Co-Written by: DiamonBlue4

Starfleet Academy Medical Center

Stardate: 2256.05

McCoy leaned back in the narrow chair at the intake desk at Starfleet Medical and forced himself not to let his eyes close. I should go into the lounge, he thought, coffee up, relax. He looked around the empty emergency room. The last patient had been discharged an hour ago.

Tam, the newest intern, leaned against the desk where the other nurses were congregating. "Man, it's slow."

A round of moans and curses followed.

"Don't say that," Ci, the ER nurse said. "We got three more hours and I have a date tonight with my five-year-old. I want to be home on time. For once."

"Not gonna happen now," Kelli said, shaking her head. "Tam just jinxed us."

"There's no such thing, you know," Tam retorted. "The scientific community debunked that idea years ago. Same with believing full moons cause people to act crazy."

"Live and learn, grasshopper," Kelli admonished. "And don't come crying to me when you're up to your elbows in blood and guts."

"Well, there's not a lot of time left on this shift to prove me wrong," Tam said, pointing to his chronometer.

McCoy tuned out the banter and leaned further into the cushions of the chair. It was rare he had the opportunity to sit when he was on shift in the ER. Saturday nights and leaves were the worse, bringing in a parade of drunken injuries.

The alert chime sounded, followed by a red flashing light, and Ci moved quickly to answer, giving Tam an annoyed look.

"We've got one coming in. Level 3," she said, staring down at the PADD in her hand. She glanced up at Tam. "I hope you're happy."

Tam pretended to duck, throwing up his arms as if to ward off a blow, as McCoy glanced up. It had been a long and boring twelve-hour shift, one filled with sprains, fevers and the dreaded and irritating "something doesn't feel right". He wanted a shower, a good meal that wasn't replicated and three fingers of his twelve-year-old bourbon, straight up. But of course, that was too much to ask, since they now had a Level 3 case coming in. He'd be lucky if his shift ended on time at this rate.

"Make that two," Ci amended. "One twenty-three-old male with a laceration to the upper thigh." She frowned. "Looks like they had trouble controlling the bleeding in the field."

Of course, they did. Medics were all adrenalin junkies, reveling in the triage and pretending to be doctors. Most of the time they'd transport an injury like that with a half-ass wrapping leaking blood and inadequate fluids infusing through a small, eight gage catheter. Christ. McCoy stood up from the terminal and stretched, feeling his spine pop.

"Male number two is twenty-five, suspected torn knee and hip ligaments, and…" Her eyebrows rose. "Compound fracture of the radius and ulna."

McCoy got to his fee, instructing the team to prepare two beds in the trauma bay.

"Where's he coming in from?" Kelli asked, eyeing Tam, the intern, with a faux-innocent expression. There'd been a flurry of activities— intravenous bags and lines prepped and hanging, scanners turned on and left in Standby mode, and the convenient placement near to hand of the usual instruments and equipment routinely used on all trauma patients— and now they were just waiting for the patients themselves to arrive.

"Maneuvers," Ci said.

"I told you," Kelli said in a sing-song tone, looking back at the intern.

"Yeah, yeah."

As they moved to their places, McCoy tried to ignore the habitual mindless banter between Kelli and Tam. Today's bone of contention had been a bet— not to go to end of shift without a patient arriving from maneuvers. Now Kelli had just won.

"It always happens on the last day. It's the big finale," Kelli said. "Cadets smell the finish line and are determined to complete it. At least one of them is gonna do something desperate— and stupid."

It was the end of the academic year for the Academy students and that meant it was the time for the annual combat maneuvers for the Command and Security track cadets. The grueling course had been going on for the past two weeks, and culminated today, the final day of the intense program. It was a program that had historically produced a constant stream of minor injuries. This year had been no different and treating the resulting injuries had kept the ER busy all week as the cadets pushed to complete the program to claim the honor of their damn combat badge.

Idiots.

