A/N: Thanks for your reviews! Please keep them coming.

I wanted to show things from Uhura's perspective and give a little more insight into who she was. We will get back to Nyota in the next chapter.

Healing

Uhura finished her shift and quickly made her way on to the lift and down to the main living quarters. The corridors were crowded with crew members rushing to the newly vacant rooms. She stopped by Ensign Troy's room and picked up a few holos and the rare Ressikan flute she had been eyeing. As she headed down the hall to her room she was nearly knocked over by the tall, skinny brunette that came sprinting down the hallway. She turned on her heal ready for a.

"Going to pretend you didn't see me Marlena?" Uhura snipped as the woman continued down the hall.

"I'm sorry, the Captain is about to wake up, I wanted to be there." she called back apologetically.

"Well," Uhura huffed giving a fleeting thought to Spock who still lay unresponsive in sickbay. She sighed as she entered the code to her room. Their relationship was complicated; she was not the love-struck, overly-sentimental type that Marlena was. At any rate, that was Nyota's job now, instead of being a smart-ass twit who had the nerve to try and embarrass her on the bridge. She should have let them execute her when she had the chance; she was more trouble than she was worth.

Uhura stripped out of her uniform and placed it on its stand in the closet. She had not moved from her station for twelve hours, her back ached from sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair. After a long hot shower she rolled her hair and prepared for bed. She pulled on one of the soft silk tunics he had bought her on their last shore leave. Even if she did feel that way about him, it was unacceptable, it was weakness. No. It was better this way; and she would never have to worry about losing him if he never belonged to her.

The bed was warm and inviting. Her communicator and short dagger lay on the stand by her bed and the tension began to slip away. She should have been able to sleep. But as an hour dragged by and then another, she found sleeping impossible. After changing her mind twice, she decided that maybe she would go take a peek at him. That durable Vulcan physique was nearly indestructible; a clumsy, disrupter wielding ensign couldn't do him in. Uhura pulled a pair of cotton pants out of her drawer and slipped on a long thick robe. She picked up her communicator and stuffed her dagger into the pocket of her robe, and headed to the sickbay.

The halls were nearly deserted now except for a handful of security personal and guards posted throughout. Uhura quickly made her way down the hall and into the lift. Sickbay was full of patients; she wandered through the emergency unit where many security members endured the agony of amputations that would leave them useless. The ones who survived the sedation-free procedures would be left at a base the following day where they would be able to go home once family members came to claim them.

Outside the immediate care unit the shrieks and wails dulled to a faint echo. Uhura turned down the short hall that led to the secured officers' unit. The tall Vulcan security guard that stood at the door at the end of the hall gave a curt nod as she approached.

"Curiosity got the best of me," she quipped, entering the room.

His room was eerily quiet, save for the muted hum of the monitors that recorded his vital signs. A faint draft ruffled the crisp white curtains that concealed his bio-bed, and the room was too cool. Uhura adjusted the temperature on the pad by the door before making her way over to the head of the bed. She cautiously pulled the curtain aside.

He didn't look as bad she had imagined he might. There was a thick white bandage around his head where a few emerald splotches had seeped through. He looked paler than normal; his long, dark lashes were stark against his pallid skin. His lips were just as colorless and they were dry, drawn tightly together. He was in pain. It occurred to her then that though their relationship was a mostly physical one he had never kissed her.

She lay her hand flat against the empty space on the bed, careful not to touch his hand. He was restrained; in case he was disoriented when he woke. If he woke, that is. Uhura looked over at the monitor; there was a faint pulse and his heart rate was dangerously low. He didn't even look like he was breathing. She felt the need to say something, anything. Just in case. She always felt that way when things like this happened and as always she said nothing. She just stood there, watching the screen, occasionally glancing down at the strong, handsome face she knew so well.

She checked the time. She had been there nearly half an hour and she did have an early shift the next morning. After another few minutes she turned and left the medical ward, stopping by the nurses' station to purchase a packet sleep inducing tablets.

"This is the third time this month," Chapel teased as she filled the packets.

"So it is," Uhura retorted entering in her account code.

"I picked up something much better on Decose a few weeks ago," the nurse smiled slyly.

Uhura stuffed the packets in her pocket. "Maybe next time then," she replied, turning to leave for her quarters.

Hakau; heal. It was a simple command his brain automatically transmitted to his body. The broken rib repaired easily, as did the fractured fibula. Bones were relatively easy to mend. It was the injuries that lead to his broken bones that were still in a critical stage of restoration. He had crouched low to the ground with his disrupter pointed at the Shaltasian chief 7.35 meters away who was attempting to crawl into one of the caves. There was something about the retreating figure that gave him pause as he lifted his weapon. It may have been the cat –like grace with which she moved as she sped towards the cave entrance. Perhaps it was that primitive look of fear in her the large brown eyes that most beings seemed to exhibit when they were at their end. Spock stood, still aiming the disrupter, his eyes locked on his target.

