McCoy sank into his chair in his office, his soul an ocean of exhaustion. He felt as if he had been staring out over a battlefield for too long and had no emotion left to give.
It had taken every ounce of his professional detachment to examine and to finally perform surgery on Jim Kirk. He and Spock had been the most critically injured, having been closest to the heart of the blast.
When they had reached sickbay he and M'Benga had exchanged a long, emotion-charged look. McCoy couldn't work on both of his friends at the same time. He had to surrender one of them to someone else. M'Benga was far more qualified than McCoy to deal with Spock's critical injuries. McCoy split his best and brightest surgeons between them and set Spock aside in his mind.
Kirk…. There was only so much one could do to mend and repair a human body; only so many organs that could be regenerated, so much blood that could be replaced. Kirk's current injuries pushed the outer limits of modern medicine. Even with the advances to medical knowledge available to them, the surgeries on Kirk and Spock had taken hours. In Jim's case McCoy was essentially rebuilding the man. In Spock's …. Every time he came apart no one was sure he could be put back together. Spock had used his own body as a physical shield to protect Daphne. His back, neck and shoulders were covered in shrapnel, some shards so small they could barely be seen, some dangerously close to his spinal cord. His hearing was damaged and he was bleeding internally. A blow to the head had given him a concussion.
And now all they could do was wait, with both men in recovery. Of the ten people who survived the blast, six of them were still in sickbay and would be for some time. He was certain of the survival of five of them. Only Jim remained in critical, if stable, condition. McCoy had done all he could. It was up to Jim and his incredible will to survive from this point.
McCoy was just about to close his eyes in utter weariness when his comm unit buzzed.
"McCoy," he said.
"M'Benga," came the response, "I know you must be as exhausted as I am, but can you come here? There is a problem with Spock."
McCoy was instantly on his feet, a quick shot of adrenaline giving him renewed energy. Spock, according to the reports, had come through the surgeries fine. All that remained was for the Vulcan to sink into a healing coma and stay there. So what could be going wrong?
M'Benga met him at the door of the isolation unit that had set up for Spock. The temperature inside the small room had been set at 115 degrees Fahrenheit with no humidity – Vulcan normal – with the intention that Spock would not have to keep himself warm and thus allow him to start the natural healing process.
"What's wrong?" McCoy demanded.
"He conscious," M'Benga answered, sounding frustrated in a way that was so familiar McCoy couldn't help but feel a stab of sympathy. Spock was an impossible patient, "He shouldn't be, but he is. He's fighting the trance. I put him under with the strongest sedative I dared to give him and it barely slowed him down. It also made him so sick I don't dare give it to him again. If he vomits like that again he'll tear open all his internal injuries. He asked for you. I thought maybe if you talk to him…."
M'Benga's voice trailed off on a hopeful note.
"All right," McCoy replied, squaring his shoulders as if he were going into battle, "I'll talk to him. I think I know what's bothering him. I won't promise it will make him go under though."
M'Benga nodded grimly.
Spock was lying stiffly on his back. From the hard set of his jaw and his closed eyes, his slightly furrowed brow and deep concentration, McCoy knew the Vulcan was indeed fighting the healing trance.
"Are you out of your green-blooded Vulcan mind?" McCoy demanded, "Stop it right now and go into hibernation, or whatever that spooky healing voodoo is. That's an order, from your CMO."
Spock came to alertness at the sound of McCoy's voice. Dark eyes snapped open and within in them was a look of such intensity that McCoy had only glimpsed before. The monitor above Spock's bed went wild, betraying the inner battle Spock was waging.
"The Captain…. His condition," the words were clear but clipped.
McCoy knew a certain satisfaction that he had guessed what was keeping the Vulcan awake.
"It wasn't good, though I'm not giving you the details now. He's in recovery. Critical but stable. He's not going anywhere and neither are you. Now shut up and go to sleep."
"The ship?" Spock ignored the doctor's order.
"Also stable and not critical," McCoy said, "And so is the bridge crew. Everyone is fine." Not quite but Spock didn't need the whole truth of that yet, "Scotty has an investigation going and you know he won't rest until he finds out who did this. Oh, and Daphne was released to her quarters where she's resting."
"Good," Spock said, his voice was becoming firmer. The arrows pulsing above his head had settled down, "Now help me up."
"God Almighty, Spock!" McCoy burst out, "Are you trying to kill yourself after we barely put you back together! Get back in that bed. That's an order!"
"I have no intention of being in a coma while the ship is in danger and the Captain is incapacitated," Spock had made it as far as swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "I ask you to respect that."
"I respect the attitude," McCoy said, "But I'm not going to allow it and you're not strong enough to stop me."
Spock shot the doctor a look that had nothing of Vulcan's 5000 years of peace in it. Darkness looked back at him, from eyes gone the color of midnight. Demons would run screaming into the night from such a look. McCoy stood his ground.
With effort, Spock got to his feet. To the casual observer he might even appear to be standing normally. McCoy was no casual observer.
McCoy grasped for the one threat he thought might still work. He was in no mood to grapple with the Vulcan, physically or verbally.
"Well why don't I just call Daphne down here and you can explain to her why you are up and walking around when you still have internal injuries healing?"
"Daphne will understand," Spock said, with quiet certainty, "She won't like it, but she will support me."
McCoy cursed to himself. He had successfully threatened Spock with Daphne's displeasure before, but apparently it had limits. When it came to the safety of the ship, she would support him. Right or wrong, McCoy had seen her stand by Spock's decisions before and Spock was almost always right.
"I need to question anyone who was in the Officer's Mess at the time of the explosion," Spock said.
"Scotty already did that," McCoy said, dismissively.
That dark, determined, level stare speared him again. McCoy would have sworn it went right through him and hit the bulkhead across the room. At this point, McCoy knew he could have the Vulcan forcibly put back in bed, which could injure him all over again; and besides that he wasn't sure what he had that would actually hold Spock there even if they could get him to lay back down.
Or he could just shadow the stubborn man until he finally collapsed and THEN put him back to bed.
McCoy was starting to feel defeated, too exhausted from the long ordeal of Jim's surgery and then checking on the other trauma patients to argue with Spock any further. Spock's aura of unquestioned authority was overwhelming, even in his weakened state.
The suffocating heat of the isolation ward was getting to McCoy, too, though ironically it was probably helping to restore Spock.
"I've no doubt that Mr. Scott did a fine job in questioning them," the First Officer said, "But he is incapable of using the same method I intend to use, if allowed."
McCoy swallowed. Mind meld.
"Spock… god damn it. It doesn't always have to be you, you irritating miserable pointed-eared son of Satan! Do you think any of them want to watch you kill yourself?"
"It is necessary. Their preferences are irrelevant." Implacable. Unmoved.
McCoy shook his head in defeat and muttered curses under his breath. "All right. Sulu is probably awake, you can start with him."
"No," Spock said, "First, I need to see the Captain."