Even his best friend, Jim, had gotten caught up in the competitive atmosphere. Though Jim was a first-year cadet, he'd been accepted into the course because he was top of his class— in everything. He had the highest ratings of any cadet in the history of the academy – except for some Vulcan, who also had the cachet of being the only Vulcan to graduate from Starfleet Academy. It was Captain Pike who had granted Jim's request, and the kid's ego had swelled even more than usual. Jim would be the only first-year cadet to complete the course. They planned to celebrate his accomplishment tonight.

"This is it," Jim said with a look of eagerness. "Final day."

McCoy had come out to the commons to see Jim off on today's last round of challenges. His friend stood with his gear at his feet, waiting with the other cadets for their pickup. Ten days ago, the group had been enthusiastic, bright-eyed, eager and optimistic. Typical young lions ready to take on the world. Now they stood nervously, shuffling their feet, flinching at any unexpected noises, and, in general, looking like they were lining up for a firing squad. Except for Jim, of course, who stood with quiet confidence. McCoy scrutinized his young friend's face, noting the finely drawn lines of fatigue around the kid's unusually bright blue eyes.

"You look tired," McCoy commented.

Jim nodded. "I'm going to sleep for a week when this is over."

And he could for once, because the year-end break was scheduled to begin in twenty-four hours. They both were looking forward to some well-deserved downtime. Jim pushed a hand impatiently through his hair and stretched his neck. It had been a tough week and Jim was pushing himself to not only finish the course, but to set a record doing it.

"You know, if you don't complete the course, there's always next year."

Jim gave him an incredulous look. "Thanks for the pep talk, Bones."

"Fifty percent don't make it," McCoy reminded him.

"Are you trying to get out of our bet?"

McCoy gave him an affronted look. "A McCoy never welshes on a bet."

But the fact remained, the final day was where the majority of the cadets failed out. McCoy had a suspicion Starfleet had designed it that way— cull the unqualified before they could do any harm in the future. Few who failed tried a second time. It was a grueling course, unrelentingly demanding both physically and mentally, a course which required split-second decisions and reactions. There was a good reason it was usually reserved for second-year cadets. While Jim wasn't much younger, age-wise, than the other cadets in the course, he lacked the benefits of a second year of Academy training.

"That's me," Jim said, picking up his duffel as the sound of the hover transport filled the air. He gave McCoy a determined nod.

"Keep your head down, kid."

"I got this, Bones." Jim grinned. "I'm going to break the record and you're going to buy my drinks tonight."

For someone going off to combat maneuvers for the fourteenth day in a row, he was damn happy.

McCoy sighed, watching as Jim climbed eagerly aboard the transport and disappeared from sight. He had a twelve-hour shift at the hospital starting in an hour. Meanwhile, Jim would be climbing through an expertly rigged obstacle course with a hundred other over-eager, trigger-happy cadets.

For once, he had the better deal.

McCoy glanced at his chronometer impatiently. Jim was probably close to finishing as he stood here waiting for the medical transports to arrive. In less than an hour, Jim would be done, ready to celebrate. McCoy just hoped whatever was on its way in wouldn't hold him up past the end of his shift. Because, while the kid drank like a fish and the victory party was going to cost him a week's pay, he was, truth to tell, looking forward to celebrating Jim's accomplishments.

A laceration didn't sound too bad, if it wasn't deep, and the medics had given it proper care. Probably some over-eager, trigger-happy cadet had sliced their damn leg trying to outdraw the 'enemy'. Most of the injuries he'd seen over the past two weeks were soft tissue injuries or superficial abrasions, easily treated at the field clinic; medical protocol, however, required a Starfleet General physician to provide a final exam and sign-off. The injuries of the two incoming cadets were more serious than that, which put them in McCoy's lap from the outset.

