Disclaimer: If I owned Star Trek, I would already have a movie adaptation of this fan fiction in the works. But there isn't one, so go figure.

A/N: ZOMG, I BOUGHT THE BEST OF THE ORIGINAL SERIES ON DVD. ONLY FOUR EPISODES, BUT SO TOTALLY WORTH IT…ESPECIALLY WHEN I SAW AMOK TIME. ^___^

Ahem. I apologize, I'm quite hyper.

I have also updated my profile page quite a bit. I have added a casting section for the non-movieverse characters. By the way, the rating is going to increase after this chapter, so the updates won't appear on the default Star Trek page due to the rating filter, so be sure to adjust the rating when looking for this story. That, or put it on your alerts, or something.

Christine paced back and forth, occasionally glancing into sickbay to see if Spock's physical examination was completed. It was half past eleven and the bridge personnel were released for lunch, but for new acting captain, there was something much more important than her midday meal. The private examination room was closed, indicating to Christine that McCoy had taken Spock in there for the physical.

All morning she had been aimlessly wandering around the bridge, just like the afternoon before, avoiding having to sit down in the chair that she had been so grudging to accept. Though her legs were sore from standing all morning, she was much too anxious to sit down.

Suddenly, at the corner of her eye, she detected movement. She looked over into the sickbay and saw the door open, and out walked McCoy, followed by a solemn Spock. Her full attention was now focused on the two officers. They conversed with each other for a few minutes before Spock took his leave, heading directly for the exit closest to Christine. She turned to look like she had only been passing by and not waiting around for nearly an hour.

As she neared the corner of the hall, a voice made her freeze. "Captain Chapel?"

She slowly turned around, slightly apprehensive to face the owner of the voice. Her fears were confirmed the moment her eyes briefly met his dark brown ones. It was Spock. He took a step toward her, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as always.

"Captain," she acknowledged him, walking towards him and stopping when she was about two paces away.

"You are the captain, if I remember correctly, not I. Why are you not present on the bridge?"

"It's lunchtime…Commander Spock," she answered, taking a moment to remember his previous rank when Captain Kirk was still present. She figured that the best way to ward off any sort of awkwardness would be to not question his

"I see," Spock commented, not making eye contact with her. His shoulders tightened, but he seemed much more at ease than the day before.

"When are you going to take back your post as Captain?"

"I am unable to provide an answer," he said, not providing any sort of elaboration.

After a long moment of silence, Christine spoke. "What is wrong with you?"

"I just need…rest. That is all," Spock answered, avoiding eye contact with her.

Christine nodded. "If you will excuse me, Commander," she dismissed herself, leaving Spock alone in the corridor. It took a lot out of her to not look at him; she felt his intense glare burning a hole into her back.

When she entered sickbay, she found McCoy rearranging his tools, with Nurse Barrows off to the side, filling out paperwork.

"Well…?" she inquired. She stared at him for a few quiet moments before he finished his organizing.

McCoy looked up at her and sighed. He briefly glanced over at the occupied Tonia and motioned for Christine to join him in his office for privacy. When they entered the room, he took a seat behind his desk, turning off his computer to avoid any sort of distraction. Christine seated herself in a chair that sat in front of his desk and awaited his diagnosis on Spock's ailment.

"His stress levels are through the roof," McCoy shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment, "But the damned Vulcan claimed that the cure would be rest and meditation, that's all! I can't see how that's possible…His vitals are dangerously high, almost fatal."

Christine nodded, but did not answer. Instead, she was now in thought. Suddenly, she looked over at McCoy. "He's lying." She recalled the way he wouldn't look at her when he explained the remedy for his predicament.

"Lying?" he asked bewilderedly. "Chapel, I dunno if it's occurred to ya, but Vulcans can't lie."

"They choose not to lie, McCoy, but they are capable of lying. Everyone is," she mused, furrowing her eyebrows together in concentration.

"I think you're goin' bonkers, Chapel."

Christine shook her head and got up. "McCoy, I know there's something wrong with him. Something that not even Vulcan meditation can cure."

McCoy lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

"You didn't see him, McCoy. You didn't see the look on his face. He looked like he was dying." Her voice starting cracking at the final sentence. "And I'm going to find out what it is."

"How are ya gonna do that, Chapel? He's not gonna tell ya."

"I know. But I'm sure we've got something on file about Vulcan medical conditions…Don't we?"

McCoy sighed and stood up. "You remember when Kirk and him went off on their first mission?"

