Spock stood solemnly next to the biobed, looking down at McCoy's comatose figure. Surgery had been successfully completed over three days ago, yet the doctor remained unconscious. He admitted that he found himself somewhat shocked by this turn of events. He pondered the possible reasons why the doctor would deliberately choose to die. Death, however unexpected and sad it may be, is nonetheless a part of life. Jim had explained how close McCoy was to his father. Grief at such a loss is quite natural as well. Yet, it is highly illogical to carry grief to the point of self-destruction. He sensed that there was a piece missing somewhere, that there was more to this than the sudden loss of a dearly beloved father. There was something here the doctor had felt impossible to bear. Something he felt that even his closest friends could not help him endure. He leaned over the bed. "Leonard, know that I will help in any way I can. Do not give up." He detected a small, yet definite hesitation in the slow, rhythmic breathing. Spock straightened and resumed his watch.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He stumbled into the parlor the next morning, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. Why am I so tired? I'm sleeping my whole life away here! He trailed the marvelous scent of good, strong coffee to a small kitchen off the central hallway. Horatio, sitting at the table, looked up from his mug with a grin, "Well! Well! Look what the hounds drug in!"

Gabe jumped up to pour him some coffee, "Here y'go, Cap'n."

"Thanks Gabe. I appreciate it." He sat down slowly, wincing as he nursed his injured arm.

Gabe and Horatio exchanged knowing, worried looks.

"Son, I'm gonna have to have another look at that arm today."

"Yes sir," he answered dully. Let me at that coffee! Maybe stress has something to do with this exhaustion. Duh, ya' think?

"Son, when Moss shows up, and rest assured that he will, I want you to skedaddle, y'hear?"

He didn't hesitate, "No, sir. Can't do that." Where would I skedaddle to? Been skedaddlin' from one thing and another, mainly from himself, for most of his life. Time to stop. Anyway, this Moss character might hurt these two if I don't stand up to him. Well, Horatio anyway. Gabe looked like he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"How in the blue blazes are you gonna stand up to Moss Johnson in the shape you're in?" Horatio must've been reading his mind. "One wrong move, boy, and you'll bleed to death from that arm of yours. That is, if he don't jus' kill you outright."

Tell me something I don't know already. He lay his suddenly aching head down on the table, cradled it in his good arm, and said in a muffled voice, "Yes sir, I know."

Horatio, his anger suddenly deflated, gently laid a hand on the back of his head, "Son, let's have a little breakfast, I'll look at that arm of yours, and we'll deal with Moss later. What do y'say?"

He nodded imperceptibly.

Refreshed after a plate of ham, red-eye gravy, more of those wonderful grits, and quite possibly a gallon of coffee, he gave himself over to Horatio's capable hands. He didn't know why, but he couldn't bear to look at his injured wrist.

"Whew, son. When you break something you don't mess around do you?"

"No sir. I suppose I don't."

"How's that scar from your Sharpsburg wound been doin'? Givin' you any more trouble?"

"No sir, it's fine." I guess. I don't know what he's talking about. Hope he doesn't want to look at it.

"You don't remember, do you son?" Busted! This man sure is good at readin' minds.

He nodded dumbly. Been doing a lot of that lately.

"Well let me say that it is a tale worth tellin.' And yes I will get around to the tellin' of it, as soon as I finish with this poor arm of yours. Keep still now!"

He'd never been a good patient. God my arm hurts! He didn't want to let on though. He didn't want them worrying any more than they had to. Especially dad,…uh…Horatio. He shook his head, and felt a surge of unchecked, unreasoning, unfocused anger welling up inside commensurate with the horrible pain in his arm. He could keep quiet no longer.

"Owwww! Dammit!"

"I said to keep it still boy!"

"It hurts!"

"Well 'course it hurts! It's busted ten ways to Sunday!"

He impulsively jerked his arm from Horatio's grasp, and immediately regretted it as he very nearly passed out from the pain. Horatio, not missing a beat, grabbed it back and called for reinforcements.

"Gabe!"

"Yeah Doc?"

"Get in here and subdue your Captain!"

"Yes suh!" Those strong arms clamped his shoulders and arms in a gentle vise grip, effectively immobilizing him. Horatio nodded approvingly.

"See where that kind of behavior gets you son?"

He nodded, wincing. "Yes sir. I'll be still, I promise."

"Nope. Too late for that. Gabe, you hold tight no matter what, y'hear?"

Gabe nodded. Horatio slowly manipulated the wrist and arm, and began resplinting and rebandaging it.

Ohhhh God! Don't pass out! Don't pass out! Stay awake! His vision clouded into a red fog. He knew this was necessary, but enduring it was another thing entirely. The next thing he knew he was back in the armchair, Horatio hovering over him.

"I took the liberty of checkin' on your old wound son. Everything's fine."

He looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Oh that's right! Forgot that you forgot! You jus' sit there. I'll be right back."

He came back with a tall glass of iced mint tea. "Here son. Sip on that while I tell you your life story."

Horatio sat down across from him, and regarded him appraisingly. "I reckon it's that same stubborn bullheadedness that both got you shot and kept you alive at Sharpsburg. Your regiment did not retreat. Y'all stayed put and made a stand in the Cornfield as the Yankees was overrunnin' it. Color bearer after color bearer fell, 'til none were left. You, my brave, mule-headed son, raised the colors and urged your men onward 'til you too were shot. You were gut-shot real bad, clean through your stomach. Reckon you'll have trouble with it the rest of your life. Anyway, you refused to leave the field and were drug off along with what was left of your regiment by the Tiger Brigade, bless their little Louisiana hearts. Gabe here slung you over his shoulder like a sack of yams, you cussin' and fightin' him all the way, 'til you finally passed out."

"How'd you know all this? Did I come home?" Listen to me - 'home'!

"Your regimental commander wrote and told me all that happened, and that he didn't expect you to survive the night. So, I hightailed it to Virginia to either personally oversee your recovery or…or bring back your body." He paused, sighing deeply. "I almost lost you that day son. It were touch and go for a long while after that. You were ravin', outta your head for days with a high fever. I swear son, I 'bout nearly came unstrung! Guess that's why I was so relieved when your fever broke so soon the other night." He dragged a sleeve across his eyes. "If it were to happen, well, it jus' would have to happen. It may yet happen. Soon's you're healed up, I know you'll be goin' back. Nothin' for a old man like me to do about it 'cept dearly grieve for the rest of my born days."

He was deeply touched by the depth of the love and affection this man had for him. He reached out, put his hand on Horatio's shoulder and smiled. "I won't get killed if I can help it."

"Mind that you don't. And that includes here at home boy!"

Oh yeah. Moss Johnson.

"Oh and son? Mind that arm of yours. If you'd take a little more care it wouldn't pain you so."

He took the gentle reprimand to heart and looked down sheepishly, "Yes sir. You're right." What a stupid thing to do! He had no right to cause unnecessary worry to this man who cared so much for him.

"Now boy. How 'bout some dinner?"