He stood in the receiving bay with his team and tried to quell his impatience. He'd been with the Academy for a full year. As a trained surgeon, he'd been put to good use in the hospital, and rotated through ER, surgery and clinic duty, as well taking Starfleet fundamentals with every pimply-faced, eighteen-year-old cadet. Before Starfleet, he'd been regarded as the best trauma surgeon at Atlanta Central, had dined with the upper echelon, and treated some of Earth's more elite. Now he was sleeping in a one-room dorm, standing in line to eat with a thousand other Starfleet recruits and treating injuries on cadets not old enough to drink.

The light above the bay entrance flashed, indicating the arrival of the transport. He took a moment to survey the big, semicircular room. All the beds were empty. Their last patient had been released an hour ago. At least he didn't have to worry about capacity, as had been the case when the Andorian Flu had hit last semester. They'd had to bring in mobile beds and had patients lining the hallways. He could still smell the sour odor of vomit.

The doors swooshed open.

"—this fucking thing off me."

McCoy's head snapped around as he instantly recognized the voice. He gazed disbelievingly as a highly agitated Jim Kirk was wheeled in on a gurney.

"That "fucking thing" is keeping you from bleeding to death, Cadet," the medic said, matching Jim's tone. The man had a firm hold of Jim's wrist, presumably to keep Jim from disturbing the cuff on his thigh.

Right behind Jim was another gurney containing a moaning cadet who was far less combative.

"What happened?" McCoy demanded, stepping to the side of Jim's gurney, which had come to a halt just inside the doors. He cast an assessing eye over Jim and it was clear at a glance the kid was in shock. Jim was profoundly pale, breathing rapidly, and tremors raked his body head to toe. There was blood everywhere, on Jim's hands as well as on the legs of his fatigues, and the pressure bandage surrounding his left thigh was bloody, as well. The thickly inflated material was only used to stop severe blood loss— which meant, more than likely, that an artery was involved.

"Hero here got knifed by his own equipment," the medic said. "Laser combat knife sliced right through his quad."

Jim's bloody hands curled into fists, as he tensed in fury. "I didn't get hurt by my knife, asshole. It was Grady's knife; he didn't have the fucking safety on!"

"You still got knifed," the medic shot back, unfazed by Jim's fury. He didn't loosen his grip on Jim's wrist, however, as he addressed McCoy. "This idiot wants to go back to the fun and games. He's already tried to remove the cuff twice enroute."

"Take it easy, Jim." McCoy put a hand on Jim's arm, hoping to steady and calm him. He could feel the fine tremors tearing through Jim's frame. He squeezed the flesh of Jim's arm a little more firmly and felt the young man's tension slacken. There was a lot he wanted to ask Jim, and even more he wanted to say to his friend, but now was not the time. "What are his vitals?"

"He's shocky. BP 92/40, pulse 166 and thready, respirations 26. 92% oxygen saturation. It was difficult to start a line because his peripheral veins kept collapsing due to the blood loss but I finally got one inserted. It's tenuous, though. Hung a liter of normal saline, and it's running at 150."

McCoy knew enough about Jim's personality to know that pain and fatigue often made him belligerent, rather than subdued. Jim was a difficult enough patient, though, without adding an antagonistic medic to the mix. He looked at the medic and motioned to the beds along the wall. "Put him on two."

"Gladly," the man said, steering the gurney.

"Try not to kill me in the process," Jim said to the medic.

Jesus, Jim could piss off a saint.

The second gurney followed. The young man was not obviously bleeding, which matched the report, but McCoy could see with one look that the bones of the right arm were broken— a compound fracture. A light brace stabilized the arm. The man's hand was white, and he was clearly in pain.

"Severe break to the radius and ulna," the second medic said. "There's debris in the wound, and the ends of the bones are chipped. He's a good candidate for a bone infection and non-union. BP 162/94, pulse 182, respirations 32. Left ulnar vein intravenous line started with normal saline hanging. He needs pain control right away."

It annoyed McCoy when medics diagnosed. He shot a glaring look at the man and was about to say something when the pale-faced boy on the gurney moaned.

