Jim made it about twenty yards beyond the fringe of the trees before his wounded leg buckled beneath him. His knees his the ground, hard, and for a moment he just stayed there, elbows braced in the dirt and back heaving as he breathed harshly. He could feel the last vestiges of adrenaline from the fight twinging in his joints and fingers, causing his hands to twitch and quiver where they lay tangled just beneath his drooping head.

He allowed himself just one moment of utter exhaustion.

Then he flipped himself over and, with hands that now trembled only slightly more than he would have liked, tore a strip from the sleeve of his shirt to bind around the injury to his thigh. The wound he glimpsed beneath the blood-darkened material of his pants looked ragged and ugly, but he put off a more thorough examination until his return to the pool. The drop was due all too soon, and Jim wanted to be in a stable location to receive the package.

The walk to the pool was gruelling. Jim eventually gave in to his own weakness, and sourced a branch from the surrounding trees that he leaned on heavily for last few hundred metres. He arrived – with minutes to spare, by his estimation – and collapsed with his back against the cool mountain rock near the edge of the water. Minute tremors continued to run through his legs from the exertion, and he could feel where cooling sweat had collected above his lip and in the hollows of his temples.

He was just contemplating whether it was worth the effort of rolling over onto his stomach to scoop a few palmfuls of water from the pool, when the communicator in his belt chirped insistently.

"Uhura to Kirk."

Jim let out a few swift breaths from between pursed lips, regulating his breathing, before flipping the com open with one hand. As he did so, he noted that the nails of the fingers that curled around the battered casing were lined with dirt and blood.

"Kirk here," he responded evenly. "Tell me you have good news, Lieutenant."

"We have your location, Captain. Preparations to make the drop are almost complete," said Uhura, and Jim couldn't help but crack a fond smile at her usual brisk efficiency. The two of them got along quite well these days – having bonded over their fair share of arduous missions, and a shared love of languages – but even when the no-nonsense woman had still disliked him, she had always afforded him the respect and professionalism that his rank as Captain deserved.

Uhura continued, "Estimated time of arrival for the package is in about one-and-a-half minutes."

"Good news indeed," approved Jim, even as a throb in his temples caused his vision to waver. "I don't mind telling you, I am more than ready for a few creature comforts."

"Yes, Sir," responded Uhura, but then her voice warmed somewhat from its professional tone. "I'm sure it'll be quite a relief. God alone knows how you've survived down there so far without the goods for your usual hair routine."

"I will have you know, Lieutenant," stated Jim with great dignity, "that there is no 'hair routine', as you put it. There is simply my natural state of perfection."

"Nice try, Captain, but you forget that my ex shares a bathroom with you. I've heard things…"

"Treachery," declared Jim beneath his breath, and Uhura laughed. The sound cheered Jim, and he could almost forget about the rhythmic throbbing in his head and thigh.

"Just in from Scotty, Captain," came Uhura's voice again, efficient once more. "Beam down should commence…now."

Jim looked up in time to see the last swirls of matter stream that heralded the arrival of a largish metal trunk and a canvas bag. The words 'U.S.S. ENTERPRISE' were printed boldly on the sides of both.

"Drop received, Lieutenant," declared Jim, allowing some of the relief he felt to seep into his voice. "Tell Spock and Scotty they're my heroes, wouldja?"

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to hear it," responded Uhura, and there was a smug tone to her voice that Jim couldn't place.

Another throb of pain emanated from his thigh, seeming to reach into his bones and effectively distracting him from the exchange. He hissed.

"Captain?" queried Uhura.

"Apologies, Lieutenant," responded Kirk, struggling to keep any hint of strain from his voice. "Just can't wait to seek out those hair products you mentioned."

Uhura gave a very unladylike snort in response, and there was no hint of suspicion in her voice when she said, "Very good, Captain. I'll leave you to it. Uhura out."

Kirk hummed in response, and stowed the communicator. He frowned and blinked rapidly. A long and intimate relationship with blood loss told him that the vague spin of his vision and rising ring in his ears was a bad sign. He was in dire need of a proper patch-up, and knowing his overbearing best friend, there was a medical kit in the box of supplies that would be more than equal to the task.

