A semi transparent pane, clouded and obscure like chalky water, gave Bashir his only view of the world beyond the clinic. But there was still enough light coming through to reveal a trio of moving silhouettes - gathered together less than a metre outside the entrance.
Grappling for the desk behind him, its edges were all that could steady Julian's hands. Even his heart seemed to freeze in mid-beat. He was struck by a sudden urge to pull himself back into the darkest, most distant corner he could find. To pass through the very walls - if only he had the means.
Confronted by a dark face and a pair of grey-green eyes, Bashir's attention went next to Nikos' two companions even before the sudden influx of light had entirely cleared from his vision. Both wore identical Starfleet Medical uniforms, although the smaller of them was barely half the height of her senior. The last to enter tilted his head to look past the length of a prominent nose. Bashir was certain that this newcomer had deliberately exaggerated the circumference of his chest and belly. He was an officious looking officer with four brass pips aligned almost perfectly along his collar. Each was marked by a crescent reflection in the scantily distributed light.
His admonishing gaze, round, pocked face, and tangled brows brought hints of recollection. There had been rumours about this man, whispered through the living halls of Julian's medical school. Few in Starfleet knew the details, and even less information had reached the crowd of students - who were more concerned with their Anatomy test than with the vagrancies of a barely known commander, sitting behind his far away desk. What was he now? A ship's captain? An administrator of some kind? He might have been promoted to Admiral - if not for something damning and inaccessible still lingering in his service record.
And Julian Bashir could have been Chief of Surgery at a hospital in Paris. He tightened his grip on the supporting corner of the console.
Nikos stepped forward, glancing from Julian to the two bewildered strangers, quickly gathering all she could of the situation before her.
"You're a little early for your appointment, Julian." She focused almost entirely on the place where Bashir still stood. "But you might have done better to have waited outside."
With only the briefest pause, the middle aged doctor turned acknowledge the others. "My apologies, Captain. Might we possibly be excused for just a moment, and I'll join you again shortly. I'm sure that Lieutenant Lim would be glad to show you the rest of our facility."
A tiny, pleasant looking young woman - although not particularly remarkable, Lieutenant Lim had remained in the background - silent and obscure. She nodded quietly, casting no more than a single uncertain glance at Nikos and Bashir, as she stepped aside to indicate the exit.
"I heard you were asking to use our computers." Nikos turned one of the nearby chairs around to settle comfortably upon it. "If you had only been a little more patient, I might have been able to help. At the very least, it might have saved you from the need to resort to breaking and entering."
"I knew the odds weren't good."
"What is it, Julian?" The woman's wide-set green eyes watched him even more closely. "You can trust me. I promise - nothing you say will go beyond these walls."
She paused, noting the tension in his face - his eyes refusing to make contact with hers. "Is that it? You don't trust me?"
Bashir stopped short of taking the empty seat that she had offered - watching instead with quietly wary eyes. One hand rested against the console to steady him until his balance was restored. If he spoke, if he stayed silent, even if he made any move to approach her… None of his actions would escape the doctor's notice. But she was as likely to take note of his silence as she was to respond to his words.
"I wish I could," he whispered.
Fingers locked together in front of her, Nikos continued to study him for several increasingly uncomfortable moments. But she sighed, nodding quietly to herself, and shifted her position a little. "To be honest," she conceded. "I've been hoping for a chance to speak to you. About your latest test results…"
"You haven't found anything."
Turning slightly to look away, Bashir rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. It had been Athena Nikos' expertise in the field of applied genetics that had led his successor on Deep Space Nine to suggest that he seek her assistance in the first place. But with her silence extending even beyond the imagined echoes, Julian continued to watch her closely, keeping his own expression carefully neutral. "In that case--" he concluded finally. "Perhaps it's time to check out of this place."
"I'm not entirely sure that would be wise."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you should stay at the Institute," she explained in quiet resignation. "Just until I can run some more tests. Given all that we've learnt so far, I still think that it's our best available option."
"I'm dying while you run your tests," Bashir insisted, teeth clenched. "Trust me, Athena. There is no other choice."
"You don't know that," responded the green eyed doctor.
"I can feel it."
"Look, I'm sorry." The doctor shook her head. "But I can't simply allow you to go all the way to the Adigeon system on the basis of no more than the vaguest hunch. What if something goes wrong? What if the Dominion decides to take you back again? I can't be responsible for that."
"You're keeping me here?" Jack had seen it. And, if Julian was truly honest, so had he.
He stared, breathing shallowly through his open mouth. The floor lurched and shook as though broken to the consistency of quicksand - as he staggered back and grabbed the nearest available shelf. But, you can't…"
"I don't see that we have any other option," persisted Nikos, hands spread wide and with her palms towards him. "Let's just say that we wished you good luck, and sent you on your way. There's no guarantee that you'll find anything once you get there. I'm only thinking of your interests."
Bashir pressed himself as tightly as he could against the edge of the table - overbalancing, but only briefly. A ragged pain in his throat was enough to identify every laboured gasp his own. "What…? My interests? How would you even know what they are?"
"I can't stay in this place." He spoke without a thought. It was only two steps to reach the door. Beyond it, a corridor, where he had first entered with Commander Dax at his side. Possibly even a shuttle bay. There would have to be someone willing to take him. "You can't… You're not keeping me here."
"Julian…" Nikos approached, reaching forward, speaking his name. He was already light-headed. Nauseous. As though watching himself from a very long distance and seeing only the approach of sheer, inescapable panic. He shoved away Doctor Nikos' first attempt to take him by the arm. Jarring pain coursed through his right elbow - which he clutched to himself as he stumbled against the corner of the table.
No-- Go away.
This was wrong. Some distant part of his mind could not stop plaguing him with the same insistently recurring thoughts. They had always been there. Lurking like a predator beneath the algae-obscured waters of an unknown swamp. He had been the self-assured young doctor - the one in control. And he already knew where this would lead, if his breathing and heartbeat continued to accelerate as they were.
Nikos was moving forward again, still speaking his name. "Careful," she cautioned him. "Julian - try to stay calm."
He blinked, staggered, shaking his head and only belatedly recognising the cold, blunt pressure against the skin of his arm. The face before him was dark and fuzzy, as though viewed from a deep hole. "What are you…?"
Yet again, the floor was starting to spin away.
Sick at the core of his stomach, his heart was still pounding as the door slid open and more unfamiliar voices blended together in a subdued but anxious chorus.
"Let's get him to Isolation." One came from the darkness, louder, closer and sharper than all the others. There were more hands now supporting his weight, manipulating him like a puppet against even the most determined of his weak and sluggish protests. What more resistance could he give, when he was barely able to raise his head from the floor? Certainly nothing that was destined ever to be heard.