"Christ, my arm is fucking killing me." Cadet Grady whined, looking at anything other than his broken arm.

"We'll take care of you," McCoy said calmly to the young man, then looked at the medic. "Bed three."

McCoy hung back, letting his team oversee the transfers. The medic quickly— and none too gently— transferred Jim to the bio bed, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from him as his leg was roughly jostled.

"Take it easy there, medic!" McCoy admonished sternly.

Jim was right. The man was an asshole.

Both patients now on bio beds, the medics quickly exited the trauma bay, guiding their gurneys out. He'd deal with the arrogant one later, see that a reprimand was placed in his file. Right now, he needed to focus on his patients.

"Take the patient in three," he said to Tam, nodding toward the other bed, as he stepped closer to Jim's biobed. "Make sure the hand below the fracture is getting adequate perfusion. And give him something for pain after you check his chart. Once the scans are finished, call ortho. Sing out if you have any questions or run into trouble. And be sure to check his hip and knee ligaments, too, since the call stated there was suspected damage."

Confidant that the intern could adequately handle his orders, McCoy turned his attention to Jim. The monitor above the bio bed lit up as Jim's vitals were picked up by the sensors and displayed. McCoy studied the readings as Jim struggled to sit up.

"Get this off me, Bones. I need to get back out to the field. I'm not done with the exercise."

McCoy dropped his gaze from the monitor to Jim and scowled. "You're not going anywhere. Settle down, Jim. You've got a significant injury to your leg and we need to take a close look at you to be sure you aren't injured anywhere else."

"Yeah, Kirk," came the angry retort from the other bed. "Listen to the doc. You're not going anywhere, you fucking glory hound."

"Glory— You're a clumsy ass, Grady!"

"Oh, right! I suppose you're perfect?"

"Quiet, please, cadets, " Tam said. "This is a hospital." He gave Grady a stern look, trying to get control of the cadet.

"I'm not the one who fell into a ditch!" Jim shot back, ignoring Tam as if he were invisible.

"You fucking broke my arm."

"After you fucking sliced my leg open! The instructors were really impressed with that move."

"Calm down, Jim!" McCoy ordered. The overhead monitor began to blink yellow in several areas, a warning that Jim's pulse and respirations were increasingly outside normal parameters. The medical staff was in motion around both beds, and this seemed to only further agitate the men.

"I need you stay still," Tam said to Grady. "You don't need to incur any more damage to your arm."

"Start another IV line with normal saline," McCoy ordered Ci.

"You weren't even supposed to be in that ditch, hotshot! That area was off the course," Grady fumed, ignoring Tam. He was craning his neck in an attempt to see Jim more clearly, since Tam had insinuated himself between the two beds, blocking Grady's angry gaze.

"And you were supposed to have your weapon under control with the damn safety on!" Jim was shaking harder now, and his pallor had deepened. Despite that, he was struggling to sit up, all the while glaring at the other cadet. "Fucking amateur."

"Jim, settle down!" McCoy said, stepping forward in an attempt to refocus Jim's attention. "Run that IV wide-open, Ci," he ordered, as Jim's blood pressure began to blink in yellow.

"Fuck you, Kirk!"

"Right back at you, Grady!"

"Both of you shut up!" McCoy thundered, then met Kelli's eyes and jerked his thumb at the divider.

Kelli immediately pulled the privacy curtain to separate the two men. McCoy hoped it would quiet them down. Tempers and pain were a bad combination.

Jim fell back against the surface of the biobed, panting. More than likely from exhaustion rather than cooperation, though. During the tirade, the nurses had gone about their business, quickly cutting off the rest of Jim's clothes, their lasers slicing through the bloody material like it was old paper.

