Patterson woke suddenly, startled by the merest whisper of sound. He'd always been a light sleeper, and the throbbing ache in his arms just made it more difficult to sleep. He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and sat up, looking around for what had disturbed him.

In the eerie gloom of the darkened room, Dave Briggs shuffled toward the door, scraping his slippered feet against the floor like an old man. Sleepwalking, maybe, thought Pat couldn't say he'd ever done so before. Nice guy, Briggs was, but he shouldn't have been out of bed; he'd lost so much blood that Doc had called for blood donors, and his throat still looked a little like raw meat; Pat was surprised that Briggs and Ski were alive at all…

He swallowed hard and shook the thought away. Ski would make it; of course, he would. Doc was the best in the Navy. Both the guys would make it. Pat slid out of his bunk and crossed the floor, reaching out to tug Briggs gently to a stop. "Come on, Dave. Let's get you back into bed."

Briggs' head swung toward him, eyes wide and unfocused. His voice came out on a whimper of fear. "She's calling me. I have to go…"

Okay, that was odd… Aside from the fact that the only possible female on board was the one who had attacked them, no one – male or female – was calling anyone here… Pat decided Briggs was in the grip of a particularly vivid nightmare; dreams didn't have to make sense… He hoped Briggs wouldn't struggle. He didn't have the strength in his wounded arms to stop the man from leaving Sick Bay. A concerned glance at the clock told him that the XO or the skipper would stop in soon on their late-night rounds. Most likely the XO would put in an appearance first, since the skipper went the opposite way round the boat, and Sick Bay was generally his last stop of the night, while typically the XO made it his first. Either of them offered the only real chance of help, since Doc McKenzie had finally been convinced to get some much-needed sleep and John…

Pat looked around in alarm, his heartbeat skyrocketing. John was supposed to be in charge here; how could he have forgotten that? And where was the corpsman? He should have been helping Pat get Briggs back in his bunk, but he was nowhere to be seen…

Pat's gaze finally found John crumpled on the floor beside Briggs' now-empty bunk. "Dave, what did you do to John?" He released his friend's arm, and started toward the unconscious corpsman, wondering how on Earth, Briggs had managed – in his condition – to overpower John…

Briggs shoved him hard and Pat tumbled to the floor, unable to break his fall with his injured arms. Bruised and shaken, he labored to his feet as quickly as he could, sensing that there was more to Briggs' resistance than he had first thought. If this was a nightmare, it was a hellish one. He grabbed the man's arm again, both of them moving in slow motion, their painful movements a parody. Tugging weakly on his friend's arm, Pat tried to steer him toward the bunks.

But Briggs went berserk; there was no other word for it. He swung around with a clenched fist and caught Pat in the eye. Pleading, terrified brown eyes seemed at odds with the writhing fury of Briggs' body. He clearly wasn't in control of his own muscles. He struggled and punched and kicked like a man possessed, and all the while words dribbled almost mindlessly from his mouth. "Don't make me do this… Please, I don't want…" Pat didn't think the words were addressed to him, but he hardly knew who they could be addressed to in this room empty of anyone but patients… "Stop it! Stop it!" He screamed the last two words as his flailing hands found the surgery tray. Ignoring the clatter of instruments against the deck, he lifted the heavy tray with superhuman strength and swung it at Pat.

Backpedaling, Pat flung an arm up to protect his face. The impact against his stitches stole his breath away. As he staggered backwards, he heard running footsteps and thought with relief that help had come.

Mr. Morton jerked open the infirmary door as Pat reeled backward, and took in the situation at a glance. On the move before Pat could recover from Briggs' attack, he ran toward the crewman, quick as an adder striking. As if sensing his presence, the sailor spun, whirling the heavy tray through the air. Mr. Morton dodged it easily and clamped a hand on Briggs' arm, twisting sharply. The tray clattered to the floor. Sobbing, Briggs collapsed against the officer, as if defeated. "Let me go, let me go, she's calling…" The plea fell on deaf ears. Mr. Morton kept a firm hand on Briggs, but turned his attention to Pat.

"Are you okay?" He accepted Pat's breathless assurance with a frown. "You're bleeding…"

Before the words died away in the silence, Briggs exploded into violence. With a scream of despair, he balled his free hand into a fist, connecting solidly with Mr. Morton's nose and knocking him back in a stagger. Still screaming wordlessly, Briggs surged forward, shoving the officer hard into the wall. Mr. Morton raised his hands to stave off the blows, but he was half-stunned, and Briggs got in under his guard. A sharp crack heralded the impact of the officer's head against the bulkhead. As the XO slithered to the floor in a boneless heap, Pat cried out in shocked surprise… Briggs had attacked an officer… He couldn't wrap his head around that, but he made himself move, made himself intercept Briggs, only to be slammed breathlessly against the door facing. Briggs flashed past him, and was gone, moving much faster than a man in his condition should, screaming like a maniac.

Pat sagged against the door facing, cradling his bleeding arm against his chest and tried to find the breath and the strength to call for help…