Suddenly everything went black. There was a flash of light and he fell, slamming into a large heavy bolder. He did not feel the pain in his rib or leg, the pain in his head was insurmountable. Blindly he reached up and felt the warm, sticky fluid that gushed from an open would and ran down into his eyes. His finger lingered there; he felt bone, then a soft spongy matter. He heard hurried footsteps approach him and he attempted to stumble to his feet, unsure of the assailant. Using the rock for support, he managed to stand, swaying shakily and still unable to see. He felt dizzy and as if he were hovering in mid air. Someone took him by the arm just as he lost his balance and blacked out.

The Shaltasians had been aided by an unknown militia who had supplied them with a ship and advanced weaponry. They also knew the area and though they were outnumbered they had that advantage. There were many casualties and injuries. Unless one was an officer, medical care was shoddy and if the pain did not kill the wounded, the general consensus was that it would make them tougher, more resilient warriors. Spock was not a warrior; he was the loyal first officer of the Enterprise. Loyalty was something that rarely existed within the terrain Empire. The Captain valued Spock's loyalty and thus the appropriate measures were taken to insure his survival.

Spock's survival this time was out of the control of the doctor. Even with this knowledge, Dr. McCoy had been ordered to save the Vulcan's life or face his own death. The doctor made sure that Spock was comfortable and that he had a Vulcan guard keeping an eye on him at all times. He was alive but just barely, and as his body worked to repair itself, time began to run out. Spock could not eat or drink in the healing trance. Nutrition could not be administered intravenously because his body would not allow him to absorb anything. His mind was continuously awake yet he could neither move nor speak. His heart rate dropped daily. After two weeks it became clear that if he did not come out of the trance soon he would die. Unable to absorb the vital nutrients his body needed it would soon began to shut down.

The brain was a complex organ, especially when it was Vulcan. Spock was in a fog of lifelessness and confusion while his skull was healing and the severed neural pathways were reordering themselves. After the first two weeks, he regained his hearing. Though he had been aware of vague sounds before he had not been able to decipher them. Now the footsteps in the hall reminded him of where he was. The Doctor checked in on him twice a day. McCoy quietly prattled on about the peculiar medical practices of the Vulcans and never stayed longer than necessary. Other than the doctor, no one came. Even the guard outside the door never ventured inside.

It was still difficult to focus on any one thought and he felt himself slip in and out of consciousness now and then. His whole body ached; he had been lying in the same position for weeks, not able to move. He longed to stretch, to sit up, to do anything but continue to lay there paralyzed and dead to the world around him. He focused all his attention on forcing his body to respond to his mental commands to move.

After two weeks, four days, and eighteen hours in a completely comatose state, he uncurled his tightly clinched fist and slowly rested his hands flat on the bed. His heart rate jumped, and he knew he had to continue. It was painful but he sank his hands into the mattress and pushed with all of his strength, trying to sit up. He was restrained and the rough, abrasive constraints dug into his skin.

His lungs had been functioning at a low level, allowing just enough oxygen to keep him alive. It was not enough now that he had began his fight to emerge from the healing. Organs rushed to function at their regular capacity as Spock struggled to breath. He had overexerted himself and now felt as if he were going to suffocate. He forced himself to remain calm; struggling would only make matters worse. He just had to concentrate on breathing. He lay still and felt the slow trickle of air filling his lungs; he inhaled slowly, allowing his lungs to adjust.

He realized that he would not survive if he tried to come out of the trance alone, it would take far too long. Spock managed to take in a few deep breaths before he could call out for assistance. His voice was low and strained but he had been heard. Someone came running into the room and removed his restraints.

Something cold and hard was pressed into his hand, and he loosely gripped the object. At the sound of a mechanical click a surge of electricity shot through his hand. His body jerked and twitched but he did not let go. Through the pain he felt able to focus his thoughts. He commanded his body to move, with great effort he was able to sit up on the edge of the bed. After another round of current his eyes fluttered open, and squinting in the bright lights of the room he was able to make out the young Vulcan male at the foot of the bed. "Senok shaya tonat," he rasped as the young Vulcan guard stepped forward and switched off the device. The doctor rushed in and checked his vital sign; severely dehydrated, and fatigued, other than that he was in relatively decent physical shape.

Nyota awoke sensing a strange sense of movement about her; it was not yet time for dinner. At any rate, Thisben would not be on Spock's office. She quickly jumped from the bed and rushed to the door. Putting her ear against it she heard a pair of footsteps but they were not coming in her direction. There was a distant chirping sound of a communicator and then the sound of a door closing. Someone was still there. Slow, heavy footsteps trudged across the carpeted area of the office. The computer was activated. She heard a deep, raspy voice answer the chime of the intercom unit. "Spock here."

Senok shaya tonat = thank you senok