With this in mind, Jim made to stand up and approach the container. Immediately, the world around him swayed and folded inwards around the edges. He found himself seated once more, eyes trained blankly on the lines of browning blood caught in the creases and whorls of his palms, and quite unsure of how he had got there. The throbbing in his temples had increased in intensity, and his head and limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated.

He closed his eyes in order to bring his thoughts back into focus, and found himself slipping sideways into unconsciousness instead.

Shit…

XXX

McCoy eyed the reaction of substances before him, flipped through the notes on his PADD, and banished yet another promising avenue of inquiry with a twitch of his fingers and a frustrated growl. An ensign a few feet away from him jumped at the noise, and let a delicate looking glass vial – thankfully empty - fall from his fingers with a smash.

McCoy rounded on him in a second.

"If the only thing you're good for on this godforsaken tin can is destroying the lab equipment, the least you can do is take yourself somewhere where I don't have to watch it. Some of those tubes carry dangerous substances, and I will not bear witness to you killing us all through sheer fucking bumbling ineptitude. Now scram."

The ensign fumbled a salute that almost poked his own eye out, and scurried out of the lab as if his heels were on fire.

McCoy looked around to find the rest of the lab empty. It was deadshift for the science division, and between him and Spock, they had probably scared off most of the personnel that would usually be spending their free hours in the labs. If Jim were there, he would most likely ream them both out for reducing more than one ensign to tears amid the stress of the last few days.

But Jim wasn't there. And that was the whole goddamn problem.

Spock still hadn't slept, McCoy knew, and while he would normally be on the Vulcan's back over that, in this instance he could not find it in himself to protest. If his human biology would allow it, he would forgo sleep as well. As it was, both he and Spock were heading up their own research teams working on the synthesis of a cure for what the scientists were tentatively referring to as the 'Biting Sickness'. They met frequently to compare results and hypothesise new approaches, but so far they had made very little progress.

McCoy was fast losing hope that they would be able to come up with a solution before the next stage of Jim's symptoms set in.

Speaking of Jim…

McCoy interrupted his ruminations to glance over at the chronometer on the wall, and frowned. It was his turn to monitor Jim's check-ins – as part of a schedule divided between Spock, Uhura and him – and at this point his closest friend and idiot of a Captain was officially over twenty minutes late.

McCoy's instincts – always finely attuned to Jim's state of being – went abruptly haywire.

True, Lieutenant Uhura had assured him that Jim had given no sign of distress when confirming the drop just a while before…but considering that McCoy had once watched his friend broker a peace treaty between two warring nations while never once letting on that he was bleeding out under the table, he wasn't one to accept things as they appeared when it came to the errant Captain.

He was never sure if Jim's proficiency at concealing hurt was because he did not want others to notice it, or because he did not notice it himself. Jim simply did not register maladies and injuries on the same scale of severity as other people. In his mind, they were always secondary to the completion of the task at hand – whether it was completing a shift, negotiating a new trade deal or babysitting a bunch of kids on a diseased planet.

So maybe Jim did not notice his own hurts in the way he should, but McCoy did notice them. It was his job, and as much as he might grumble and groan about it to Jim's face, it was a job he valued above all others.

It was McCoy, trailing in Jim's wake with tricorder firmly in hand, who kept tabs on all the little injuries and inconsistencies that if left alone, could build up to real harm. It was McCoy, with a forced meal here and a spot of regeneration there when the Captain was too distracted to protest, who kept Jim in one piece just long enough for the mission to be completed, at which point he could drag him back to sickbay for a proper medical and – more often than not – an overdue few hours of rest. Sedated, if necessary.

Jim may have been the star of the fleet – all heat and brightness and brilliance in most every venture he undertook – but McCoy was the one who kept him from burning out.

McCoy flipped open his communicator with a deft hand.

"McCoy to Kirk."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and McCoy was just preparing to hail once more when an unknown voice piped up.

"'lo. S'Ro speaking. Mister Jim can' talk at th'moment."

McCoy stared blankly at the com for all of about three seconds before he caught on.

"This wouldn't happen to be the lovely princess Jim's being telling me all about, would it?"