Everyone had a role during the first important minutes of receiving a trauma patient. Everyone on the team knew what to do and how to do it without being told. Priority number one was to get an unobstructed view of the patient's entire body in order to determine the full extent of any injuries. They needed to have immediate access, without clothing in their way, in order to start intravenous lines, stanch freely bleeding wounds and identify any other critical injuries. The process wasn't polite or respectful but it was necessary. It saved lives and preserved function while minimizing permanent damage. But that was cold comfort to the patient. McCoy imagined that, to Jim, it felt invasive, like he was being swarmed by a hundred unsympathetic hands.

In short order, Jim was rendered naked and shivering, his genitals covered by a thin white towel in a token nod to modesty. The only other item on his body was the pressure cuff around his thigh. Exposed and hurting, Jim twitched restlessly under the medical team's ministrations.

"Give him 15ccs of Paradol," McCoy ordered. Jim's blood pressure was even lower than when he'd arrived, now that he wasn't trading insults with Grady, and his respirations were increasing. The monitor indicated a high level of pain. It also reported he'd lost about two units of blood. "Call the lab and order a unit of packed cells to be delivered ASAP. Hang it as soon as it arrives. Tell them to prepare an additional two units and hold them. How long ago did this injury happen?"

Ci referred to the primary report. "Forty-five minutes."

Christ! The morons in the field clinic had taken their sweet time before transporting Jim.

"It says he vomited and was combative," she reporting, continuing to read.

From pain, likely. Idiots!

He leaned over Jim's right side. The young man was still trying to lever up onto his elbows. He put a hand on Jim's shoulder and pressed down to keep him from moving. The flesh beneath his hand was cool and clammy, and he could feel the muscles trembling. "Jim, you need to remain still and save your energy."

Jim glared at him, the skin around his eyes and mouth pinched tight with pain. "Get this thing off my leg, Bones."

"It stays," he said firmly. "We're going to start another IV, give you some blood along with the IV fluids. We need to get your pressure up, so lie back and relax."

Despite the obvious pain and shock he was experiencing, Jim still struggled against McCoy's restraining hand.

"I need to get back to the course, Bones. I need to finish."

"You're in shock, Jim, and you're not thinking clearly. You're not going anywhere, kid."

Ci came up to the head of the bed with a hypo and pressed it to Jim's neck.

"Fuck," Jim said through gritted teeth, straining his head back against the pillow, trying to put some space between his neck and the hypo. "What the hell was that?"

"The medication Dr. McCoy ordered to treat your shock," Ci said gently. "Just try to relax and let it work."

"I don't need any goddamn medication," Jim snapped. His respirations were rapid and his pale lips were now tinged with blue.

"Yes, you do," McCoy contradicted sternly. "Now lie still before you do any more damage to that leg. The scans are almost done."

"I can't do any more damage than Grady already did with his fucking, trigger-happy—"

"You weren't supposed to be there, asshole," Grady's voice interjected from the other side of the curtain.

"And you were supposed to have the goddamn safety on!"

Enough of this. McCoy's voice boomed across the treatment room. "If the two of you don't shut up, I'll sedate you both!"

His threat immediately silenced Grady, and even momentarily subdued Jim. It didn't take long for Jim to start up on his familiar refrain, however.

"Take this thing off, Bones." Jim moved restlessly on the stretcher, flexing his right leg as if he were going to try and sit up, while his fingers plucked at the edge of the pressure cuff.

"Not right now." Patients in shock often fixated on non-essential details, voicing the same question or request repeatedly. He gently but firmly captured Jim's hand and pulled it away from the cuff. It wasn't possible for Jim to remove it. It was designed to stay in place, in order to keep constant pressure on any damaged arteries. He put a hand on Jim's right leg and firmly pushed it back down to lie flatly against the surface of the biobed. "I need you to remain still, Jim."

"Just wrap it up, Bones. I can still finish. I'll be fine." Once again, he tried to rise, and, once again, McCoy pushed him flat.

Jim was shivering constantly now and his body was taut with tension, which was no doubt adding to his pain. "It's freezing in here."

"Increase the biobed surface to 29 degrees Celsius."

