continue on to the next patient, continue fighting the so called good fight.

For now though, she would mourn.


It was that Spock fellow that got back with her first. She didn't particularly care for the … 'Vulcan, we're gonna be polite and go with Vulcan' … but regardless of what she thought of his personality, he was reliable and he was the closest thing to family Harriet had.

"Mrs. Thurston, you said that you were concerned for Harriet's health. Where is she?"

"She's here at the shop for now. As I said, I'm not sure what's happened but something's not right. She was trembling for a bit, then she began crying. She wasn't making any noise but I definitely saw tears coming down her face. She hasn't drunk any of her coffee, she looks like a mess, and won't respond to any of my questions. I'm worried."

"I will be there in approximately eighteen minutes. Please continue to monitor her."

"Of course."


As Bones left yet another exasperating shift at Medical, his last for the day, he began to reflect on Hari and her 'teas.' Ever since Hari had brought up the idea of 'alternative' medicine, Bones had begun to staunchly construct as many defenses of the science and advanced capabilities of his profession as he could. As generally bad tempered as he was, he was a doctor for a reason and he knew his craft. Yet Hari continued to surprise him with her low tech, plant based, so called 'herbal' remedies that she presented him with and he was beginning to suspect that there may be more to it than she let on.

Simple herbal remedies were written off centuries ago as less effective than Starfleet's advanced understanding of organic chemistry, molecular biology, interstellar immunology, and countless other fields. Still, she managed to create alternative, targeted treatments without the use of nanites, known pain relievers, artificially created macro- or micro-nutrients, and no manner of direct delivery other than ingestion, which shouldn't transport the medicine nearly as quickly as the affects were sometimes felt.

Hari did, however, have enough of a medical science background to get into the Academy's medical practicals. So there was a possibility her herbal remedies weren't strictly herbal. But she wasn't a licensed doctor so she couldn't have access to a pharmacy or a lab. How was she getting access to her raw material? Surely she didn't grow or cultivate them herself – she couldn't have the resources. If she did, she wouldn't be studying as a civilian at the Academy.

'Unless there's some special arrangement I'm missing here.'

Given her rather strange relationship with Spock, that was a possibility. Perhaps they were pursuing a private strain of research for the Academy or Starfleet. But why not attend the Academy as a Research Fellow then? Why was she a student when her remedies were so effective? And how did she manage to attend without signing her life away?

His best bet was probably to just ask her out right. Knowing Hari though, she'd probably give some enigmatic answer and subtly redirect the conversation. She was good at that, good enough that he sometimes didn't notice she'd done it until afterward.

Just as he was thinking that he'd have to figure out a way to bring it up with her without being waylaid, his PADD beeped, indicating he had a voice message.


Harriet was still staring silently out the window when Spock arrived. He quietly took a seat opposite of her and assessed her apparent condition. As nothing appeared to be overtly wrong with her and showed no other signs of illness, he determined that the problem was internal. What he could not determine was whether or not the malady was physical or mental.

As she was not showing any overt signs other than red eyes, indicative of recent lacrimation, and slight discoloration around the eyes, indicative of poor sleep, he settled into his seat and calmed his mind, soothing away the strange sense of worry and relief that had welled up within him.

That task accomplished, he considered his options. If it was an internal malady, it was important to address the issue as soon as possible. If it was mental … if it was trauma, it was best that he take her to a counselor in order for her to receive the appropriate treatment. If it was not trauma … he was not sure how to proceed. He had no inclination to delve into the world of female emotions.


Harriet was still vaguely lost in her own personal version of hell when she finally noticed Spock's presence. His reflection in the glass indicated that he was conflicted but she wasn't sure about what. She didn't turn to face him, didn't acknowledge his presence, and didn't change her position. Instead, she blinked for the first time in what had to have been a minute and continued to contemplate her fate.


Bones entered the café only thirteen minutes after Spock had arrived. He'd had to call a ground car to get him there and he was still in uniform but he was there. He walked quickly through the automatic door and headed to the bar, looking for Harriet. When the café owner, Mrs. Thurston, caught his eye, she quickly pointed to a corner table near the glass window.

