With the plant in the clutches of the Captain, there begins the hurried venture through glossy corridors, the helmsman in tow. Their destination is of course the sterile walls of the Medbay. That very place where, unbeknownst to them, had momentarily become a scene of yet more suffering for their First Officer. Again, the steps the two men make are quickened; but again, no suspicions will be roused by their movements. And yes, the sparsely-placed wandering crew members take little notice of the plant or query as to why their Captain is in possession of the object. All that is faced by him are the stiff salutations performed by the bodies of those he passes. A sign of respect and servitude this action is, one that all Senior Officers face, and one that juniors and subordinates are expected to perform.

At last arriving at the ward, the two crewmates are taken aback by the scene unfolding in the pristine walls. For the helmsman particularly, the image that meets his eyes is indeed a perturbing one, and one that he had not witnessed before. There, on the biobed, lay the hapless Vulcan, his long figure mostly unclad and laid carefully atop the mattress. A mask is placed upon his face, of oxygen for his deprived blood. The most unwelcome sight is that of his open torso, with his heart barely visible to those now stood from afar. The emerald-toned organ beats a tad sluggish, enduring yet more repairs in this numbed unconsciousness.

This procedure occurs behind a frosted curtain, a sombre veil for the anesthetized patient. The Anesthizine had quickly taken affect, working itself into the blood from where it had been injected upon the surgery's commencement. In this state, at least, the suffering First Officer is devoid of pain, his body wholly inert. Those glimpses his two crewmates had encountered were the result of a small sliver in the curtain's hazy shielding. The attending physician – the Captain's closest friend – clad in his surgical garbs, is stood with a slightly arched back, hovering over the patient in deep concentration.

Despite his apparently fixed gaze, he seems aware of the presence of those two crewmates who had entered the ward just moments ago.

"You better have some good news for me, Jim.", he utters, with eyes unmoved from their gaze.

"Sulu located a Benji plant.", comes the Captain's response, as he approaches his friend.

"Well, at least that's something. We'll start synthesizing the drug right now."

A glance upwards from his patient and a gesture of his head are all that is required for a proximate nurse to begin this task. The plant soon leaves the blond man's grip, now to be carried to a bench by the nurse. The doctor is correct in his words: for the Vulcan, this plant brings at least some sliver of hope. And yet, there is still one element to consider: time. Of this, the medico is indeed quite aware.

"How long will it take?", queries the plant's former bearer.

"Hours...at least four or five, maybe more. With all that the poison's done to him, I just hope we make it in time."

At once, the synthesizing process is begun by the nurse, who of course is well trained in such a task. All the while, McCoy continues his delicate surgery on the Vulcan's heart; perhaps a brief reprieve from its torment at the hands of the merciless poison. With nothing more they can do for their stricken crewmate, Kirk and Sulu take their leave of the ward in a silent woe. It is their hope, and that of the medicos, that their First Officer will at last be delivered from his suffering.

As for the process pertaining to the Benjisidrine's synthesis, the nurse is quite aware that it is indeed a lengthy one. Moreover, all of the medicos are aware, each working on their part of Spock's care. Much as they would like to, none of the processes can be rushed, lest there be a dangerous mishap.

With all their careful undertakings, it seems that time may be against them.

ooo

Throughout the surgery's entire duration, and the Benjisidrine's slow synthesis, M'Benga's trained eyes stare into the enhanced image of the small green spot on its clear platform. Each molecule and cell, in all their busy animations, are observed by his sharp irises in his search for that which had escaped his fatigued colleague's gaze. With time's eventual passing, the secrets those cells had held now reveal themselves to him, and his theory is confirmed. Now, it seems, the layer which this mystery had added is unveiled.

It is at last with the surgery's conclusion that M'Benga does approach his weary associate, who is currently deep into overtime hours. There is within the fresher man's mind a new insight into that which ails the First Officer, and a concerned brow adorns his crown. McCoy, of course, sights this marking on his colleague's face, having made himself well acquainted with the medico through the years.

"I can see that frown from a mile away.", utters the fatigued physician. "You found something, didn't you?"

"I did indeed. You saw how quickly he awoke from his previous surgery, yes?"

"Yeah, that sure as hell was weird."

"Well, there's a reason for that.". M'Benga wades through the information newly presented to him. "The poison you found in his blood doesn't just cause his heart attacks, it also contains some kind of neural disruptor. When a Vulcan is injured or under some kind of distress, they place themselves into a deep meditative state – almost comatose to outsiders – it's called a healing trance."

"I think I've heard of this. The poison is stopping him from doing that?"

"Unfortunately, yes. It's preventing him from entering the trance and is forcing him awake. He can't heal himself...or do anything, really."

"Damn...", McCoy ponders what else may be in store for his Vulcan friend. "He might have been lying when he said it was his 'Vulcan control'."

"Perhaps, but he could also have genuinely thought that's what it was. The neural disruptor might have tricked him into thinking he still had control of his mind."

As the two physicians glance apologetically at their stricken comrade, their minds seem almost to align in their conscious processors. A string of words within their thoughts, forming a single phrase; the phrase in itself brought about by a grim concern.

What else is going to happen to him?