Kelli turned up the temperature setting on the bed to help combat the coldness of the room air.

"You should feel warmer soon, Jim."

"Just give me a fucking blanket."

"Sorry. No blankets for the time being." He was walking a fine line as it was, trying to decrease Jim's discomfort with the ambient temperature of the trauma room while, at the same time, not encouraging blood to pool in the peripheral vasculature, further lowering Jim's blood pressure.

"Then let me out of here, if that's the kind of shitty service you're offering," Jim said, and again tried to push off the bed.

McCoy kept a firm hand on Jim's shoulder, holding him down. Jim was surprisingly strong, despite his injuries. He had to be exhausting himself with his stubborn efforts, but McCoy's more immediate concern was not allowing Jim to do more damage to his leg. "Listen to me, Jim," he said sternly. "You are not going back to maneuvers, you are not leaving this hospital and you will keep your goddamn ass in this bed or I'll sedate you. Understand?"

"Fuck you, Bones," he said petulantly, but stopped his struggles, collapsing exhaustedly against the bed.

McCoy let out a short breath and reached blindly for the PADD Ci was extending from the other side of the bed. Kelli was busy with preparations for placing the second IV in Jim's left hand, which was still balled into a tight fist.

"I need you to relax your hand," Kelli said, tapping his clenched fist.

"Don't touch me," Jim snapped. He jerked his hand from her grasp and attempted to shove it beneath his body, but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated.

"Go further up the arm," McCoy ordered, focusing on the report displayed on the PADD. "Restrain him at the wrist, if you need to." They needed to get fluids into Jim and McCoy was done arguing. He frowned as he read.

The body scan showed a three-dimensional image of the wound, which was deep and long – over 10 inches in length. The laser combat knife had a thick 'blade' that projected over eight inches when activated. It was designed to kill— quickly and efficiently. Lucky for Jim, Grady's aim had been off. The blade had cut into Jim's quadricep muscle and nicked his lateral femoral circumflex artery. The medic was right, the cuff was keeping Jim from bleeding to death. But the artery was still leaking blood into the surrounding tissues, albeit very slowly, despite the pressure cuff. Damn it. He handed the PADD back and moved up into Jim's line of sight. He looked down at the young man, still shivering and in obvious pain.

He turned to Ci. "Prepare 10 mg of Morphine in a hyposyringe, please."

"I was a klik away from finishing, Bones."

"I'm sorry, Jim." He didn't know what else to say. The command track was difficult and there were no exceptions granted to the curriculum requirements. Jim needed to finish combat maneuvers or take the course again in order to graduate from that track. And given the results of his leg scan, Jim's only option now was to retake the course next year.

Ci handed over the loaded hypo and he pressed it gently to the side of Jim's neck. For once, the kid didn't object.

Kelli soon had the second IV line in place and additional fluids were running. Despite that, Jim's vitals were still unstable. In the year he'd known Jim, he'd treated him for minor injuries, mostly cuts and sprains, and a few cracked ribs once, thanks to an over-zealous hand-to-hand practice session. Twice he had performed a closed reduction on Jim's dislocated right shoulder. After the second intervention, Jim had guiltily admitted that it tended to occur when he recklessly stressed it. He had promised to be more careful in the future and McCoy had warned him that a permanent surgical fix would be necessary if it happened again. But this was the first time Jim had sustained anything that he would call a critical injury.

Resigned, he began to issue the necessary orders. "Ci, call the OR. Tell them we need a room, a surgical team and an anesthesiologist stat. Kelli, you call the blood bank and get six units of packed cells sent to the OR." He looked down at Jim. The pain medication had begun to take effect. Jim was finally quiet and still, his face nearly the color of the sheet he was lying on. His shivering had stopped, though, and his respirations had slowed to something closer to normal. "Better?"

Jim nodded, but his eyes were angry. Ok, so Jim was pissed. McCoy sighed. "Listen, kid, you have a nicked artery in that leg and you're going to need surgery. Now."