There was a thrilled sound. "Y's, that's me!"

McCoy smiled despite himself. He thought of his young daughter back home in Georgia, and a little more of his Southern drawl leaked into his voice as he said, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, darlin'. Y'all doing alright down there?"

"Y's," came the dutiful reply. "Mister Jim got us food! Real food, not like plants 'n berries 'n stuff."

McCoy's heart warmed at the awe in that voice, appreciative of the confirmation that the package had arrived safely.

"Yeah, Mister Jim's good with things like that. Where is he right now, darlin'?

"Oh, he's jus' busy cleaning off th'blood," replied Ro easily. "He tol' me, since I know all 'bout these things now, I could be'n charge of the com'cator while he was busy. Where's Miss U'ra?"

McCoy swallowed down his panic at the mention of blood. "She's sleeping right now, sweetheart. It's her off-shift. Is Mister Jim hurt?"

There was a little girl sound of disappointment on the other end of the phone, before Ro continued.

"He says he's not hurted bad, an' that we shouldn' make a fuss, but he was sleepin' when we came back. Took Mimi aaages to wake'm up. An'," Ro lowered her voice in the tone of one telling a secret, "Mimi says he's being a big silly an' a…a stub'n ass."

Ro sounded a mixture of awed and scandalised as she confided that last bit, and McCoy might have been amused were he not worrying about his oaf of a friend.

"Miss Mimi sounds like a mighty smart lil lady, Princess," he said. "D'you think you can take the com over to Jim for me so I can tell him to listen to her?"

Ro stifled a giggle, and then there was a muffled, "Oh!"

"S'okay, Mister 'Coy, Jim's done in th'pool now and he says he wants to talk t'you." There was the sound of a communicator being clumsily handled, and Ro's muffled voice saying, "You said he was grumpy. He's not grumpy at all, he's nice!"

"Only to beautiful princesses like you, I'm afraid, Ro-Ro," came Jim's tones, and McCoy was relieved to hear that they sounded steady, if a bit tired and strained. "It's troublesome old men like me who get the grumpy treatment."

"Too right," mumbled McCoy under his breath, and then louder, "I hear you're a stubborn ass, Jim."

"And I hear you're nice, 'Mister 'Coy'. In either case, who would have thought, right?"

McCoy huffed. "Update, Jim. What damage have you done to yourself now? And how the He…blazes did you manage to do it in the last five-odd hours?"

He heard Jim sigh. "Ro-Ro, go ask Miram if she would start prepping something for lunch, wouldja? I'm starving."

"Kay, Jim."

Jim's voice returned, drawing nearer to the com.

"You know, five hours is actually quite a long time, Bones."

McCoy's grip on the communicator tightened to the point that he could hear the casing creak. "Dammit, Jim! Quit fooling around and tell me what's wrong with you. Is it the disease? Has something changed? Is it safe for you to be around the kids, 'cause-"

"Bones! It's not that. Just…slow down," interrupted Jim, and now McCoy could hear the unsteadiness in his voice. He must have been putting up a front for the kids, because there was no way the Doctor could mistake the underlying hoarseness to his words for anything other than fatigue and pain.

"Is it the wound on your arm?" demanded McCoy, running through a mental list of all that might have resulted in Jim being bloody. To his chagrin, it was a long list.

"Um…No, actually, Bones. This…it's…well, see, I may have…um…"

"Spit it out, Jim."

"Gotten into a bit of a fight," said Jim very quickly, and then took in a gulp of air like he was preparing himself for an explosion.

McCoy did not disappoint.

"Goddammit, Jim," he exploded. "A fight? How…who did you even…sonova…"

McCoy huffed a few deep breaths, bringing his incoherency more or less to heel. "I said no shenanigans! And what do you do? Fuck's sake…I told Spock this would happen-"

"Spock's there?" enquired Jim, sounding a mix of trepidatious and endearingly hopeful.

McCoy threw up his hands in exasperation.

"No, Spock's not here, Jim. Focus, dammit!"

"Is he okay?" came Jim's worried response.

McCoy gaped. "Is he…? Of course he's okay! He's working, Jim. And unlike some people I know, he's actually capable of doing that without injuring himself every few hours!"

