A/n: So none of my sources say much about David McCoy. Nothing even says what year he dies in. So a lot of this is conjecture on my part. And also blatant making-things-up. :) Although, I don't think it's too far-fetched. Obviously, McCoy – being a medical man who takes his Oath very seriously – was deeply affected by what happened with his father.

I sort of have an idea to continue this through the divorce and bring it into the 5YM. Not sure if I'll actually write it, though. My life is about to get hectic.

Disclaimer: Still not Gene Roddenberry. Still don't own. Well, except for Warren, he's mine.


Leonard surveyed the house – his home – with a strong sense of disquiet. Everything was as he remembered, yet subtly skewed. The furniture was the same, practical and comfortable with warm, soothing colors, yet everything was in the wrong place. When did Jocelyn rearrange the furniture? His daughter's finger paintings were scattered haphazardly over most of the walls as always, but he could see now that they were different pictures painted with a more controlled hand. Even some of the toys and stuffed animals littering the floor were foreign to him. His daughter looked up and broke into a grin, ecstatic to see him. She rushed into his arms with a squeal of delight and he noticed that she was taller than he remembered. I've been gone far too long, he realized soberly.

"You're home early." Her voice was like the tinkling of wind chimes. He smiled as he turned, but he could see from her worried eyes that she knew why he was home and not at the hospital. Without a word, she drew him into her arms, muttering words of consolation and reassurance.

"I'm fine." He pulled her close, letting her strength wash over him and steady his overwrought nerves. Joanna had started chattering excitedly below them, tugging on her daddy to show him something. He wordlessly pushed away from Joss, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly while he fixed an indulgent smile on his face and followed his daughter.

"I'll be fine," he repeated to himself.


For two weeks, Leonard McCoy repeated his father's reasons in his mind. He reminded himself that there was no hope for a cure, no hope for recovery, no expectation for anything but a long, painful decline. Better to die with the little dignity he was allowed, he thought. It was by far the better choice.

And for nearly two weeks, the grieving doctor could almost believe the words – could almost believe that he had done the right thing. It was enough to bury the gnawing doubt in his heart, enough that he could continue living his life, like David had wanted. But the great engine of mankind rolls forward, and progress cannot be stopped for the sake of one man's conscience.

Sixteen days after David McCoy's death, a report was published in a small medical journal, detailing a medical breakthrough in the treatment of pyrrhoneuritis. It is hailed as one of the most important medical discoveries of the decade.

Three sentences into the article, Leonard McCoy's world falls apart.

Suddenly, his carefully constructed reasons and excuses shatter around him, and expose a truth that he cannot handle – that he is a murderer. He has killed the man who raised him and it wasn't necessary, was not merciful or right or excusable. He agonizes over the fact that if he had just waited for two weeks, his father would be alive and well, and on his way to recovery.

A small, timid part of his mind tries to remind him that it was what his father had wanted, had pleaded for. A small part of him recognized that if he had ignored his father's wishes, he would likely have never forgiven him. The tidal wave of grief that is drowning him bitterly reminds him that at least David would have been alive to hate him.

As these thoughts swirled through his mind, he put down the PADD and wondered, what now? Losing a patient because there was no more he could do was one thing. Every doctor had to face that eventuality, had to be able to handle an expected – or even an unexpected – death. But it would feel a lie to return to saving patients' lives when he has deliberately ended one.

So he sits at his desk and ponders what now?


Warren Michaels looks surprised when he enters the office. "Dr. McCoy," he says, recovering quickly. "How can I help you?"

"I want to bring someone up on charges of malpractice."

Michaels blinked. "That's a very serious charge these days, Leonard. Who pissed you off?"

"Dr. Leonard H. McCoy." He replies tersely. He is rewarded with another blink of surprise. Slowly, Michaels's face morphs into understanding.

"I take it you read the pyrrhoneuritis article." The slightest tightening of Leonard's jaw is all the answer he needs. "Look, Len, I understand if you're feeling – "

"Are you going to process my request or not?" he interrupts angrily.

"You're not being rational." Warren said gravely. "You went right back to work after your dad died, you never grieved properly."

"I'm being perfectly rational," he growls. "I killed a man, and I deserve to – "

"You don't deserve any such thing!" Warren replied sharply. "Go home, Len. Take a few weeks, get your head on straight. You shouldn't be blaming yourself. You couldn't have known this was coming, and no one would hold you to malpractice. Including me."


His second solution lies at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, which ends with a far more satisfying result than his conversation with Michaels.

At some point, Jocelyn enters the room, her face warring between concerned, angry, and disappointed. It didn't even register that along with everything else, he had missed their anniversary.


So this looks even shorter on ff(dot)net than it did in MSWord... -_- Sorry about that.

Please review. :)