"Fuck," he said softly, and closed his eyes.

McCoy knew he had just sounded the death knell on Jim's last hope of getting back to maneuvers. He put a hand on Jim's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "We'll be moving you as soon as the OR is ready."

"Are you doing it?" Jim asked suddenly, opening his eyes.

He looked at Jim, saw the worry and uncertainty in his friend, and shook his head. "No, Jim. I'm not on surgical rotation today. But there are several good vascular surgeons here on staff. You're in good hands."

"You do the surgery. Please?"

All the fight had gone out of him and he looked, McCoy thought, ridiculously young and vulnerable. "If that's what you want."

"Yeah," Jim said softly, closing his eyes again.

Jim's trust was oddly touching.

Maybe it was his vulnerability. Always before, Jim had been alert and awake during treatment, and he'd secretly enjoyed the running commentary on his handiwork, liberally laced with compliments and unnecessary cautions, as Jim bitched about whatever situation had caused him to land under McCoy's care. And without fail, when McCoy finished rectifying the damage, Jim would look at him, his blue eyes warm with gratitude and say, "Thanks, Bones. Don't know what I'd do without you."

And he'd be off, leaving McCoy to wonder once again how Jim Kirk, a man who hated doctors and avoided medical care like the Therbian plague, and himself, an impatient and embittered loner and physician, had become best friends.

"I'll take good care of you, Jim. I promise," McCoy said gruffly.

"Mmm," he murmured, his exhaustion clearly visible.

McCoy studied the monitor again and frowned. "Open up both IVs, Ci. Let's run the remainder of these bags in as quickly as possible and hang two more." He needed to get more fluids in Jim, get his blood pressure up before they anesthetized him, if he could.

"OR's ready," Ci said. "And the first unit of packed cells is here."

McCoy nodded. "Hang it now. Who did they say was scrubbing?"

"Dr. Tafal."

"Notify him that I'll be doing the surgery." He thought a moment. "And let him know he's welcome to assist."

She paused for just a moment. "He's not going to like that news," she said, as if to remind him that this was the third time in the past four months he'd usurped Tafal as primary surgeon on a case.

And he could give a rat's ass about the man's opinions. Hospital politics was a game he refused to play. McCoy was within his rights, both as a fully qualified surgeon and one who was acceding to a patient's— Jim's— request. The fact that Jim had listed him as his primary physician only four months earlier just provided him firmer ground to stand on. Still, this decision wasn't going to win him any new friends.

"Let's move," McCoy ordered briskly, shaking off his thoughts.

They disconnected the bed from the wall and guided it toward the door. Jim startled at the movement and McCoy patted his arm reassuringly.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked. His blue eyes were dazed and unfocused, his words slightly slurred. The pain medication had clearly taken hold.

"Nothing. Everything's fine. You're okay. We're taking you to surgery now."

Jim frowned. "It's not over?"

"No. You've in the ER," McCoy reminded him gently. "Remember?"

Jim's lids were half-closed. "Yeah... Fucking Grady."

Yeah, McCoy thought. Fucking Grady. He wanted to strangle the cadet himself after seeing the results of Jim's scan. "Just relax, Jim. I've got you."

They moved smoothly down the corridor and into the turbo lift. As the lift began to move, Jim roused again. Struggling to focus, he looked around in confusion.

"Where am I?"

McCoy squeezed his arm, hoping to ground him. "In the lift. You're okay."

"Is it over?"

It was in moments like this that McCoy was reminded of how damn young Jim was. "No. Don't worry. It soon will be."

"You're doing it, Bones? Right?"

"Yeah, kid. I'm going to fix you up good as new. Now rest."

"I'm not…." was all Jim managed before he was pulled under again by the medication. McCoy sighed, and brushed the hair off Jim's damp forehead.

The doors to the OR department opened with a soft swoosh, revealing the sight of Dr. Tafal standing with his hands on his hips, looking pissed.