Grasped by deftly trained fingers, the instruments within the physicians' hands move near effortlessly, gliding over their respective target areas as if they were wands and the medicos were magicians. Perhaps, that is what they need at this desperate time: some kind of otherworldly sorcery, divine intervention...luck. In silence, the doctors weave their medical magic in a perfect synergy. This may just be the final time such a procedure will be performed on the patient, and they will see to it that the task is completed with utmost accuracy. No task by the medicos is done in a half-baked manner, not with lives dependant upon their skill. To do so would be, quite literally, deadly. The patient's life is in the best of hands.

Barely passed the surgery's initiating stages, there is yet another drastic change in the Vulcan. Over the ward's regular trill of monitors, there is now a single unending drone. It is what the medicos had feared: his heart has stopped. That very organ which had already endured so much, has at last given up. With the ceasing of this rather vital organ, there is a fresh dread within the ward's existing ambience. And it is hefty.

"Oh no you don't...", murmurs the ward's chief officer.

McCoy's words are indeed a spit at the poison and its creator thereof, but also contain an alternate tone, one which is directed at the victim himself.

Don't give up on me yet.

In a moment's utmost miniscule fraction, the two physicians formulate a plan. A means to pull the Vulcan from death's grasp. Their adept minds and immaculate synergy are brought together in perfect coalescence. M'Benga is the first to speak, to initiate the plan.

"While we've still got him open..."

"...manual heart massage?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, I'll leave you with that." At once, the chief medico departs to rid his hands of the now green-stained gloves, to hastily make for a nearby cabinet.

"The Benjisidrine still needs time to finish synthesizing." M'Benga's hand instantaneously enwraps the patient's heart, and in quick yet regular rhythms, the organ is compressed then relaxed.

"I'll get the Cordrazine."

"He's going to need a lot."

"Yep, fifty ccs should do it." A hypospray is briskly filled by McCoy, with that very drug. It is a final-resort method, this and his colleague's heart-pumping hand, but it seems the only thing left for them. Crude, desperate, yet hopefully effective.

With the hypospray's entire load injected into the patient, there is little the Chief Medical Officer can now do. Without becoming an obstacle for his associate's hand – a hand trained in the physiology of Vulcans – he instead observes the screen above the patient's bed. To await the monitor's confirmation that their plan would succeed.

As if their thoughts had momentarily become one, a phrase enters the minds of them both.

Come on, Commander.

ooo

It is at this very moment, that two of the vessel's bridge crew arrive. Those same crew members who had played a part in the capture of the First Officer's attacker. For a few short moments, the pair witness the distressing scene, with the eyes of Uhura in particular growing wide with the sheer direness of it all. Her companion also shares with her this sense of dread, and his face in turn is marked by it. This is not what they had expected, not at all what they would have ever thought to view. Yet, here it is, laid before them in all of its dismal display. Their remaining hope, and the very life of their crewmate, now lay spread across a fragile thread.

With their brief visitation seemingly stretched further by their shock at the scene before them, their eyes are met by those of the chief medico. McCoy indeed sights his crewmates, peeking through the window at which they had positioned, and to them he sends an expression. Not of irritation at their presence, but of his desperation. The sweat upon his brow and the glare of his eyes are telling of the urgency to this situation's development, and the need to save the Vulcan. There is, however, a meagre sense of hope within his eyes. A hope in the positive outcome for this last portion of the procedure. Over and again, his mind will recite, almost like a mantra...

It will work.

That, too, is what his eyes convey to the crewmates at the window. Not a word uttered, or mouthed in silence, only the visage marking his face.

"Spock..." The Lieutenant's teary utterance is a mere whisper, her eyes bleary with both fatigue and heartache.

"There's nothing we can do."

The helmsman's words may not be necessary, as his crewmate is indeed very aware of that fact. Yet, his accompanying gentle touch upon her arm is a means to pull her away from whatever temporary fog she is held by. And, of course, it works.

In moments, they make their departure, and soon find themselves in the open corridor once more. The two crewmates halt just shy of the ward's entrance. This is where shock takes a hold of the weary Uhura, and her comrade offers his sympathy and consolation. As a friend.

"I'm sorry... I can stay if you want to talk."

"I... I think I just want to be alone right now."

Although Sulu would want to remain by her side whilst she travels to her quarters, to be the tunic onto which she can weep, he is heedful of her choice. He does not think any little of her during these moments; this is a woman of strength, yet that is not all that she is. While he may not yet know of the jeopardy to a loved one's life and the pain that brings, he can still gift her his compassion. With the vulnerability of the Vulcan, there also comes a vulnerability in the Communications Officer. And, the helmsman in turn can empathise with her. To share in her grief, perhaps.

A sliver of a moment before she parts from him, and while mindful of her choice of privacy, he offers one final notion to her. One that she would initiate, if she so chooses.

"I'll keep my communicator nearby, just in case."

Whether she accepts his offer or not, is wholly dependant on her own volition and none else. It is there as an option only. Time to process these events in private solitude in her mind is what she needs, and this he knows. So, upon her eye of acknowledgement, the two depart from one another. Thus begins the Lieutenant's lone journey to her living space; a room shared by herself...and the Vulcan.

ooo

It is, upon her arrival at the living space and the door securing behind her, that the threads of her emotional restraint unravel. With slim fingers grasping the cool dining table, she lets herself go, droplets of her sorrow marking the smooth surface. This past day has been trying indeed, but those final moments had broken her.

This is indeed a woman who can be cold and logical if the need arises, yet also not averse to display her fire and passion. Who has sensitivities of her own, that rise to the surface. This does not make her feeble or weak...only human.

And as those tears fall, there comes the display of her humanity.