Of course, that damned Spock was already there.

Registering that she wasn't in hysterics or bloody or bandaged, he walked up to the proprietress instead of rushing over to Hari's side.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. Just like I told that Spock, I'm not sure what's happened. She looked like she was in some form of shock, crying off and on quietly, not even touching her coffee – and you know how she is about her coffee – and just look at her, she's never this disheveled. Something's wrong."

"Has she said anything?"

"Not a word, not even to Spock as far as I can tell. Maybe you can reach out to her?"

Bones nodded his head curtly and quietly made his way over to Hari's table, grabbing a third chair as he neared. He wasn't sure if he should settle in for a wait like Spock – which was surreal seeing him be so supportive – or if he should go straight into doctor mode.

He settled for the latter.


"Hari?" a quiet but gruff voice asked. Harriet, having recently come out of her near catatonic state, registered the voice as belonging to Bones. When had he gotten there?

In the window, she saw Spock shoot Bones a mild look that she was sure he ignored.

"Hari, as a physician I'm asking if anything's wrong."

Harriet supposed he was right to approach her that way. Even so, she wasn't in the mood to answer. She mentally sighed. 'But talking is generally cathartic.' Was she ready to be so open and honest?

Bones shifted in his seat.

After several minutes, he quietly muttered: "Damn it Harriet, you're even worrying the emotionally stunted Vulcan."

Harriet let a small smile flit across her lips; Spock probably wouldn't take that well, not that he'd give any indication of his irritation.

She finally turned and gave them a slight, wavering smile. "Spock. Bones" she acknowledged quietly.

"Harriet." Spock was always so patient.


Bones, having finally gotten a good look at her, as ever went for the blunt approach. "Hari, you look like shit. What happened?"

She let out a quiet snort, mostly air blowing lightly through her nose with no other sound. She sat back in her chair, hands gripping the cold cappuccino in front her tighter.

"I didn't mean to worry you," she said softly, intense green eyes glistening. She looked out the window again. "It's just been a while since I've lost a patient."

Bones sat back in his chair, stunned and horrified in equal measure. 'Hell.' How did he approach that topic? Losses in this day and age were statistically very low.

Wait, since when did she have patients?

"A drink won't help."

"I'm a doctor. I know it will."

"I'm a practicing physician. I know it won't."

'Well damn.'

Suddenly he wasn't so sure he knew her as well as he thought.


With Harriet, Spock knew that patience generally led to more satisfactory, honest results than rushing forward with his conclusions or questions. He had known Harriet was a practitioner of what she termed 'alternative' medicine; he had been there at the hospital approximately a year and three months ago when she had been standing outside a child's intensive care unit at Starfleet Medical. It was a logical extrapolation then that she dealt with high risk patients or patients with advanced illnesses.

He had also known that Harriet's 'business' wasn't strictly legal; she didn't have a doctor's license, her general paperwork was falsified if only because he knew personally she had not originally possessed it, she never brought up the topic of her patients, and no one ever overtly called on her for her services.

What he didn't know, and now considered a glaring oversight, was the break down of those patients into age groups and classifications.

A doctor who dealt with patients with advanced stages of illness was generally worn down faster than those who practiced other forms of medicine. In terms of percentages, 'burnout' was more prevalent amongst doctors in the earlier stages of their careers and lifestyle management techniques were critical to preventing fatigue.

Spock, however, was relatively sure Harriet had been practicing medicine for longer than her apparent age suggested. In fact, he was ninety three percent sure, with a margin of error of about three percent, that her race, while humanoid in appearance, was much longer lived than humans, and possibly Vulcans, than she had previously hinted at; perhaps whole generations or life spans longer.

Likewise, from personal experience, he was relatively certain Harriet led a more 'balanced' lifestyle than he himself. He was not a counselor, therefore he could not assert his opinion with a higher degree of certainty, but she was engaged in various activities that stimulated her mind outside of the medical field, engaged in dialogue with 'friends' and acquaintances, and occupied her time with pursuits that she likely enjoyed.