"S'bit of a stretch, Bones," said Jim, sounding vaguely reproachful.

"Five hours, Jim. Five." McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

"Right," he continued decisively. "Report. What kind of damage are we looking at here? Kid said something about blood. And were you unconscious earlier?"

"Um. Briefly. It was more like a nap than anything else."

McCoy grit his teeth at Jim's light tone.

"Bullshit. Head wound? Blood loss?"

"Negative on the head wound, Bones. Blood loss though…I…might have got stabbed in the leg…a little."

"Well, as long as it's only a little," snarled McCoy. "Is the wound still bleeding?"

There was a shuffling sound, and then a cautious negative from the other end of the com. "I've been keeping it bound up tight, Bones."

"With what, shirt strips?"

The guilty silence told him all he needed to know.

"Typical," he muttered. "Anything else I should know about?"

"Just scrapes and bruises, really. Nothing serious. I was about to go looking for the medkit when you commed."

"You'll want the canvas bag," offered McCoy. "Everything you should need is in there."

He added under his breath, "And a few things you shouldn't, but I ain't holding my breath."

The sounds of muffled movement filtered down the com-line, followed by the low growl of a zip and Jim's huffed exclamation.

"Jesus, Bones, who stocked this thing? Looks like half the damn medbay is in here."

"I did, you idiot," snapped McCoy. "And what's in there is just about right for a hare-brained captain with a chronic lack of self-preservation."

Jim grumbled slightly, but wisely dropped the subject.

McCoy settled back in his chair, com cradled in his hands, and tried not to think of how much it bothered him that he could not see and address Jim's wounds himself. He cleared his throat.

"Right, Jimbo, you should know the drill by now. Use a blood-replenishing hypo first – don't need you 'napping' again before your patch-up is done."

"Oh god," whined Jim. "How can you possibly be able to torture me with hyposprays from over 1000km away?"

"CMO's privilege," deadpanned McCoy, listening to the faint hiss-and-click of the hypospray with some satisfaction. "And there's another few of those to go, Jim, so don't get comfy."

Jim groaned, but did not otherwise protest.

"Grab the general anti-biotic – might not combat everything, but should keep your leg from rotting off. Also, an immune-booster – I know what your system is like – and one of the nutrient hypos. There's several of those, and I expect one to be used every six hours, Jim."

There were a series of hiss-and-click sounds, followed by Jim's weak, "I hate you."

"Sure you do, kid," responded McCoy with a wry smile. "You know how to use the portable regenerator?"

"Yeah, Bones, believe it or not, as Captain, I have kept my medical emergency field-license up to date. I'm not totally irresponsible."

"Less bitchiness, more regeneration," said McCoy sternly. "How deep's the stab wound?"

"Bout three, three-and-a-half inches, maybe?" There was some shuffling, followed by a muffled yelp, and McCoy growled.

"Stop poking it, you infant! I'd say about six passes of the regenerator should do it – just make sure to do them properly." McCoy's brow creased and the edges of his mouth curled downwards in displeasure as he added, "It's gonna sting like a bitch without anaesthesia, Jimbo, 'fraid there ain't nothing I can do about that."

"Awesome," muttered Jim, somewhat acerbically, but McCoy could hear the faint hum of the regenerator being fired up.

Jim's voice came again. "Something tells me my focus is gonna be elsewhere for a little while, Bones. Plus I need both hands for this. Go…do doctor stuff. I'll update you when I'm back in one piece."

"Thirty minutes, Jim, and I'm checking in again. That should be enough time to get yourself sorted. McCoy out."

McCoy disconnected the com, and sighed. In the oppressive silence of the empty lab, he abruptly felt very tired and small. In moments like these, he imagined he could feel the full immensity of the endless expanse beyond the ship's walls pressing down upon his skin, stifling him as only limitless possibility could. He was not like Jim, who thrived on the unknown and inconstant. He needed to be grounded. With this in mind, he promised himself that, once the current crisis had been dealt with, he would schedule a long overdue call with Joanna. It would do him good to hear his daughter's voice again.

Steeling himself, he turned back to his PADD and began quietly working his way through the next set of data.