Christine nodded.

"And you remember how amazed I was about that hobgoblin's heartbeat and how it was so rapid? There was a reason. Vulcans are very isolated, so there isn't a lot of information on their…biology. Whatever you know about em is about as far as it gets, since you just got out of med school."

"So, you're saying that it will be virtually impossible for me to find out anything about his condition?" She shifted her weight onto one leg and put her hands on her hips.

"Exactly."

Christine sighed loudly. "Nothing's impossible." She then turned to exit his office and sickbay.

"Chapel, wait up," called McCoy, who followed her down the corridor. He grabbed her arm so that she would face him. "I'm sure it's just some sorta Vulcan thing, like a cold for us, or something. It'll be impossible to find anything out about."

Christine shrugged him off and continued on her way.

"Where you goin'?" He called after her, standing where she left him.

"To start a little project," she called over her shoulder, entering an elevator lift.

Christine slumped exhaustedly over her desk, surrounded by old texts and scripts, as well as PADDs pertaining to her current point of interest. Her computer had been absolutely no help, due to the lack of Starfleet information on Vulcans, despite the destroyed planet being a former member of the Federation.

For the past three and a half days, she had been conducting long and vigorous hours of endless research, barely leaving her quarters except for her evening meal or a cup of hot coffee. McCoy stopped by a few times, mostly on his way to the mess hall, asking her if she was done with her "mindless shenanigans." She declined any sort of help from him, knowing that he would be a waste of space anyways, due to his skeptical reasoning.

Christine had contacted numerous organizations, embassies, and even the head of Starfleet Medical, but she had scraped up very little information, save for the various texts that were transported to her from an anonymous member of the new Vulcan colony. Apparently, they had heard from Starfleet and were unusually willing to assist her.

When she finally got her hands on the scripts, she considered it a godsend, but had to upload a Vulcan translator, along with its many dialects, to her computer to understand what they said. She was nearly halfway through with the third document when she finally found something.

As soon as the translator was done, she read it to herself in a low whisper. "Every seven years, Vulcan males undergo a neurochemical imbalance that takes on a form of madness, or plak tow. This condition is called the pon farr, and during this period, the brain appears to shut down. Violence and emotional outbursts are common symptoms, due to endorphins and hormones rising to a fatally high level. If it is not satiated, the Vulcan will die within eight days. The most common method to relieve the pon farr is…mating."

For a moment, Christine stared at the computer screen, rereading the translated segment over and over, confirming her original thoughts. She then selected other dialects, just to be sure that there weren't any metaphors. Unfortunately, it reflected back the same confirmation over and over, making her heart skip a beat. She kept reading, carefully searching for another method of satiation; but there was none.

She leaned back in her chair, stretching out her aching back. Running a hand through her unkempt hair, she closed her eyes, musing on the current situation.

Spock clenched his hands together, tightening his grip with every passing moment, making him wince slightly due to his immense strength. He had confined himself to his quarters since the day that Doctor McCoy had given him a physical. How long ago that had been, he did not know; for all he knew, he was on his eighth day and Death was about to knock on his door.

And that was fine with him.

He closed his eyes, thinking of all the lives he had disrupted, even ruined. He had let down his parents, leaving them at the age of eighteen, to pursue a life in Starfleet, a life he thought would make him content with himself. The only thing that it did was arrive too late to save his beloved mother, the one woman in his life who had the patience for him. Now his father was a widower, sentenced to live the rest of his long life alone. It was all Spock's fault.

And then there was Nyota, whom he had sidetracked months before. She was no doubt happily involved with Jim. If he had never been there, they would have been together much sooner. All he had given her was cold recognition, followed by hollow admiration.

He reached over to adjust the temperature once more to the coldest setting, making him much more comfortable in the midst of his fever, which made his blood feel as if it was boiling, as if he would explode at any given moment.

Suddenly, a small knock was heard at his door, but he dismissed it as mind's way of telling that the end was not far. A moment later, it repeated itself, much louder and persistent than before. He pushed himself up and crossed the room. He pushed the small button that opened the door automatically.

And there stood a very fatigued Christine Chapel.

She smiled meekly, staring past his barrier of a body into the room. "Why is it so cold in here? I thought Vulcans liked arid weather."

He didn't answer; he just stared down at her, keeping his hands tightly behind his back. His thoughts demanded a reason why she was there, but he remained silent.

Suddenly, her voice was much more serious, her face humorless. "Can I come in?"

A/N: DUN DUN DUN.