Therefore the question of the type of patients she worked with was more pertinent than how she worked on them – he was sure by this point that her abilities went beyond manipulating her environment as she had suggested in that first month after their second meeting. On that note, another pertinent question was the toll such methods took on her person.


When Harriet failed to continue after several minutes, Spock pushed the conversation that needed to happen. "In this situation, it is perhaps appropriate to suggest that you speak with a Counselor."

Harriet sent Spock a look that easily conveyed both her disbelief and her disapproval at his suggestion. "There is no one to speak to Spock, as you are well aware."

Bones looked between the two, clearly missing the subtext, before settling his gaze back on Harriet. "Why the hell not?"

Harriet frowned at him tiredly. "There just isn't. And I'm happy with that."

Bones' face was disapproving. "It's important to talk about these things Hari, especially if this isn't the first time this has happened."

Harriet sighed and looked down into her coffee. "It's not the first time and it won't be the last."

"A child, then," Spock stated more than asked. Bones' eyebrows shot up.

"A child?"

"A child," Harriet confirmed eventually. "It happens, I know it does." She looked back up, nostrils flaring as she tried to keep herself together. "And I know I did everything that I could do but it always hurts when it happens and it always will."

"Harriet, how… I thought you only dealt in herbal remedies."

Harriet let out a forceful breath and smiled sadly at Bones. "I do. But you have to understand Bones, sometimes modern medicine just isn't enough." She pushed an errant curl behind her ear and looked back out the window. "Usually, they get to me before the prospective patient is too critical but sometimes… sometimes they don't."

Spock drew on a piece of information from one of the briefings on Harriet's occasional sightings at Starfleet Medical and other local hospitals. "Your success rate amongst critical patients with unfavorable diagnoses is relatively high."

Harriet's eyes widened briefly, before she shook her head. "No, I shouldn't be surprised that you know that. My visits to Starfleet Medical?"

"And other hospitals throughout San Francisco."

"I'd really like to know how you got that information."

"It was compiled from a list of recovered patients whose families stated they had sought a second opinion yet had no record of treatment between their removal from the hospital and their recovery."

Bones may as well have been catching flies; his jaw hadn't dropped but his mouth had been open long enough to allow for it. Harriet idly tapped the sides of her cup.

"I just need time to recover." She took a fortifying breath. "I will, eventually, I will. Just … give me time to deal with it."

Bones recovered. "Right. Well, the first thing they teach you if you'd bothered to attend any of those classes is to acknowledge you did all that was in your power to do. Do you actually believe yourself when you say that's the case?"

Harriet looked at him before reluctantly admitting, "vaguely."

"Right. Well the next step is to compartmentalize. How's that going?"

Harriet tilted her head, the tired expression on her face intensifying. "It's going."

"The next thing then is to find a healthy coping mechanism. Why the hell can't you speak with a counselor?"

"In short? I have issues with authority."

"All Academy students have access to counselors, particularly those students in high stress fields. Use them."

"They will not harm you Harriet," Spock interjected. "You already have an agreement in place with Starfleet Command and counselors are bound by patient confidentiality agreements."

"But are they Spock? You of all people know I want nothing more to do with Starfleet than absolutely necessary."

"Then why the hell did you join the Academy?"

Harriet snorted properly. "I didn't. Attendance was a compromise of sorts."

"Between who?" he asked, then added "and what the hell for?"

Harriet sighed and sat back in her chair, eyes once more pinned on her cup. "Let's just say me and Starfleet have had a few run ins. Joining the Academy as a civilian was partially clemency on their part and partially an act of good faith on mine." She looked off to the side. "Honestly, if it weren't for Spock, I'd've gone full cloak over a year ago, or, at the very least 'de-badged' myself."

Spock raised an eyebrow at that but otherwise remained silent.

Bones gave Harriet a look that was equal parts confused, disbelieving, and stumped. "Well Hell."


Prompt: Memento Mori